Deadly Coast (27 page)

The boat rolled back almost upright, and as his head broke water, the chief braced his knees against the tank top and threw up his left hand. The crewman assisting him on the deck plates above leaned down to press a wooden wedge into it.

“Last one, Chief,” the man yelled over the engine noise.

The chief nodded. He couldn’t afford to lose this one, there was no time to make more. He lowered the wedge beneath the water and worked the thin edge into the crack by feel, using both hands. Once started, he then held it there against the incoming rush of water with his left hand as he reached up his right toward the deck plates. He was coated head to toe from the oil floating in the bilge, and he felt a rag in his open palm as his assistant above tried to wipe the oil away to improve his grip. Then came the firm slap in his palm, and he gripped the hammer handle.

He drew in another deep breath and closed his eyes as the boat rolled and the bilge water enveloped him again, and he groped underwater with the hammer until he felt the top of the thin wedge. He tapped tentatively and felt the wedge ease through the fingers of his left hand, deeper into the crack. He tapped again, just enough to seat the plug but not break the thin wood, as he had on his previous attempts. It only had to hold long enough to get the bilge pumped; he mustn’t overdo it again.

He made a final light tap, his left fingers on the wood telling him the wedge was no longer moving into the crack, then he let go of it, just as the boat rolled back upright and his oily head broke the water.

“Got it!” he shouted to his helper, and started to climb out of the bilge. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the wedge popped to the surface, borne away into a maze of piping on the wave of water rolling through the bilge. He considered trying to find it, but knew it was futile. He grimaced and started for the wheelhouse. He had to convince Kwok to stop the boat.

As he exited the engine room onto the open deck, he looked aft and saw the parade following his own boat. There was no mistaking the orange-clad figures in the lead boat. He rushed up to the wheelhouse, finding Kwok staring aft.

“Dugan and the Russians are—”

“I can see them, you fool,” Kwok said. “And they’re leading the damned pirates right to us! But what’re you doing here? Is the leak fixed?”

“No. Our speed’s making the leak worse. I can’t repair it unless we stop.”

Kwok looked aft again. “In ten minutes it’ll be over, I think. We must maintain our speed until then. After that, it’ll be safe to stop.”

“Wha … what do you mean?”

Kwok pointed and the engineer squinted. The rainsquall had moved farther north, revealing the capsized drillship. Hovering over it was a black dot.

“That’ll be a Russian helicopter,” Kwok said. “If we can maintain our distance, I think they’ll take care of our pirate friends. But if the pirates get here first, I’m sure we’ll become human shields again.”

“But Dugan and—”

“Screw Dugan!” Kwok shouted. “He’s the one that put us in danger to start with. Now he’s leading the pirates right back to us, so I think it only fair he helps us for a change. When the pirates catch him, they’ll slow down to deal with him and the Russians. If he and those crazy Russians resist, all the better—it’ll slow the pirates even more. And if the Russian chopper arrives while they are all mixed together and kills them all”—Kwok shrugged—”so be it. It’s none of our affair.”

The chief looked down at the bound Russian.

“That chopper is undoubtedly attached to a Russian ship, probably on the way here now. How do you intend to explain him?” The chief nodded at the Russian.

Kwok shrugged again. “If by some miracle Dugan and his crazy Russians survive, we’ll just release the corporal here, claim it was a misunderstanding, and apologize. They’ll be angry, but I doubt much will happen. But if Dugan and his companions perish, no one knows the corporal’s here. I doubt the helicopter has fuel to stay for a prolonged period, so we’ll have some time after they leave before the Russian ship arrives. We’ll just wrap our friend here in chains and slip him over the side, as if he never existed.”

Kwok smiled at the chief, pleased with his own cleverness. “When the Russians arrive, we are simply a poor fishing boat that was attacked by pirates. If you can get the leak repaired, we will continue to port. If not, we ask the Russians for help. Either way, we can forget we ever met Dugan and his crazy Russians.”

