How exactly Litzman had pulled off the heist only he and the French government knew, but what he’d stolen was known as a Mark 90 CAPTOR, or encapsulated torpedo — essentially an antiship mine on a torpedo body.
CAPTOR was a drop-and-forget weapon that required little preparation beyond a short arming sequence and the calibration of the floats to ensure the sled landed upright on the seabed. Once there, it sat dormant until its rudimentary guidance/sonar system detected the acoustical signature of its target.
With a top speed of forty knots, a range of eight miles, and a four-hundred pound “keel buster” warhead, CAPTOR had been designed to surprise Soviet warships, chase them down, then punch through their heavily armored hulls and sink them.
Against an unarmored ferry like the Aurasina, the CAPTOR would rip through her hull as though it were tissue paper, shatter her keel, and send a shock wave of fire and superheated steam through the ferry’s interior. Whatever remained of the hulk after the explosion would sink within minutes, along with eight hundred people and both canisters of Kestrel — providing they survived intact.
Litzman’s team dragged the sled to the waterline, where they waited, obviously timing the breakers. At the right moment, they shoved the sled into the water, where the breakers lifted it off the sand. As two of them held the sled steady, Litzman and the fourth man grabbed the Zodiac, dragged it into the water, and affixed a tow line to the sled. The group began wading out. When the water was at chest height, each man adjusted a pontoon until the sled was half-submerged.
They climbed into the raft. Litzman jerked the starter cord and the motor sputtered to life. He pointed the bow into the next breaker, revved the throttle, and the Zodiac disappeared over the crest
With only the vague outline of a plan in his head and a hunch about where Litzman was headed, Tanner sprinted back to the skipjack, crawled through the waist skirt, and dug through his pack until he found the chart. Flashlight held in his mouth, he found Male Srakane on the map, then traced his finger westward, into what he guessed was the Aurasina’s general path.
Fundamental to Litzman’s and the SDB’s plan would be ensuring there was no evidence to contradict their Bosnian conspiracy theory, which required the Aurasina’s utter destruction and/or her disappearance. Tanner had a theory about the latter.
Seven miles into the Adriatic he found what he was looking for, the edge of the Kvarner Trench, the spot where the Adriatic and the Mediterranean meet. In the space of a mile, the inland waters plunge into the trench, going from an average depth of eighty feet to over eighteen thousand. The Aurasina’s course would take her over the trench’s northeastern corner. If she went down there, all chance of salvage — and thereby proof of her demise — would be lost.
Unbidden, Tanner found himself thinking of the Kestrel canisters. If by some miracle they survived the explosion, he doubted they would survive the pressure at eighteen thousand feet. Eight thousand pounds per square inch on each canister …
He forced himself back on track. He still had time — not much, but some.
Binoculars in hand, he scrambled up the side of the sandbar. Wind-driven sand stung his face. He wiped his eyes clear of rain and focused the binoculars on the Barak. Litzman and his men were back aboard. Standing on the dive platform, they dragged the sled up and onto the afterdeck, where they began lashing it to the cleats. Litzman checked the lines, nodded his approval. The team dispersed.
Tanner heard the muffled rumble of diesel engines. The water beneath the Barak’s stern boiled white as the propellers turned over. The bow came about and nosed into the breakers. With another growl, her engines pushed her over the next crest and toward the mouth of the cove.
Tanner watched for another two minutes, until certain of her course, then sprinted back to the skipjack, put his shoulder against the hull, and began shoving her toward the water.
47
However aesthetically lacking Franjo’s color choice for the skipjack may have been, Tanner now found himself grateful for the battleship gray paint job and matching cover. Trailing less than a mile astern of the Barak, the little boat was all but invisible against the storm-churned sea. The rain fell in sheets. Foam and white water cascaded over the cover and poured through the waist skirt. Tanner could feel the chill water sloshing around his ankles.
With one eye fixed on the Barak’s mastlight and one eye on the ever-shifting waves, Tanner kept the bow doggedly pointed into the motor yacht’s wake. Sporadically, as the wind shifted and gusted, he could hear the faint grumble of her engines.
Three miles west of the Male Srakane, he felt the sea changing as the seabed dropped away. Though markedly larger, the swells stacked and broke with some predictability. Using their rhythm, he threaded the skipjack between the crests, darting from one trough to the next with short bursts from the throttle.
Slowly but steadily, he closed the distance to the Barak.
After and hour’s travel, a sudden gust brought the sound of the Barak’s engines. The pitch had changed, Tanner realized. She was throttling down, coming to a stop. He turned the skipjack’s bow into an oncoming wave, pushed the throttle to its maximum, and broke through the crest. He caught a glimpse of the Barak’s mastlight. She lay less than a half mile ahead, her bow tucked tight against the anchor chain.
It was decision time. Until now he’d been concentrating only on keeping the Barak in sight, not on what he would do if and when he caught her. He was exhausted; his mind felt sluggish. Having caught his prey, he suddenly realized how dire his situation was.
He was outgunned, outmanned four to one, and was sitting in a glorified rowboat that was slowly but surely sinking beneath him in the middle of the worst storm the Adriatic had seen in a decade. Could be worse, he thought. Could be dead. Without realizing it, Tanner found himself chuckling aloud.
Then, from the back of his mind, another thought: Perhaps he wasn’t unarmed after all. Maybe he had a weapon at his disposal. Of course, if he used it, there would be no turning back, no second chances, and no guarantee of success — which, he thought, would leave him no worse off than he was right now.
He spent twenty minutes maneuvering the skipjack around the Barak, until he was dead on her bow. He raised the binoculars and scanned her decks. There was nothing except the faint glow of the afterdeck’s spotlight
He ducked beneath the skirt, crawled to the bow, unzipped the cover, and pushed it back. He found the sea anchor — a garbage can-shaped piece of canvas designed to minimize drift — lashed under the gunwale. He unwound the painter line and tossed the anchor overboard.
His plan required little preparation. He found the skipjack’s emergency kit, removed the flare gun and three spare flares, and stuffed them into his jacket. Next he unbolted the spare fuel can from its bracket beside the motor. Judging by its heft, it contained about eight gallons. He wedged it under the front seat.
He cast a glance at the Barak. He’d drifted too close. He scrambled to the stern, started the engine, and backed up a hundred yards.
One more task to complete. Using his folding knife, he punched three holes in the bottom of the fuel can. Oily liquid began gushing into the bottom of the boat. The tang of petroleum filled his nostrils. Staring at the fuel lapping at his ankles, Briggs felt a twinge of doubt. This was not, he thought, the smartest thing he’d ever done. Then don’t think about it, he commanded himself. Do it. He pulled out the flare gun, loaded a flare into the chamber, and stuffed the other two into his pocket.