Prometheus's Child

by Harold Coyle

  “I thought it was Casimir,” Bosco deadpanned.

  “Libya?” Breezy asked.

  “No, no,” Lee exclaimed. “Maybe Beirut, biggest port in the eastern Med. But it could be almost anywhere in the region. We won’t know until there’s better intel.”

  “Well, if they load the cake on a ship in Libya, why go to Lebanon? Why not just sail right to Iran?”

  Lee nodded in deference to Breezy’s acumen. “Good question, Mark. The answer is, we don’t know. It’s possible they’ll drive a thousand miles or more and load at a Red Sea port in Sudan or even Ethiopia.”

  Bosco ran the options in his gambler’s mind. “Major, wouldn’t it make more sense to fly the stuff? I mean, just a couple of big planeloads should do it, and that’d be a whole lot faster.”

  Lee agreed. “Yes, it would. But there’s complications having to do with international flights. So Arlington thinks that the cake will go by sea.” He hunched his shoulders. “If the Frenchies and Iranians do fly it, we’re out of the picture.”

  “So what do we do, sir?” Breezy began unloading a G3 magazine, returning the cartridges to a box on the worktable.

  “All you guys have to do is tell me if you’re interested. Frank wants you on the action team, and of course the combat bonus applies.”

  “Who’d we be working with?” Bosco asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but I’d think that Jeff Malten will be involved. SEALs know how to take down a ship.”

  Breezy went to work on a stick of gum. “Jeff did good in Pakistan. I’d go to war with him again.”

  Bosco nodded. “Me, too.”

  “All right,” Lee replied. “You two continue working with Gunny Foyte but we’ll start easing you out of training work. Carmichael and Leopole are leaning on their talent scouts to find other instructors, preferably with some language background. I’ll get back to you on your rotation schedule.”

  Bosco and Breezy exchanged ritual knuckle taps. In their arcane world, it meant, “Get some” and “Me, too.”

  * * *

  Steve Lee turned down the corridor from the small armory and looked into the cubicle that served as SSI’s office. He found the person he sought.

  “Hey there.”

  Whitney looked up from some paperwork. “Hey yourself, Maje. How you?”

  “I’m just precious,” Lee quipped.

  “I knowed that, honey.” She gave him the Aunt Jemima grin again.

  Lee sat in the vacant chair. “Martha, I wanted you to hear from me before somebody else. Headquarters is calling you home. You’ll be leaving in a couple of days, no more than three.”

  She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  He cocked his head. “You don’t seem surprised. Or disappointed.”

  “Naw, I’m not. After the operation went down, there wasn’t much else for me to do. I been helpin’ Gunny with le Français, you know?”

  The West Pointer could not stifle a laugh. “Yeah, I know. If there’s such as thing as Redneck French, I guess he’s fluent.”

  She was all spunk and vinegar again. “Ain’t that the truth? Wait’ll I tell Sandy and Frank about the way he pronounces chemin de fer, let alone la pièce de résistance or la boulangerie!”

  A pause settled over them. They both squirmed in embarrassment. At length Lee said, “Martha, you’ve done a good job here. I just…”

  “I know, Steve. I know.” She touched his hand. “It’s just that I keep thinking, maybe I could’ve handled things a little … different. You know?”

  Lee dropped his gaze to the cluttered desktop. When he looked up, he said, “Sure. All of us could always do things differently. But we don’t. We only get one chance to do anything the first time. If you’re thinking that you could’ve saved that French gal…”

  “Gabrielle.” Whitney pronounced the name in a low, husky whisper. “Gabrielle Tixier.”

  “Martha, she was in way over her head. She should’ve walked away from that bastard years ago.” He stood up, eager to end the conversation.

  She looked up at him. “Get him for me, Steve. And for her.”

  “Martha, it’s out of my hands. But Arlington is putting together a covert team right now. They’ll get him. You know they will.”

  “I’m counting on that, Maje. I truly am.”

  50

  STATE DEPARTMENT

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Ryan O’Connor met the SSI delegation at the door of the undersecretary’s office. For someone as attuned to Beltway nuances as Mike Derringer, it was as perceptible as a ten-knot wind on the face. Something unusual is coming our way. He thought he knew what it was.

