Boston—same time
“Puppet Master, we are five-by. Signing off.”
“We copy,” said Johansen. He looked up from his station. “They’re good. Just coming up to Kerch Strait, between Crimea and Russia. Once they’re beyond that, there are very few patrols they have to worry about. Four hours from now, they’ll be in Berdyans’k, eastern Ukraine. Or Donetsk Republic, if that’s your preference.”
“There’s a Russian ship nearby,” said Massina, looking at the sitrep screen. It was a satellite map that plotted the team’s position against a constantly updated grid of military and police assets in the region. Touching the screen delivered specific information about the asset—in this case, the Russian guided missile cruiser Moskva. The cruiser was the pride of the Black Sea fleet, its flagship and by far the most powerful craft in the area. Even its smallest gun could blast the speedboat out of the water.
“They know it,” said Johansen. “They’re avoiding it. There are patrol boats in the strait as well. It’s nothing to get too excited about. Tolevi deals with this all the time.”
“He told Bozzone he hasn’t personally gone with a shipment on the Black Sea since before the war,” said Massina pointedly.
“It’s like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget.”