Fire Ice Page 34

  The mask of the affable politician melted away, to be replaced by the street thug. “You destroy me? You're a mere flea.”

  “Maybe, but there are many more fleas where I come from. And we all bite.”

  “It will take more than NUMA and your government to stop me,” Razov said. “When I'm through bringing Russia back to its former glory, the U.S. will be like a puking, mewling child, a world beggar, its resources depleted, its leadership weak and confused - ” Razov saw that he had gone too far and stopped suddenly. “You're no longer welcome aboard my yacht, Mr. Austin. My security men will escort you to the launch.”

  “I can find my way. 'Til we meet the next time, Mr. Razov.” He started to walk away.

  Razov's lips parted in a feral grin. “There isn't going to be a next time.”

  Razov made a subtle gesture, and his guards started to follow. Austin let out a low whistle. The wolfhounds perked up their ears and, with tails wagging, broke away from Razov, trailing their useless leashes. Austin grinned and looked Razov straight in the eye. The Russian stared at Austin with a look of pure hate. Austin turned and walked quickly toward the stern of the boat, merging with the crowd with the dogs at his heel. He realized that he had to lose the hounds. They were too conspicuous and would call attention to him.

  He stopped and patted the dogs on their heads, then handed their leashes to a startled young woman wearing a maroon blazer. He whipped his wig and sunglasses off and tucked them in the woman's pocket.

  “Would you return these to Mr. Razov, please? With my compliments.”

  Walking quickly, he made his way past the salon entrance and slipped through the crowd, almost bowling Kaela over.

  “What's the big hurry?” she said.

  “Get off the yacht as soon as you can,” he said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Don't know. See you at the Ritz Bar in about an hour.” Austin pecked Kaela's cheek and headed toward the stairs that would take him to the launch deck. He hoped to catch a ride on a launch, but abandoned that course. Two guards flanked the stairway, their eyes scanning the crowd. Austin had assumed, wrongly, that Razov wouldn't risk an incident with all the people around. But Razov had spilled more than he'd intended and was willing to take the risk. Pushing his way back through the crowd, Austin was trying to gain a few minutes while he figured out an alternative escape route, when someone grabbed his arm.

  Austin whirled and tensed his body into a combat stance. Petrov released his grip. The Russian was smiling, but his eyes were deadly serious.

  “I think you'd better not go that way,” he said. Austin followed Petrov's gaze. A guard was working his way through the crowd. He looked straight at Austin and spoke to a microphone in the lapel of his suit. Austin let Petrov guide him into one door of the salon, around the dance floor, then through the other door and out onto the deck. They headed toward a stairway, but this too had a tall guard stationed at it. The man had a hand cupped next to his ear, listening to his radio.

  Wearing a broad smile, Petrov went up to him and said something in Russian. The guard responded with a suspicious glare and reached for the gun inside his jacket. Petrov drove his fist into the man's midsection. The guard doubled over, gasping for breath, and when he came up for air, Austin was waiting with a right cross. The big man tumbled like a big tree felled by a lumberjack.

  Stepping over the fallen guard, they raced down the stairs to the deck below. Austin saw a door like the one used on the other side of the ship for the guest shuttles. Petrov worked the latch and pushed the door open. Austin wondered if they were going to have to swim for it when a shaft of light fell on a powerboat. The motor was idling, and the man at the wheel grinned and waved when he saw Petrov.

  “I took the liberty of arranging alternative transportation,” Petrov said.

  “I thought you came alone.”

  “Never trust a former KGB man.”

  Austin scolded himself. Unlike Petrov, he had underestimated the determination of his foe. He had been so eager to confront Razov that he had neglected his own escape plans. He vowed to praise Ivan later for his meticulous attention to detail. He stepped from the ship onto the deck of the powerboat, Petrov followed and Petrov's man ratcheted up the throttle several notches. The boat surged forward, almost pitching Austin and Petrov into the water, as the snarling outboard motor pushed it up on plane.

