Prometheus's Child

by Harold Coyle

  “Well, he never even asked about the money. Pretty unusual for somebody in our business.”

  “Pope’s not about money, Sandy. He’s about doing the Lord’s work. He believes in setting things right.”

  Carmichael allowed the drawl back in her voice. “You know, I was raised a Baptist. Southern Baptist, actually. When I heard folks talk about doing the Lord’s work, I learned to start looking for the collection plate to pass by.” The corners of her mouth curled slightly. “I guess it’s different with some Catholics.”

  Leopole’s mouth did not curl. “Sandy, when they declare Vic Pope KIA, they’ll find a pistol with the slide locked back in one hand and a rosary in the other.”

  He paused for a moment, then added, “You know, it takes all kinds to float a boat like ours. Most of our guys are operators like Bosco and Breezy: ‘hey-dude’ types who like the guns and gear and enjoy the down time. Farther up the ladder are the dedicated pros like Gunny Foyte and Steve Lee. Then there’s a few like Vic Pope: true believers. Frankly, some of those make me a little nervous.”

  “How’s that?”

  “To them, this is more than a profession. It’s more like … a calling. That’s how Vic Pope sees the war on terror. Christianity and Western civilization against Islamo-fascism. I’m not saying he’s a fanatic or anything, but he might bear watching at times.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “My gosh, Frank. If we can’t trust him, how can we justify putting him in command?”

  “Oh, I trust him. Absolutely. I’m just a little worried that when we finish this job, he may not know when to stop.”

  * * *

  “How do you take down a ship?”

  Victor Pope stood before a three-view drawing of a typical merchant vessel, with interior layout depicted in dotted lines.

  “With a submarine?” Breezy looked around, appreciating the laughter to his flippant response.

  Pope decided to ignore the former paratrooper. The SEAL veteran had read each man’s SSI file, and clearly Mark Brezyinski was a qualified operator. But the California surfer persona that Breezy projected did not sit well with an intense, focused leader like Victor Matthew Pope.

  “There’re two approaches to a ship at sea,” Pope explained. “By small craft and by helicopter. The advantages and disadvantages are obvious. Helos are fast but they’re noisy, they can’t surprise anybody who’s half awake. On the other hand, boats like a Zodiac can approach pretty quietly, especially with a muffled engine, and avoid visual detection depending on the approach angle. It’s best done at night, which of course is when the ship’s crew expects an attack.”

  Pope used a red marker on the white board displaying the schematic. “I like to think of a ship as a moving bridge.” He gave the audience his teacher’s look again. “How do you take a bridge?”

  “BOTH ENDS AT ONCE,” the class chanted. Everybody present had attended the same schools.

  “Correct. But most ships have an elevated platform.” He tapped the marker against the bridge and pilothouse. “From here, the duty watch can see forward past the bow. As soon as anybody pops up over the railing, they’re going to be spotted. So, what we do is…”

  He marked an X on each side, just behind the bridge. “… come aboard from port and starboard at the same time. If there’s enough operators, we come over the stern as well.”

  Bosco raised a hand. “But what about the lookouts? I mean, don’t they have guys walking guard around the deck?”

  “Sure they do. Or at least we have to assume so.” He looked to his naval special warfare colleague. “Mr. Malten?”

  Malten stood up in the front row and turned to face the others. “We used to run this scenario until we could do it in our sleep. Same thing applied whether the ship was in port or under way. In fact, it also applied to offshore oil platforms and the like. Depending what you see when you first scan over the deck edge, either you neutralize anybody there or let him go, if he’s a rover. Then you get at least three men on deck immediately. They face forward and aft, covering the others while they get aboard. The third man looks up: there’s always structure above you. If there’s no opposition, you have a foothold and then you can start maneuvering. If it comes to a fight, at least you have some support right away.”

  Pope nodded his bald head in approval. “A-plus, right out of the manual.” He turned to the audience again. “Any questions so far?”

  Pace, who was decidedly unenthusiastic about recreational boating, raised a hand. “When you say you neutralize a guard, what’s the preference?”

