[SSI 02] Prometheus's Child

by Harold

  Don Pace ambled up, slightly unsteady on his feet. “I couldn’t sleep downstairs. Too much noise from the motor.”

  The former SEAL realized that he was being set up. He ignored the landlubbers’ studied ignorance and returned his gaze to shore. To no one in particular he declared, “We could be at sea for a week or more. Maybe a lot more. We’ll have to get used to this sort of life.”

  Geoffrey Pascoe strode to the stern on experienced legs. Pope had only met him hours previously, but the former Royal Marine Commando took to a ship’s motion in marked contrast to most of the Americans. He spoke in terse, clipped tones. “Commander, I understand you want to see me.”

  “Yes, thank you, Geoff. We don’t stand on rank here.”

  “As you wish. Sir.” The Brit gave an icy smile.

  “I want to get acquainted while we have time,” Pope said. “I’m certainly glad to have you aboard. Especially on such short notice.”

  “Well, apparently your Admiral Derringer and I have a few mutual acquaintances. I’ve only been out barely a fortnight—was planning to get married. But when a couple of chaps in trench coats bought me a drink and waved a lot of money in my face, I found myself on the way to Heathrow with a ticket to Spain.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I still don’t think that Leslie believes I plan to return.”

  “You were in M Squadron?”

  “Yes ... si... ah, yes. Two years.”

  “Right up our alley,” Pope replied. He noticed querulous expressions on some of the Americans. “M Squadron, Special Boat Service, is the Royal Marines’ maritime counterterror unit.”

  Pascoe asked, “Commander . . .” He grinned self-consciously. “Sorry about that. Old habits, you know. Ah, what do you think about this setup?”

  “It’s a good ship. I wish we could’ve got our gear loaded faster, but I think SSI did a really good job coordinating everything. Not just the air transport, but having the trucks ready to move us from the air station to the pier. I halfway expected that we’d land and find nobody waiting for us.”

  “No,” Pascoe replied. “I mean the captain and the crew. Here we are, going to sea for who knows how long with these guys, and we don’t really know anything about them.”

  “Spooks,” Pace declared. “I can always tell.”

  Pope nodded his bald head, which somehow seemed immune to sunburn. “Not a doubt in my military mind. But that’s okay. I’ve worked with the company before. The Langley types may be screwed up six ways to breakfast, but the operators I’ve known are almost always good guys. I think these guys will tell us what we need to know.”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Pace responded.

  Pope pointed abaft the bridge. “They should know plenty. Look at those antennae. VHF, UHF, and satellite. This ship is wired.”

  He stretched his muscular arms and flexed his shoulders. “Well, we’re far enough out now. I’ll go talk to the captain and see about arranging a training schedule.”

  Jeff Malten joined the group, squeezing his grip strengthener with his left hand. “Vic, I just came past the bridge. Cohen’s talking to the skipper right now.”

  Pope gave the junior SEAL a suspicious look. “Do you think they know each other?”

  “Damned if I know. Why?”

  “Just a thought. They both work this part of the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re both company men, if you know what I mean.”

  Malten thought for a moment, quickening the squeezes of his left hand. “Well, I still don’t know the details, but he had a twenty-knot ship ready for us to take from Haifa if we needed it. How many door-kickers have that kind of pull?”

  Pope dismissed the subject: he preferred to focus on the future. “As long as we have some slack time, we can put it to good use. Especially boat handling.”

  Geoff Pascoe knew an opportunity when he saw one. He leveled a gaze at the ex-cop. “You’ll love it, Pace. Nobody throws up more than two or three times in a Zodiac. After that, it’s just the dry heaves.” He smiled broadly.

  Pace gave an exaggerated gulp. “Uh, when’re we gonna do that training?”

  Pope kept a straight face. “As often as possible. In fact, I’m going to check with the captain to see when we can put some Zodiacs over the side.”

  In the pilothouse, Pope found Cohen just leaving. They exchanged brief greetings before the SEAL stepped inside. “Captain? Do you have a minute?”

  The skipper turned toward the American. “Oh, sure.” It came out “Chur.” Captain Gerritt Maas spoke a vaguely accented English that shifted between western and northern Europe. That was small wonder, since he spoke Dutch, French, Spanish, and Norwegian, and could produce convincing proof that three of them were his native tongue.

  “Sir, I’d like to discuss some details with you. We got under way so fast that we didn’t have time to get acquainted.”

  “Veil, ve verk for de same people,” Maas replied. His eyes said as much as his voice. “Besites, ve haf plenty of time now.” He gestured with his pipe. “Seferal days at sea, maybe efen veeks.”

  Pope decided to talk shop before moving to more delicate subjects. “Tell me about this ship. What can she do?”

