Prometheus's Child

by Harold Coyle

  Alfonso Rivera was a competent young man within certain limits, but shipboard tactics remained beyond the ken of his experience. Nonetheless, he hefted his AKM and climbed the ladder from the engine room to the next level, remembering to dog the hatch behind him. He wondered how he was going to hold off a dozen or more intruders with three men besides himself.

  * * *

  Approaching the second level down, Pope’s operators heard the machinery more clearly than before. Even though the SSI prize crew manned the bridge, the ship’s engine remained under control of the black gang.

  Malten led the starboard team, descending the narrow ladders between decks. A few yards away, on the opposite side of the hull, Pope’s team kept pace. The two elements were able to maintain visual contact with one another most of the time, communicating by hand signals and occasional whispers over the tactical frequency of their headsets. Pope wanted to present the defenders with a dual-axis offense, concentrating two pairs of leading shooters against whatever the Frenchmen deployed against him.

  Malten and Pope took no chances. Knowing that defenders had to be waiting on one or both of the last two levels, the operators stopped to drop flash-bangs down the ladder on each side. The second man in each team produced a Mark 84, pulled the pin, and on Pope’s signal dropped the grenades down the ladders.

  The SSI operators had eye and ear protection but reflexively most turned their heads. Two seconds later the stun grenades detonated with 170 decibels, a horrific sound only amplified in the confined steel spaces within the hull.

  Instantly the first two men on each side were down the ladders, scanning left and right.

  “Clear!”

  “Clear!”

  Finding nothing on the second deck, Malten and Pope advanced several steps aft to the next ladder. With compartments on either side, they took time to clear each one in turn, the last man in each team leaving the doors fully open to mark them as checked.

  The teams proceeded to the next ladder. They knew that this time somebody was certainly waiting for them.

  * * *

  On the next level, Alfonso Rivera licked his lips. His throat was dry but he was as well prepared as possible, with body armor, gas mask, and hearing protection. He doubted that the intruders would use flash-bangs this close to the engine room, as Mark 84s could ignite fuel vapors, and nobody wanted to fight aboard a burning ship at sea. He glanced at his companions: Georges appeared calm; Felix fidgeted constantly.

  * * *

  From interrogating the bridge crew and one of the wounded mercenaries, the SSI men knew what to expect. Gas would be negated by the defenders’ masks, and smoke would only confuse matters. In extreme close quarters, where a tenth of a second was a meaningful measure, it would be easy to confuse friends and enemies. But a straight-out attack would surely result in friendly casualties.

  Pope dropped a Mark 84.

  The five-inch-long object clattered down the steps and rolled along the grilled platform where the defenders stood. Instinctively, the three men turned away from the impending blast that could blind and deafen them.

  Pope and Pascoe were instantly down the ladder on their respective sides. The next men in the stack were immediately behind them, deploying left and right. Pfizer tripped on the next to last step, tumbling into Collier and causing momentary confusion that could have been fatal.

  “Freeze!”

  “Ne pas se déplacer!”

  “Drop the weapons!”

  “Laisser tomber les armes!”

  Rivera was closest to the intruders. Wide-eyed behind his mask, he looked down at the grenade. The detonator had been removed. He realized that he had been bluffed and dropped his Kalashnikov. Slowly he raised his hands.

  A few feet farther away, the gunman called Felix had a fraction more time to react to the collision at the bottom of the steps. He raised his AKM from the low ready position, aimed at the closest opponent, and began to press the trigger.

  Eight 9 mm rounds shattered the faceplate of his mask. Pope’s and Pascoe’s suppressed MP-5s clattered audibly from ten to twelve feet away, spilling empty brass onto the deck. Felix’s body went limp as a rag doll and seemed to collapse inward upon itself.

  Rivera and Georges were screaming inside their masks, waving their empty hands. “No shoot!”

  “Ne pas tirer!”

  Collier defaulted to his television youth. “Cuff ’em, Danno!”

