by Harold
* * * *
M/V DON CARLOS
Pope stood before the combined teams, jotting notes on a white board in the crew galley. He wore khaki Navy swim trunks, a sleeveless sweater, and Nikes. The space was empty except for the SSI operators. Chatter abated as the audience caught his serious demeanor.
“All right, people, listen up. I want to go over the contingencies that I’ve drafted with the captain. Like any special op, this is one has low prospects for total success but I think we stand a good chance of achieving the primary goal, which is intercepting the yellow cake.”
He turned to the list he had penned on the board. “Best case: we achieve surprise, take the ship without casualties, and put our prize crew aboard. They sail it to a neutral port, depending on where the intercept is made, and we disappear. We could be back home in less than seventy-two hours.” He checkmarked the first item.
“More likely: we get aboard, meet resistance, and shoot our way to the bridge and engine room. After some time, we own the ship, evacuate our casualties, and come on home.” He crossed off that item.
“Case three: we get aboard but there’s a standoff. We can’t get to the critical areas but the opposition can’t push us off. At that point I’d probably put an EOD guy over the side to disable the screw. The ship goes dead in the water, this vessel comes to ‘render assistance’“—he etched quote marks in midair—”and rigs a tow. At that point the bad guys probably would surrender. If for some reason they scuttle, we step off and come home. Mr. Langevin would take charge of the salvage operation, assuming there is one.” Another check mark.
“Case four: we can’t get aboard or can’t gain a foothold. That’s a tough one, guys. We don’t know for sure what’s aboard, but Mr. Cohen’s sources seem to think they have automatic weapons and some kind of explosives.”
Several of the operators turned toward Cohen, seated in the middle of the group. He remained expressionless, looking straight ahead.
“Getting off the ship, under fire, means losses. There’s just no way around it. We’d probably have to leave the critical cases, and as much as that galls any of us, that’s how it has to be. There’s no point losing men who may have to come back and try again.”
“Sir.” Breezy raised his hand.
“Yes, Brezyinski.”
“I have some medic training. I’d be willing to stay with any WIAs.”
Pope scratched his bald head. He noticed some other men looking at the former Ranger. “Well, that’s very generous of you. We’ll just have to leave that decision until it happens.”
Pope returned to the board. “Now, at that point we still might have a card to play. If it’s apparent that we can’t board or stay on deck, I’ll call or signal one of the boat crews. They’ll try to place charges around the rudder or near the screw before we leave. It’s a low-percentage shot but it’s still an option.” Another check mark.
“Case five: actually, from our view it’s better than case four. We’re spotted inbound, take fire, and cannot close the target. At that point we break off and come back here.”
“What then?” Malten asked.
“I don’t know right now, Jeff. I suspect that one of the DDs or frigates in the area would take overt action rather than let the yellow cake get away.”
“That’s illegal, isn’t it? High seas and all that.”
Pope’s heavy-lidded eyes seemed to light up. “To paraphrase Chairman Mao, ‘Legality grows from the barrel of a gun.’“
Bosco could not suppress his enthusiasm. “Break out the jolly roger, Cap’n. Show ‘em our true colors.” Obviously his arm wound from Chad wasn’t hindering him.
Breezy adopted a Wallace Beery scowl. “Arrr, matey, arrr . . .”
Pope resumed speaking. “For now, let’s say we get aboard. Once we have more than a couple of men on deck, we’re pretty much committed. A retrograde movement off a ship is a losing proposition.”
He picked up a timer used to detonate explosives. It resembled a miniature cooking timer, variable to sixty seconds. “We’ll have breaching charges to blow the hinges off any dogged hatches. Each team has an EOD tech, but I want each of you familiar with these gadgets. Remember: mainly we want control of the bridge and the engine room. If the bad guys are holed up somewhere else, we can probably just contain them. Get them out later.
“Now, we have a minimum crew to put aboard once we control the ship. At that time the Don Carlos will come alongside, transfer the ‘prize crew,’ and proceed, assuming there’s no engineering casualty.”
“What kind of casualty?” Pace asked.
“Engineering. If the engine is damaged or the rudder’s jammed, something like that. In which case we’ll have to rig a tow—slow going but it can be done. At that point, depending on where we are, we’ll make for a neutral port. With a U.S. Navy warship escort.”
Tom Pfizer, a former SEAL, was impressed. He asked, “How’d you arrange that, sir?”
“I didn’t. The admiral did. There’s two frigates available: the Woodul in the Med and the Powell off Gibraltar. I understand that the Millikin might be rounding the cape sometime this month, too. Additionally, there are two frigates that could be detached from an exercise with Spain—Greenberg and Heifers.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to have one ship tail us?”
“Yeah, but that could draw attention. And if we actually chase the yellow cake all the way around the Horn of Africa, that ship probably will need to fuel somewhere.”