  O’Connor was unusually businesslike, almost brusque. He showed Derringer and Wilmont to their seats, offered the perfunctory coffee, and for a change, he got directly to the point. “Gentlemen. This meeting will remain off the record for reasons that are obvious. But I’m confirming that State wants you to proceed with your Chad mission. And I do not mean just the training segment. That will continue, not only to meet the obligation, but to provide some cover for the more immediate operation.”

  “So you want us to go after the yellow cake,” Derringer said.

  “Just so. You will have the full support of State and DoD intelligence assets, as well as other, ah, sources. Please understand that we may not be able to reveal those to you, but be assured that we will not pass along anything that we do not consider reliable.”

  Derringer asked, “What if we get contradictory info?”

  The diplomat shrugged. “We’ll try to filter and deconflict, but as always, it’s up to the men in the field to act as they think best.”

  Bat guano, Derringer thought. If anything goes south, SSI will hold the bag. But them’s the risks.

  Wilmont shifted in his chair. Generally he held back, absorbing information and scribbling occasional notes, but now he spoke up. “Ryan, excuse me for asking what might seem an obtuse question. But if we’re chasing the cake, which seems headed for Iran, obviously it’s going by sea. Why not send the SEALs after it?”

  O’Connor regarded the overweight executive with a perceptible, disapproving frown. “Well, the usual reason, Marshal. Deniability. As you say, the operation will almost certainly take place at sea, and likely in international waters. The United States Government does not condone piracy, let alone participate in such things.”

  Wilmont nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. I understand that. But we just don’t have the assets—the gear—for something like this. And we can’t get it fast enough to meet the schedule.”

  “Oh, I think you can trust me on that score. You’ll have maximum support across the board: intelligence, technical, whatever you need. If there’s ever an audit of the operation—extremely unlikely, by the way—the investigators will find that all the equipment was declared surplus months before SSI ever saw it.”

  Derringer pulled an envelope from his Brooks Brothers suit coat. “Ryan, I brought a list of equipment needs and some operational concerns. This is for our liaison officer—whoever that might be.”

  O’Connor scooped up the paper but did not bother looking at it. “Right. I’ll give it to the case officer and he’ll get back to you today. He’s arranging logistics right now. But you have the keys to the kingdom on this one, Admiral. Speed boats, a couple of leased ships, communications, even unmarked helicopters if you need them.”

  The SSI men looked at each other. Without a word, they rose in unison. “Right,” Derringer said. “We’ll get going. Ah, do we communicate with you or with the case officer from now on?”

  O’Connor stood behind his desk. “Preferably through Grover Hinds, but if you need me, call anytime, day or night.” He paused for emphasis. “This is off the record, of course, but I’m in constant contact with the secretary. If you need any logjams broken, she’ll see to it personally.”

  Wilmont raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s about as much as we could ever want. Thanks, Ryan.”

  “Just get the job don
e, gentlemen. There’s too much riding on this one.”

  51

  MISRATAH, LIBYA

  Paul Deladier sipped his tea and regarded Marcel Hurtubise across the outdoor table. Looking around the square, Deladier could not help comparing the elegant surroundings to his truck-bound existence over the past three days.

  “I never knew there were such places in Libya,” he declared. “This is wonderful! Modern facilities, an oasis, a view of the ocean. It’s like a Hollywood movie set.”

  Hurtubise hefted his own cup. “Enjoy it while you can, mon ami. We will not be here long.”

  Deladier cocked his head. “Oh? I thought our work was finished when we delivered the shipment.”

  “Well, that depends.” Marcel squinted against the glare—he seldom wore sunglasses—and laid down his cup. He would have enjoyed a good Mosel at the moment, but Libyan sensibilities had to be respected. For a Mediterranean seaport town, the local regulations seemed onerous. Female tourists had to wear long skirts, and bare arms were prohibited.