  “We’ll have suppressed SMGs and pistols. We might take a couple of rifles, but essentially a ship is a building several stories high. That applies inside as well as outside. You’ll be fighting your way upward or downward as much as fore and aft, so it’s usually close quarters. Now, in this particular case, we have to assume the guards will be armed and they’ll shoot on sight. At least that’s what I’m told, based on what happened in Chad. But even a head shot might prompt a reflex action that fires a warning shot. So if we can take out somebody without shooting, that’s preferred. We’ll have Tasers, flex cuffs, and gags. However, if you jump somebody and he’s putting up a real fight, just pitch him overboard. He can yell all he wants but he won’t be heard from a moving ship.

  “Details: we don’t want to get aboard and then have somebody notice wet footprints on deck. Because we’ll board from the CRRCs, your feet should be dry but in case they’re not, take them off and go in your socks. Tie your shoes together and take them with you.”

  He stood with hands on his hips, consciously exuding an air of confidence. He would seldom admit it, but he learned the trait in parochial school, long before reporting to Coronado Amphibious Base.

  Green raised a hand. “Commander, what happens once we have the ship? I don’t know about the other guys, but I can’t run a rowboat.”

  “We only need a small crew: enough qualified people to run the ship while the real crew is being held. Admiral Derringer is arranging that. And we’ll have a nuclear expert, Mr. Langevin, to handle the yellow cake. He’s with the team in the Middle East right now.” He scanned the room from front to back. “Anything else?”

  When there was no response, Pope started walking to the door. “Let’s get going, gentlemen. Time’s our enemy right now.”

  62

  WASHINGTON NAVY YARD

  SS Bruno Gaido was nearly three decades older than any of the SSI operators who boarded her at Pier Two that morning. But the World War II Victory Ship had some lessons to impart.

  Victor Pope stood on the foredeck, noting that some of the visitors interested in historic ships cast envious glances his way. Other vessels such as the decommissioned destroyer Barry were open for viewing, but retired Rear Admiral Michael Derringer had made a couple of calls and got his team exclusive access for two days.

  “We’re going to practice interior tactics during the day,” Pope explained to his team. “After hours we’ll haul out the Zodiacs and work on boarding. That’s just as well, because in the real world we’ll probably operate at night anyway.”

  The former SEAL began pacing, organizing his thoughts. He already had the lesson plans in mind, but he wanted to keep the training sessions logical, focused. “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  Pope led the dozen men to the mess area, which offered the best prospects for a classroom. Once the former SEALs, Marines, Rangers, and police alumni were settled, he got right to work.

  “Any of you who’ve never been aboard a ship can see why we’re not taking any long guns. We’re in tight quarters anywhere we go, so we’ll be using SMGs and pistols. Eye and ear protection are mandatory. Believe me: you cap off a round inside a steel compartment and you’ll be hearing bells for hours. That’s an advantage we’ll probably have over the opposition.

  “Now, because it’s so tight in here, weapon retention is a major concern. I brought dummy weapons for us to practice with: Glocks and MP-5s. All of you know about moving
to corners: don’t lead with your muzzle.” He nodded to Phil Green, an erstwhile artilleryman who had become a motorcycle patrolman. Officer Green had written a record number of citations until some of his customers complained to the department. They objected to his custom-made ticket book, featuring a rearranged bumper sticker proclaiming, “Die, yuppie scum.”

  Green held a red plastic Glock close to his chest, muzzle parallel to the deck. In one fluid movement, Pope grabbed the dummy weapon with both hands and shoved it upward. As Green retreated, Pope pressed forward, keeping the muzzle beneath Green’s chin.

  “You can see he’s purely defensive,” Pope explained. “I control the gun, and he can’t fight me off because he needs both hands on it. But I can use one hand to poke his eyes or smack his ear. Eventually I’m going to own his pistol.”

  At a signal from Pope, Green returned to the head of the room, now holding the Glock in a low ready position, angled forty-five degrees downward. When Pope made a grab for the pistol, he got one hand on it but Green stepped back three paces, pulling his assailant off balance.

