[SSI 02] Prometheus's Child

by Harold

  Hurtubise knelt by the reclining Frenchman. “The explosives you brought aboard—where is it stored?”

  “Semtex in the aft storage locker. Caps and detonators in my compartment. Why?”

  “I may want to place some quantities in the engine room and elsewhere down below. See me when you come off duty.”

  Pinsard cocked an eye at the older man. “Marcel, are you thinking of scuttling this rust bucket?”

  “I am just thinking, René. But keep it to yourself.”

  * * * *

  83

  M/V DON CARLOS

  Pope sat down next to Maas and said, “I want to see how this ship compares to theirs.”

  “Well, that’s not difficult. I can tell you right away that we are bigger and faster. Let me see . . .” Maas turned to his computer console and accessed a commercial shipping Web site. “Tarabulus Pride, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Maas put on his glasses and his fingers flicked across the keyboard, then he hit Enter. The data and a photo appeared on the screen. “Yes, Greek construction, thirty-four hundred gross registered tons, twelve to thirteen knots. We are nearly three times her tonnage and four to five knots faster.”

  He raised his spectacles. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Assuming she maintains ten knots, how long would it take to overtake her?”

  “Oh . . . several hours. But if she sees us—and she will—she could go to full speed and prolong the chase.” He paused. “Although . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Maas looked at the screen again. “She’s rated at 12.5 knots but that’s probably absolute top speed. I doubt that she can hold it indefinitely whereas we can make fifteen all day long. Seventeen maximum.”

  The captain looked at Pope again, scanning for a hint on the SEAL’s impassive face. “To repeat, Commander. What do you have in mind?”

  Pope ignored the question. “Let’s assume her mast is fifty feet above the waterline. How far is the radar horizon to us?”

  Maas applied his dexterous fingers to the keyboard again. In seconds he said, “Fifteen to seventeen miles, depending on her height versus ours. That’s mast height—superstructure is less, of course.”

  “All right,” Pope replied. “Let’s say she sees us hull down and identifies us. She goes to full speed at fifteen miles. With our overtake, that’s about four hours to catch up.”

  “Correct. Commander . . .”

  “Captain, could you match your speed to hers and hold position if she was maneuvering?”

  “Hold how close? One hundred meters or so, probably no problem. I have an excellent helm.”

  “I’m thinking more like five meters or less.”

  Maas stood up and faced the SSI man. “Mr. Pope, what in the hell are you thinking of doing?”

  * * * *

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  Marcel Hurtubise and Ren é Pinsard huddled in the latter’s berthing area. He pulled a box of detonators from beneath the bunk and slid them across the deck. “There you go. These are time delay. The others are command detonation.”

  “These will do.”

  “Marcel, you didn’t say what you plan to do. If we’re boarded, are you going to . . .”

  “If we’re boarded, we’ve probably lost,” Hurtubise interrupted. “We cannot hold this ship against a determined assault if they get enough men on deck.”

  “No, but how would they do that? We already showed them they can’t surprise us.”

  “Just the same, I’m planning for contingencies. I will rig some surprises for our uninvited guests. Enough to buy us some time to take action—or get away.”

  Pinsard wanted to ask for details, but a few years of working with Marcel Hurtubise had proven useful in delineating certain barriers. Professional matters: almost unlimited. Personal matters: proceed at one’s own risk. The present subject seemed to tread the hazy boundary between the two. “How would we get away?”

  Hurtubise gave a wry grin. “The enemy may provide that for us, mon vieux. I would not object to hijacking one of their boats. Would you?”

  “Not if that’s the only way out.”

  Hurtubise slapped his partner on one knee. “There’s always a way out, René. If you do enough thinking beforehand.” He winked at the younger man, then added, “Just don’t say anything to the captain. Or anyone else.”

  On the way out, humming loudly enough to be heard, Hurtubise exuded an air of mysterious confidence. It would be distressing to sacrifice a good lad like René, but if things turned sour, it would not be the first time that Marcel Hurtubise had faced that choice.

  * * * *

  84

  M/V DON CARLOS

  The Sikorsky SH-60B of HSL-44 normally answered to its squadron call sign—”Magnum”—but for this operation its identity was intentionally generic. As arranged on a discreet UHF channel two hours before, the VHF transmissions would be short and cryptic.

  Maas’s senior watch stander was on the bridge when the Mayport-based sub hunter made its approach. “Charlie Delta, this is U.S. Navy helicopter. I am approaching your starboard quarter. Where do you want your supplies? Over.”

  The merchant officer glanced rearward, saw nothing, but sensed the geometry of the situation. He keyed his mike. “Ah, Navy helicopter, we are ready on the bow. Over.”