  “What I mean, Paul, is that I may not be here long. The client wants extra security, so I have decided to go with the product, and the ship will leave in a few days. If you would like to come…”

  Deladier sat back, pondering a response.

  “What is it?” Marcel asked.

  “Well, it’s just that I … had not expected to do more. After all, we barely got out of Chad in time.” He tugged at his new shirt. “I don’t even have a suitcase for travel!” He laughed aloud, hoping that it did not sound forced. But driving a semi truck and trailer twelve hundred kilometers across the Sahara had not been an experience he cared to repeat.

  Hurtubise looked at his colleague and felt a queasy twinge. Something is not quite right. Be careful—take your time. He made a point of swiveling his head, as if enjoying the view. Certainly Misratah had something to offer: the seventh-century caravan stop had evolved into a modern, comfortable city. The steel and textile industries had brought wealth to the place the Romans called Thubactis. Tree-lined avenues met ancient, narrow streets where Turkish architecture mixed with European. Yes, a young man might enjoy himself in such a place—for a while. “You are right, Paul. I have seen worse places. And so have you!”

  Before Hurtubise could continue, Deladier asked, “When did you decide to take the ship? We didn’t discuss that before.”

  “Just yesterday. I meant to tell you, but you were out most of the day.” He forced a knowing grin. “Did you find some agreeable company in this Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Republic?”

  Deladier saw a chance and took it. “Actually, I met two agreeable ladies. Italian sisters. We did not discuss politics, but maybe tonight. Their ship sails tomorrow.”

  Hurtubise nodded his close-cropped head. “Well then, after you kiss them good-bye, maybe you’ll consider an ocean voyage yourself. I’m going to need some good men for security.”

  “Mmmm. Does it pay a bonus?”

  “Yes, half in advance, the rest on arrival.”

  Deladier leaned close enough to whisper. “Arrive where?”

  Marcel arched an eyebrow. “You know where.”

  52

  SSI OFFICES

  It was a rare event: a full-scale meeting of SSI’s operations staff. As officer in charge of all the firm’s fieldwork, Sandra Carmichael chaired the meeting with Frank Leopole beside her.

  Carmichael stood to emphasize the importance of the event. “We will come to order.” She modulated her voice with West Point precision, emphasizing every word.

  “The purpose of this meeting is to make some important decisions, rapidly.” She reached for the console on the table and turned down the lights in the room. With deft motions she brought the PowerPoint display onto the screen.

  “All right. We’re operating on partial information that gets older by the hour, but since we have to start somewhere, we’ll start here.” She traced her laser pointer along the Libyan coast. “We have reason to believe that the yellow cake that was taken from Chad will be sent by sea to Iran.”

  Sandra Carmichael could be unusually attractive when she wanted—but Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael, U.S. Army (Retired), kept a brisk, almost brusque demeanor. Those who knew her recognized the signs and paid strict attention.

  “Since State and DoD have given us approval to pursue the product, we’re laying contingency plans. Libya is obviously off-limits—there’s just no way we can operate there. But that opens a couple of options. I’ve asked Frank to examine them for us since our foreign ops department is most involved.”

  Leopole rose to his feet. “Okay, let’s look at the geography.” He returned to the map of Africa. “The quickest route obviously is through the Suez Canal down the Red Sea and around Oman via the Arabian Sea, then into the Persian Gulf. Call it three thousand miles or so. But look at the choke points.” He ticked them off: “Suez, the entrance to the Gulf, and finally the Strait of Hormuz. The smugglers can read a map: they know that they could be intercepted anywhere along that route.

  “Now, look at the other way. Yes, it’s about four times longer to sail around the whole damn continent, but once past Gibraltar it’s wide open spaces with an enormous amount of room for maneuver. Until they hit the Oman coast, they’re practically home free. And even then, they don’t have to go all the way to Bandar Abbas. There’s two smaller ports on the Makran coast.” He traced the southern shore of Iran, in Baluchistan.

  “Sounds like you’re betting on the longer route,” Wilmont said.

  Leopole shook his head. “No, sir. We can’t afford to put all our eggs in either basket. We’re going to need two teams and hope that nothing goes wrong with either one. But my gut tells me the cake will take a slow boat to Iran. After all, there’s no big rush. Even if it takes six weeks, the Iranians have time to get ready.”

