Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

For this trip, she had a crew of four, one more than she normally carried, but this was a special job. If all went well, the boat and her crew could be retired for good. Her run into the Black Sea had been a risky pass under a moonless sky through the narrow straits of Bosporus, which ran between Turkey and the only warm water port in Russia, or whatever place controlled it that day. John Sykes, the leader of this group of unique and dangerous individuals, had decided to up the cost on that alone. Sykes was a solid man and a hard one. For most of his life he had been a well-respected member of the elite Royal Marines. That had been before he and a certain officer had come to blows during the Falklands conflict, over what Sykes still believed had been a stupid order that would have gotten he and his men killed. It might all have been left at that, if the officer had not been Lord so and so. Sykes found himself cashiered out, his otherwise shining military career in disgrace and ruin. He left Britain, disgusted at his treatment at the hands of the old boy network.

The ex-Marine headed for Paris, one of the cities where men with his talents could find regular work. He had met Petros Stamopolis, Captain of the boat he was presently on. Petros had been looking for a partner. Impressed by John’s credentials, he offered him a partnership in his smuggling operation for a modest buy-in and a percentage of John’s share of the profits until his full share was paid off. They had been hired for this gig by an intermediary of Andrew Verkatt, a South African Arms dealer they’d run some stuff for before. Through the contact, they were instructed to receive their extra crew member. The location of the extra man, the pick-up and destination of the cargo, were all given with disturbingly short notice.

Sykes stood on the bow of the patrol craft. The silent and dark docks and jetties of Batumi slid by. Skeletal shapes of cranes, back lit by the sparse lights of the town. Even the refinery was quieter than normal. The water was littered with trash. The oil was piped overland back to the motherland; there were no tankers in port to carry the oil to foreign markets.

Slung from his right shoulder, silenced barrel pointed to the ground, was a German-manufactured AK-74 battle rifle. This particular model was chambered for the NATO standard 5.56 millimeter. The German-modified hybrid really was a nice bit of kit. The four that he and his men carried, had all been bought on the black market without the need for troublesome end-user permits. Sykes smiled in the gloom. There really was no problem that couldn’t be solved with cold hard cash. Cash had also paid for the Russian Marine Special Forces uniforms they all wore. Considering where they were going, it would go smoother if they dressed in appropriate clothes.

He moved from the bow, back to the command bridge and climbed the short ladder. The figure of Petros Stamopolis as he stood at the helm, was a shadow in the gloom. Sykes moved up beside him.

“You’re positive you know where you are going?”

Petros was quite vain about his prowess as a Captain and he snorted in answer to Sykes’ question. “Relax, my friend. I can see like a cat with these things.” Stamopolis tapped the night vision goggles he wore draped over his face. His gray beard stuck out from underneath. It made Sykes think of some strange creature conjured from Greek mythology, summoned to guide them in their quest. He laughed and took another set of goggles from the shelf beside Petros. He could have used Russian-made goggles, but he needed sets that would work all of the time. The sets he had settled on were generation three Israeli. Expensive but worth it. They used a battery-powered ambient light-collecting lens arrangement. He turned them on. The docks leapt into bright green clarity. Sykes could see the outline of a heavy truck, with a rear canvass cover, at the end of the farthest jetty. The glow of three lit cigarettes burned with bright incandescence at the truck’s tailgate. The cigarettes really pissed Sykes off. You might as well set off flares to give your position away. He reached over and spoke down the voice tube set in the front of the bridge.

“Burghoff, get your ass up here.”

Petros turned to Sykes. “It is still early.”

Sykes shook his head. “Time friend Burghoff starts earning his keep. Besides, the sooner he tells those idiots to stub out those cigarettes, the bloody better. Bloody amateurs will be the death of us all.” Sykes watched the stocky butcher’s shape of Hienrich Burghoff emerge from a small hatch in the deck on the port side.

Burghoff was a German of the Eastern variety, an ex-member of the STASI secret police. The new Germany had little use for men like him and he’d bumped from this job to that until he’d strayed over the line one too many times and it became clear a quick change of identity and a new location would do more for his physical health and mental well-being than a lengthy trial.

Sykes disliked Burghoff the moment he set eyes on him. The man carried himself like he was still wrapped in the protection of STASI with power enough to terrorize people to do whatever he told them. That sort of attitude washed very little with Sykes, but all that could wait. He’d received instructions on what to do with Herr Burghoff.

The last member of the normal crew came out of the same hatch. Marc Reoum, a tall, lean ex-Foreign Legionnaire, pulled himself onto the deck. He was every bit as competent in his job as Sykes.

At one hundred meters from the jetty, Sykes saw the Russians stiffen and turn toward the sound of the boat’s engines. At least they were not armed.

Burghoff and Reoum took up station on the bow, their weapons at the ready. Sykes could see the men on the jetty getting hawser ropes ready to hold the boat fast. Burghoff was to handle all conversation, he was the only one fluent in Russian. He was also the only member of the crew who knew what the cargo was. Try as he might, Sykes had not been able to get any information out of the man. Petros cut the engines and they glided the last few meters in silence. Two of the Russians threw down hawsers and the boat was made fast to the dock.

Burghoff slung his weapon and climbed up a slime-encrusted, rust-covered ladder exposed by the low tide, set into one of the support pillars. His job was to verify the cargo’s authenticity. Out of sight on the dock overhead, Sykes could hear guttural Russian being fired back and forth. Burghoff came down the ladder and walked quickly over to Sykes. His English was heavily accented.

“The cargo is in order. They will lower it down to us in a few moments. They have been told that we have money, new identities and safe passage for them.” He paused. “Wait until we are well out in the bay before disposing of them.” Sykes nodded. Burghoff turned back to supervise the loading of the cargo. Sykes had his suspicions. With the kind of money being spent, there were very few items that a cargo that physically small could be. Whatever it was, it had to be worth a hundred times more than their fee on the international black market.

Sykes watched as the first of the small transport containers was lowered from the dock to Burghoff and Reoum, who were waiting on the foredeck of the boat. The runner had no stowage to speak of. The three crates were lashed down in turn to the deck. The Russian stenciling on the sides of the crates rang a distant alarm bell in the back of Sykes’ mind.

“Not my bloody problem anyway.” He checked his weapon. It took forty five minutes to load the three crates. It would be dawn in four hours and he wanted to be as far from this place as possible by then. Sykes had been surprised at the weight of the things. More distant alarm bells began to sound in his head. Marc finished tying down the crates and looked up at Sykes, who motioned his head towards the bridge. Marc’s goggle-clad head flicked a glance at the Russians now climbing down the ladder. The Legionnaire left the crates and moved to the command bridge. Sykes waited until all three of the Russians were on the bow. All of them were officers. One was even a major, not that it mattered. They stood there in silence fidgeting in the cold of the night.