Echo of War

48

Diluted by the seawater, the fuel-oil mixture failed to explode, but simply ignited with a whoosh. In the split-second before impact a wave slammed into the skipjack’s bow. Rudderless and powerless, it veered right, slammed into the Barak’s gunwale, then started sliding aft along the hull.

Watching from the water, Tanner’s heart sank. It wasn’t going to work.

Then, as it had all night, the sea abruptly changed and gave him the break he needed.

A trough opened beneath the Barak. Her afterdeck dropped away. Above her, the skipjack rolled onto its side and skidded across the Barak’s gunwale, spilling flaming fuel oil as it went. Afterdeck ablaze, the Barak bucked upward. The skipjack rolled off the stern, wallowed for a few seconds, then capsized and sunk from view.

Tanner started stroking toward the Barak. He heard a shrill scream.

Engulfed in flame, arms flailing, a man appeared on the afterdeck. “Ach, Got … helfen sie!” The man spun in a circle, crashed into the gunwale, and fell to his knees. He reached up, grabbed the gaff pole jutting from the gunwale and pulled himself upright. He tipped over the side. The screaming stopped.

Tanner reached the Barak’s side. The afterdeck was still burning, but as he watched, the flames sizzled out as the rain flushed the fuel oil down the scuppers and into the water. Feet pressed against the hull in case he needed to escape a sudden roll, Tanner tried to gauge the rising and falling of the gunwale. At the right moment, he reached up and hooked both hands onto a cleat. The Barak heaved upward, dragging him out of the water and tossing him onto the afterdeck.

A puddle of burning fuel oil sloshed over his boot, igniting it. He slapped it out, then rose to his knees and looked around. Across the deck lay another of Litzman’s men; still smoking, the body flopped against the gunwale in time with the rocking of the deck.

To Tanner’s left was the door to the main cabin. It swung open, banged against the bulkhead. Tanner started, half-expecting to see a figure charging out at him. The doorway was empty; beyond it, the cabin was dark. The Barak rolled again and the door slammed shut.

Of Litzman’s team, two men were dead, which left two alive, including Litzman. How much time did he have? Clearly Litzman had armed the CAPTOR before pushing it overboard. Tanner was confident Cahil could stop the Aurasina as planned, but there was too much at stake to assume anything. How long before she was within range? What of the CAPTOR itself? Once overboard, it would have drifted as it descended, but in what direction?

On impulse, Tanner reached for the sat phone. It was gone, lost in the ocean.

Stop. Prioritize. Deal with Litzman; deal with the CAPTOR; find Susanna.

He looked around for a weapon. There was nothing. He jerked the gaff from its gunwale bracket. It was six feet long and tipped by a hook as big around as his thumb. Not as good as a gun, but it would have to do.

First, clear the main deck, then—

The cabin door banged open. Tanner spun, leveled the gaff. As before, the doorway was empty, dark. Nothing. Briggs lowered the gaff. A figure appeared in the doorway. Tanner glimpsed the outline of a rifle — an AK-47—in his hands. Confined by the door’s threshold, it took the man a precious two seconds to bring the AK’s barrel up and around.

Gaff held before him like a lance, Tanner lunged forward. He jabbed the tip of the gaff into the man’s sternum. He let out an explosive gasp. Tanner jerked the gaff downward, hooked the AK by the barrel, and yanked hard. Hand caught in the AK’s sling, the man staggered forward. Tanner sidestepped, let him pass, then reversed the gaff and brought the wooden end down onto the crown of his skull. The man pitched forward, skidded across the deck, and lay still.

Behind Tanner came another sound, a muffled cry. Briggs whirled around. Susanna stumbled through the doorway and onto the deck. On impulse, even as he realized his mistake, Tanner rushed forward and caught her in his arms.

Litzman stepped out of the cabin, AK held level at his waist. He gestured with the barrel. “Drop the gaff,” he ordered. Tanner did so. Litzman cocked his head, studying Tanner’s face. “Our stowaway from the Sorgia. Good swimmer.”

Tanner didn’t reply; there was nothing to say. Litzman was going to kill them. The only question was, how soon and which of them would go first? Realizing his escape plan was in jeopardy, Litzman was probably weighing options, deciding his best course. Cross him up; make him think; buy time.

“We’ve met before,” Tanner said. “Bishkek … an apartment off the Chuysky.”

Litzman nodded slowly. “That was you?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad I missed you. You lost a lot of men that day.”

“Yes.” Tanner felt the knot of rage tightening in his chest. He could feel Susanna shivering against him. He glanced at her face. Her lip was split and her chin was caked in dried blood.

Tanner looked back at Litzman. “Let her go, Karl. Put her in the Zodiac and let her go.”

“She’s outlived her usefulness.”

Tanner momentarily assumed the comment was a sexual reference, but something in Litzman’s tone said otherwise. What did he mean? Tanner wondered. From the back of his mind a word surfaced: groundwork. Like Fikret Zukic and the Bihac Istina, was Susanna nothing more than window dressing for the operation? If so, that meant …

“How did you find out?” Tanner asked Litzman. “Gunston?”

