Like this one.
Brodyaga’s red-lit Combat Information Center was buried deep in her hull, far below the spacious staterooms and luxurious fittings used to fool foreign observers. Crammed full of sophisticated electronics and displays, it was a hive of quiet, purposeful activity.
Captain Yuri Bezrodny leaned over the shoulder of one of his junior lieutenants. Carefully, he studied the low-light images transmitted by a drone flying forty kilometers ahead. They showed a large, two-masted ketch sailing downwind at around four knots. His eyes narrowed. There were no other ships or aircraft within effective radar range. Their sonar reported no subsurface contacts. And the sea state and weather conditions were near optimal.
He straightened up and turned to his executive officer. “Launch the strike team.”
Forty minutes later, a rigid inflatable boat, comparable to the F470 Zodiac rubber raiding craft used by U.S. Navy SEALs, sped across the sea at nearly fifteen knots. A coxswain manned the tiller at the rear and seven more Spetsnaz combat frogmen straddled the gunwale, lying low to reduce their profile. They wore black wet suits and night-vision gear. Compact Groza-4 assault carbines were slung across their shoulders. Fitted with suppressors on shortened barrels, the weapons were designed for close-quarters clandestine action.
Perched on the bow, Lieutenant Sergei Rozonov stared into the darkness as the inflatable boat rose and fell, cresting long Atlantic rollers. If his navigation calculations were even reasonably accurate, he should be able to see their target soon.
There! Something, a fleck of brighter green against the green-tinged sky produced by his night-vision goggles, flickered on the horizon almost dead ahead. The tiny shape vanished again as their boat slid back down into a trough between waves. But when it came back into view, the image was clearer, more distinct. He was seeing the sails of a large yacht running down toward them on a gentle breeze.
Rozonov looked back at the coxswain manning the tiller. Slowly, he flapped his hand twice.
The petty officer nodded and reduced his throttle sharply. Their speed dropped. So did the noise from their fifty-five-horsepower outboard motor and its pump-jet propulsor. Approaching from upwind like this should make it impossible for anyone aboard the yacht to hear them coming, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks.
Rozonov swung around again. The ketch’s towering masts and slender hull were plainly visible now. They grew larger with astonishing speed as the two craft converged. Minutes passed with no sound other than the periodic slap of waves on their boat’s rubber hull and the low, throaty growl of its throttled-back engine.
The Spetsnaz lieutenant tensed. Any moment now. There was still no sign that they’d been spotted by anyone aboard the yacht. The two men on watch were either engrossed in keeping an eye on their rigging or, just as likely, dozing comfortably in the cockpit.
One hundred meters to go. Fifty meters. Now! Rozonov pumped his fist rapidly three times.
Behind him, the coxswain swung his tiller across. Their assault boat turned smoothly through a tight half circle, sliding in right alongside the big yacht. Quickly, one of the Russian commandos hooked on to its guardrail.
Moving fast, Rozonov slithered up onto the deck and crouched low. They were tied up close beside the main deckhouse. No lights were showing. He unslung his carbine. One by one, the rest of his men swarmed silently aboard.
Rapid hand signals sent two of them forward toward the bow. The other four followed him aft. The yacht’s carbon-fiber masts and enormous Dacron sails soared above them.
Gliding soundlessly around the corner of the deckhouse, Rozonov tucked the stock of the Groza-4 carbine securely against his shoulder. The main cockpit was just ahead. Through his night-vision goggles, he could see one crewman peering down at the navigation console and electronic sail controls next to the helm. Another sailor lounged on one of the L-shaped sofas fitted around the edges of the cockpit. He sipped appreciatively at a steaming cup of coffee.
Without hesitating, Rozonov opened fire. His silenced carbine stuttered.
Hit by multiple 9mm subsonic rounds at close range, the helmsman spun away in a gruesome cloud of blood and shattered bone. His coffee-drinking companion slumped back against the bullet-torn sofa, shot through the chest and stomach.
The Spetsnaz lieutenant dropped lightly into the cockpit and spun toward the nearest companionway. It was open.
Catlike, he drifted down a short set of stairs into the main deckhouse. His commandos followed close behind him. They fanned out across the large darkened room. A long teak dining table ran down the middle, with plush sofas and armchairs in the corners.
Rozonov took just a moment to compare what he saw with the deck plans he’d memorized earlier. Two more doors opened into the immaculately furnished room. One led forward into the yacht’s crew quarters. The other passage ran aft, toward the owner’s cabin and guest quarters.
He nodded to his men and then jerked a thumb at the forward passage. “Net zaklyuchennykh. No prisoners,” he mouthed.
They slipped silently through the door one by one and disappeared into darkness. Almost immediately, he heard wood splinter as they started kicking in doors. Silenced carbines cracked briefly, echoed by muffled groans and cries from dying sailors and servants.
Without waiting any longer, Rozonov charged aft.
He ran down a short hallway, broke through an oak-paneled door, and burst into a dimly lit and comfortably appointed stateroom. Bookcases lined the curving wall around a king-sized bed. There, an older man, big and gray-haired, sat bolt upright among the tangled blankets, blinking in surprise.
“Just who the fuck are you?” the old man growled.
“No one you will ever know, Mr. Regan,” Rozonov replied. Then he squeezed the trigger, holding the assault carbine firmly on target as it bucked back against his shoulder.
Hit repeatedly, the billionaire sagged back against his torn, bloodstained pillows. White-faced, he struggled to breathe for a few seconds, shuddered once, and then died.
Rozonov turned away.
His senior sergeant met him in the corridor. “The yacht is secure, sir. Everyone aboard has been eliminated.”
“Excellent work, Yenin,” Rozonov said. “Make sure all the bodies are weighted down before you dump them into the sea. Moscow doesn’t want anyone finding bullet-riddled corpses drifting on the wind and waves.”
The sergeant shot him a twisted grin. “Well, that would sort of spoil the mystery of the thing, wouldn’t it, Lieutenant?”
An hour later, the Spetsnaz team clambered back onto their rigid inflatable boat and cast off. They motored off to a safe distance and turned to parallel the now-deserted yacht as it glided downwind.
Rozonov glanced down at his waterproof watch. “Ten seconds,” he murmured. “Five seconds. Four. Three. Two…”
WHUMMP. WHUMMP. WHUMMP.
The scuttling charges they’d placed in the bilge detonated one after another — ripping enormous holes in the yacht’s hull from stem to stern. Slowly at first and then faster, the vessel, with its sails still set, slid lower in the water. Within minutes, it vanished beneath the waves, plunging down and down into the lightless depths of the abyss.
Rozonov nodded in satisfaction. President Gryzlov would be pleased. Except for a few small bits and pieces of unidentifiable wreckage bobbing on the waves, nothing remained to explain the disappearance of Francis Xavier Regan.