  “Don Carlos, she can do almost anything. At ninety-four hundred gross registered, she can make seventeen knots. We have bow thrusters so we can dock without tugs. She’s 128 meters by 20.5 in the beam. She draws ten to eleven meters.”

  “How long can you maintain seventeen knots?”

  Maas smiled broadly. “As long as fuel lasts.”

  Pope eyed his colleague. “Skipper, who really owns this vessel?”

  A light illuminated in the skipper’s hazel eyes. He inclined his head, as if studying a specimen in a bottle, then said, “Consolidated Industrial Affiliates, out of Amsterdam.” After a pause he added, “I can show you the papers.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “My dear commander, do you think it implausible that Certain Important Associates would have no sense of humor?”

  Pope almost allowed himself to smile. “Actually, yes, I do.”

  Maas sucked his pipe and muttered a noncommittal, “Ummm.”

  The American judged the European to be ten to twelve years older than himself—enough to justify some deference. “Sir, I’d like to confirm the, ah, command relationship. I mean, among you, me, and Mr. Cohen.”

  The skipper blew an aromatic smoke ring. “Easy enough, I think. I command this ship, you command the commandos, Cohen provides the information. That’s how SSI wants it, yes?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s my understanding. But I don’t know anything about the communications setup. Command and control, we call it. If you or I need some additional information—more details about the operation— I don’t think we should have to go through Cohen for everything.”

  Maas’s eyes narrowed as he studied the former SEAL. “So you don’t trust him.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Sir?”

  “He’s Israeli, yes?”

  Pope nodded. “Israeli-American. Dual citizenship.”

  “You work with him before?”

  “No. But he’s a regular SSI employee.”

  Maas grinned. “Admiral Derringer, good man. I’ve known him for years now. Don’t see him so often, of course, but I trust him.” He motioned with the pipe again. “This one, Cohen. I think he’s a good one, too. Competent, I mean. But . . . where is his loyalty? Maybe more in Tel Aviv than Washington.”

  Pope was surprised to find himself feeling defensive about Alexander Cohen. “Captain, it seems to me that we have to trust each other. Considering what’s at stake—the shipment headed for Iran—we’re all. . . in the same boat, should I say?”

  Maas chuckled and slapped Pope’s arm. “Good one, boy!” He cackled again.

  “Well, Captain, as I was saying, I need to know about the communications setup. I understand that we receive intelligence through Cohen, but that doesn’t mean
we’re limited to asking our own sources for other information.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, what if something happens to Cohen? There has to be a contingency—a backup.”

  The skipper nodded decisively. “There is. But for now, come with me. I’ll show you the radio shack and you can talk to the operators.”

  “I saw your antenna layout. I guess you can talk to SSI and anybody else you need to.”

  “Commander Pope, we can talk to the man in the moon.”

  * * * *

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  “We need to talk,” Zikri said.

  Hurtubise laid down the FA-MAS he was cleaning and wiped his hands on a stained cloth. The two men walked to the portside rail where they could be alone.

  “What is it?” Hurtubise asked.

  “My second radio operator, Shatwan. Since we are making no more calls than necessary, he has much time on his hands.”

  “Yes?”

  “Last night he entered the radio shack earlier than he was scheduled. He noticed Aujali transmitting by key, which is most unusual. When Shatwan asked what was happening, Aujali appeared a little flustered. He said that he was communicating with an amateur operator in Rabat.”

  The Frenchman rubbed his perennially stubbled chin. He focused on the horizon for a long moment, then turned to the captain. “Didn’t you tell the operators that no messages would be sent without approval from you or me?”

  “Yes. You were going to tell them yourself, but I think you were called to inspect something.”

  “The machine-gun mounts. Yes, I remember now.”

  Zikri spread his hands. “In any case, I thought you should be told.”

  “What did Aujali send in that message?”

  “We do not know. He said it was innocent enough: asking for news reports from Palestine.”

  Hurtubise folded his arms and leaned forward. “Do you believe him?”

  “I have not questioned him. I thought it best to tell you first.”

  The mercenary nodded slowly. “You did right.” He thought for a moment. “What do you know about him? Not what he told you: I mean, what do you really know?”

  “Well, I have his papers as a seaman and radioman. I suppose they could be forged, but he has sailed with me before. I have never had reason to doubt him.”

  “You said he has relatives in Israel?”

  “That’s right. His grandmother’s family. They have tried to emigrate but the Jews always prevent it.”

  Hurtubise chewed his lip, as if physically masticating the information. Why would the Israelis want to keep an old woman from rejoining her family? “And Shatwan said he was communicating about events in Palestine?”

  “Correct.”

  “You trust Shatwan completely?”

  “As I said before, we grew up together. He is a younger cousin.”

  Hurtubise gave an ironic smile. “Captain, my brother-in-law once tried to put a knife in my back. I trusted him up to that moment, too.”

  The Arab’s eyes widened. “I do not suppose he tried that again.”