Litzman hesitated, then nodded. “After one of their meetings we followed him. He was sloppy. He went straight back to the embassy. From there it didn’t take much to realize who and what he was.”

There it is, Briggs thought. Having realized his new girlfriend was working for the CIA, Litzman had turned her into an unwitting conduit to the U.S. government. All the conversations she’d overheard, all the names, all Litzman’s side trips — all of it was meant to reach the CIA as eventual proof of Trpkova’s — and thereby Bosnia’s — attack on the Aurasina.

Having watched their exchange in silence, Susanna now spoke up. “You knew?” she cried. “You son of a bitch!” She pulled away from Tanner and took a tentative step toward Litzman, who followed her with the AK’s barrel.

Tanner reached for Susanna. She shrugged off his hands and kept sidestepping, her eyes fixed on Litzman. “You used me. My god …”

Litzman gave her a grim smile, but said nothing. Tanner watched his eyes, saw them change. He’s done talking. Which one of us first?

“Why?” Susanna murmured.

Her voice sounded distant, befuddled. Tanner knew what was happening. Faced with Litzman’s revelation, the walls she’d built up to protect herself had come tumbling down. In the space of thirty seconds, nine months of terror and humiliation came flooding back. And here standing right in front of her, was the cause of it all. Not only had Litzman driven her into the darkest parts of her psyche, but with a single bullet he’d crippled her father and swept away her childhood.

“You didn’t have to,” she muttered, staring at him. “I didn’t … I …”

Tanner saw Litzman’s hand tighten on the AK’s stock. Ever so slightly the barrel began drifting toward Tanner. Briggs readied himself. If he could wrap Litzman up, Susanna might have a—

“You bastard!”

Screaming, her arms flailing, Susanna charged Litzman. With a flick of his forearm, Litzman snapped the AK upward, the barrel catching her across the jaw. She went sprawling into the gunwale. Litzman took aim and fired. Tanner saw Susanna convulse with the impact, then slump to the deck.

Litzman spun on Tanner.

Briggs was already moving. Dropping into a crouch, he snatched the gaff off the deck and swung it in a short arc. The hook buried itself into the meat of Litzman’s calf. Litzman screamed, but kept turning, trying to bring the AK to bear. Tanner jerked the gaff. Litzman’s leg went out from under him. He crashed to the deck. He struggled to a sitting position and leveled the AK with Tanner’s chest.

Using both hands, Briggs heaved backward. The hook tore out of Litzman’s calf with a sucking pop and spun him onto his side. Litzman cried out. Tanner shortened his grip on the pole, rose to one knee, swung again. The hook smacked across the AK’s barrel, glanced off Litzman’s chest, and buried itself in the side of his throat.

Litzman let out a strangled cry. He dropped the AK. Both hands went to his throat. Blood gushed from the wound, drenching his forearms. His face showing a mixture of pain, surprise, and fear, Litzman swiveled his eyes toward Tanner. He gave a single, wet cough then rolled sideways onto the deck, dead.

Tanner snatched up the AK, tossed- it across the deck, then scrambled to Susanna.

He touched her face. She moaned. “Briggs …”

“It’s me, I’m here.”

Gingerly, he opened the front of her jacket. It was slick with blood. Litzman’s bullet had torn through her lower abdomen on the left side. He reached around her, fingers probing, until he found an exit wound.

“Is it bad?” she murmured.

Yes; honey, it’s bad. “No, not at all,” he replied. “You’ll be fine. Does it hurt?”

“Numb … sleepy. Litzman?”

“He’s gone. Let’s get you inside. Try not to move.”

Tanner picked her up, carried her into the cabin, and laid her on the deck, then spent a frantic minute looking for a light switch, which he flipped with no effect. Working from feel alone, he went from drawer to drawer until he found a flashlight. To his right against the bulkhead was a sofa. He moved her to it, found a blanket, and covered her.

“Briggs,” she murmured.

“I’m here.”

“There’s a … a … torpedo, or a mine, I’m not sure. Something about a ferry …”

“Don’t worry about that right now.”

Tanner ransacked the cabin and staterooms, collecting every sheet and towel he could find. He returned to the sofa, knelt beside Susanna, and began packing the wound. She gasped. “Hurts now.”

“I’m sorry. Can you hold that in place?”

She nodded and placed her hand over the dressing. “Where is it … the mine?”

“Don’t talk, Susanna.”

“How many people?”

“What?”

“On the ferry.”

“Eight hundred.”

Susanna’s eyes snapped open. She grabbed his hand. “You have to stop it.”

“Susanna, you—”

“No. I’ll wait here, hold this in place. I’m fine. You have to stop it, Briggs.”

She was right. His life, her life … Even without Kestrel in the equation, two lives for eight hundred was a fair trade. With Kestrel? Two lives for millions?

“I don’t want to leave you,” Tanner whispered. Left alone, she would lapse into unconsciousness and bleed to death.

“You have to,” she replied, then smiled. “I promise to wait right here.”

He smiled back; he felt tears welling in his eyes. “I’m proud of you, Susanna. I’m so sorry.”

“No reason … be okay,” she mumbled. “Go now. Hurry.”

Tanner squeezed her hand once, then turned and walked out.