  “You see what’s happened?” Pope asked. “He still has control. I can force the gun down somewhat, but it’s still pointed at my legs. He can light me up, and after the first couple of rounds I’m going to let go.”

  Don Pace said, “If I’m a real smart crook, I can force the slide out of battery.”

  “Well, you’d have to be one really cool customer,” Pope replied. “But how long can you keep the slide back? If Mr. Green gets in battery for less than one second, I’m toast.”

  A former SWAT cop named Bob Ashcroft raised a hand. “Are we going to have suppressors on our guns? If we are, the HKs will be about as long as an M4 carbine.”

  “Good point,” Pope replied. “I’d recommend putting the cans on the MP-5s when we’re on deck, since that might buy us a little time when we need it most. Once we’re inside, I’d lead with unsilenced guns and keep a few suppressed as backups once the shooting starts. Sort of have it both ways. But ear protection is still important, since the bad guys probably won’t have suppressors.”

  Pope glanced at his briefing notes. “We’ll practice these retention drills and get used to working corners together. Then we’ll move to the vertical plane, with decks and ladders.”

  Pace wrinkled his brow. “Ladders?”

  “Okay,” Pope said. “For you landlubbers, pay attention.” He stomped his right foot twice. “This is not the floor, it’s the deck.” He tapped the wall behind him. “That’s a bulkhead.” Pointing upward, he said, “That’s the overhead. There’s no ceiling on a ship. Same applies to ladders—what you call stairs. And by the way: we’re not in a ‘room’ with a ‘corridor’ outside. This is a compartment adjoining a passageway. Got it?”

  “Yessir,” Pace mumbled, obviously unconvinced.

  “And another thing,” Pope added. “We probably won’t know the physical layout of our target until we get aboard, but it may have watertight doors. That means knee-knockers.” He walked to the compartment entrance and kicked the lower lip of the hatchway, elevated above the deck to contain water. “If you spend much time aboard ship, eventually you’ll skin your shins on these contraptions. If you’re doing a tactical Michael Jackson, moon walking backward while covering your team from behind, you can trip over one of these things real easy. So I recommend single-footing it.” He demonstrated by backing several steps, leading with his right foot each time.

  Ashcroft shook his head. “Man, oh, man, that’s a lot of really basic stuff to absorb in a short time.”

  “You’re right. That’s why we’re getting started here, and we’ll keep at it as long as we can. If our target vessel takes the western route around Africa, we’ll have a lot more time for training.”

  “What about communications?” Green asked.

  “We have some off the rack gear that should work but I’m still looking into that. One of the SSI directors is a major stockholder in an electronics outfit that has a new tactical headset. It’s a combination radio and hearing protector. If it works, that’s just what we need. I’m supposed to have a sample in a day or so.”

  He looked around the room. “No more questions for now? All right. Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me through the hatch, down the passageway, and up the second ladder, we’ll try not to get lost.”

  63

  HAIFA, ISRAEL

  Bosco and Breezy were making the most of the down time.

  Clad in garish swim trunks that screamed “American tourist,” the two operators occupied their recliners in a strategically advantageous position. Few of the resort’s patrons could enter the pool area without passing within fifteen yards of the athletic young men.

  Breezy was growing tired of the routine. Their fourth day at the Mediterranean Hotel had produced another confirmed date and one probable, but they were not there entirely for R&R. “I thought we’d hear from our contact by now,” the erstwhile paratrooper declared.

  Bosco shrugged. “Don’t matter to me, dude. The guys in Arlington know where to find us. If this Cohen guy can’t be reached, we might as well enjoy ourselves, you know?”

  As a string bikini wiggled past, Bosco lowered his Oakley shades off the bridge of his nose for a better view of the owner’s derriere. He shook his head in appreciation of the human female’s gluteus maximus. “Mmm … mmm. Dude, we came to the right candy store.”

  Breezy did not bother to look up. “Man, you know that half these babes don’t even show up when they say they will.”

