“The Italians are up to something on the stern.”
“Fire occasionally. Keep them timid. And do not worry so. Success is near.”
Alarms buzzed up through the rope hatch as the first engineer changed over the steering.
“Tutti pronti, Commandante!” yelled the chief mate, squatting at the hatch.
The captain replied with a helm order, relayed by the chief mate to the man in the rope store below, who shouted it through the wire cage to the first engineer.
Dugan smiled at changing vibrations underfoot as the rudder bit.
“I… I… do nothing,” the terrified helmsman said as the steering alarm buzzed and Basaev jammed the Beretta under his chin.
“Leave the boy alone,” the pilot said, silencing the alarm.
Basaev turned on the Turk. “What’s happening?”
“Obviously, they activated emergency steering.”
“Transfer it back, or you die,” Basaev said, “as will your family.”
The Turk shrugged. “My family is away on holiday in Cypress, so I soon realized your threats were empty. And the Russians control steering at the source. I cannot override, even if I wanted to.”
Basaev watched the bow creep to port, weighing the Russians’ chances of success. Something moved in his peripheral vision.
“Stop!” He froze the fleeing helmsman with raised pistol as the man eyed the door. Then Basaev’s arms were pinned.
“Run, boy!” the Turk screamed, bear-hugging Basaev as the sailor fled out the door to vault off the bridge wing.
On the bridge wing, Shamil turned at shouts from the wheelhouse and footsteps behind him. He had no time to act as the young sailor raced past him and vaulted the rail. He rushed to the rail and looked down at a widening circle of ripples, the only evidence of the sailor’s passing. Shots drew him back inside the wheelhouse, to see Basaev push the gut-shot Turk to the deck.
“A slow and painful death, Whore of the Infidels,” Basaev said. “Unfortunately our departure for Paradise will shorten your agony. In the time remaining, petition Allah for enlightenment.”
Basaev spit on the dying Turk and moved to the bridge wing.
Shamil followed Basaev outside. “Who’s steering?” he asked.
“The Russians.” Basaev pointed at the improvised conning station, then looked toward Sultanahmet ahead, the bow now aimed at Attaturk’s statue.
“But why so timidly?” he mused aloud, then smiled. “They cannot see well and fear a drastic turn will leave us slipping on the original course. So, we have time to deal with them yet.”
“Shamil,” Basaev said. “Take the extra grenades. Doku will meet you. You will attack down both sides, coordinating on the radios. They cannot hide from a grenade barrage, and when they retreat down into the Steering Gear Room, we make it their coffin. Multiple grenades down into a closed steel box will finish them.
“Doku can secure the infidel engineer on deck,” Basaev continued. “After the attack, we will force the infidel to transfer steering, or time lacking, steer from there. I will lay covering fire to occupy the infidels while you and Doku position yourselves.”
“Grenades and bullets at main-deck level will ignite the fumes too soon,” Shamil said.
“God willing, wind keeps the stern clear,” Basaev said. “And we have no option.”
Shamil nodded and moved to collect grenades as Basaev raised his radio.
“Doku,” Basaev said. “Meet Shamil on deck. Bring the infidel engineer. Shamil will explain.”
“Yes, Khassan,” Doku said.
Basaev moved inside for an assault rifle to be met with more buzzing alarms and flashing lights.
“Beard of the Prophet. What now?”
The chief engineer pulled the rail free and slipped the ring of the handcuff off the end just as the buzz of the steering-failure alarm sent his heart into his throat. The alarm fell silent, and status lights on the console blinked to local control. His shipmates.
He stopped, unsure now how his initial plan to black out the ship would impact his shipmates. But he still needed a diversion, something to draw the beduini here so he could slip by them.
He stopped the fans to the cargo tanks and smashed the controls with a fire extinguisher snatched from the bulkhead. At the console, he stopped the engine and swung the extinguisher in a roundhouse arc against the upright lever, bending it badly and smashing the housing. Seconds later, he crouched in the engine room, watching the control-room windows.
The captain was squinting down the starboard side, longing for a glimpse of open sea, when the helmsman hit the water cleanly. Seconds later a head broke the surface, even with the stern.
“Bravo, Salvatore!” he yelled, rewarded by an upraised fist.
“Martucci è sfuggito!” the captain called to the crew’s cheers.
“What’s that about?” Dugan asked as Borgdanov watched forward with his mirror.
The Russian didn’t turn. “Their comrade on bridge escaped.”
“Good,” Dugan said absently. “When will they come?”
“Soon, Dyed. You should get in position.” Dugan didn’t move.
“Remember. Leave the pins in.”
“It may be your plan, Dyed, but I am not idiot,” Borgdanov said, eyes on the mirror. “You should take cover,” the Russian repeated.
Dugan nodded and moved starboard to dart behind the minimal shelter of a tank vent. He squatted there, feeling the throb of the great engine through the deck and willing the terrorists to come soon. He was rubbing his injured leg when the vibration stopped.
“Midships!” yelled the captain, adjusting to the engine stoppage with a stream of orders, alternating between midships and slight left rudder, coaxing the bow to port without killing speed. This guy’s good, Dugan thought.
“He’s gone,” Doku said. “He stopped everything and destroyed the controls!”
Basaev watched the bow creep to port. The speed log read six knots and dropping.
“What shall I do?” Doku asked.
“Forget him. Join Shamil on main deck. Disarm all the engine-room booby traps except the steering-gear door and bring the grenades.”
“Khassan,” Shamil’s voice interrupted, “how can we change the steering now without the infidel engineer?”
“Kill the others and put the rudder hard right; it cannot be complicated. Allah provides a target we cannot miss. Call me when you are ready to start aft.”
Dugan cowered behind his cover as automatic fire raked the starboard stern. The fire ceased abruptly, and he tensed at the two-note “get ready” whistle from Borgdanov.
Borgdanov was elated. The fanatics’ attack route was obvious. External stairways jutted from both sides of the machinery casing, shielding the portion of the bulkheads forward of the stairways from the Russians’ view. The fanatics would use that, creeping close along each bulkhead and stopping just forward of the stairs to coordinate the attack. He counted on that. Depended on it, in fact. His nagging concern had been when. Now he knew.
The fire to starboard was obviously meant to keep heads down while a fanatic approached. The third fanatic would provide cover fire for the attacker to port as well, and when that stopped, both fanatics would be in place. Borgdanov smiled. Then the surprise.