Chapter Thirty
“Let me go, you asshol—” Dugan stumbled as they released him.
“Careful, Dugan,” Borgdanov said, “and do not call me asshole.”
Dugan bit off a response, startled by the view ashore over Borgdanov’s shoulder. They’d increased speed.
“This is door to steering place?” Borgdanov asked.
Dugan nodded. “There’ll be another from the engine room.”
“Ilya goes down first,” Borgdanov said, nodding to the sergeant. Descending between the Russians, Dugan reflected. At this speed, he’d have no time with the controls, likely in Italian, and if he got control, he’d be steering blind. He’d just concluded this was one of his dumber ideas when the sergeant jerked to a stop at voices below.
Italian voices.
Dugan pushed him down the last few steps and rushed past, around a corner to a wire-cage locker. The crew stood atop piles of mooring lines, cheering his arrival.
“We have to free them,” Dugan said. “They can help.”
Borgdanov aimed at the padlock, but Dugan pushed the gun down, pointing at the steel bulkheads surrounding them. “Ricochets,” he said.
A man pointed through the chain link. “Matelo — hammer — there.”
Dugan limped to a workbench to return with a short-handled sledge. He raised the hammer, but Borgdanov jerked it away and destroyed the lock with one blow. Italians boiled out, laughing and shouting as the captain pumped Dugan’s hand, thwarting explanation. The major improvised, grabbing a crewman.
“Silence, or I kill him!” he yelled to instant quiet.
“Captain,” Dugan said, “the terrorists will ground the ship and explode her in less than ten minutes, killing thousands. If they succeed, none of us can escape in time. You must help us prevent the grounding.”
Pandemonium broke out anew as English speakers translated.
“Zitto!” the captain shouted, restoring calm and turning back to Dugan.
“How can we help, signore?”
Dugan nodded to the steering gear. “Have the chief engage emergency steering.”
“The chief engineer is captive. The first engineer is here.” He turned and spoke to the man who’d pointed out the hammer.
“Si, Commandante,” the man said and rushed to the steering gear.
“What more?” the captain asked.
“Change course to port. And” — Dugan nodded at the engine-room door—”block that door. Maybe wedge it. They might use explosives—”
The captain held up a hand. “Signore. May I suggest you let us solve these problems while you concentrate on keeping us alive to do so?”
Dugan nodded, impressed.
“Grazi,” the captain said, turning to bark orders. In moments, the crew formed a line from the rope locker, passing heavy mooring lines hand over hand and piling them against the door.
Damn smart, Dugan thought. This might work.
Aslan disarmed his booby trap and descended the stairwell. At the bottom, he crept into the passageway and hurried toward the power-pack room. He was almost inside when the grenade handle clanged against the far bulkhead. He ducked down in the open doorway and looked around, unsure. The grenade took his head off.
The pile of mooring lines formed a huge Gordian knot from the deck to above the door and ten feet at its base, an impenetrable barrier. Borgdanov nodded approval.
“Fanatics must come over deck now. But we must kill them without big fight.” Borgdanov’s face clouded. “I worry if, as you say, bullets go forward to make sparks.”
Dugan nodded. “Me too, but I have an idea.”
They jerked at the thump of the explosion in the power-pack room.
“Now there are three,” Dugan said with grim satisfaction.
Borgdanov shot him an appraising look.
“You are not such dumb fellow, Dyed.” No derision now. “Tell me your idea.”
“What was that explosion?” Basaev demanded into the radio.
“Nothing in the engine room,” Doku reported.
“Understood, Doku,” Basaev said. “Aslan, report.”
After repeated failures, Basaev addressed the others. “I think Aslan has preceded us to Paradise. Doku, what is your situation?”
“No change. But the door moves a bit, like they push against it.”
“Understood, Doku. Shamil. Approaching threats?”
“Nothing,” Shamil said, “but what are the infidels doing?”
“Playing foolish games as time slips away,” Basaev said. “Soon Allah will vomit on their souls.”
Sweat dripped off the chief engineer’s nose as he hesitated, concerned the beduino would return. They didn’t resemble Arabs, but who else would blow themselves up? He turned back to working at a screw with the steel ruler from his pocket overlooked by the terrorists and now his makeshift screwdriver. He gripped it tight, willing the screw to turn before the ruler edge bent. If he could remove the rail support, he could free himself.
He had no qualms, despite their threats. Any cretino could see the beduini intended to blow them all up anyway, and the chief engineer was no idiot. The oxygen meter showed 21 percent in the cargo tanks with the fans running in fresh-air mode. No one would place a loaded tanker in such a condition unless planning an explosion.
The screw yielded, and as he moved to the next, he heard a muffled thump. Would that, whatever it was, draw them back? He swallowed his fear and worked on.
Dugan looked down at the captain supervising two burly sailors wrestling a square of steel plate up the stairs. That damn thing weighs over two hundred pounds, he thought, hoping this wasn’t a waste of valuable time.
The Russians stood behind opposite corners of the machinery casing, watching forward with hand mirrors, as volunteers from the crew found cover on the stern. There were eleven Italians plus Dugan divided into six pairs, holding things from tools to fist-size bolts. Dugan nodded to his partner, the second mate, crouched behind a mooring bitt.
Dugan jerked at the shriek of steel on steel as the sailors heaved the plate on deck, skidding it edgewise to the starboard rail. They leaned it against a gooseneck vent, and one dashed back to the shelter of the machinery casing, and the other dropped behind the plate as bullets whined off the steel. The man behind the plate unwound a rope from his waist and, exposing only his arms, flipped a loop over the plate to settle six inches above the deck. He cinched the rope behind the upright vent pipe, securing the plate from slipping.
“Tutto pronto, Commandante,” the man shouted.
“Bravo, Mario,” the captain replied from the shelter of the machinery casing. “Uno… Due… Tre… Ora!”
On three, they exchanged places in a rush. The captain squatted behind the plate and peeked down the starboard side. He nodded back to Dugan.
How the hell is he going to conn the ship from there? Dugan wondered.
Reading Dugan’s expression, the captain pointed to the chief mate squatting behind the machinery casing at the small rope hatch. Dugan smiled.
“Shamil. Why did you fire?” Basaev asked.