But Vasily Petrov was an impatient and impulsive man and he did not see it that way, because I heard his voice boom out over a speaker, “Kill them!”

Gorsky, who understood that he’d checkmated the intruders, did not fire, and Petrov yelled again, “Kill them!”

It’s not a happy occasion when someone is yelling, “Kill them!” and you see muzzle flashes followed by the sound of bullets impacting around you. I mean, this asshole couldn’t see us, but if you spray enough bullets downrange, eventually you’re going to hit your target. Time to get out of here.

I retrieved the Halligan tool and whispered to Tess, “We have to get around this guy. We split up and take the staircases. Meet you on the main deck.”

“Okay…”

“On three. One, two”—I tossed the Halligan tool into the air over the water—“three!” I heard the Halligan hit the opposite dock, followed by rounds impacting far behind us as we sprinted toward the left and right staircases.

I reached the top of the stairs in about three seconds and saw Tess already there, gun drawn covering the rear deck.

There was some moonlight left, and some illumination came from the Brooklyn waterfront, which was sliding by on our right. I figured we’d be out of the channel and near the tip of Manhattan in about fifteen minutes—or less if this ship picked up speed when it cleared the channel.

There was a helicopter overhead, so we weren’t alone, but we were as good as alone until someone made the decision to board The Hana. Conte and Andersson had by now transmitted a sit-rep, but bureaucracy and chain of command being what they were, the order to commence a combat boarding could take ten or fifteen minutes, followed by a detailed plan of operation, and by that time the show would be over.

Tess asked, “What now?”

“If we can’t get to the nuke, we have to get to the asshole who controls the nuke and the other asshole who’s steering this ship, and one or both of them will be on the bridge.”

I got rid of my heavy float coat and moved quickly to the doors that according to the deck plans led to the bar and dining room. I held my Glock in my right hand and the MP5 in my left, and motioned to the door, which Tess threw open. I burst inside the barroom, but before I had a chance to shoulder-roll, I tripped over something on the floor and found myself staring into the face of someone with a third eye in his forehead.

Vasily Petrov turned away from the image on the video monitor. Even in the dim underwater lights of the garage, he recognized the man and the woman. Viktor was right; he should have killed them at Tamorov’s house.

Gleb said, “It appears that we have been boarded, Colonel.”

“Viktor will kill them.”

“He has not killed them. He has only managed to kill Arkady, who was not a moving target with a gun.”

Petrov ignored the sarcasm and stared through the windshield, fixated on the lighted skyline of Lower Manhattan. He would have enjoyed seeing the post-apocalyptic photographs and news footage of the nuclear wasteland, but that was not to be, though his father would see them and be proud of his son’s sacrifice.

Gleb had set the autopilot on a course to bring The Hana to the ferry terminal at the tip of Manhattan, so Gleb was no longer needed. But Petrov wanted more speed, so he said, “Full speed, Captain.”

“How do we get off this ship?”

Petrov was prepared for the question and replied, “We don life vests and jump.” He added, “When we come ashore, we will go to our car—or find a taxi to take us to the diplomatic residential complex in the Bronx, where we will be safe.” He glanced at Gleb to see if he was believing any of that.

Gleb pointed out, “We will not get far in the water before the Americans capture us, or the explosion kills us.”

“I know what I am doing, Captain.”

“And I know what you are doing.”

Gleb turned on the radar and looked at the screen. There were now four craft within a few hundred meters of The Hana, and overhead he could hear a helicopter. He said to Petrov, “We are surrounded by hostile craft, and there are at least two Americans with weapons onboard.” He looked at Petrov. “It is over.”

Petrov stared at the Manhattan skyline.

“It is over, Colonel.”

“It is within reach, Captain.” He took the arming device from his pocket.

“Yes, if we intend to die in a nuclear explosion. I do not.” He said to Petrov, “Give me that thing in your hand.”

Petrov looked at Gleb and saw that Gleb had his pistol pointed at him.

Gleb repeated, “Give me that thing in your hand.”

Petrov held out the arming device. “Do you mean this thing? Or…” Petrov drew his Makarov from his pocket. “… this one?”

Gleb pulled the trigger on his pistol and was surprised to hear a dull thud.

Petrov said, “We seem to have a problem today with malfunctioning guns.” He aimed at Gleb’s face and fired a bullet between his eyes. Gleb’s head snapped back and he fell to the deck.

Petrov pocketed his pistol and took Gleb’s place at the helm. He looked at the autopilot light. The ship’s speed and course were set, and if he did nothing, The Hana would continue toward the tip of Manhattan Island at ten knots. But if he pushed the throttles forward for more speed, the autopilot would disengage and he would have to steer the ship himself. He wanted more speed, but he didn’t want to cancel Gleb’s pre-set course, in case he had to leave the bridge—or if he was killed. All he had to do now was reset the timer on the nuclear device.

The autopilot display showed that The Hana at this speed would be close to the tip of Manhattan in less than fifteen minutes. He looked at the clock on the dashboard: 06:11. He reset the detonation time on the arming device to 06:27, then did the same with the backup device. He dropped the two arming devices on the deck and put a bullet into each one, sealing not only his own fate but the fate of the City of New York. He would have also put a bullet into his own head, so he didn’t have to wait for death, but he wanted to watch the skyline getting closer as the minutes ticked off. Perhaps, he thought, there would be a moment of incandescent beauty at the instant of nuclear fission. This was the way to die.

Well, I thought, if you gotta die, it’s good to die in a bar.

I didn’t know who these people were, but I knew they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

With Tess close behind, I led the way into the dining room, and I saw two more bodies on the floor. I also noticed that the table was set for ten, but the guests were still lingering over cocktails.

I pulled the deck plans from my pocket and Tess shone her penlight on them. I could see an area marked VESTIBULE where there was an elevator and a spiral staircase that connected the decks toward the front of the yacht, and we headed quickly in that direction, guns drawn.

We got to the vestibule and I unslung my MP5. You never take an elevator in a tactical situation, and I whispered to Tess, “I go up the stairs face first, you follow ass first.”

I climbed the stairs, two at a time, my MP5 to my front, and Tess followed, climbing the stairs backwards, covering our rear with her Glock pointed at the base of the staircase.

I had no idea how many hostiles were aboard this ship, but there was a minimum of two. Petrov and Gorsky. And there was probably a Russian skipper aboard. There could also be a few other SVR killers who came aboard along with the Russian captain and the nuke, but maybe not if Moscow wanted to limit the number of people who knew about this. Which was why we found Urmanov waiting to die. So hopefully the only other Russians aboard were the party girls, and based on what I saw in the barroom, the party was over.

And then there was the crew. Maybe twenty of them. Where were they? Could Petrov and Gorsky have whacked them all? If so, Petrov was the worst ship passenger since Count Dracula.