  Austin looked back at the brightly lit ship and chuckled as he imagined the reaction of Razov and his thugs to their escape. His triumph lasted only a second, however. Silent gunfire raked the boat, coming not from the ship but from the harbor itself. Though there was no sound, the muzzle flashes were clearly visible in the darkness, and the hail of bullets stitched their way across the body of the helmsman. He let out a soggy yell before he crumpled over the wheel, and the boat careened off at a wild angle.

  Petrov pulled the man away from the wheel and Austin grabbed the helm. Spotlight beams converged on the powerboat. Razov was no fool. He'd stationed a picket line of his gunmen in boats around the yacht.

  Another volley raked the boat. There was only one way past the guard boats, and that was through them, Austin concluded. He steered toward a gap between spotlights, and the boat shot between the picket line. Razov's guards held their fire for fear of hitting each other in the cross fire, but once Austin was in the open harbor, they let fly with everything they had.

  The water around the fleeing boat exploded with miniature geysers. A few shots found the windshield and shattered the glass. Petrov clutched his head and fell to the deck. Austin ducked low and wrung every ounce of speed he could out of the motor. The boat was fast, but the pursuers were slightly faster. Spotlights were gaining on both sides.

  Austin glanced toward shore. They'd never make it... and then another possible refuge offered itself. Dead ahead, her masts and sails illuminated by deck lights, was Old Ironsides.

  A volley of slugs from a flanking pursuer slammed into the side of the boat at the waterline and blasted a row of holes in the fiberglass. Austin tried to keep the boat on plane, but the holes were too big and the boat quickly swamped. The outboard motor pushed on until it died with a smoky gasp. The boat went under like a diving submarine. Austin found himself floating in Boston Harbor. Petrov went under. Austin dove after him, grabbed the Russian by the neck and pulled him to the surface, where he was greeted by a bright light shining in his eyes, and he could hear the sound of voices shouting.

  STRONG HANDS REACHED down, grabbed Austin by the arms and the scruff of his jacket and pulled him, dripping, from the chill water. He wiped his eyes and saw that he was in a double-ended boat about thirty feet long. A dozen men wearing white navy uniforms and black neckerchiefs pulled at long oars with practiced strokes. Petrov was stretched out at Austin's feet, blood streaming from a wound on his head. He gave Austin a weak wave.

  “All you all right, sir?” said a young man who sat next to Austin in the stem, his hand on the tiller. Over his white sailor's uniform he wore a long black coat with brass buttons down the front, a black neckerchief and a shiny black-brimmed hat.

  “A little waterlogged. Thanks for hauling us out of the harbor.”

  The steersman extended his free hand. “Josh Slade. I'm the officer of the deck on board the U.S.S. Constitution. We saw you from up there,” he said, pointing to Old Ironsides, which sat in the water a few hundred feet away, her three tall masts brightly illuminated by floodlights.

  “My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

  “What's NUMA doing in these parts?” Slade gave him a funny look as he asked the question. Austin brought his hand up to his face and felt his fake nose.

  It was hanging half off from the effects of the dunk in the harbor. Austin ripped the nose off and tossed it over the side.

  “Long story,” Austin said, with a shake of his head. “How's my friend?”

  “Looks like the bleeding has stopped. We'll give him first aid when we get back
on board.”

  Music from Razov's yacht drifted across the water. Austin hoped Kaela and Lombardo were all right. He saw no sign of the chase boats and their gun-happy crews, but instinct and experience told him they hadn't gone far.

  “Did anyone see the powerboats that were following us?”

  “Just a glimpse. They were right on your tail, but when you got into trouble, they disappeared. We couldn't figure out why they didn't stop to help. Don't know where they went. We were busy launching the captain's gig and didn't pay much attention.”

  “Lucky you were here. It would have been a long swim back to land.”

  “I'll say. Normally we wouldn't be out here this late. The Constitution does one turnaround cruise a year, on the Fourth of July. We were taking the ship out on a midnight cruise. Got the master gun team, so we can fire a twenty-one-gun salute. The governor and the mayor got the okay from the Navy Department for us to do a nighttime sail-by. What happened? We saw you zipping it along, but then your boat seemed to vanish from under you.”

  Austin saw no point in beating around the bush. “We were leaving the party yacht. Those boats you saw shot us out of the water and killed our helmsman.”