Pope surveyed his audience once more: an assembly of serious, focused young men who belonged to the same guild, having paid mostly the same dues to gain membership. The only exceptions were Bosco and Breezy, typically laughing and scratching. “All right,” Pope concluded. “If there’s nothing else for now, we’ll break it off. Continue checking gear, especially the Zodiacs. Boat captains, take over.” He nodded toward Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoff Pascoe.
As Malten started to leave, Pope beckoned him aside. “Jeff, I’d like your take on Bosco and Breezy: I can’t always tell them apart. They seem to feed off each other.”
Malten laughed. “I had the same trouble in Pakistan. Bosco’s about two inches taller, otherwise they’re interchangeable Army pukes to me.”
“This afternoon I saw them clowning in the galley. They’re taken to wearing kerchiefs on their heads and one of them got an earring from someplace. Next thing you know, they’ll have a peg leg and a parrot on one shoulder.”
“Yeah,” Malten said, chuckling. “They’ve started saying things like Avast!’ and ‘Aye, Cap’n,’ and saluting with two fingers. Breezy even got the lyrics to ‘Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest.’ I think they’ve seen too many pirate movies.”
“They act like frat boys,” Pope said. “Frankly, it makes me a little nervous. I’m thinking of putting them on two of the M-60s.”
Malten’s eyebrows raised. “I know they come across as juvenile delinquents sometimes. But don’t sell them short: they’re real serious after the kickoff.”
Pope glanced down while rubbing his bald head. “Well, I admit it surprised me when Breezy volunteered as a stay-behind medic. He may be some kind of surfer dude, but he doesn’t strike me as a grandstander.”
“He’s not. Like I said, I worked with both of them on the last op in Pakistan and Afghanistan. They’re solid when we’re in contact.”
“You mean when there’s lead in the air?”
Malten kept a straight face. He rendered a two-finger salute and uttered a throaty, “Aye, Cap’n.”
“Now don’tyou start that!” Pope made a shooing motion. “See to your boat, Mr. Malten.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
* * * *
73
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
Hurtubise motioned to Zikri in the galley. They went to a far table and sat down. “We need to have a more definite plan if we are intercepted.”
The captain said, “I thought you would fight off any attempt to board.”
&
nbsp; “That depends on the attacker. If we are hailed by a warship, we do not have many options, do we?”
“Well, no. Other than surrender, there are only two choices: fight or scuttle. If we fight, we lose. If we scuttle, we lose. From my view, it would be far better to stop and let them search. There is a chance they might not find all the yellow cake.”
“But you said we were unlikely to be stopped by a warship,” the Frenchman reminded him.
“Yes, that’s right. We are exercising legitimate right of passage. Where possible, I will keep within the territorial limits of each country we pass. The Americans have no authority there—even less than in the open sea.”
Hurtubise bit his lip in concentration. “Very well, then. We are most likely to be intercepted by an American or Israeli commercial ship, with naval commandos.” He paused, considering the likelihood. “We have a good chance of beating them off, but they may chase us.”
Zikri gave an indifferent shrug. “They can chase us all they like. As long as we are in international waters, and they cannot actually stop us, all they can do is follow.”
“Well, what could they do to stop us?”
“If they cannot put a boarding party on deck?”
Hurtubise nodded.
“Maybe they would try to disable our rudder or propeller, but to do that they have to get very close. They must have no deck guns or heavy weapons. Maybe if they have rocket launchers . . .”
“No, they cannot get that close. Our machine guns and RPGs would rip their speedboats apart.” Hurtubise thought for a moment. “What else could they do?”
“I cannot think of anything else. Unless . . . well, maybe they would ram us.”
“With their own ship?” Hurtubise asked.
Zikri’s eyes went to the vinyl tabletop, then back to the Frenchman’s. “It is possible. But that is no guarantee they could stop us. They might only dent some plates.”
“Could they disable your steering by collision?”
Zikri did not like the direction the conversation was turning, but he tried to remain objective. “Perhaps. But it is unlikely. You see, our stern overhangs the rudder and propeller. They would have to ram us very hard from just the right angle to have a chance. And I would be maneuvering to avoid them.”
“So that could go on for a long time?”
“Yes, yes.”
Hurtubise tapped the table in a momentary pique. Finally he said, “If they get that close to us, I could turn my RPGs on them. I doubt that they have anything comparable, and after we put a few grenades on their bridge, they will have to respect us. That should keep them at least a hundred meters away.”
“Would your grenades be effective against a ship?”
“They cannot sink a ship. But the warheads are powerful enough to penetrate a tank’s armor. So . . . ordinary steel plate?” He snapped his fingers with a surprisingly loud pop.
“But they could still follow us indefinitely.”
“Then we are back to where we began,” Hurtubise replied. “As you said before, let them follow us to Iran if they like.”
Before Zikri could reply, Hurtubise pursued another subject. “With so many men repainting the ship, we are starting to look different already. Now, what identity have you found for us?”
The captain touched the side of his nose in an exaggerated gesture of confidentiality. “We have many flags to fly. But the blue and white paint fits Greece so I have decided on a new name. Star of Hellas.”
“Is there such a ship?”
“Yes and no. That is the beauty of the name. There was such a vessel a few years ago, but apparently she was sold for scrap. However, that name still appears on some registries. Anybody who checks closely will learn the facts, but it will take time. Meanwhile, I have a man over the stern, painting the new name right now.”
“Greece,” Hurtubise mused. “I have been there only twice. I didn’t much care for ouzo.”
Zikri leaned against the back of his chair, adopting a relaxed posture. “Well, mon ami, whatever you like to drink, I suggest that you finish it before we get to Iran. You will find my Shia friends far less tolerant than I am.”
* * * *
M/V DON CARLOS
Pope finished the briefing and set down his marker. He folded his brawny arms and looked around the room. Fifteen operators stared back at him. He decided not to comment on Breezy’s and Bosco’s attire: both wore pirate-style kerchiefs on their heads. Bosco even had an improvised eye patch. Green grinned; Pace yawned.
“There’s not much else to say,” Pope stated. “I’m certainly not going to give you guys a pep talk. In the first place, you don’t need it, and in the second place, you’d resent the hell out of it. But I do want to say just a bit about how I feel about this mission.”
He glanced at the deck, then looked up again. “I think we’re engaged in a battle for Western civilization. No, I don’t think it’s going to be settled tonight. This is a long-term commitment, probably for generations. After all, the Crusades lasted two hundred years and the Moors occupied Spain for about eight hundred. I see myself as one man among other men—you guys. Whatever happens to me tonight, there’s no place I’d rather be and nothing else I’d rather be doing.
“That’s enough oration. Now, let’s ruck up and get going.”
* * * *
Gerritt Maas spoke with Pope, Malten, and Cohen on the bridge. Tapping the Feruni color radar display, the skipper pointed out nearby ships. “You should not have much trouble identifying the target. These two are well to the south and not in your intercept area.” He noted another blip nearby. “This big one is a supertanker, at least one hundred thousand tons. Depending on whether it maintains course, you might use it to cover your approach to Tarabulus.”
The captain touched the display to indicate another large vessel. “This is probably a container ship. If you match its speed for a while, you might get within one or two miles before you break out of the radar coverage of the tanker.” He looked at Pope. “That’s up to you, of course. I will monitor your frequency the full time.”
Alex Cohen added, “I’ll be in the radio room the full time. If I hear anything unusual, I’ll pass the word to you immediately.”
Don Carlos’s executive officer stood behind the operators. “Captain, we also have light signals in case radio communication fails.”
“Yes, yes,” Maas responded. “I am glad you reminded us, Carl.” He looked at Pope and Malten again. “I think our main concern will be finding anyone overboard or a lost Zodiac. We will flash a Morse Code DC. You do the same.”
“Delta Charlie,” Malten replied. “Dah-dit-dit, dah-dit-dah-dit?”
The Dutchman smiled around his pipe stem. “I don’t know! I haven’t used Morse since I was a cadet.”
Then he turned somber. “Good luck, gentlemen. And good hunting.”
* * * *
74
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“There’s a quarter moon,” Zikri said. “I think they would prefer a dark night.”
“That’s what I would choose,” Hurtubise agreed. “But we don’t know their schedule. They may want to take us closer to friendly ports around Gibraltar.”
“Well, no matter. I set the duty watch already. With some of my men as lookouts as well as yours, we should be all right.”
The mercenary hefted a night-vision device. “We cannot count on radar picking up their boats very far away. So I gave my men some extra night vision.” He raised the commercial product, a three-power NZT-35 monocular.
“How good is that?”
“This? It’s supposed to be good to something over a hundred meters. It’s waterproof besides. But the trouble with the old Soviet devices is that you never know how much tube life is left. Any of them could quit on you at any time—probably when you need it most.”
The Frenchman hefted another model. “This model with third-generation technology is good to three hundred meters.” He almost laughed. “It costs about thirteen
dollars per meter.”
Zikri had thought out his steaming plan for the night. “I can continue zigzagging as you wish. Or we can do random direction changes. Either way it will not be very easy for small craft to track us. They can’t see very much, riding so low.”
“Well, all we need is some warning. We can put up a barrage of flares and use the machine guns and RPGs. Once we open fire, nobody’s going to keep coming in a rubber boat. It would be suicide. We’re on a much more stable platform than they are.”
The Libyan leaned back against the plotting table. “What do you want to do after we repel their attack? Surely they won’t try the boats again.”
