Russell Blake: Jet

Grigenko’s voice boomed through the area, silencing the speculations and questions.

“My friends, this is just one of the many joys of boat ownership. A breaker must have tripped. Power will be restored shortly. May I suggest that everyone make their way outside onto the rear deck where the marina’s lights will provide illumination while the staff sorts this out? It happens occasionally. There is nothing to be alarmed about.”

The Russian’s voice sounded calm, strong and confident. The guests turned to the open glass doors that separated the stern area from the salon, and everyone moved onto the deck, which could easily accommodate double the number of people without being crowded. A woman’s laugh cut through the night as she stumbled and almost fell into the twelve-person hot tub, her companion catching her just in time. The security detail hovered nervously nearby, wary of the new danger that bringing the party outdoors presented for their host. A sniper could easily be in one of the surrounding buildings, and there was no way of shielding him if he was in the open.

One of the guards approached Grigenko, who was still safe behind the salon’s bulletproof glass windows, and had a terse discussion, cautioning against joining his guests on the rear deck. Another bodyguard moved towards him, holding a penlight to illuminate the way. Grigenko barked a series of curt instructions, his voice in no way resembling the jolly party host of only a few seconds earlier.

“Figure out what the hell happened. I want lights and air-conditioning back on within sixty seconds, do you read me? Get the mechanic to the generators and find out why the batteries aren’t supplying power. They should have kicked on the moment the generators failed.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard agreed, then spoke into his radio.

“I’m going above to the command center. Something about this doesn’t feel right,” Grigenko said, then moved to the stairs, trailed by the man with the flashlight.

The guests milled about on the rear of the yacht, the sense of emergency waning as the jazz trio carried their instruments outside and resumed playing. Soon, the sounds of laughter and merriment drifted into the night, echoing off the water, the Monaco police contingent having moved further away on the wharf to provide a little privacy for the mega-yacht’s celebrants.

David tied his scuba harness and the dive bag containing his fins and mask to the front mooring rope as he waited for the lights to go off. When they did, he expertly shimmied up the heavy line from the mooring to the ship’s bow, unnoticed amid the commotion from the power outage. He was over the front railing within ninety seconds and had his backpack open within another ten, extracting a silenced pistol and an FN P90 submachine gun with a sound suppressor.

He inserted a micro bud into his ear and activated it, then slid a cell phone from the bag and made a call.

Within thirty seconds, the earbud crackled, and he heard Jet’s whispered voice.

“He’s inside the salon. Three guards around him. No. Wait. He’s heading upstairs. Maybe to the entertainment deck, or maybe to the command center level on the bridge.”

“On my way,” he breathed back as he crept towards the superstructure, his neoprene-sheathed feet silent on the hull’s slick surface.

Jet slowly traversed the dark main salon, trying to spot where all the security was stationed. She counted eight bodyguards on the back deck, and three had gone upstairs with Grigenko, leaving at least another nine onboard, if the CIA background document on the ship was correct. The Russian traveled with a contingent of twenty-four men when he was on the yacht, not counting the crew, the helicopter pilot, the mechanic, the captain and first mate, and the deckhands and domestic staff. She counted four guards on the wharf now. That left twelve somewhere above the salon.

She walked onto the rear deck among the rest of the guests and glanced up at the superstructure rising three stories above her. She could see the outlines of two men on each level watching the wharf for threats. That totaled six visible on all external upper decks and eight on the main one, with four on the dock.

Jet inched around the musicians and back into the salon’s gloom, retreating to a quiet corner.

“You have six bad guys inside near Grigenko. There are six more outside on the upper decks and eight down here. Four on the dock. Over.”

“I’m proceeding up to the command level. When the lights come back on, I’m going to need the second distraction within no more than one minute. Are you ready?”

“Affirmative. On your mark.”

She knew from studying the ship’s schematic that there was another service stairway near the galley, forward of the bar. It was almost impossible to see inside, but she felt her way along until she reached the forward bulkhead, and then groped along the joinery until she found the entry to the stairs.

“I’m in position.”

“Okay. I’m at the entertainment level. I see two inside. Preparing to neutralize.” David’s words were barely audible.

Just then, the air-conditioning units and the refrigeration kicked on with a hum, followed by the lights.

Applause sounded from the rear deck, and the band increased its tempo, a few of the partygoers clapping along as the mugging bass player plucked theatrically at the strings of his stand-up bass and gave it a twirl.

One of the security men cleared his throat and called for the attention of the gathering as Jet slipped her cell phone out of her purse and pressed the number six speed dial number.

“Ladies and gentlemen. The power is now back on, so if you would join me in returning to the salon, I would appreciate it. The harbor department frowns on excess noise on the marina, and now tha-”

Jet pushed the number one key on her phone, and the lights flickered and then went out again.

The crowd groaned, and the band slowed its pace to a funeral dirge tempo, engendering laughter and a smattering of applause. She took the opportunity to move into the stairwell that led to the entertainment level and softly took the steps one at a time, retrieving her makeup bag as she climbed. After feeling inside and pocketing the casino card, she found the mascara and twisted the top counter-clockwise, watching as it slowly wound back to the original position with a series of small clicks. She dropped it back into the bag, placed it at the top of the stairs and inched away from it, the light from the dark tinted windows barely sufficient to see.

The bag detonated with a hiss of white-hot phosphor, then the other contents exploded outward, spraying liquid fire on the carpet and wood railing, which immediately ignited.

As the flames spread, Jet heard the distinctive popping of a pistol from the same level. She darted to the recessed metal box near the stairs and pulled the handle of the fire alarm, which sounded a klaxon wail throughout the yacht — she’d known that the emergency warning system was on a different battery bank and had left it intact.

The guards on the outside deck turned to see flames licking at the drapes and pushing from the stairwell to the aft portion of the entertainment deck salon. As they approached the glass doors at a run, Jet saw the nearest guard tumble backwards as his chest tore open, then the man behind him spun around as a slug shattered his skull. Both men lay motionless in a spreading black pool of blood, so Jet sprinted to the nearest and pulled his pistol free, chambering a round before turning. She caught a glimpse of David moving up the far stairs to the command level and called up to the exterior deck.

“Oh my God! There’s a fire down here. Fire! FIRE!” she screamed at the two guards she’d seen earlier — she repeated the yell to the people outside on the main deck. The panic was instantaneous as the throng fought to get off the boat, fire now pouring from the entertainment level windows.