The Sniper and the Wolf

7

Prone on the deck of a small charter boat, the frustrated Kovalenko couldn’t see the swimmers well enough by the riding lights of the Palinouros to make them out in their black wet suits, so he was firing at the white froth of their wake. The rifle was a quality weapon, an Accuracy International AWS (Arctic Warfare Suppressed) in .308 Winchester bought on the Italian black market — very probably having been stolen from the Ninth Parachute Assault Regiment — but the Zeiss scope did not have night vision capabilities.

Kovalenko and his men had chartered the fishing boat earlier that day, killing the Maltese owner and stuffing the small man’s body into the fish cooler at the stern. After boarding the Palinouros and murdering her entire crew shortly after midnight, it was their intention to take the charter boat to Pachino on the southern tip of Sicily and then later catch the ferry from Messina to the Italian mainland. Problems with the charter’s carburetor, however, delayed their departure, forcing them back to shore.

With the carburetor fixed an hour later, they were in the process of casting off when one of Kovalenko’s men spotted the tight group of glowing cigarettes over on St. Paul’s Island two hundred yards away. He knew the island was supposed to be deserted, so the sight looked odd to him. He pointed it out to Kovalenko, who immediately took the AWS from its case and had a look through the scope.

“Spetsnaz!” he’d hissed, dropping to the deck and setting up the rifle’s bipod. By the time he was ready to fire a few seconds later, Dragunov’s men had stepped on their cigarettes and waded into the water. His first shot to Brody’s groin had not been accidental, wanting to inflict as much psychological damage to the enemy Spetsnaz team as possible. His second shot was to the throat of the man who had chosen to shout a warning rather than stay alive.

By the time the swimmers drew within fifty yards of the Palinouros, he believed he had killed two more but couldn’t be sure. It was possible they were swimming beneath the surface.

“Start the motor!” he ordered, getting to his feet. “We’ll finish them as they try to board the yacht.”

At this moment, they saw a Maltese P21, a seventy-foot inshore patrol boat, coming toward them from the southern rim of the bay. Its spotlight snapped on, and the charter craft was bathed in light. Kovalenko left the rifle on the deck, where it couldn’t be seen immediately.

“Ready yourselves,” he said to the other three. “If they attempt to board us, we kill them all.”

As the P21 approached off the starboard beam, Kovalenko and his men spaced themselves apart.

“Boris, switch on the riding lights. That’s why they’re approaching — because we’re dark. And put smiles on your faces!”

Boris went into the wheelhouse to switch on the riding lights, and Kovalenko waved at the crew of the P21, smiling and shielding his eyes from the spotlight with the opposite hand. He could see that the Browning .50 caliber machine gun on the foredeck was manned and trained directly on their vessel as they came alongside. “Boris, stay in the cabin until I call. Then kill the gunner on the foredeck.”

“Right!” Boris called from inside the wheelhouse.

The P21 had an eight-man crew. There were three men on the foredeck besides the .50 gunner, one on the quarterdeck behind the wheelhouse, two manning the portside rail, and one at the con. Five of them were armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, but only the man on the .50 caliber appeared ready to fire.

The P21 shifted into reverse, backwatering until the vessel came to a stop alongside. The only unarmed man on the foredeck, the officer, threw a line to Kovalenko, signaling that they intended to board.

Kovalenko waved, making like he was going to tie the line to one of the bow cleats. “Now, Boris.”

Boris sprang from the wheelhouse with an AK-47, firing a perfect six-round burst that struck the .50 gunner in the chest, knocking him backward and clean over the starboard rail into the water. He continued to fire until the magazine ran dry, killing the officer and both MP5 gunners on the foredeck before ducking back inside to reload.

The remaining three MP5 gunners opened up on the wheelhouse with blazing fire, killing Boris instantly but leaving Kovalenko’s other two men free to pull Glock pistols from behind their backs, picking off the gunners in quick succession along the portside rail.

Even as the MP5 gunners were dropping, Kovalenko was pulling the line to haul the P21 in close, jumping aboard and scrambling into the wheelhouse where the first mate was grabbing for the radio. He shot him in the back of the head with a 9 mm, and the bullet exited through the first mate’s face, hitting the radio and causing sparks to fly.

“Get aboard!” he shouted. “We have to run for Sicily.”

One of the two remaining Spetsnaz grabbed up the AWS sniper rifle, and the other took a moment to put a bullet into Boris’s head, making absolutely sure he could never be interrogated. Both of them leapt aboard the P21, and Kovalenko applied the throttle, motoring steadily away from the shattered fishing charter.

“Take their jackets and toss the bodies overboard,” he ordered. “Then man the machine gun. We have to look like Maltese navy.” The radio was destroyed, but that didn’t matter. Kovalenko’s English wasn’t good enough to convince anyone that he was from Malta, where all they spoke was English and Maltese. Their best hope was to make it to Sicily before anyone in the Maltese military could piece together what had happened and give pursuit.

He increased speed toward the Palinouros as one of his men came into the wheelhouse to hand him the AWS. “Take the con,” Kovalenko told him. “I’m going to kill as many aboard that pig yacht as I can on the way past.”