“Yo … you’re insane! I won’t be involved with murder!” the chief said.

Kwok narrowed his eyes. “I suggest you rethink that position,” he said. “Or you’ll go over the side with your new Russian friend. Now get below where you belong and keep us afloat. I’ll tell you when you can stop the engine.”

Russian Ka-29TB helicopter
1 northeast of Ocean Goliath
Arabian Sea

The pilot stayed in the clear air behind the rapidly moving front, wary of any developments that might endanger his craft. He dropped low to the water and moved toward the plume of black, greasy smoke. The drillship was lying port side down, her hull awash, and as the pilot reached the ship and hovered over her, she lost her fight with gravity and slipped below the waves. The pilot circled and keyed his mike.

“Momma Bear, this is Baby Bear. How do you copy? Over.”

One hundred nautical miles to the east, the comm center on the Russian naval vessel
Admiral Vinogradov
answered. “Baby Bear, this is Momma Bear. We read you five by five. What is your situation? Over.”

“We had to divert to avoid weather,” the pilot said. “We’re presently over the site of a large drillship that burned and sank. No apparent survivors. Request you come to this position to extend search. Do you copy? Over.”

“Baby Bear, we copy and confirm we’re en route to your present position. What of your original mission? Over.”

“There is activity to my southwest. En route to investigate. Over,” the pilot said.

“Acknowledged, Baby Bear. Keep us informed. Momma Bear, out.”

Arabian Sea
300 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173

Dugan flinched as a bullet whizzed by his ear.

“Not to be critical,” Dugan yelled to Borgdanov over the roar of the outboard, “but maybe you should start shooting back at these assholes.”

“
Nyet
,” said Borgdanov. “Is waste of ammunition. Do not worry,
Dyed
. We open fire when they get closer
.
”

The outboard coughed to a halt just as he finished speaking.

“Well, that’ll be anytime now,” Dugan said. “We just ran out of fuel. Tell me when to start worrying.”

Arabian Sea
700 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173

Waabberi raised the binoculars and fiddled with the focus until the distant dot revealed itself as a Russian chopper. He shifted his gaze to the following boats, and watched them break pursuit and turn to run for the protection of the rainsquall as each identified the threat. Being caught on the open sea by a Russian chopper was a pirate’s worst nightmare. It was survivable with hostages as shields, but when they caught a boat manned solely by pirates, the Russians were merciless.

He looked after the fleeing boats. The fools would never make the protection of the squall line. The chopper was too fast.

But how had the Russians found them? He turned back to study the orange men’s boat. Someone must have called for help, but who? It couldn’t be the fishing boat—they’d been chasing it only a few minutes, far too short a time for anyone to respond to a distress call. But the orange men came from the drillship, and they must have a radio. And if the Russians were coming to rescue the orange men, the way to avoid immediate and violent death at the muzzles of Russian guns was to get as close to the orange men as possible, whoever they might be.

He turned back to his quarry, just as the orange men’s boat died.

“Faster,” he said to his driver.

“But Waabberi,” the driver said, “we should follow the others—”

“Silence, fool!” Waabberi said. “Our only hope is hostages, and the hostages are there. Keep at least one of them alive,” he yelled above the outboard.

Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea

The chief engineer stared down at the water sloshing in the bilge. They were listing over ten degrees, and each roll of the boat brought water up to the deck plates on the starboard side of the engine room, dangerously close to shorting out the electric motor of the general-service pump, his last remaining way to pump bilges. This was lunacy and Kwok was an idiot. He touched his pocketknife through the cloth of his sodden coveralls, and made a decision.

He climbed from the engine room to the wheelhouse, taking the steps two at a time. His knife was open in his hand as he burst through the wheelhouse door.

Kwok turned, his scowl turning to concern as he saw the knife. “Yo … you dare attack me?” he shouted, as moved to where the Russian’s assault rifle lay on deck against the wheelhouse bulkhead.

