Dugan reached the port bridge wing on the Russians’ heels just as a burst of automatic fire rose from the starboard wing. They caught a glimpse of the terrorist through the side windows of the wheelhouse, firing wildly at something at his feet. They ducked down before he saw them, and the sergeant raced forward, keeping low. He tried the sliding door into the wheelhouse, then turned to Borgdanov and shook his head.
Borgdanov nodded and rushed aft, the others at his heels. They turned the corner of the wheelhouse and stopped, brought up short by the gaping chasm where the catwalk had been. They returned to their starting point as gunfire erupted again to see the terrorist leaning forward over the wind dodger, spraying the main deck with bullets.
“Christ. He’ll detonate the fumes. Shoot the bastard through the windows!” Dugan yelled.
Dugan backed up from the window with the Russians as the pair opened fire at the terrorist in full auto. The bridge windows were laminated double thicknesses of toughened, tempered glass, designed to withstand hurricane-force winds. The port-side glass spiderwebbed with cracks as the bullets penetrated, then whipped across the wheelhouse and through the starboard-side glass with the same result. Deflected by the double impact, the Russians’ fire was wildly inaccurate, and the bullet-riddled glass clung tenaciously in place, obscuring their target.
Basaev reached in his pocket for a fresh magazine and found none, then pulled his Beretta, cursing the infidel engineer for stopping the fans. Wind dissipated the fumes, and igniting the invisible pockets remaining was hit or miss. He fired methodically now, placing shots around the nearest cargo-tank hatch in hopes of igniting the fumes.
Basaev jerked as bullets sprayed through the bridge window, and bits of glass peppered his neck and the side of his face. But no bullets hit him, and he resumed his measured fire, oblivious to the Russian threat.
“I need clear target,” Borgdanov said, and he and the sergeant slapped in fresh magazines as the fire continued unabated from the starboard wing.
Borgdanov yelled instructions to the sergeant, who turned his gun to stitch the window perimeter while Borgdanov held his fire. In seconds the glass toppled from the port window, and the sergeant started on the starboard. The glass crashed from the starboard window, and Borgdanov fired a three-round burst. The terrorist jerked and fell out of sight below the window opening.
Relief washed over Dugan, then quickly evaporated as he glanced forward. They were out of the strait, clear of the approach channel and still moving at three knots toward an anchorage crowded with ships awaiting a pilot. He looked astern. They were well clear of Sultanahmet now, with its hordes of tourists. He turned at a babble of Russian as the sergeant started through the ruined window.
“Wait,” he called. “Where the hell is he going?”
“Ilya goes to check fanatic,” Borgdanov said.
“No time,” Dugan said, pointing. “In two minutes, we’ll crash into one of those ships, and there’ll be plenty of sparks. In this condition, there’s no way she won’t blow. We need to be as far away as possible.”
“But fanatic—”
“Leave him. We missed Sultanahmet and stopped massive casualties. Even if she blows now, she won’t block the channel. We’ve got no engine, no steering, and no time. If we stay here, we’re dead,” Dugan said. “It’s that simple.”
The Russian hesitated as Dugan looked over the rail at the long drop to the water. He thought better of that idea and moved toward the stairs.
“But we must do something,” Borgdanov said.
“Yeah,” Dugan said as he started down the stairway, his injured leg forgotten as adrenalin dulled the pain, “run like hell.”
He rushed downward as fast as his legs would carry him, and behind him he heard the Russians’ voices raised in argument. He was halfway down to main deck when he heard the Russians’ boots clanging on the steel treads above him, coming down fast.
Basaev lay on his back in a pool of blood, his feet toward the wheelhouse and the Beretta in a two-hand grip and pointed at the shattered window. The Russian scum would come soon, and he thanked Allah the Merciful for the opportunity to send another of them to Hell before he died.
But they did not come, and he heard shouting through the shattered windows and then the sound of heavy boots on steel stair treads, loud at first, then growing faint. He smiled. The scum was fleeing. He shoved the pistol into his waistband and reached up to grab the wind-dodger handrail. He bit back the pain as he hauled himself to his feet.
Dugan was already crawling over the rail when the Russians got to main deck. He paused and screamed encouragement.
“Wait, Dyed!” Borgdanov screamed back as he rushed toward the rail.
Wait my ass, Ivan, my enlistment is up, Dugan thought, going over the rail.
He hit the water feetfirst and plunged deep, spreading his arms to slow descent, then kicking upward. He rose slowly, sinking if he slacked at all. The armor. Kicking hard, he tore off the helmet and clawed at the vest for straps. He found one and parted the Velcro to free the vest at his waist as he sank, despite his frantic kicking. No time, he thought and dove downward to slip the vest like a tee shirt, with a gravity assist. Hope surged as it slipped, yielding to panic when it trapped his arms.
His lungs were near bursting, and ice picks drove into his ears when he finally fought free to stroke hard for the surface. But he was too deep, too tired, and too old. Unable to suppress the breathing reflex, he sucked in water like life itself, and his larynx spasmed and clamped shut. His panic subsided, almost as if he watched from a safe place, disinterested. He didn’t see his life pass before his eyes or a white light, only growing dimness broken by his last conscious thought.
Christ, Dugan. What a dumb-ass way to die.
Basaev leaned against the wind dodger and stared back at Sultanahmet astern, a multicolored tapestry, details indistinct. He was calm now, accepting the Will of Allah. Had the Turk been correct? he wondered. Was hatred now his faith? He felt weary, the Beretta leaden in his hand as he turned and aimed down over the wind dodger at the hatch of the nearest cargo tank.
“Allahu Akbar,” he said softly and fired. The gun bucked in his hand, and he dropped it and watched it tumble toward the deck, almost in slow motion. He never saw it land because his aim was true at last, and a great explosion rocked the ship, throwing his mangled body skyward and releasing him from the pain in his heart. Was that not indeed Paradise?
Chapter Thirty-One
“Always a pleasure, Mr. President. See you soon.”
Motaki hung up, elated. What a difference a day made. Knowing the Iranians were pinched, only last week the Russians were cool to the idea of a crude-for-gasoline swap except on outrageously favorable terms, even hinting they might vote in favor of sanctions at the UN. But now, with the cork in the bottle at Istanbul, the Russian president was calling him, seeking an audience. God willing, Iran would be awash in cheap petrol.