  Two mike clicks acknowledged the instruction. Moments later the gray Sea Hawk hove into view off the starboard beam and settled into a thirty-foot hover over the bow. The crew chief winched down three rectangular metal containers that the deckhands hauled in. Fighting the rotor wash, they disconnected the load and set each container aside. The helo then delivered a smaller box that was easier to handle.

  Jeff Malten supervised the operation and quickly inspected the contents of each container. Satisfied, he stood up and waved to the HSL-44 Swamp Fox’s detachment commander. The helo pilot nodded, added power, pulled pitch, and motored away.

  Malten led the way into the vessel’s superstructure where other SSI operators were waiting. “Are we set?” Pope asked.

  “Affirmative. Three ‘60s and about a thousand rounds of linked ammo.”

  “Okay. Get ‘em ready. We need to function test every one and then work out the best way to mount them.”

  Malten nodded, then asked, “Who do you want for shooters?”

  “Whoever’s the most experienced. I’ll leave that to you. But keep our naval people for the boarding party.”

  Malten eyed his senior colleague. “Wish we had night sights. It’d be a lot quicker target acquisition.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that, Jeff. Besides, I think the muzzle flash will white out the NVGs. We’ll just have to establish fire superiority from the start.”

  “Well, yeah. But if we don’t, there’s no way we can get aboard.”

  Pope slapped his friend’s arm. “That’s why we get the big bucks.”

  * * * *

  85

  M/V DON CARLOS

  Victor Pope made a final tour of the ship’s exterior. Gerritt Maas’s men had been up most of the night, fashioning mounts for the M-60s, and Jeff Malten was still supervising the test firing. They met aft of the bridge.

  “How’s it going?” Pope asked.

  “Well, we had to headspace that one gun. Those idiots on that destroyer hadn’t even bothered to do that. Obviously they hadn’t tested it.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, and we’re the beggars.”

  Malten shifted his weight against the transport’s roll. He was hardly aware of his movement. “Well, Admiral Derringer must’ve been kneeling on a pretty thick carpet. I didn’t really think we’d get the guns this soon.”

  Pope merely nodded. Then he said, “We have thirteen healthy operators but we need at least three on the guns. I don’t like trying to take down a ship with just ten guys.”

  “Hey I was going to tell you. One of the crew saw what we were doing and took an interest. He even helped us degrease the ‘60 that
hadn’t been fired. Turns out that he was a Marine E-3. Think we can use him?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, is he any good?”

  Malten smiled. “He had a pretty good pattern around the empty can we tossed overboard. And he doesn’t lean on the trigger too much.”

  Pope thought for a few heartbeats. “Does he know what’s likely to happen?”

  “Yeah. I told him everything. The bad guys have belt-fed weapons and RPGs, and any M-60 is gonna be a priority target. But he said he spent Desert Storm afloat off Kuwait and figures this is his chance to make up.”

  “Well, okay. I’ll talk to him. What’s his name?”

  “Ritter. Goes by Tex.”

  “Figures. Texans are like that.”

  Malten laughed again. “That’s what I thought. But he’s from Vermont.”

  Pope leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded. “Okay. That gives us eleven operators, unless another crewman can help.”

  “I talked to Dr. Faith. He says that Verdugo can stand up as long as he doesn’t have to move.”

  “That’s what Esteban said when I checked on him, but he didn’t mention doing any shooting.”

  “Might be worth checking out,” Malten offered. “We can see how he does with the gun and the mount to hold on to. That would make a dozen door-kickers.”

  “Let’s do it.” Pope turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, one other thing, Jeff. Tell the gunners that if possible, they need to stagger their firing. We don’t have a lot of ammo, and there won’t be any A-gunners to reload for them. I don’t want everybody running dry at the same time.”

  Malten nodded. Then, eyeing his superior, he asked, “Vic, what’s your plan? Can we take a ship with only two full boats?”

  “Actually, Jeff, I’m not planning on using the boats.”

  Malten muttered, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”

  Pope turned and walked away from the workers. “Here’s what I have in mind.”

  * * * *

  86

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  Hurtubise gawked at the nine-thousand-ton ship pounding alongside, looking as big as a small mountain. Zikri watched out the starboard side of the bridge, gauging the intruder’s interval. Abruptly the bigger vessel’s bow swung to port.

  “My God!” Hurtubise shouted. “They’re going to ram!”

  The Libyan captain braced himself, then said, “Maybe not.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Monsieur, I think they intend to grapple.”

  Hurtubise took six fast heartbeats to absorb the implications. Then he spun on his heel and shouted down to Pinsard. “RPGs up here. Now!”

  Before Pinsard could respond, Hurtubise was on the opposite side. “Man the machine guns! Starboard fore and aft but keep one amidships to port.”

  René Pinsard gave his superior a wry grin. “You’re sounding very nautical this morning,mon vieux.” Then he was gone.

