Dugan backed away, alarms clanging at “Agent Dugan.”
“Look. I’ll just be in the way.”
“Da, but you are American. We go to extreme range and must land in Turkey after, but Turks deny permission because we are Russians. So, we become multinational force, da? Turks are in NATO and will accept American-led force. You are only American close enough, so” — he smiled—”you are leader.”
“I’m not CIA,” Dugan insisted.
“Gardner explained you have to say this, but do not worry, Dugan. Now you work with us. This man Gardner agreed on conference call. Is his idea. He is your CIA superior, da?”
“Shit,” Dugan said, pulling out his phone. The sergeant snatched it, smirking. Dugan swallowed his anger, his judgment improved since Panama.
“Communications blackout,” Borgdanov said, adding, “Dugan, is safe. You are here for show. You stay with chopper.”
“I am not getting on that fucking chopper.”
Borgdanov’s face clouded as he drew his pistol. “Understand, Dugan. Body of CIA man and American passport is enough I think, maybe easier. Our American leader maybe killed during attack on ship. You decide.”
Dugan swallowed his heart and nodded.
Borgdanov smiled, holstering his gun and unleashing a burst of Russian that had Sergeant Denosovich and another Russian tugging off Dugan’s jacket.
“But why do I have to wear this shit?”
“Must look good for Turks, and armor is in case terrorist bastard shoots at chopper.”
So much for safe, Dugan thought as he struggled with the unfamiliar gear and the sergeant’s running commentary drew chuckles from the others.
“I’d feel better if Sarge here didn’t say ‘dead’ every second sentence.”
“Not ‘dead,’ Dugan. ‘Dyed.’ Short for ‘dyedushka,’ or grandfather.”
Dugan glared at the sergeant, who grinned back and spit out a stream of Russian.
“What did he say?” Dugan asked, still glaring.
“He says that from looks of grandfather’s face, he has seen recent combat, but he doesn’t think you win this fight.”
Borgdanov struggled to keep a straight face.
“Actually, Dugan,” he added, “dyed is term of great respect.”
I guess that explains the shit-eating grins, Dugan thought.
The sergeant looked him over. Satisfied, he ripped the Russian Federation tricolor from Dugan’s shoulder and pressed an American flag patch onto the Velcro. He moved beside Borgdanov, and to Dugan’s amazement, both came to attention and saluted.
“Agent Thomas Dugan of American CIA. I greet you as American component and Commander of Multinational Strike Force One.” Borgdanov snapped his hand down.
“Now get in chopper.”
Dugan sat beside the major, facing backward at the others. A man pointed, and Dugan saw another helicopter. He looked quizzically at Borgdanov, who produced a headset, miming for Dugan to put it on as he did the same with another.
“Is Captain Petrov’s team. They assault. We are support and backup. Always we send two teams. How you say? Redundancy?”
Dugan nodded. “What’s the plan?”
“We attack at sea. Both choppers come in high, then drop and sweep bridge with Gatling guns. Then we circle while Petrov closes. They use ropes. How you say…”
“Rappel?”
“Da, rappel. Then Petrov kills fanatics and stops ship. Your CIA says four fanatics on board. We should kill one or two on bridge. Should not take so long for others.”
“What about the bridge crew?”
Borgdanov seemed confused. “They die. Of course.”
Dugan stared. “That’s the plan?”
“Da. We have fuel to stay a few minutes only. If ship gets to Bosphorus, many people die, including all crew. We save many people, maybe even some crew. Is better, da?”
Brutal, but logical. Dugan nodded without speaking, listening to exchanges in Russian between the choppers. Then came a lengthy burst, the voice strained. Borgdanov responded, triggering an argument. Borgdanov screamed a final “nyet” and a short sentence that ended it.
“What’s up?” Dugan asked when his headset grew quiet.
“Other pilot complains of very high headwinds. It means increased fuel consumption, and he claims no way to reach target with such winds. He wants to abort. Always these flyers look for tricks to escape duty. I refuse.”
Their pilot glared over his shoulder, obviously an English speaker. Borgdanov glared back, and the man looked away.
“But how can you stop him from aborting?” Dugan asked.
“If he aborts, I say to Petrov to shoot flight crew as soon as chopper lands.”
Christ, Dugan thought, this is one scary bastard.
An hour and a half later, Dugan roused to the pilot’s voice in his headphones. Borgdanov acknowledged the pilot and returned Dugan’s passport, motioning the sergeant to return his sat phone as well.
“Point of no return,” Borgdanov said, “now we continue to Turkey no matter what. But I need your help. The terrorists have disabled GPS on ship so she is not so easy to find. My plan was to fly to Bosphorus entrance, then north on course for Odessa to find ship, but now pilot says because of wind, fuel is too low for this. He exaggerates, of course, but even so, I think we do not have fuel to waste. With good position, we go straight to ship. I need CIA satellites.”
“What about your own satellites?”
“We have not so many now, and they watch US and China, not Black Sea.” He smiled. “I think your satellites already look Black Sea, so no need to retask, da?”
Dugan nodded, then shed his headset and called Ward, phone jammed against one ear and his finger in the other against the noise of the chopper.
“God damn it, Tom, where the hell are you? The charter plane pilot said th—”
“In a Russian chopper over the Black Sea thanks to your asshole boss.”
“Gardner? Son of a bitch. He’s screwed this up by the numbers. OK, look. Have the Russians—”
“Too late. We’re low on fuel. You have a position on the ship?”
“Christ. Langley was to have updated the Russians an hour ago. I guess Gardner screwed that up too.” He paused. “She’ll reach the pilot station four hours early. Your best bet is to intercept just before arrival.”
“Not good, Jesse. We’ve got strong headwinds. What about the Turks?”
“Langley’s in contact with Ankara, but it’s a cluster fuck. I have no clue what’s actually filtering down to the locals in Istanbul or to the Bosphorus pilots. We’re dancing in the dark.”
Dugan sighed. “OK. Got a specific target yet?”
“We’re still waiting to resume questioning Braun.”
“Ship info?”
“Yeah, Anna’s tech wizards converted the vessel particulars sheet to a text message. We’ll send it to your phone.”
“Thanks, Jesse. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, Tom. Watch yourself.”
“Like I have a choice,” Dugan said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Day dawned as Basaev watched radar dots become ships, converging on the Bosphorus. He moved to the bridge wing, his stomach knot tightening at the sight of the tanker overtaking him, a competitor for the first southbound slot. A slot he had to have to arrive when his target crawled with infidel tourists and fawning Turks.