  The wolf’s smile reappeared. “He did not try anything again.”

  Zikri thought better of asking details. Instead, he said, “Well, monsieur, Salih Shatwan and I are as close as brothers. I cannot add anything to that.”

  Hurtubise turned and paced several steps. At length he returned and faced the captain. “Do you have a way of monitoring all broadcasts without the sender knowing?”

  “Not that I know of. I would have to discuss it with Salih. But I think that we could be monitored from another ship with knowledge of the suitable frequencies.” He looked more closely at the Frenchman. “You think that Aujali will continue transmitting?”

  “I think that he might. And I would be very interested to know what he’s really saying to his friend in Morocco. If it is Morocco.”

  Zikri shifted his weight in response to the ship’s movement. Tarabulus Pride was approaching Gibraltar, where the current increased in the narrows. “We will be within easy range of Rabat for the next few days, and communication is easier with night time atmospherics. I can talk to Aujali and tell him to stop all communications, or we can see about arranging some discreet monitoring. But that will take time.”

  Hurtubise thought for a long moment. Then he said, “All right, tell Aujali to stop all unauthorized communication. But I want to talk to Shatwan right away. I’ll have him contact some friends of mine to see what they can find out about this Palestinian family.”

  Zikri’s face betrayed his reaction. “You can get such information?”

  “Yes, given time.”

  The seaman nodded. “Time is one thing we have in quantity.”

  “I hope so, but I have learned not to take it for granted. I see your crew has started repainting part of the superstructure. Some of my men can help.”

  “Well, that would speed things along.” Zikri gave an ironic smile. “Assuming it is not beneath their dignity as men of war.”

  Hurtubise leaned forward. “Captain, I will tell you something. It is not beneath my dignity to deceive my enemies. So my men will do whatever possible to cause doubt or confusion among those who pursue us. Whether the men’s dignity is scratched”—he made a deprecating gesture—”it will be repaired as soon as they are paid.”

  The captain made an exaggerated bow. “Monsieur, I salute your sense of priorities.”

  * * * *

  72

  SSI OFFICES

  Strategic Solutions did not have a facility that anyone would recognize as a “situation room.” But the company boardroom often was strewn with easels and maps for reference to far-flung operations, and such was the case at the moment.

  Frank Leopole had taped a map of the Mediterranean and northwestern Africa to a cork board appropriated for that purpose. He referred to the colored pins depicting Don Carlos’s known location and Tarabulus Pride’s estimated position. “Our guys are in a good position to intercept the target vessel when it clears Gibraltar. That should be sometime today.”

  Sandy Carmichael looked at the map. She pointed a polished fingernail. “Cadiz to Tangier must be—what? Only fifty miles or so?”

  “Less, I think. The trouble will be sorting out the Tarabulus from all the other ships in the area. Pope seems to think that could take a couple of days or more.”

  “Really? Why’s that? Don’t they have photos?”

  The operations chief nodded. “Yeah. Cohen’s contacts got digital images in Misratah and e-mailed them to him. But there’s just a lot of shipping in that area, Sandy. Somebody said a couple hundred a day. And Alex thinks the Libyans might change the Tarabulus’s appearance. New name, false flag, maybe even false structures. Sort of like the Q ships in World War I.”

  She cocked her head. “Q ships?”

  “They were armed vessels disguised as merchantmen. A U-boat would see a lone ship, surface and close in to gun range to save torpedoes. Then the Q ship would drop its fa ç ade and blast the sub.”

  “What’s the Q stand for?”

  “Nobody knows,” a familiar voice said. Carmichael and Leopole turned to see Derringer in the door. He was almost smiling. “I checked Wikipedia and a couple of other sites a while back. It’s still a mystery after all this time,” he added.

  Carmichael looked back at the map. “Well, I still don’t understand how our team is going to ID the target ship. It’s like we said before: we’re relying on Alex Cohen and we don’t know much about his sources.”

  Derringer walked to the board and took in the situation. “I’m not too worried yet. I know our skipper, Gerritt Maas. I met him during a NATO tour, and he’s tops. I wasn’t surprised when I learned he was working for the company.”

  “But, Admiral, if the captain has to rely on Cohen for all his intel, we’re no better off, are we?”

  “Sandy, I don’t think that Gerritt would limit himself to one source, especially on a major operation like this. I’ve avoided bothering him other than to say
we’ll lend any help we can provide. But trust me: with his knowledge and contacts, if Cohen falls through, Captain Maas will have a Plan Bravo and a Charlie as well.”

  Carmichael folded her arms, obviously unconvinced. “I’d feel better if we knew more about the intel on this op. If Dave Dare can’t turn up something, you know it’s deep.”

  Derringer flipped the North Atlantic with a forefinger. “It’s a big ocean, Sandy. We should have lots of time.”