Echo of War

45

Claiming a hydraulic malfunction in his landing gear, Gaines got clearance by Rijeka control to either go around for a second pass or to proceed to Losinj for an emergency landing. Gaines opted for the latter.

As they descended to two thousand feet and crossed the coast into the Kvarner Gulf, rain began peppering the windows. The wind increased, and into the Adriatic Tanner could see storm clouds roiling over the ocean. Here and there, lightning lanced downward, connecting sky and water.

The Adriatic Coast is one of the better kept tourist areas outside of Europe. With a climate rivaling that of the Caribbean and landscape to match, Croatia’s coastline is sprinkled with thousands of islands and reef-rimmed atolls ranging in size from three hundred square miles — Cres-Losinj — to tree-covered sandbars no longer than a football field.

Unije, the island toward which Litzman and the Barak seemed to be heading, is only one of twenty-five in the Cres-Losinj archipelago. Its northern tip begins ten miles from Rijek, extends fifty-five miles southwest into the Kvamer Gulf, and ends at Ilovik Island.

Twenty miles out from Losinj’s airstrip, Gaines changed frequencies, checked in with the tower, and happily reported his malfunction cured. He circled over Ilovik, banked in a tight circle, and began descending toward the airstrip near Mali Losinj, the island’s main city.

Five minutes later they set down on the tarmac and taxied toward a groundsman in a yellow rain slicker waving red wands, who directed them to a tie-down beside the main hangar. Once Gaines had the engine shut down, the man jogged up with a pair of wheel chocks. Tanner opened the door and climbed out. A wind gust tore at his face, filling his eyes with salt mist. He sputtered and squinted his eyes.

“Nice landing, Gaines,” the groundsman yelled over the rush in Croat-accented English.

“Damn straight!” Gaines shouted back.

“You’re lucky. Another ten minutes and they were going to shut us down.”

Tanner and Gaines knelt down to help secure the Cessna. The wings shuddered with the wind and rain sluiced off the leading edges like miniature waterfalls.

“How is it out there?” Tanner asked the man.

“Where?”

Tanner jerked his thumb toward the ocean, and the man said, “Nasty. Seas running about two meters, wind gusts to eighty kilometers.”

Six-foot waves and fifty-mile-per-hour winds, Tanner thought. He said to Gaines, “Where’s the boat?”

“Gimme your phone.”

The taxi dropped them at the Mali Losinj Yacht Club. The harbormaster’s shack and adjoining restaurant and bar were dark, closed early because of the storm. Beyond the gate Tanner could see slip after slip filled with sailboats and motor yachts, all battened down and tied tightly to their moorings. Over the rush of the wind he could hear the squeaking of rubber bumpers grinding against the pilings.

Five minutes after they arrived, Briggs heard the puttering of a small engine. A man on a Piaggio scooter swerved into the parking lot and skidded to a stop beside them. The driver got off, flipped open the kickstand, slid back his hood, and grabbed Gaines in a bear hug.

“Filmore, dobra veccer!”

“How’ve you been, Franjo?”

“Never better! You said you had an emergency?”

Gaines began speaking in rapid-fire Croat, gesturing to Tanner several times. Franjo asked a few questions, squinted at Tanner, then shrugged and said, “We’ll see. He can take a look, at least.”

Franjo opened the gate and the three of them walked along the planking until they reached a slip containing a twelve-foot mastless skipjack painted in battleship gray. The gunwales, gnarled by sea rot, had been covered in multiple layers of marine lacquer, and the hull showed several patched holes. A circa 1950s outboard motor jutted from the stern.

It wasn’t exactly what Tanner had in mind.

As though sensing his reservation, Franjo said, “Don’t be fooled. She’s fast and sturdy.”

“How fast and how sturdy?”

“Fifteen knots.”

“In this weather?”

“Eight. She’s got a keel stabilizer, though. Unless you broadside her, she won’t tip on you.”

Tanner thought about it. In this rain, he’d be bailing before he got out of the harbor. “Do you have a cover?”

“Of course, with a waist skirt. Like kayaks, you know? You’ll be snug and dry. All the equipment you’ll need, too.”

“How much?” Briggs asked.

“No offense intended, but somehow I am thinking I won’t be getting her back. Three thousand — U.S.”

It was outrageous, but Tanner didn’t hesitate. “Done. Bud, it’ll have to be on your tab.”

Gaines hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. I’m sure our lady friend is good for it.”

Franjo said, “Wonderful! Congratulations. How soon do you need—”

“Now,” Tanner said.

As Franjo and Bud scrambled to prepare the skipjack, Tanner found shelter under the eaves of the harbormaster’s shack and called Langley. “I’m on my way. Where’s the Barak?”

“Passing Unije,” Dutcher said.

Oaken added, “There’s only two other islands before she reaches you: Male Srakane and Veli Srakane, both tiny, mostly uninhabited. The second one’s got a game warden, but not much else.”

Why there? Tanner thought. What was Litzman up to? “I’ll find them. What’s his ETA?”

“If he keeps going, another hour.”

Dutcher broke in. “Briggs, turn on your GPS so we can track you.”

Tanner reached up, depressed the phone’s antenna, and gave it a turn. “Done. Where’s the Aurasina?”

“Just passing Premantura on the Istrian tip. Thirty miles north of you.”

“Speed?”

“Fourteen knots. Her captain’s pushing hard to stay ahead of the storm.”

Fourteen knots … just over two hours. No more time. “If you don’t hear from me or see the Barak disappear off the radar screen within two hours, assume I didn’t get it done. Tell Bear to stop the Aurasina.”

“Good luck,” Dutcher said.

Aboard the Aurasina, Bear was standing at the railing overlooking the vehicle deck when Dutcher called with the update from Tanner. Below, a pair of crewmen were walking from car to car, testing the tie-down straps. Most of the ferry’s decks were deserted, the passengers having retreated to their cabins.

“He’s leaving Losinj now,” Dutcher finished. “Unless Litzman changes course, they should meet near one of the Srakane islands.”

“I’m ready on this end,” Bear said. “I did some scouting. They’ve got two auxiliary machinery rooms; the locks are pretty flimsy. I shouldn’t have a problem slipping in.”

“And then?” Dutcher asked.

“A fire hose in the reduction gear,” Cahil answered. “It’ll either bum out the bearings or shear off a couple torque converters. She’ll be dead in the water.”

“Good enough. Don’t count on hearing from us; with the storm, communication is going to be dicey. Orders or not, two hours from now, work your magic.”

“Will do.”

Cahil disconnected. Behind him, he heard the distinctive click of a gun safety being disengaged. Instinctively, Bear turned on the sat phone’s GPS transponder, detached the antenna, and slid it into his waistband.

“Turn around,” a voice said. “Slowly.”

Cahil did so. Standing before him, a Sauer semiautomatic pistol held at waist level, was Risto Trpkova. Beside him, also armed, was one of his men. “What’s this about?” Cahil asked. “I don’t have very much money—”

“I rarely forget faces. It took some time, but I finally placed yours. Foca, wasn’t it, 1996?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“Sorry,” Cahil said with a shrug.

“Then why don’t we go someplace and talk about it,” Trpkova said. “We’ll share memories, talk about old times. Then you can tell me why you’ve been following me, and why I shouldn’t shoot you in the head and dump your body overboard.”