  Derringer was scanning the map like a chess master examining the board, anticipating his next moves. “Where do we base our people to intercept either route?”

  “Sir, I’m thinking Cairo for the Med with Morocco as an alternate. Down in the Gulf, probably Oman, assuming that can be arranged. Our liaison at State seems to think it’ll be no biggie.”

  “Why not keep them at sea aboard the leased ships? They’d be more flexible that way, and a lot less likely to be spotted.”

  Leopole knew where Derringer was coming from. The admiral’s experience included pre-positioning ships at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. “That’s certainly a possibility, sir. We’ll examine that as an option.” He looked at Carmichael, who took over again. The usual cheerleader enthusiasm was absent from her voice.

  “Gentlemen, this mission will succeed or fail largely on the basis of intelligence. We have Dave Dare working on it already. Frankly, I have more confidence in him and his mysterious sources than I do State and DoD and CIA and NSA and the rest of the alphabet. But we’re establishing a cell within the working group to coordinate all information and provide it directly to our teams. There will be an absolute minimum of middle-level filter. If our teams want raw data, they’ll get raw data and draw their own conclusions.”

  Joe Wolf, in charge of SSI domestic operations, sat in the back of the room. Without a direct hand in the operation, he was present as an observer but he had a thought. “Sandy, it seems that any Iranian nuke program is aimed at Israel sooner or later. What about their sources?”

  Carmichael rolled her big blue eyes. “Joe, I think most of us who have ever worked with the Israelis have enormous respect for them, but we don’t trust them beyond arm’s reach. It’s a one-way street: we give them satellite imagery and all kinds of intel, not to mention a whole lot of money, and we don’t get much back. They let us know what they want us to know if it suits them. There are always hidden agendas with any intelligence organization, but that goes double for Israel.

  “Now, in answer to your question: yes, we’ll gladly accept any information. But it’ll probably come via State, and that’s another filter that could
just get in the way. So you see why we’re relying on our own sources as much as possible.”

  “What about Alex Cohen? Isn’t he dialed in?”

  Carmichael looked at Leopole. They exchanged knowing glances before the former Marine stood again. “Alex is a valuable asset. After all, he has dual citizenship and has served in the Israeli Army. I can say that he’s been working on this situation in the Middle East as well as Africa, and he’ll probably be on one of the teams. Other than that … we’ll see what develops.”

  Derringer seldom got involved in operational details but SSI was planning for a rare naval operation and the salt water was stirring inside him. “We need SEAL expertise for this job.”

  “Yes, and we’ve got it,” Leopole replied. “I expect that Vic Pope will lead the first team and Jeff Malten the second.”

  “Are they inbound?”

  “Ah, Admiral, I talked to Jeff today. He should be here tomorrow. We’re still trying to contact Vic. It’s awfully short notice.”

  Derringer nodded slowly. “Very well. But who else? We’ll certainly need more than two men from the teams.”

  Leopole raised a hand toward Matthew Finch. “Personnel is Matt’s domain.”

  Finch raised partway from his seat. “Sir, we have three other SEALs in the files. I’ve talked to Dave La Rue and he’s interested. The other two are out of touch but my assistant is concentrating on getting hold of them today.”

  Derringer shifted in his padded chair and looked at Wilmont. “Marsh, I’ve said for months now that we need more SEALs or Force Recon. There may not be enough time to teach some of our snake eaters how to debark from a Zodiac or take down a ship at sea.”

  The chief operating officer cleared his throat. It was rare for Derringer to raise business matters in an operations meeting. “No argument, Mike. But this is the first maritime op we’ve had in, what? Must be a couple of years.”

  Derringer rubbed his chin, staring at the map on the wall. “The thing that worries me, assuming we find the yellow cake, is leadership. Basically, it’s down to two men, and while I’m sure Malten’s a good man, he has no command experience. That means if we can’t get Pope, we’re in deep trouble.” He looked up at Wilmont again. “We need more depth in the organization.”