  He stared at Austin as if he suspected his sanity. “We didn't hear any gunfire.”

  “They had silencers on their guns."

  “Come to think of it, we saw flashes of light that could have come from guns. We thought they were camera strobe lights. Who were those guys? Whoops,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “Going to have to excuse me for a minute.”

  Slade steered them around behind the Constitution under the white eagle and ship's name emblazoned on the stem. He maneuvered the boat under the davits that projected overhead like extended wooden arms. The rowers lifted the oars out of their locks and stood them in a vertical position, then attached the lines hanging down from the davits and winched themselves up to deck level.

  With help from the deck crew, Petrov was extricated from the boat. The Russian had revived and was able to walk with the help of a sailor on either side. Someone made a mattress of life jackets so he wouldn't have to lie on the hard wooden deck. Another crewman gave Austin a coat to replace his dripping jacket.

  Slade took his hat off and tucked it under his arm. He was a dark-haired young man in his twenties, a couple of inches taller than Austin's six feet one. With his chiseled features and ramrod posture, he could have posed for a navy recruiting poster.

  “Welcome to Old Ironsides, the oldest commissioned warship in the world, still manned by an active-duty U.S. Navy crew.” The pride in his voice was obvious.

  “ 'Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high,' ” Austin said, quoting the first line of the Oliver Wendell Holmes poem, “Old Ironsides,” that had inspired the nation to save the ship from destruction.

  Slade grinned and quoted the second line, “ 'And many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky...' Sounds as if you know your naval history, sir.”

  “I know the ship fought the Barbary pirates and gave the British a major headache during the War of 1812. That she was undefeated in battle. And during the fight with the British frigate H.M.S Guerriere, cannonballs bounced off her sides as if they were made of iron.” His eyes fondly swept the two-hundred-four-foot length of the frigate, taking in the long bowsprit, We expansive spar deck with the neat rows of cannon and the two-hundred-twenty-foot-tall main-mast. “Hope I look half as good when I'm her age.”

  “Thank you. We take great pride in keeping her ship-shape. She was built not far from here, launched in 1797. Actually, her sides were made of live oak from the south-eastern U.S. Her hull is twenty-five inches thick at the waterline. Paul Revere did the copperwork and made the ship's bell. Don't mean to give you the guide routine,” he apologized, “but we're awfully proud of the lady.” His face grew serious. “Instead of giving you a history lesson, I should call the Coast Guard and let them know we've got an injured man on board.” Slade patted the pockets of his coat and frowned. “Damn. My cell phone must have fallen out when I got in the gig. I've got a walkie-talkie we use to keep in touch with the tugboat when we're being pushed or towed. I'll ask the crew to relay a message to the Coast Guard.”

  While Slade retrieved his handheld radio, Austin went over to where Petrov was stretched out on the deck. Someone had covered him with a section of sail. A crewman was keeping watch.

  Austin knelt by Petrov's side. “How are you feeling, tovarich?”

  Petrov groaned. “I have a splitting headache, as you would expect after having a bullet bounce off a comer of my skull. Why is it that every time I get too close to you, I get blown up or shot up?”

  “Just lucky, I guess. Razovmust have taken something I said the wrong way. Sorry that you lost your man.”

  “I am, too. He wasn't a bad sort for a Ukrainian. He was aware he was in a dangerous business, though. His family will be well-compensated.”

  Austin told Petrov to take it easy, then he rose and walked to the thick wooden bulwark, the chin-high raised side that enclosed the uppermost deck. While he was scanning the harbor, Slade returned.

  “Mission accomplished,” he said. “The tug crew will notify the Coast Guard and the police harbor patrol. They'll ask them to send some EMTs over to take care of your friend. How's he doing?”

  “He'll live. A half an inch lower and he would have lost some brain power.”

  “Is he with NUMA, too?”

  “He's a Russian trade representative from Siberian Pest Control.”

  Slade gave him that funny look again. “What's he doing in Boston Harbor?”

  “Looking for Siberian pests,” Austin said.

  Slade noticed Austin peering back toward where the tugboat was nudged up against the stern of the ship.

