by Harold Coyle
Malten thought for a moment, quickening the squeezes of his left hand. “Well, I still don’t know the details, but he had a twenty-knot ship ready for us to take from Haifa if we needed it. How many door-kickers have that kind of pull?”
Pope dismissed the subject: he preferred to focus on the future. “As long as we have some slack time, we can put it to good use. Especially boat handling.”
Geoff Pascoe knew an opportunity when he saw one. He leveled a gaze at the ex-cop. “You’ll love it, Pace. Nobody throws up more than two or three times in a Zodiac. After that, it’s just the dry heaves.” He smiled broadly.
Pace gave an exaggerated gulp. “Uh, when’re we gonna do that training?”
Pope kept a straight face. “As often as possible. In fact, I’m going to check with the captain to see when we can put some Zodiacs over the side.”
In the pilothouse, Pope found Cohen just leaving. They exchanged brief greetings before the SEAL stepped inside. “Captain? Do you have a minute?”
The skipper turned toward the American. “Oh, sure.” It came out “Chur.” Captain Gerritt Maas spoke a vaguely accented English that shifted between western and northern Europe. That was small wonder, since he spoke Dutch, French, Spanish, and Norwegian, and could produce convincing proof that three of them were his native tongue.
“Sir, I’d like to discuss some details with you. We got under way so fast that we didn’t have time to get acquainted.”
“Vell, ve verk for de same people,” Maas replied. His eyes said as much as his voice. “Besites, ve haf plenty of time now.” He gestured with his pipe. “Seferal days at sea, maybe efen veeks.”
Pope decided to talk shop before moving to more delicate subjects. “Tell me about this ship. What can she do?”
“Don Carlos, she can do almost anything. At ninety-four hundred gross registered, she can make seventeen knots. We have bow thrusters so we can dock without tugs. She’s 128 meters by 20.5 in the beam. She draws ten to eleven meters.”
“How long can you maintain seventeen knots?”
Maas smiled broadly. “As long as fuel lasts.”
Pope eyed his colleague. “Skipper, who really owns this vessel?”
A light illuminated in the skipper’s hazel eyes. He inclined his head, as if studying a specimen in a bottle, then said, “Consolidated Industrial Affiliates, out of Amsterdam.” After a pause he added, “I can show you the papers.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“My dear commander, do you think it implausible that Certain Important Associates would have no sense of humor?”
Pope almost allowed himself to smile. “Actually, yes, I do.”
Maas sucked his pipe and muttered a noncommittal, “Ummm.”
The American judged the European to be ten to twelve years older than himself—enough to justify some deference. “Sir, I’d like to confirm the, ah, command relationship. I mean, among you, me, and Mr. Cohen.”
The skipper blew an aromatic smoke ring. “Easy enough, I think. I command this ship, you command the commandos, Cohen provides the information. That’s how SSI wants it, yes?”
“Yes, sir. That’s my understanding. But I don’t know anything about the communications setup. Command and control, we call it. If you or I need some additional information—more details about the operation—I don’t think we should have to go through Cohen for everything.”
Maas’s eyes narrowed as he studied the former SEAL. “So you don’t trust him.”
“Well, I…”
“Neither do I.”
“Sir?”
“He’s Israeli, yes?”
Pope nodded. “Israeli-American. Dual citizenship.”
“You work with him before?”
“No. But he’s a regular SSI employee.”
Maas grinned. “Admiral Derringer, good man. I’ve known him for years now. Don’t see him so often, of course, but I trust him.” He motioned with the pipe again. “This one, Cohen. I think he’s a good one, too. Competent, I mean. But … where is his loyalty? Maybe more in Tel Aviv than Washington.”
Pope was surprised to find himself feeling defensive about Alexander Cohen. “Captain, it seems to me that we have to trust each other. Considering what’s at stake—the shipment headed for Iran—we’re all … in the same boat, should I say?”
Maas chuckled and slapped Pope’s arm. “Good one, boy!” He cackled again.
“Well, Captain, as I was saying, I need to know about the communications setup. I understand that we receive intelligence through Cohen, but that doesn’t mean we’re limited to asking our own sources for other information.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, what if something happens to Cohen? There has to be a contingency—a backup.”
The skipper nodded decisively. “There is. But for now, come with me. I’ll show you the radio shack and you can talk to the operators.”
“I saw your antenna layout. I guess you can talk to SSI and anybody else you need to.”
“Commander Pope, we can talk to the man in the moon.”
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“We need to talk,” Zikri said.
Hurtubise laid down the FA-MAS he was cleaning and wiped his hands on a stained cloth. The two men walked to the portside rail where they could be alone.
“What is it?” Hurtubise asked.
“My second radio operator, Shatwan. Since we are making no more calls than necessary, he has much time on his hands.”
“Yes?”
“Last night he entered the radio shack earlier than he was scheduled. He noticed Aujali transmitting by key, which is most unusual. When Shatwan asked what was happening, Aujali appeared a little flustered. He said that he was communicating with an amateur operator in Rabat.”
The Frenchman rubbed his perennially stubbled chin. He focused on the horizon for a long moment, then turned to the captain. “Didn’t you tell the operators that no messages would be sent without approval from you or me?”
“Yes. You were going to tell them yourself, but I think you were called to inspect something.”
“The machine-gun mounts. Yes, I remember now.”
Zikri spread his hands. “In any case, I thought you should be told.”
“What did Aujali send in that message?”
“We do not know. He said it was innocent enough: asking for news reports from Palestine.”
Hurtubise folded his arms and leaned forward. “Do you believe him?”
“I have not questioned him. I thought it best to tell you first.”
