“Well done,” he said as Shamil returned. “Only three got down, one injured. They cringe beneath the pipes.”
“I saw. What now?”
“We give them something to think about,” Basaev said as he called the Cargo Control Room.
“Aslan,” Basaev asked, “ready?”
“I need only start the pumps,” Aslan said.
“Defenses?”
“The outside doors on this deck are jammed. They can only get to me by entering the deckhouse on the main deck and coming up the central stairwell, and I have the door from the stairwell on this deck booby-trapped. It will explode in their faces. I will finish any survivors.”
“Draw them to you then,” Basaev said. “Start the petrol early. They may try to stop it.”
“But it will trail us like a fuse.”
“Let it cover the strait and increase the destruction,” Basaev said. “Nothing is likely to ignite it before we are upon the target, and if then, momentum will complete our task whether we live or not.”
“Very well, Khassan,” Aslan said, sounding unsure.
“Watch from the window, Aslan. Time the start to catch them between the manifold and the rail. Try to wash them overboard.”
“It will be done, my brother,” Aslan said.
Shamil yelled a warning.
“Aslan,” Basaev said, “be ready. They are coming. Port side.”
Dugan peeked around the deck locker at the sergeant crouched behind a tank hatch farther aft, then he looked back at Borgdanov sheltering behind a winch. In the interest of speed, the Russians chose the less cluttered route near the rail, over the piping maze inboard. But as Dugan had anticipated, the sergeant had run out of cover, leaving him a long sprint down the rail past the cargo manifold.
The sergeant made his move just as Dugan’s neck hair rose at the whine of hydraulics and the rumble of pipelines filling. His warning cry was lost in the growing din of the cargo pumps, and Dugan started after the sergeant in a limping run, screaming. The Russian was even with the manifold when a fluke of acoustics allowed Dugan’s screams to reach him. He stopped and turned as Dugan arrived, oblivious to gasoline trickling into the drip pan beside him heralding torrents to come. Dugan grabbed the Russian and heaved himself backward. They hit the deck hard, the sergeant on top, as an eight-inch jet of gasoline rocketed through the space they’d occupied.
“Get off me, you dumb asshole!” Dugan yelled, keeping low as he dragged himself from under the Russian. He struggled backward on his elbows to clear the stream of gasoline that shot above them, splashing the rails and deck on its way overboard. When he was clear, he stood and surveyed the situation. He was looking to starboard as Borgdanov arrived.
“We should’ve gone inboard in the first place. Now let’s try it my way,” Dugan said, limping to the cover of the centerline piping without looking back. He plunged aft through the maze, squeezing over and around pipes, scraping his shins and banging his helmet in his rush as the larger Russians struggled to keep up.
“I cannot see them.”
“Do not worry, Shamil,” Basaev said. “Our defenses are good. They are few with little time.” He paused. “Depending on their target, you help Aslan or Doku. For now, guard the outside stairways and watch for boats or aircraft. Take a radio. The Turks know we are here, and I doubt they speak Chechen.”
He pointed toward Sultanahmet. “We meet in Paradise.”
Dugan stood by the side of the deckhouse, watching the gasoline spread in the ship’s wake.
“Dugan! We must get to the steering place. Now,” Borgdanov yelled over the hydraulics.
“We have to stop that gasoline,” Dugan yelled back.
“Nyet. Is fanatic delaying trick.”
“Look, asshole. They’ll cover the strait, and one spark will ignite it. There are hundreds of people out there on ferryboats. We deal with this.”
Without waiting, Dugan entered the deckhouse, the Russians trailing. He paused at the central stairwell and motioned the sergeant to guard the stairwell door, then followed his ears down a nearby corridor, Borgdanov in tow. The din in the power-pack room was deafening. Dugan yelled into Borgdanov’s ear.
“You booby-trap the door. I stop the power packs. We leave. OK?”
Borgdanov nodded and began taping a grenade above the door. He finished and nodded, and the space fell silent as Dugan pressed buttons and rushed out. Borgdanov followed, looping a string from the grenade over the inside doorknob as he closed the door.
They retraced their steps, the sergeant falling in behind as they passed, walking backward, gun trained on the stairwell door. Outside, gas barely trickled from the manifold.
“That’ll distract ‘em,” Dugan said. “Which is good since we have to run aft in the open. They won’t be slow to shoot down at us back here.” He started astern in a limping run before the Russians overtook him on either side, lifting him under the armpits to dash aft.
Basaev debated killing his two captives. The Turkish pilot at least understood their intentions by now and might take desperate action. His thoughts were interrupted by the plaintive moan of dying hydraulics. He rushed to the window as the gasoline streams slackened to dribbles.
“Aslan,” he said into his radio, “why have you stopped?”
“I did not. They must have stopped the power packs.”
“Restart them. We must maximize the fire.”
“I tried, but they switched the power packs to local control. They can only be restarted from the power-pack room. Perhaps they try to draw me into an ambush,” Aslan said.
Shamil broke in. “All the Russians run aft.”
Basaev processed that. Why would the Russians go to the stern?
“Doku,” he barked, “you heard?”
“Yes, Khassan,” Doku said from the engine room.
“Is the infidel engineer secure?” Basaev asked.
“He is handcuffed to the console.”
“Leave him. The Russians will attack you from the Steering Gear Room. Take cover with a clear field of fire to kill any that survive the booby-trapped door. Warn the infidel to keep the engine full ahead, or we kill his shipmates slowly before his eyes.”
“Understood,” Doku said.
“Aslan,” Basaev said, “stopping the power packs was merely a diversion to distract us while the Russians went aft. Get the gasoline going again, then go aft and toss grenades down into the steering gear room. Our Russian friends will be trapped between you above and Doku in the engine room.”
“At once,” Aslan said.
As Basaev turned, the pilot met his eyes.
“You are fortunate,” Basaev said, “to witness the work of Allah.”
“The work of Allah is not murder. The god you serve is your own twisted hatred.”
Basaev staggered him with a fist, but the Turk straightened. Basaev hocked and spit. “Spoken like a woman, Whore of the Crusaders.”
The pilot was calm. “Better that than to be ruled by fanatics. I would prefer death.”
“A wish I can grant,” Basaev said, drawing his pistol. The Turk smiled.
“Death amuses you?” Basaev asked.
“Your arrogance amuses me. These Russians are smarter than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
He smiled again, and Basaev pistol-whipped him, knocking him down. He aimed at the Turk’s head, finger quivering, but stayed his hand. Something felt wrong, and he might yet need this Turkish whore.