  * * * *

  M/V DON CARLOS

  From the bridge, Gerritt Maas judged the closure nicely. He ensured that his ship established a three-knot overtake, anticipating his rival’s likely move. “Steady as you go,” he told the helmsman. “Wait for it. . . wait. . .”

  Tarabulus Pride began veering to port, away from her assailant. Her thirty-four hundred tons answered the helm more quickly than the larger Spanish flagged vessel, but with the speed differential she could not escape.

  Phil Green manned the center gun, watching for likely targets. When armed men appeared on the target vessel’s superstructure, he called, “Fire!” At the same time he drew a bead on two men abaft the bridge and pressed the trigger. He walked his rounds across the targets, holding slightly low to offset the ship’s rolling movement.

  Several yards on either side of him, Verdugo and Ritter also opened fire. Glass shattered as 7.62 mm rounds punched their way across the superstructure. Green, mindful of Malten’s caution against everyone shooting at once, held his fire when his targets went down.

  * * * *

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  Hurtubise flung himself on the deck as incoming rounds snap-cracked overhead and ricochets pinged off the bulkheads. Zikri kept low, turning bug-eyed to the Frenchman, mouthing words that were inaudible.

  An RPG gunner appeared at the port access. Hurtubise gestured in anger and frustration. “Their bridge! Shoot their bridge, you idiot!”

  The shooter possessed a wealth of Middle East experience but none at sea prior to the Zodiac assault. Now he low-crawled to the aft access, raised himself to a kneeling position, and looked behind him. The blast zone was clear so he placed his sight reticle on the offending ship’s bridge and pressed the trigger.

  The back blast nearly destroyed the hearing of everyone on the bridge. Hurtubise, knowing what was coming, had clapped his hands over his ears, but the high decibels in the confined space were incredible. The shooter screamed in pain and collapsed backward. Hurtubise handed him another rocket and yelled, “Reload!”

  * * * *

  M/V DON CARLOS

  “Incoming!”

  Maas did not recognize the voice of whomever screamed the warning, but he saw the rocket-propelled grenade’s smoky ignition. With everyone else on the bridge, he dived to the deck and awaited the impact. It came with a loud, authoritativesmack, punching through the near windows and exiting beyond.

  “What happened?” asked the watch officer.

  “Too close,” Maas muttered. “We’re too close for it to arm!” He giggled in giddy gratitude. He scrambled to his feet.

  “Now!” Maas shouted. “Move to contact!”

  With the helm over to port, Don Carlos cut across the remaining twenty yards of seawater and slid hull to hull. The impact sounded worse than it was: screeching steel plates protesting in a high, ringing sensation.

  * * * *

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  Hurtubise realized that something was missing. Outgoing gunfire.

  He crouched below the level of the bridge windows and stepped over the prostrate RPG man. Risking a look outside, he saw only one MAG-58 in action. The gunner was firing intermittently, alternately triggering ill-sighted bursts and ducking the retaliatory fire from the larger ship. With a fright, he realized, They have fire superiority.

  “René!” he shouted. “René, get some gunners going.”

  There was no answer.

  Reluctantly, Marcel Hurtubise decided that he had to take action himself. He assumed almost a sprinter’s posture, bracing hands and feet on the deck, inhaled, and shot out of the bridge, headed for the nearest MAG.

  Abruptly, Pinsard appeared. He shoved the body of the previous gunner aside, grasped the weapon, and swiveled it toward the nearest American shooter. He pressed the trigger as two swaths of M-60 fire intersected him at belt level. The results were a vivid crimson gout sprayed across the steel structure.

  Hurtubise reeled in shock and surprise. Sprayed with his friend’s blood, he shrieked in a microsecond of outraged panic.

  Then he was in control of himself. He went prone again and rolled away from the gun position. Back inside the bridge, he yelled to Zikri. “We cannot win this way! You have to get away from them!”

  The Libyan raised his hands in frustration. “Are you crazy? How can we? They are faster!”

  Hurtubise’s mind raced. He sorted through every option that occurred to him, and came up with only one that might work.

  “Stop your engine! They’ll shoot ahead.”

  Abu Yusuf Zikri knew that would only afford a temporary respite, even if it worked. But he also knew this was not the time to explain basic seamanship to a gun-wielding French mercenary. He gave the order.

  * * * *

  M/V DON CARLOS

  On the superstructure, the three gunners had run out of targets. Green and Verdugo had cut down the last opponent—a brave man, no doubt, but a foolish one. Green glanced to his left to acknowledge Verdugo’s contribution. Then he glanced to his right and gasped at the sight.

&nb
sp; The volunteer gunner was slumped on the deck, motionless beneath his M-60. Green suppressed the urge to go to him, but the hard-won fire superiority had to be maintained. Green shouted as loudly as he ever had.

  “Medic!”

  Green turned back to business. With Verdugo on the aft gun, he took turns peppering the enemy’s bridge and any portholes or hatches that might afford an RPG gunner a likely shot.