  “The tug pushed us away from the wharf,” Slade explained. “We were getting ready to raise sail after they got us into the outer harbor. We're supposed to do a run for the television cameras, then rendezvous with the tug and get a ride back to the navy yard.”

  Austin was only half listening. He squinted into the darkness at the snarl of boat motors. The sound grew louder. Then he saw firefly points of light made by muzzle flashes.

  Traveling in a line, three fast powerboats materialized and raced toward the stern of the sailing vessel. Then came the snap and whine of rounds ricocheting off the tugboat. Sparks exploded where the bullets struck the steel hull. The tugboat crew got over its surprise at being fired upon. With a roar of its engines, the tugboat went into reverse and headed off at full throttle. The boats circled the slower craft, riddling the wooden pilothouse with bullets. The tug slowed, traveled a few hundred feet before it stopped completely.

  Austin clenched his fists in anger, helpless to prevent the cowardly attack on the innocent tugboat. He asked Slade to call the tug on his walkie-talkie. After several attempts, the sailor gave up. , “It's no use,” he said. “Damn, why'd they attack those guys?”

  “They know the tug was our only propulsion.”

  Although the boats were out of sight at the edge of darkness, Austin could hear their idling motors. Then he saw the gun flashes, followed by what sounded like a hundred woodpeckers attacking the ship. Slade tried to lean over the bulwark to check out the noise. Austin pulled him down on the deck.

  “Jeez, those idiots are shooting at us!” Slade yelled. “Don't they know this is a national treasure?”

  “We'll be fine,” Austin said. “Old lronsides stopped cannonballs. A little automatic gunfire isn't going to sink her.”

  “I'm not worried about that. I don't want my crew hurt.”

  Austin had been listening with one ear to the gunfire. “They've stopped shooting. Tell your men to keep their heads down and wait for orders.” Austin realized Slade was in command. “I'm sorry. Those are suggestions. This is your command.”

  “Thanks,” Slade said. “Your suggestions are well taken. Don't worry, I won't fall apart. I was a Marine before they gave me this duty. I'm
only here because I hurt my knee in an accident.”

  Austin studied the young man's face and saw no fear, only determination.

  “Okay, here's my take on that strafing run. They wanted to drive off the tug so we'd be dead in the water. They know they can't sink us. My guess is that they'll try to board us.”

  Slade tucked his chin in. “That's unacceptable. No enemy has ever come aboard the Constitution except for prisoners of war. You can be certain it's not going to happen on my watch.” He glanced around the spar deck. “There's only one problem. The ship originally carried more than four hundred men. We're a little shorthanded.”

  “We'll have to make do. Can we get the old girl moving?”

  “We were about to hoist sail when we stopped to pick you and your friend up. The best we can get out of it is a couple of knots. lronsides is no speedboat.”

  “The main thing is that we establish even a little control of the situation. It will keep them guessing. Speed's not important. What about weapons? Any on board?”

  Slade laughed and pointed to the cannon lined up on both sides of the deck. “You're talking about a fighting ship. Take your pick, thirty-two-pounder Carronades on this deck and twenty-four-pounder long guns below. Plus a couple of Bow Chasers. More than fifty cannon total. Unfortunately, we're not allowed to carry gunpowder.”

  “I was thinking about something more practical.”

  “We've got boarding pikes and axes and cutlasses. There are belaying pins everywhere. They make fine blackjacks.”

  Austin told the young officer to do what he could. Slade gathered his men around, introduced Austin and told the crew that the people who shot up the ship might try boarding it. He ordered every light on the ship doused and told some of the crew to get aloft. They scrambled up the rigging and onto the yards, where they loosed the topsails. The inner jib was set and the ship began to move, on her own, at a speed of about one knot.

  The sail crew dropped down to the deck and hauled up the main topsail yard. The 3,500-square-foot mainsail filled with the breeze, and the mast began to squeak. The ship crept along at the speed of a fast snail. Then the outer jib was set, followed by the fore topsail. The ship tripled its speed. The movement would pose no problem for anyone trying to board, but it gave the crew a modicum of control. In the meantime, weapons were being stacked on the deck.