The chief ignored Kwok and stooped to slice the tape at the Russian’s wrists and ankles. The Russian sprang up, covering the distance to Kwok in two long strides.

He looked at Kwok with contempt. “To shoot, Kwok,” he said as he disarmed the Korean, “you must first move safety selector.”

“I … I meant no harm,” Kwok said. “I left the drillship to save us all. You too. Bu … but I was wrong. It was a misunderstanding. I am very sorry.”

The Russian smiled at Kwok, then shrugged. Kwok visibly relaxed seconds before a great ham of a fist smashed him in the face.

“Apology accepted,” the Russian said, looking down to where Kwok lay on the deck, his face already purpling. He aimed a savage kick into the little Korean’s midsection, and then turned back to the chief.

“You,” he said. “Tie this bastard up, then tell me what is happening.”

“We are sinking, and your countrymen are coming,” the chief said, as he fished a roll of duct tape from his pocket and tossed it to the Russian. “And tie him up yourself. I have to stop us from sinking.”

The chief turned on his heel and rushed to the engine room.

Arabian Sea
250 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173

Unarmed, Dugan crouched as low as he could in the boat, then realized how stupid it was to expect an inflatable boat to provide any protection from a bullet. He scooted over to put as much of the outboard as possible between himself and the pirates. Borgdanov and the sergeant knelt on either side of him, calmly firing an occasional three-round burst back at the pirates. Dugan looked up at Borgdanov.

“For Christ’s sake,” Dugan said. “There’s only one left. Use the RPG!”

“
Nyet
,” Borgdanov replied without looking down. “He is still too far for RPG. We must be sure of kill shot. Anyway, chopper is coming soon, and the
piraty
are terrible shots. At this distance, it would be accident if they hit anything.”

Just as the Russian finished speaking, bullets stitched the starboard tube of the inflatable, followed by the hiss of escaping air. Borgdanov looked down and shrugged. “Even
piraty
get lucky sometime,” he said. “But maybe you are right. We are not moving and they are coming fast.” He glanced over. “Ilya, the RPG.”

Arabian Sea
Kyung Yang No. 173

Anisimov balanced himself on the canted open deck of the listing fishing boat, holding his assault rifle and looking for an opportunity to add his fire to that of his comrades. But it wasn’t to be. Without her forward motion to maintain rudder control, the
Kyung Yang No. 173
was wallowing in the remaining swell, making her a very unstable firing platform. Given the range to the pirate boat and the fact that he would be firing past his comrades, he stood as much chance of hitting them as he did the pirates. He lowered his weapon and glanced up at the approaching chopper.

He did a double take. The chopper had stopped its approach and was hovering. What’s wrong? Surely they can see the situation. They should be closing on the
piraty
with their mini-gun to provide cover for the major and —

Then it hit him, and he rushed for the wheelhouse and the radio.

Arabian Sea
250 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173

Dugan peeked around the outboard and watched the pirate boat go airborne as it topped a swell fifty yards behind them, moving at full throttle now. He glanced at the sergeant on his knees beside him, the RPG to his shoulder, and willed him to pull the trigger. There was a muffled thump, and he watched the round fly from the weapon and plunge into the sea, thirty feet from their own boat.

“
Mat’ ublyudkek
,” the sergeant muttered, as he tossed the now-useless weapon over the side and reached for his assault rifle.

“What the hell?” Dugan said.

“RPG is dud,” Borgdanov said from Dugan’s opposite side, continuing to stare aft as he fired at the pirates. “Where is chopper,
Dyed
? We could use help now.”

Dugan rolled on his back and searched the sky. He spotted the chopper just as it went into a hover, and watched, waiting for it to charge forward and take out the pirates.
What’s he waiting for
?

“Ahh … Andrei. This guy’s not acting too friendly. If you have any secret hey-I’m-a-Russian-too signals, now would be the time to trot them out.”

Russian Ka-29TB helicopter
Over Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea