by Harold
“At that point, they probably will back off, at least for a while. Unless they have a plan that Cochon and I have not considered, they will either let us go or they will turn to the Navy.”
“I agree,” Zikri said. “And we can enter almost any port and wait out their warships if we have to.”
Hurtubise turned to the map. “What do you recommend?”
“Oh, almost anywhere once we’re south of Western Sahara. It’s still occupied by Morocco, yes?”
“Correct. That means it’s probably friendly to America.”
“Well then,” the seaman continued, “just look at the options. Senegal, Gambia, Guinea, Sierra Leone. Considering the diplomatic situation, Liberia and Nigeria and Ghana may not be such good choices, but after that we have the Cote d’Ivoire and Benin. On and on down the continent.”
Hurtubise gave an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a very long trip.”
“Cheer up, my friend. A long sea cruise is good for your health!”
* * * *
M/V DON CARLOS
“Where’s Pope?” Pfizer asked. “We’re ready to go.”
Malten thought he knew, but kept the information to himself. “Uh, I think he’s with the captain. I’ll go check.”
The team leader trotted down the passageway to the berthing area and undogged a hatch. He peeked inside the compartment and found what he suspected.
Victor Pope was kneeling beside his bunk, rosary in hand. Malten was struck by the seeming incongruity: a muscular, bald young man in his late thirties, bedecked with tactical gear, his submachine gun resting beside him. Malten withdrew a few steps around the corner but could hear Pope’s low baritone reciting the ancient words.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in midieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
He still uses Latin, Malten realized. None of the modern recitation for him.
After a few seconds of silence, Malten risked another peek. He saw Pope cross himself, kiss the crucifix, and tuck it inside his shirt.
Malten backed up several steps and rapped loudly on the hatch. “Vic? You in here?”
Pope stepped through the hatchway. “I was just taking a minute for myself.”
“I hope you said one for me.” The younger operator kept any levity from his voice.
Pope cocked his head slightly. “You’re allowed to pray for yourself, Jeff.”
“Don’t need to,” Malten replied. His tone now was flippant. He tapped Pope’s vest with the back of his hand. “I got you, babe.”
“Let’s rock,” Pope said.
“Let’s roll.”
* * * *
In the dim light of the bridge, the screens glowed according to their purpose. Mostly green for data; color radar for navigation and weather. Awaiting a last-minute position report to confirm the target’s position for the raiders, Maas paced until Cohen arrived.
The SSI operative stepped onto the bridge. “Captain, we got it. I just received confirmation.”
Maas turned to face Cohen. “Well?”
Cohen was momentarily taken aback. He had not expected jubilation, but he did anticipate some degree of enthusiasm. “Same speed and course as before. And it’s definite now. They’ve finished repainting most of the superstructure and the stack, and they changed the name.” He held out a message form with the information penciled in block letters.
The captain accepted the paper, read it twice, and set it down. “I will stay here until our people return. You can tell them the news.”
Cohen looked at the Dutch seaman. The man’s eyes were mostly concealed in shadow amid the subdued lighting. Cohen realized that reflection on the windows could detract from visibility but for a man who had spent much of his life in the desert, the shipboard ambience was cavelike, eerie. “What’s the matter, Captain?”
“The same thing as before, Mr. Cohen. You are forcing me to send four small craft in harm’s way based only on your information, which you refuse to explain to me or to them.” He paused, wondering if the younger man could be moved by such sentiment. When he drew no response, he continued. “I do not like the arrangement any more now than before. Less, in fact.”
Cohen shifted his feet, less from the ship’s motion than from resentment at being challenged again. “Why less?”
Maas inclined his head toward the Zodiacs on deck. “Because in a few minutes those boys are going on a mission that could turn sour. That’s why.”
“Captain, if the information is wrong, that’s my fault, not yours. Our operators know that. They accept it. But my sources are too sensitive to risk, so there’s no option but to continue as planned.”
Sources. Plural. Does he really have more than one ? While Maas was formulating a reply, Cohen turned and walked off the bridge.
Don Carlos continued on course through the dark.
* * * *
75
SSI OFFICES
“Frank, we just got an encrypted e-mail from Alex Cohen. Pope and Malten’s teams are going in right now.” Sandy Carmichael’s southern accent smoothed over the emotional ridges she felt.
Leopole looked at the wall clock. “They’re near the Canaries? It’s 2135 here; plus four is 0135 there. Did he say when they’ll board?”
“No. Just that the boats are in the water. I’d imagine they’re several miles out.”
Omar Mohammed, ordinarily the soul of composure, was sharing the watch. He surprised his two colleagues by biting the nail of his ring finger. “I wonder who else he’s told.”
“What’s that?” Carmichael asked.
The elegant Iranian caught himself and dropped his hand to the table. “I am just wondering out loud, Sandra. I am sorry, but I just do not trust Cohen yet. Oh, I don’t mean he would send our people into unnecessary danger. Nothing like that. But he may be communicating with Tel Aviv and who knows who else.”
Carmichael pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, he’s certainly not telling State or DoD. This whole thing is about deniability.”
“Yeah,” Leopold said. “I guess we don’t need to call O’Connor or anybody else until we know what happens.”
Carmichael gave him a tight grin. “Small favors, Frank. That’s up to the admiral or Marsh Wilmont.”
Several laden moments ticked by. Finally Leopold spoke. “Damn. I feel like Ike on D-Day.”
Mohammed eyed him. “The waiting?”
Leopole nodded. “Once you’ve pushed the button, all you can do is wait for the machine to go to work. I think we’ve built a pretty damn good machine. But there’s always some cog waiting out there to foul it up.”
* * * *
76
AFRICAN COAST
The four combat raiding craft sped away from Don Carlos on a southerly heading. As Pope plotted the relative positions of his ship and the target, he would maintain 190 true for nine miles. Presumably there would be no return trip, since the plan called for Maas to rendezvous with Tarabulus Pride once she was secured.
Meanwhile, Maas planned to keep Don Carlos to seaward of Tarabulus, lest she veer westward and try to lose her pursuers in the expanse of the North Atlantic.
In the lead Zodiac, Pope kept a constant watch on the other three craft, conned by Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoffrey Pascoe, late of Her Majesty’s Special Boat Service.
Pope could think of nothing else to be done. Now he was focused on the unfolding mission. He turned to the former Force Recon Marine at the stern of the CRRC and motioned slightly to port. He wanted to compensate for the southwesterly Canary Current that predominated off the Moroccan coast.
* * * *
M/V DON CARLOS
“There’s the first one,” Maas said, pointing out the blip on the radar screen. “And there’s the others.”
Alex Cohen took in the display, noting the transponder codes indicating each Zodiac. “It sure simplifies things on a dark
night,” he offered.
“Umm.” Maas did not enjoy conversing with the Israeli-American. But they were both professionals, accustomed to putting aside personal opinions in favor of accomplishing a mission.
Cohen sought a way to ease the tension between them. He had to admit that he would feel much the same as Maas if their roles were reversed. “Which is the target, Captain?”
“Same as before,” Maas said. Immediately he regretted his choice of words. Cohen could not be expected to keep a changing radar picture in his head after leaving the bridge to see the raiders on their way. The skipper touched an image almost straight ahead, just inside the ten-mile circle. “It’s keeping course and speed. Our boys should overtake her in about ten minutes.”
“How well can they see a Zodiac on a night like this?”
Maas shot a sideways glance at the SSI man. He recognized the question for what it was: a peace offering of sorts.
“Same as we can, Mr. Cohen. With the naked eye, maybe a hundred meters or so if the boats stay out of the reflected moonlight. But Pope thinks they’ll have night vision. Depending on how good—two or three hundred meters.”
“That makes it hard to take them by surprise.”
“It certainly does.”
* * * *
AFRICAN COAST
Idling in the waves, compensating for the Zodiac’s motion, Malten glassed the merchantman off the port bow. His five-power night-vision binoculars provided a green glimpse of the nocturnal world. He turned toward Pope in the nearest rubber craft. “Looks like part of the name is Hellas. Hard to tell about the flag. I guess it’d be Greek.”
“Well, that’s the info Cohen gave us. I still think the only way he could know that is from somebody on board. Mossad must’ve bribed somebody.”
“I just hope he stays bribed,” Malten replied.
Pope nodded and pulled his balaclava over his face. Green did not know Pope well enough to insult him about possible shine off his bald head, but Malten recognized that was exactly why the leader wore the trademark commando garment. Pope gave the signal and the boats deployed as briefed: one off each quarter, one astern, and one farther astern as backup.
Bouncing through the water, taking salt spray that spattered on their goggles and roughened their lips, the operators kept their focus on the objective. From 250 meters out, they tried to discern whether anybody was visible on deck. It was no good—the rough, tossing motion of the Zodiacs precluded a clear picture of the objective.
The coxswains opened the throttles and four outboard motors whined.
* * * *
77
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
René Pinsard had never fought a battle at sea. For that matter, neither had anyone else aboard, but the mercenary did not object to the prospect. He accepted Zikri and Hurtubise’s assessment that an interception was likely in the more confined waters between the Canaries and the Moroccan coast, and therefore stationed himself in the most favorable position. He stood beside the stern machine-gun mount overlooking the stern, night-vision device in hand.
The gunner, a man of indeterminate age and French-Algerian extraction, stifled a yawn. He stamped his feet as if to keep warm, though the night air was almost pleasant. “Three more hours,” he said, ruefully acknowledging that he had drawn the longest watch of the night.
“Suit yourself,” Pinsard replied. “I’m going to stay here until after dawn. They won’t try to attack in daylight.”
“Speedboat to starboard!”
The call came from somewhere forward. Immediately, hired guns and hired sailors crowded the rail, looking to seaward. As practiced, a quiet alarm sped through the ship, sending men to their stations.
Hurtubise found Pinsard looking to port.
“Situation,” the leader demanded.
“There’s a small boat out there maybe two hundred meters, slowly pulling ahead of us,” Pinsard explained. “I think it’s a diversion. It makes more sense for an attack from this side, so they’re not silhouetted.”
Hurtubise looked toward Africa and slapped his friend on the back. “I agree. They’ll blend into the shore.” He paused long enough to admire the professionalism of the intruders, then moved to deal with them.
“There! Two boats behind us!”
A Libyan sailor, augmenting Hurtubise’s shooters, spotted unnatural dark shapes near the wake. Shapes that did not belong there. One of the Frenchmen picked up a flare gun but Hurtubise stayed his arm. “Not yet.”
“But, Marcel, they’re almost close enough . . .”
“Not yet!” Hurtubise raised his voice in a calculated combination of authority and anger.
Pinsard lowered his Russian night goggles and called over his shoulder. “Marcel! There’s one out there on my side. Maybe 150 meters.”
Hurtubise visualized the geometry of the developing situation. In military terms, a multi-axis attack calculated to split his defenses. He suspected that at the last moment two or more of the boats would converge on one point and try to gain local superiority.
It was what he would do.
* * * *
AFRICAN COAST
It was time for a command decision.
Pacing the ship to port, Victor Pope ran a last-minute communications check. “Flipper One is up. Check and go.”
“Two. Clear to go.”
“Three. Looks good, Boss.”
“Four. Go.”
Satisfied that his boat captains saw no sign of danger, Pope accepted their assessment. Keeping the tension out of his voice, he said, “Stand by. Stand by. Execute!”
Pope, Malten, and Pascoe turned their CRRCs toward the target.
* * * *
78
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
On the bridge, Captain Abu Yusuf Zikri paced from port to starboard and back again. Acutely aware that he could not see what was happening behind him, he had to rely on cryptic, often unintelligible calls from Hurtubise and his European hirelings.
“All ahead full,” he ordered the engine room. Though he had no chance of escaping the Zodiacs, at least he could prolong their approach and thereby render them more vulnerable.
The Libyan noticed the helmsman and navigator watching him closely-—more than he liked.I am behaving like a nervous woman, he realized. He stopped pacing and adopted as dignified a demeanor as he could manage. Ordinarily he would open up on the international emergency frequency and request help before he was boarded. But under the circumstances, being found hauling contraband uranium ore to Iran did not seem a career-enhancing option.
He placed his trust in Marcel Hurtubise and his gunmen.
* * * *
Overlooking the stern, Hurtubise and Pinsard deployed their men to repel boarders. In frustration, Pinsard shook his NVG. “This damned thing is no damned good! It’s whiting out!” In frustration he tossed it overboard.
“Too many tube hours,” Hurtubise commented calmly. He handed his commercial optic to Pinsard, who scanned to port. “There they are! Three coming this way.”
“Let me see,” Hurtubise said.
Activating the device, Hurtubise took in the situation, then set it down. “We can ignore the boat to starboard. The threat is here.”
He turned toward the stern machine gunner. “Prepare to fire.” The French-Algerian mercenary tugged the MAG-58’s charging handle twice.
Hurtubise looked around. Two RPG shooters were nearby. Almost with disgust in his voice, Hurtubise nudged Pinsard and pointed to the men. “Merde!” Pinsard exclaimed. Shoving two automatic riflemen farther forward, he screamed, “You imbeciles! Get the hell out of the way of the RPGs!” One or both would have been seared the instant the rocket-propelled grenades were fired.
Meanwhile, Hurtubise had taken the flare gun from one of his men. Holding the pistol overhead, he began a countdown. “When you see them, fire!”
* * * *
Fifty meters out, Victor Pope realized that he was holding his breath. There was very little illumination on t
he ship’s stern—only the required navigation lights. He took that as a good sign.
Then the world turned garish-white as a parachute flare erupted overhead.
In the second boat, Jeff Malten thought that his heart skipped a beat. “We’ve been made!” Without awaiting orders, he directed his coxswain to reverse course.