The mercenary nodded slowly. “You did right.” He thought for a moment. “What do you know about him? Not what he told you: I mean, what do you really know?”
“Well, I have his papers as a seaman and radioman. I suppose they could be forged, but he has sailed with me before. I have never had reason to doubt him.”
“You said he has relatives in Israel?”
“That’s right. His grandmother’s family. They have tried to emigrate but the Jews always prevent it.”
Hurtubise chewed his lip, as if physically masticating the information. Why would the Israelis want to keep an old woman from rejoining her family? “And Shatwan said he was communicating about events in Palestine?”
“Correct.”
“You trust Shatwan completely?”
“As I said before, we grew up together. He is a younger cousin.”
Hurtubise gave an ironic smile. “Captain, my brother-in-law once tried to put a knife in my back. I trusted him up to that moment, too.”
The Arab’s eyes widened. “I do not suppose he tried that again.”
The wolf’s smile reappeared. “He did not try anything again.”
Zikri thought better of asking details. Instead, he said, “Well, monsieur, Salih Shatwan and I are as close as brothers. I cannot add anything to that.”
Hurtubise turned and paced several steps. At length he returned and faced the captain. “Do you have a way of monitoring all broadcasts without
the sender knowing?”
“Not that I know of. I would have to discuss it with Salih. But I think that we could be monitored from another ship with knowledge of the suitable frequencies.” He looked more closely at the Frenchman. “You think that Aujali will continue transmitting?”
“I think that he might. And I would be very interested to know what he’s really saying to his friend in Morocco. If it is Morocco.”
Zikri shifted his weight in response to the ship’s movement. Tarabulus Pride was approaching Gibraltar, where the current increased in the narrows. “We will be within easy range of Rabat for the next few days, and communication is easier with nighttime atmospherics. I can talk to Aujali and tell him to stop all communications, or we can see about arranging some discreet monitoring. But that will take time.”
Hurtubise thought for a long moment. Then he said, “All right, tell Aujali to stop all unauthorized communication. But I want to talk to Shatwan right away. I’ll have him contact some friends of mine to see what they can find out about this Palestinian family.”
Zikri’s face betrayed his reaction. “You can get such information?”
“Yes, given time.”
The seaman nodded. “Time is one thing we have in quantity.”
“I hope so, but I have learned not to take it for granted. I see your crew has started repainting part of the superstructure. Some of my men can help.”
“Well, that would speed things along.” Zikri gave an ironic smile. “Assuming it is not beneath their dignity as men of war.”
Hurtubise leaned forward. “Captain, I will tell you something. It is not beneath my dignity to deceive my enemies. So my men will do whatever possible to cause doubt or confusion among those who pursue us. Whether the men’s dignity is scratched”—he made a deprecating gesture—“it will be repaired as soon as they are paid.”
The captain made an exaggerated bow. “Monsieur, I salute your sense of priorities.”
72
SSI OFFICES
Strategic Solutions did not have a facility that anyone would recognize as a “situation room.” But the company boardroom often was strewn with easels and maps for reference to far-flung operations, and such was the case at the moment.
Frank Leopole had taped a map of the Mediterranean and northwestern Africa to a cork board appropriated for that purpose. He referred to the colored pins depicting Don Carlos’s known location and Tarabulus Pride’s estimated position. “Our guys are in a good position to intercept the target vessel when it clears Gibraltar. That should be sometime today.”
Sandy Carmichael looked at the map. She pointed a polished fingernail. “Cadiz to Tangier must be—what? Only fifty miles or so?”
“Less, I think. The trouble will be sorting out the Tarabulus from all the other ships in the area. Pope seems to think that could take a couple of days or more.”
“Really? Why’s that? Don’t they have photos?”
The operations chief nodded. “Yeah. Cohen’s contacts got digital images in Misratah and e-mailed them to him. But there’s just a lot of shipping in that area, Sandy. Somebody said a couple hundred a day. And Alex thinks the Libyans might change the Tarabulus’s appearance. New name, false flag, maybe even false structures. Sort of like the Q ships in World War I.”
She cocked her head. “Q ships?”
“They were armed vessels disguised as merchantmen. A U-boat would see a lone ship, surface and close in to gun range to save torpedoes. Then the Q ship would drop its facade and blast the sub.”
“What’s the Q stand for?”
“Nobody knows,” a familiar voice said. Carmichael and Leopole turned to see Derringer in the door. He was almost smiling. “I checked Wikipedia and a couple of other sites a while back. It’s still a mystery after all this time,” he added.
Carmichael looked back at the map. “Well, I still don’t understand how our team is going to ID the target ship. It’s like we said before: we’re relying on Alex Cohen and we don’t know much about his sources.”
Derringer walked to the board and took in the situation. “I’m not too worried yet. I know our skipper, Gerritt Maas. I met him during a NATO tour, and he’s tops. I wasn’t surprised when I learned he was working for the company.”
“But, Admiral, if the captain has to rely on Cohen for all his intel, we’re no better off, are we?”
“Sandy, I don’t think that Gerritt would limit himself to one source, especially on a major operation like this. I’ve avoided bothering him other than to say we’ll lend any help we can provide. But trust me: with his knowledge and contacts, if Cohen falls through, Captain Maas will have a Plan Bravo and a Charlie as well.”
Carmichael folded her arms, obviously unconvinced. “I’d feel better if we knew more about the intel on this op. If Dave Dare can’t turn up something, you know it’s deep.”
Derringer flipped the North Atlantic with a forefinger. “It’s a big ocean, Sandy. We should have lots of time.”
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 poi
nt 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 Helfers.”