  The Ranger’s ingrained confidence and sense of mission were both bulletproof. “Yeah, but half of them do.” The latter sentiment was accompanied by a male-bonding click-click sound of the tongue.

  Breezy finally looked at his friend from four feet distance. “Man, I can see it from here. You’re approaching a state of physical and mental exhaustion.”

  “Like that’s a bad thing?”

  While Bosco was absorbing that response, his friend hit upon a fresh thought. “Hey, I gotta go shopping this afternoon. You want me to pick up anything for you?”

  “Shopping? For what? Souvenirs?”

  “Condoms, dude. Condoms.”

  Bosco returned to his supine position. “Man, you live your life between your legs.”

  “Like that’s a bad thing?”

  “Well,” the former paratrooper replied, “there’s more to life than sex.”

  Breezy knew when he had his partner’s goat. “Of course there is. There’s violence, too. They go together, sorta like the yin and yang of the universe. Like, you know, the duality of nature.”

  Bosco sat bolt upright. “The duality of nature! Brezyinski, where the hell did you ever hear a phrase like that? You sure didn’t read it.”

  “Hell, man, I dunno. I heard it somewhere.”

  “But you don’t know what it means.”

  Two Alitalia flight attendants walked past, chattering in delightfully melodic voices. Both Americans interrupted their philosophical discourse to track the young women for several meters.

  At length Breezy said, “Of course I know what it means.”

  “What?” Bosco was still distracted. He was seriously serious about slender, raven brunettes.

  The Ranger tagged the paratrooper with the back of one hand. “We were talking about the duality of nature. You know, like, sex and violence.”

  Bosco was focused again. “Are you trying to tell me that you like war as much as sex?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never been to a real war. That’s why I got out. But what I’m saying is, if I had to choose between sex every day and combat every day, I don’t know what I’d take.”

  Bosco regarded his friend, as if seeing him for the first time. “Well, for one thing, if you got shot at every day of your life, eventually you’d be KIA.”

  Breezy unzipped a knowing grin. “Sex can kill you, too.”

  “So you’re trying to tell me that you enjoy sex as much as killing people. That’
s pretty far out, dude.”

  “No, not exactly. I’m saying that I really like shooting people who shoot at me. It doesn’t matter if they’re killed or not. C’mon, man, you know what I’m saying. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

  “Look,” Bosco said. “Yeah, sometimes I enjoy the rush of double tapping some guy who’s trying to kill me. But that’s not why I stay with SSI. I’d do the same work for the same pay if I never had to shoot.”

  “So it’s the gear more than the job.”

  “Well, yeah, pretty much. I mean, I still get paid really well to do what I like: parachuting, rappelling, stuff like that. But it’s a lot better than the Army because I do it on my terms, and I can walk away almost anytime I want. With the money I’m saving, it’s a no-brainer.”

  “Excuse me,” a voice intruded.

  The Americans looked up from their recliners. They saw a thirtyish, obviously fit young man who spoke almost unaccented English.

  “Are you Mr. Boscombe and Mr. Brezyinski?” the man asked.

  Bosco raised his sunglasses, better to inspect the stranger. “You Mr. Cohen?”

  “Alex Cohen. Frank Leopole sent me. We need to talk.”

  64

  MISRATAH, LIBYA

  A crewman of Tarabulus Pride approached Hurtubise, who was compiling notes in his two-bunk cabin. “Monsieur, a man to see you. He is on the pier.”

  The mercenary secured his papers, stuck the Makarov in his waistband, and pulled on a jacket. Making his way to the starboard gangway, he saw a familiar face. “René, mon vieux.” Hurtubise strode down the plank and embraced the former Legionnaire. After much back slapping he exclaimed, “Your timing is good. I was beginning to wonder about my sources.”

  René Pinsard grinned broadly. “I did not get your message until last night, and I could not reach you on board your mighty ship.” Pinsard tilted his head toward the cargo vessel.

  “Oh, I’m spending most nights aboard now. My other three men alternate so they can get more rest. I never knew that ships were so damned noisy.”