“You two,” Manilov said, pointing to the two men nearest the body. “Place him in a plastic bag and store him in the torpedo room. When we have completed our business here and have again reached the open sea, we will give Pietr Ilychin a proper service and a burial at sea.”
“Aye.” The two warrants hauled Ilychin’s corpse toward the passageway.
“Lieutenant Popov,” Manilov said to the engineering officer, whose eyes were fixed on the body being carried away. The officer looked up with alarm. “You will assume the duties of executive officer. Take charge of Ilychin’s console and keep me informed about any changes in the status of our power plants and weapons systems.”
Popov nodded his head cautiously. “Aye, Captain.”
Manilov glowered at the remaining crewmen, his eyes moving from one to the next. None would return his stare. They stood in an awkward cluster, waiting for an order.
Manilov gave it to them. “Back to your stations. We will be moving into position to attack the enemy. I need the faithful service of every one of you. Do not disappoint me.”
He stuffed the Simonov pistol back into his pocket and turned from them.
Back at his command desk, he watched the crewmen shuffle away to their respective work posts. The crisis had passed, but only for a while. He could not keep their fealty if they remained for long in the midst of an enemy armada.
As he reflected on what happened, he had to admit that Ilychin was right about one thing: This was not the Russian Navy. Not any longer. They had no allegiance to any country, not Russia, certainly not to Yemen or Al-Fasr. They were free agents, without rules or command oversight.
What did that make them? Mercenaries? Pirates?
For a career naval officer like Yevgeny Manilov, it was a discomforting thought. He decided not to think about it.
In the darkness Maxwell could hear the sounds of automatic fire around the marines’ position.
“Boomer, this is Runner One-one,” he said quietly into his PRC-112. “Do you read, Boomer?”
Several seconds elapsed; then the voice of Gus Gritti crackled over the radio. “Nice to hear you’re among the living, Runner. What’s your status?”
“Operational. I’ve got company.”
“Yankee Two? Have you joined with her?”
“Affirmative,” said Maxwell. He decided not to pass the message that they had captured one of Al-Fasr’s pilots. Not over the SAR channel.
“What’s your position, Runner? Are you close to us?”
“Negative. No position reports in the open, Boomer. Be aware that this channel has been compromised.”
“Okay, we sort of suspected that. Are you able to join our party?”
“Not in the darkness. Too many obstacles. What do you suggest?”
“Stay put. Warlord says they’re negotiating something. They’re gonna pick us up when the deal is made. In the meantime, keep your heads down and wait for the cavalry. When you see ’em, mark your position with smoke.”
“Copy that. We’re shutting down to save juice.”
“Good luck, Runner.”
The prisoner regarded them with a sullen stare. His face was swollen on the right side, and a residue of blood stained the corner of his mouth.
“I think you broke his jaw,” said B.J.
“That was an accident. I was aiming for his nose.”
Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The sounds of gunfire over the hill were less frequent now. They huddled in the shelter of a row of thorny trees.
Maxwell knelt before the German, who sat cross-legged at the base of a tree. His wrists were bound behind him. Rittmann’s eyes looked like opaque beads in the darkness.
“The war’s over for you,” said Maxwell. “Your only chance to save your life is to cooperate.”
“I am a prisoner of war. I have nothing to say to you.”
“We’ve already been through that. You are a mercenary. And a terrorist. You have no rights.”
“I am protected by the Geneva Convention.”
For a moment Maxwell studied his own bandaged arm; then he looked at Rittmann again. “I don’t recall you worrying about the Geneva Convention a couple of hours ago.”
Rittmann gave him a sullen stare.
“Maybe you wouldn’t mind telling us how Al-Fasr knew when the air strike was coming. What is his source of information?”
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“You don’t owe any loyalty to Al-Fasr. He left you for dead out here.”
Rittmann didn’t respond.
“He used you, then dumped you, right?”
No response.
Maxwell gave it a minute, then sighed, “You must understand, Herr Rittmann, this is a very bad situation for us. We have to keep moving, keep running from the Sherji. We can’t do that and drag a prisoner with us. Especially a prisoner who has no value.” He looked at B.J. “Isn’t that correct, Lieutenant?”
She nodded, looking worried.
Maxwell pulled out his .45 pistol. He could see by Rittmann’s eyes that he had his full attention.
“No hard feelings, chum. You, of all people, should understand how it is.” He took a step toward him. “I’ll try to make it painless.”
“You won’t kill a prisoner,” Rittmann blurted. “Americans are not permitted to do that.”
“Oh, sure they are. It’s allowed under special circumstances, when our own lives are at stake.”
Rittmann tried to scuttle away. Maxwell grabbed him by the collar of his flight suit and yanked him to his knees. He jammed the muzzle of the pistol against Rittmann’s temple.
B.J. was making a great show of clearing her throat. “Excuse me, sir. Could we have a private discussion?”
Maxwell stepped away from the prisoner. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Please tell me you’re not going to do something crazy.”
“How do you define crazy?”
“Killing this guy.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t do that.” Then she saw his face. “Would you?”
Maxwell nodded toward the bound German. “Rittmann here is exercising his right to remain silent. We can’t wait for the Sherji to come and pick us up, can we?”
B.J. stared, speechless.
With his thumb, he released the safety on left side of the pistol. It made an audible click.
“This is barbaric!” yelled Rittmann.
“Exactly my thoughts half an hour ago.”
Holding the .45 with both hands, Maxwell aimed at the German’s forehead.
“No!”
“No!”
The two voices — Rittmann’s and B.J.’s — were simultaneous.
“Al-Fasr has intelligence sources,” Rittmann blurted.
Maxwell kept the .45 trained on his forehead. “Tell me something I haven’t already figured out. Who? Where?” He let Rittmann continue looking into the muzzle of the Colt.
“On your ship, the Reagan. I don’t know the name — Al-Fasr has never said. Someone with access to operational secrets.”
“How is the information passed?”
“The informer transmits the data by satellite, in some kind of encrypted form. In his underground base here in Yemen, Al-Fasr has very sophisticated communications equipment. He even knows the overflight schedules of your surveillance satellites.”
Maxwell kept his expression blank. “Weapons,” he said. “What sort of equipment does Al-Fasr have? How many MiGs?”
“He had six. I don’t know how many are left.”
“Where is your base? Where did you take off from?”
Rittmann kept his eyes focused on the pistol. “Eritrea. Across the Red Sea.”
Maxwell watched his eyes. He knew Rittmann was lying. The MiGs couldn’t have come across the Red Sea without being detected. He would revisit that subject in a minute.