It was indeed quick. Only a few minutes later, a different voice came on the radio. “Tanker Ustinov, this is Commander Boriskov, commander of the destroyer Besstrashny, Seventy-ninth Destroyer Group, Novorossijsk,” came the announcement. “We copy you are being interdicted by unidentified military helicopters in treaty waters. Describe any markings you see and any weapons visible.”
“They are big fucking transport helicopters,” Trevnikov replied. Now the Russian Navy was doing something. Mention “Metyorgaz” to them, and they all start quaking in their boots. No one, not even the Russian Federation Navy, wants to fuck with Pavel Kazakov. “I don’t see any markings or weapons.”
“We acknowledge. Patrol and action aircraft and vessels are under way,” the commander said. “We recommend you reverse course if able and do not give permission to be boarded.”
“Well, no shit,” Trevnikov said. “But I will miss my offload slot if I come about.” The new Metyorgaz terminal at Burgas, Bulgaria, which had just opened, was one of the largest and finest in all of Eastern Europe. The new Metyorgaz pipeline from Burgas to Vlore, Albania, was cutting the cost of transporting petroleum to markets in Western Europe by thirty percent at least, which meant huge profits for all users. As a result, the Burgas terminal was always booked, and reserved slots could be held open only for very short periods of time. A delay of even six or seven hours could mean sitting at anchor in the Black Sea for days waiting for another slot. “Can’t you send a fighter jet out here to scare these bastards away?”
“We are readying armed aircraft at this time,” the Navy commander said, “but it will take them some time to reach your position. You will help us by reversing course. Acknowledge.”
“All right, all right,” Trevnikov said. To his helmsman, he ordered, “Helm, hard about.” He liked giving that order, because it took big tankers like the Ustinov, over two hundred meters long and over one hundred and fifty thousand tons, almost an hour and about thirty kilometers to execute a course reversal. “I am executing a heading change, coming to starboard to heading zero- six-zero,” Trevnikov radioed.
“Very well,” the Navy guy said. “Where are these helicopters now?”
Trevnikov searched the horizon and followed his bridge crew’s pointing fingers. “About two hundred meters off my bow,” he replied on the radio. “They are carrying fuel tanks. They look like torpedoes, but they are fuel tanks. My men tell me they are Mi- 14 transport helicopters. They are approaching amidships … wait! I see ropes! They are throwing ropes down from the helicopters … they are rappelling down from the helicopters! Soldiers! Commandos! They are invading my ship with commandos! About eight from each helicopter! They are on my deck, moving toward the wheelhouse! There are commandos on my ship!”
“Remain calm, Captain,” the Russian navy commander said. “Our patrol aircraft is less than ten minutes out, we are dispatching jet aircraft, and we have a warship about two hours away. Can you secure the bridge?”
“Against commandos? For two hours? Are you insane?” Trevnikov ordered the doors shut and barred. He had no illusions that he could put up any kind of defense against them, but he was determined to try. He had his crew members take cover in front of the helmsman’s console, where they had good cover and could see both bridge wing doors, and he secured and locked the two weather doors and the inside passageway door. Four of his crew members were armed, two with automatic rifles and the other two with automatic pistols.
Ten minutes later, the steel weather door on the port side of the bridge blew open. To the captain’s surprise, a lone, unarmed figure stepped into the doorway. “Open fire!” the captain shouted. All four men began firing as fast as they could. The figure simply stood there … and stood there. He never went down. They must have emptied eighty rounds on him — he was less than ten meters away — but he did not go down.
“Astanavleevat’sya!” the officer shouted in very poor Russian, with a definite Western accent. “Gyde deerektaram?”
“Who are you?” the captain shouted in Russian. The air was thick and hazy with the smell of burnt gunpowder. Did they have blanks or noisemakers in their guns? Why didn’t he go down …? “What do you want?” To his men, he said in a low but urgent voice, “Reload quickly, dammit!”
“Gyde deerektaram ” the figure repeated.
“Speak English — your Russian is giving me a headache,” Trevnikov shouted, now in English. “I am the captain. What in hell do you want on my ship?” At that moment, the starboard-side weather door blew open too, and just like the first, another figure stood, unarmed, in the doorway. One crew member with a rifle opened fire, emptying a thirty-round magazine on him in five seconds — but like the first, he did not go down. The first armored terrorist just stood there, calmly observing while his partner was shot at with a rifle. “Who are you?” the captain repeated, his eyes bugging out in sheer terror now. “What do you want?”
“I want you to shut up and do as you are told,” the first commando replied. “Drop your weapons and no one will get hurt, I promise.”
“Ssat ya na nivo hat’el!” the executive officer shouted, and he raised his reloaded pistol at the first man, who had taken several steps toward the Russians. But before the XO could fire, they heard and felt a snap of electricity emanating from somewhere on the figure’s body, and the XO flew backward, crumpled against the forward bulkhead, and lay jerking and twitching in muscle spasms on the deck.
“Drop your weapons now!” the second figure ordered. They did, and they all stood. up from behind the console with their hands raised in surrender. More commandos ran in and quickly began to search the bridge crew. They quickly bound the bridge officers’ hands behind their backs with nylon handcuffs, all but the captain, and led them away.
“Your ship is now under my command,” the first figure said in an electronically synthesized voice, like a robot’s. The captain stared in disbelief at him. He was dressed head to toe in what appeared to be a thin gray outfit, with a full-face helmet and a thin molded backpack. There was not a mark on him from bullets or from anything else. The captain noticed small protrusions from his shoulders that looked like electrodes — probably the source of the shock beam that had disabled his executive officer.
“You are hijacking an oil tanker? In the middle of the fucking Black Sea? Do you have any idea of what the hell you are doing?”
“We’ll see,” the strange commando said. He began issuing orders to his men as they herded the bridge crew out. The second commando, dressed in the strange but obviously very effective body armor as well, departed the bridge.
Trevnikov stepped closer to the masked commando. “Do you know who owns this vessel, asshole?”
“Metyorgaz,” the commando replied.
“And do you know who owns Metyorgaz?”
“Metyor IIG.”
“And do you know—?’
“I know perfectly well that Pavel Kazakov, the Russian gangster and drug lord, owns this vessel and all the oil in it,” the commando said, with a hint of triumph in his voice. “But you won’t be making any deliveries for him anymore.”
“That is not your first mistake today, aslayop,” Trevnikov said. This time it was his turn to give the terrorist an evil smile. “But it could very well be your last. When Comrade Kazakov finds out some American commandos in silly dance costumes hijacked his tanker, he’ll take great pleasure in roasting you all alive.”
“Don’t count on it, sraka,” the commando said. He took a plastic handcuff from a belt pouch behind his back and bound Trevnikov’s hands behind his back himself, and he was led out of the bridge.