Passage through the Bosphorus “without delay or regulation” had been guaranteed by treaty for decades when the Turks moved unilaterally in 1994 to regulate burgeoning tanker traffic. Her northern neighbors protested still, while many Turks pressed for a total ban. Western Europe, hungry for Russian oil, stayed neutral, and a compromise developed. The Black Sea states refused to accept Turkey’s actions, even as they complied, and the Turks let compliant tankers pass. A compromise Basaev would end, God willing. He moved to the radio.
“Turkeli Control, this is the tanker Contessa di Mare. Over.”
“Go ahead, Contessa di Mare.”
“Our ETA is oh seven hundred. We request clearance, over.”
“You are early, Contessa,” came the reply, “from your twenty-four hour rep—”
“Control, this is tanker Svirstroy,” said a Russian voice. “Contessa is not at reporting point. I will arrive first and claim first slot. Over.”
“Contessa, this is Control. You are cleared for transit. Call the Kavak Pilots on channel seventy-one. Use twelve in the strait, but report on thirteen at Anadolu Light. Over.”
“Control, this is Contessa di Mare. I copy and will—”
“Svirstroy to Control. I protest. I was clearl—”
“Control to Svirstroy. Go to anchor. You are next in queue. Presuming you comply.”
Basaev smiled. “Thank you, Control. Contessa di Mare, out.”
“Safe transit, Captain. Turkeli Control, out.”
Basaev watched from the bridge wing as the pilot climbed aboard, then moved back into the wheelhouse to wait as Shamil, uniformed as the third mate, escorted the pilot up. He glanced at the helmsman. The young Italian was behaving like the chief engineer in the Engine Control Room, aware the slightest transgression would mean death for their shipmates.
The pilot arrived and introduced himself, giving cards to both Basaev and Shamil. Shamil went into the chart room, ostensibly to record the man’s name in the logbook. Basaev stayed with the pilot to review a transit checklist.
In the chart room, Shamil entered the pilot’s name into an Iranian-supplied laptop and smiled. He printed out the information, pulling a pistol from a drawer as the printer whirred, then collected the output and stepped onto the bridge behind the pilot. He jammed the gun to the back of the man’s head.
“That’s a gun, Captain,” Shamil said. “Raise your hands. Slowly.”
The pilot complied as Basaev relieved him of his radio and cell phone. Then Shamil handed Basaev the information.
“Very good, Captain… Akkaya,” Basaev said, glancing through the pages. “And your wife and daughter are beautiful,” he said, displaying photos.
“Shamil here made a call,” Basaev lied, “and our colleagues ashore are going to visit them. Their safety is in your hands. Will you cooperate?”
The pilot nodded, ashen faced. Basaev gestured he could lower his hands.
“All right,” Basaev continued in Turkish. “Proceed and report as usual. No tricks. I speak your language.” The man nodded.
“Good. Captain Akkaya. You have the bridge.”
The pilot took over, and Basaev lifted the console phone.
“Engine Room,” Aslan said.
“Aslan. Start the fans.”
Dugan looked toward the Turkish coast as a burst of excited Russian sounded in his headphones, precipitating a three-way exchange between Borgdanov and the pilots of both choppers. Finally, Borgdanov shot a worried look across at the other chopper and gave a resigned “da” as the other chopper peeled away and headed away from the coast out to sea.
“What’s up?” Dugan asked when he was sure the Russians were finished speaking.
“Low-fuel alarm on other chopper,” Borgdanov said. “He has twenty minutes air time, no more. Is no way he will reach Bosphorus with us.”
Dugan looked at the nearby coast, confused. “But why is he going out to sea?”
“He has no American aboard,” the Russian said, “and would be big problem if he lands in Turkey. I tell him to go well to sea to be sure he is clearly in international waters. He has enough time to get there and hover while crew deploys raft. Then he will ditch. One of our naval vessels is already on way to pick up men.”
Dugan was still confused. “Why was he lower on fuel than us?”
“Because he hovers a few minutes at rendezvous point while we collect you,” Borgdanov said, “and also as primary strike force he has heavier load — five more men and their weapons. Under most conditions, would make little difference, but with this wind…” The Russian shrugged, leaving the thought unfinished.
Borgdanov spoke in Russian into his mike, and Dugan saw an answering nod from the chopper pilot. The chopper dropped to skim the surface of the water and moved closer to the Turkish coast.
“I think Turkish radar will pick us up soon,” the Russian said, “but we will stay as low as possible to delay that. We have you aboard, so we can land if necessary.” He smiled. “Assuming Turks don’t shoot us down first and ask questions later.”
Ten minutes later, as Dugan watched the Turkish coast flash past the left side of the chopper, a raucous alarm brought another burst of Russian in his headset.
“Fuel alarm,” Borgdanov said. “Pilot says twenty minutes, no more.”
“Do we land?” Dugan asked.
“Nyet,” the Russian said. “We are close now. We will complete mission.”
He smiled at the worried look on Dugan’s face.
“Do not worry so, Dyed,” he said. “Always these pilots exaggerate the danger.”
Dugan was about to debate the point when his phone vibrated.
“Jesse. Thank God. Talk to me.”
“I called the Turks direct. The Bosphorus pilot boarded an hour ago. A Turkish Coast Guard boat is closing, but chopper response will take time. I informed the Turks the Russians are in route. They want your help.”
“An hour ago? She must be halfway through the strait. What’s the damn target?”
“Braun just talked. Sultanahmet, between Attaturk Plaza and Eminönü ferry terminal.”
Sultanahmet, a dense square of attractions — Topkapi Palace, the Attaturk statue, the Grand Bazaar, Sultanahmet Mosque, all clustered around the bustling ferry terminal, sure to be thronged on a beautiful summer morning.
“The Russians have a plan?” Ward asked.
“Yeah. For an open-sea intercept. Now? Who the hell knows?” Dugan said as the fuel alarm buzzed again.
Dugan stared forward as they cleared Fatih Mehmet Bridge.
“There,” Dugan pointed. “Stay high and hover.”
Southward, almost to First Bosphorus Bridge, was a tanker with a distinctive green hull and BARBIERO in white letters on her side. A boat sped toward a pilot ladder rigged on the ship’s starboard side. As the boat neared, a figure appeared on the starboard bridge wing, carrying something.
“RPG,” Borgdanov said as the boat disappeared in a fireball. Dugan watched, stunned. The Russian shook his arm.
“Dugan. I said how long to target?”
Dugan looked beyond First Bosphorus Bridge to Topkapi Palace in the distance and did a quick mental calculation.
“Assuming full harbor speed of eight knots, she’ll pass the bridge in about ten minutes. Then maybe twenty-five more to target. You have a plan?”
Borgdanov shook his head. “Only that we rappel aboard and try to kill fanatics. If we cannot kill them, we set charges and jump in water. Some people die, but maybe not so many.”