“What about RPGs?”
“I think no problem. How far from wheelhouse to bow of ship?”
“Four hundred fifty, maybe four hundred sixty feet, give or take—”
“Nyet. In meters, Dugan. In meters.”
“Sorry,” Dugan said. “About a hundred and forty meters. Why?”
“Because RPGs accurate to only eighty meters. This we learn in Afghanistan where our choppers have no problem until Americans give savages Stinger missiles.”
He glared, then continued. “I know these savages. They will not risk blowing up ship with wild RPG shot over deck this near complete success. We circle wide, hide behind bridge, and drop near front of ship by surprise. After that?” He shrugged.
Hell of a plan, thought Dugan as the fuel alarm buzzed again.
The alarm was constant as they hovered behind the span.
“Will they attack when you board?” Dugan asked.
Borgdanov looked up from his preparations. “Nyet. They know we must come to them. Two will probably defend engine room with two on bridge. Maybe some booby traps.” He raised his eyebrows. “You have some idea, Dyed?”
“Sultanahmet’s at the south entrance of the strait. You could override the bridge at the emergency steering station and change course into the Sea of Marmara.”
Borgdanov looked doubtful. “Fanatics stop engine,” he said.
“But you’ll be on a new course. A loaded tanker doesn’t stop quickly.”
Borgdanov hesitated. “We know nothing of these controls, Dyed. For this, you must come. You do this?”
Dugan envisioned charred bodies in the ruins of Sultanahmet as the buzzing fuel alarm defined the limits of his options. May as well go down swinging. He swallowed and nodded.
Borgdanov grinned. “Good. So is unnecessary to have Ilya shoot you in painful but unimportant place. You come with me. How you say… tandem jump.”
Oh goody, Dugan thought.
“You are certain, Shamil?”
“I saw him after I fired the RPG but lost him. You think I cannot recognize a Russian?”
“Forgive me,” Basaev said, “I was surprised. If the Turks now ally themselves with Russian scum, I strike them with a song in my heart.”
Shamil nodded as Basaev lifted binoculars and looked ahead.
He handed Shamil the glasses. “The surface just beyond the bridge.”
“I see only ripples,” Shamil said, peering through the binoculars.
“Or a downdraft,” Basaev said.
Shamil trailed him to the bridge wing. Barely audible through ambient noise was the thump of blades.
“He hides behind the span,” Shamil said.
Basaev nodded. “An ambush.”
“What now?”
Basaev smiled. “Praise Allah for Russian targets. Get on the wheelhouse with the Stinger. Shoot the tail like the Iranians showed us. He will spin away.”
Shamil grinned and rushed inside as Basaev moved in to call the engine room.
“Doku,” Basaev said, “we will be attacked. I will transfer engine control to you. They know of us, so we no longer need to follow rules. Go to sea speed, send Aslan to the Cargo Control Room to prepare to discharge, and arm booby traps on all the engine-room doors.”
“At once,” Doku said and hung up.
Basaev called to Shamil as he hurried past.
“Take time to aim well. A few of them on deck are less a threat than a flaming chopper.”
Shamil nodded, annoyed.
Basaev grinned. “Besides, why should you have all the fun?”
Shamil returned his grin and hurried out.
Dugan stood terrified as wind and noise blasted him. The major yelled in his ear.
“On ‘set,’ wrap arms around my neck and legs around my body like lover. On ‘go,’ I jump. Don’t worry. I control everything.” Dugan nodded mutely as the Russian continued. “Ilya goes first and will hold rope. When we land, I unclip here” — he put Dugan’s hand on the carabiner clip—”and we separate. Fast. Understand?”
Dugan nodded again and was still pondering his lunacy when the sergeant disappeared. Seconds later he was hurtling downward, a death grip on Borgdanov.
“Release my arm, idiot! I cannot control speed,” the Russian screamed.
He made his point by smashing his helmet into Dugan’s battered face. Dugan’s hands flew to his nose, and Borgdanov stopped their plunge abruptly, just above deck. Dugan’s legs jerked free, leaving the pair joined by their web gear and spinning. They hit the deck hard, Borgdanov on top. Dugan lay gasping as the Russians clawed at the snarled rope.
Shamil sat, elbows on knees and the Stinger on his shoulder as the bridge loomed. A man dropped into view as the bow cleared the span, the chopper still shielded. The man landed cleanly in a clear area of the main deck just aft of the raised forecastle deck and pulled the rope taut for a pair of men that followed, faster and without grace, landing in a jumble of flailing limbs.
Shamil could see the chopper skids now and waited impatiently. Then it was there, and he locked on to the tail rotor and fired. A fireball bloomed, and he panicked momentarily as a flaming chunk plunged, narrowly missing the bow to splash into the sea. The chopper corkscrewed away, slinging black-clad Russians to their deaths.
“Allahu Akbar!” he screamed.
The sergeant released the rappelling rope and leaped back as the two men slammed to the deck. He watched the rope jerk taut as an explosion rocked the chopper and it twisted away, dragging the mass of tangled limbs and twisted rope toward the ship’s rail. He grabbed the rope one-handed, dragged along as he reached into his boot with his free hand and pulled a knife to saw at the rope. Ten feet from the rail, the rope parted, and the men collapsed in a heap.
He recovered first to cut the men apart and hook a hand in Borgdanov’s armor and drag him under the protection of the centerline pipe rack. He turned to see the American limping to join them.
Dugan was unsure whether his nose or rope-burned leg hurt worse. The Russians seemed indestructible. They conferred, heads together, looking aft with undisguised hatred.
“OK,” Borgdanov said. “We go back. Ilya first, then you Dugan, while I give cover fire. Then Ilya covers me. Then repeat.”
“Cover fire? Smell that gasoline! A muzzle flash will blow us all to hell.”
“But fanatics shot RPG and Stinger.”
“Yeah,” Dugan said, “up high. Fumes hug the deck. A flash on the bridge won’t ignite them. The boat exploded away from the ship, and the chopper was high, plus its downdraft dissipated the fumes.”
“You tell me this now? How we kill fanatics?”
“You can’t fire here, but you can inside. Air intakes are high, and fans maintain a positive pressure inside so no fumes leak in.” Dugan looked at ripples on the water. “And there’s a good breeze, so the open deck aft is probably OK as long as you don’t shoot forward. A ricochet spark here in the cargo area could be deadly.”
“So. We go fast and hope fanatics also do not want sparks.”
Borgdanov spoke in Russian, and the sergeant darted aft.
“Wait,” Dugan cried. Too late.
Basaev raised the binoculars and watched the chopper careen across the summer sky toward Sultanahmet, leaking Russians. He laughed as it splashed down just offshore, and he saw tiny figures ashore rushing to the water’s edge to point and gawk like moths to a flame. All the more people in the kill zone.