“What were our total casualties, Touraj?” Heidari asked after a moment.
Dabir shrugged. “We lost five men killed outright, with another four wounded.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve spoken to the medical staff. Three of the wounded will die unless we transfer them to hospitals with more advanced facilities.”
Heidari grimaced. “Arrange a rendezvous with a helicopter to fly them back to Iran? Making it that much easier for someone to find us at sea again?” He shook his head. “Impossible. We are at war now. And our first responsibility is to this ship and its mission. All those who die on this voyage are martyrs.”
Reluctantly, Dabir nodded his understanding. “Very well, sir. I’ll speak with the sick bay staff. They’ll do what is necessary.”
Skoblin knew what that meant. Their ship’s doctor would euthanize the critically injured men, injecting them with enough pain-killing drugs to kill them quietly. It was harsh, but Heidari was right. Now that the Gulf Venture had broken contact with the enemy tracking them, providing them with another opportunity to detect the ship would be foolish.
He waited while Dabir saluted and then left the bridge before approaching the Iranian captain.
Heidari watched him come with a carefully neutral expression on his narrow face. During the frenetic rush to prepare the tanker and its cargo for sea, it had become abundantly clear that the IRGC navy officer was not especially happy to have a group of foreigners aboard who were not explicitly under his direct authority. “What is it, Major?” he asked coldly.
Skoblin smiled thinly. He’d opted to use his former Spetsnaz rank for the remaining duration of MIDNIGHT. He’d done so hoping Heidari would feel more comfortable dealing with the Raven Syndicate team as if they were still fellow professional military men rather than highly paid mercenaries. So far, however, his gambit hadn’t made the captain any more welcoming. “I’d like to send a radio message to Moscow, reporting your repulse of the enemy’s attempted helicopter raid,” he explained. “The news of your success will be very welcome there.”
Left unsaid was the fact that Skoblin hoped to bask in the shared glory. After the fiasco in Vienna, he needed to seize every available chance to rehabilitate himself in Voronin’s eyes.
Heidari shook his head firmly. “That will not be possible, Major. You heard what I told Dabir with regard to our own wounded.” His lips compressed. “My superiors have decreed a total communications blackout for the duration of this mission. I intend to obey their orders to the letter. Therefore, we will not break radio silence for any reason. Is that understood?”
“Of course, Captain,” Skoblin assured him smoothly. Exasperating though it was, he wasn’t really surprised by this diktat. Before they sailed, Voronin had privately warned him that the Iranians might take such a step. Besides the clear military rationale, the hardline radicals in Iran’s revolutionary government undoubtedly wanted to make sure no one else in Tehran could suddenly get cold feet and attempt to order an abort of this high-risk mission. It was equally obvious that these same radicals did not entirely trust their Russian mercenary allies and technical experts. So it made sense for them to sever all communications links between Moscow and the Raven Syndicate team aboard the Gulf Venture.
Excusing himself, Skoblin turned and left the bridge. His request had been a formality — a polite nod to the niceties involved in working within an informal alliance. Now he was free to act according to his own orders from Voronin. What Heidari and his fellow Iranians might not completely understand was that their lack of trust was fully reciprocated. For now, Russia’s interests and those of its radical Islamic partner coincided. That might not always be the case.
After he reached the Raven Syndicate’s own closely guarded section of the tanker’s superstructure, he ordered the doors locked and sentries posted in the corridor outside. As a further precaution, all of their compartments aboard the ship were routinely swept for listening devices.
Satisfied that they were safe from Iranian observation and interference, Skoblin turned to Yvgeny Kvyat. “Get your gear ready,” he ordered. “I need to talk to the Raven’s Nest as soon as possible.”
Kvyat swung into action. The short, slightly overweight former GRU intelligence officer had been Skoblin’s drone operator in Vienna. Now he was chiefly responsible for the shipboard team’s communications and other high-tech equipment. He dragged a large metal case out from under his bunk and opened it, revealing a neatly packed assortment of spare magazines and boxes of extra ammunition for their assault rifles. Pushing two small catches inside the case allowed him to lift out its interior — exposing a smaller compartment hidden underneath. There, securely packed in foam, was a military-grade satellite phone, complete with lengths of cable and a long, flexible black antenna.
Working quickly, Kvyat connected a headset to the phone. When carefully extended through an open porthole, the antenna was virtually invisible at night. He listened closely while the phone hunted for the nearest Russian military communications satellite that could route their rigorously encrypted signals. Within seconds, he heard the soft chime that indicated success. “We’re in contact, Viktor,” he confirmed.
Skoblin took the phone and headset and dialed the special number he’d been given just before they left Bandar Abbas. After a series of soft clicks, it connected. Their call was answered immediately.
“Go ahead,” a voice on the other end said coolly. It was Voronin himself.
Skoblin swallowed hard. “BIRD STRIKE. WELCOME PARTY. FREE RIDE.” Those were the pre-set code phrases to let Moscow know that they’d been attacked by hostile helicopters, but the assault had been defeated — and that the Gulf Venture was currently proceeding as planned toward the launch point for MIDNIGHT.
“Understood,” Voronin acknowledged. There was a short delay. “Report your current status.”
“ECLIPSE. I say again, ECLIPSE,” Skoblin replied. That confirmed for the Raven Syndicate’s leader that the ship’s crew had cut all communications with its home base, as he had anticipated.
“Very well,” Voronin said. “Listen carefully, Skoblin. From here on out, you will report your current position, course, and speed to this station once every twenty-four hours. Otherwise, continue as planned. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Skoblin said forcefully. “You can rely on me.”
“I’m counting on it,” Voronin told him with a hint of frost in his voice. “Don’t fail me this time, Viktor. It would make me extremely unhappy. Raven’s Nest, out.”
The phone went dead.
Slowly, Skoblin unplugged the headset and handed everything back to Kvyat to stow away out of sight. He shivered, despite the warm night air flowing in through the open porthole. Logically, he knew that he was currently far beyond Voronin’s immediate reach. And yet, for some strange reason, he still felt as though the cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed firmly against the back of his neck.
One deck below the tanker’s bridge, Captain Reza Heidari turned away from the accommodation ladder and strode down a narrow corridor. Several closed doors lined each side of this hallway, which ended in a massive armored hatch. Three more Quds Force commandos stood in front of this sealed entrance. Their leader, a battle-scarred chief warrant officer, stepped forward to stop him with an upraised hand. “Your identity card, please, Captain.” The other two covered him with their submachine guns.
Heidari handed it over with a gratified smile on his lean face. These troops were following his own explicit orders. No one was permitted past that hatch without prior permission and a thorough check of his identity.