  While the survivors were secured with flex cuffs, Pope and Malten considered their next move. Only one hatchway separated them from the engine room, and as they decided how to blow their way in, the door slowly opened. A dirty gray rag appeared at the end of a hand.

  “Do not shoot! We surrender.”

  Seconds later, Victor Pope looked into the eyes of Marcel Hurtubise.

  88

  M/V DON CARLOS

  Gerritt Maas could hardly believe what he heard.

  “I say again,” Pope advised, “the ship is secure.”

  The captain exchanged disbelieving glances with Cohen and Langevin. “That was quick,” Langevin exclaimed. “I thought sure it would take longer.”

  Maas puffed aggressively on his pipe, as if seeking an explanation from it. “Well, maybe they saw how things were going and did the smart thing. But I guess you gentlemen will want to see for yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cohen responded. “Can we get close enough to jump deck to deck again?”

  “Yeah, it’ll take a few minutes though. I think that Captain Harvey will want to lay to.”

  Langevin was headed for the exit when he pulled up. “Captain, what about your man? The one who was shot.”

  Maas removed his pipe and blew a smoke ring. “Oh, he’s probably going to be okay. Dr. Faith is still with him.”

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  Langevin stalked up to Pope on the bridge and offered congratulations. “That was good work, Commander. Faster than I expected.”

  “Yeah, I’m still wondering about that, Doctor. We’re searching the engine room and will look everywhere else once we get time. Right now we’re still securing the prisoners and Cap’n Harvey’s prize crew is learning about this ship.”

  “Well, they have their job and I have mine. I’d like to look at the cargo.”

  Pope nodded toward the bow. “Apparently the yellow cake is in the forward hold. But all the hatches are secured and it’ll take a while to open them.”

  Malten’s voice crackled over Pope’s radio headset. “Vic, this is Jeff. Come back.”

  “Yes, Jeff. Go.”

  “You better come down here again.”

  “On the way.”

  “What’s up?” Langevin asked.

  “Something in the engineering spaces. You’re welcome to come along.”

  * * *

  Malten met Pope at the hatchway. The junior SEAL extended a hand with an unwelcome sight. Pope’s eyes widened. “Command detonation?”

  “Affirm. We’re looking for more.”

  Pope took the Yugoslavian made device and turned it over. “How much of a charge?”

  “Semtex. About twelve or fifteen pounds.”

  “Where was it?”

  Malten turned and walked aft. “Down here, under one of the mounts.”

  “Where’s the initiator?” Pope asked.

  “Haven’t found it.”

  Pope glanced around, noting the myriad of possible hiding places. “I’ll get you more guys to search. Meanwhile, I’m going to have a word with Mr. Hurtubise.”

  * * *

  In the galley where the crew and surviving mercs were held, Marcel Hurtubise saw Pope coming. Both knew what to expect.

  Pope laid the detonator on the table where the Frenchman sat, hands cuffed behind him.

  Hurtubise pretended to examine it. Then he looked up. “Most interesting.”

  Leaning forward, Pope braced himself with both hands on the table. He positioned his face eight inches from Hurtubise’s. “Where are the others?”

&
nbsp; “Whatever do you mean?”

  Pope’s hands shot out, grasping Hurtubise by the collar and pulling him off the bench. The American took a nylon line off his tactical vest, looped it around the prisoner’s throat, and hauled him thirty feet across the deck. Other prisoners scrambled to get out of the way.

  “Talk to me,” Pope said. His voice was low, calm, chilling.

  Hurtubise gasped for air. “I … cannot … breathe…”

  Pope loosened the line slightly. “Well?”

  “I am … a prisoner. You cannot…”

  The former SEAL snugged up the line, hefted it over one shoulder, and proceeded to drag the bound man another twenty feet. Hurtubise’s face was turning a bluish hue.

  Pope leaned over the prostrate Frenchman. “I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what I can’t do!” He delivered a swift kick to the man’s ribs. “I can hang you from the overhead, monsieur. If you die, I’m no worse off than if you don’t talk.” He added another hard kick for emphasis. “Well?”

  Hurtubise realized that he had sustained a cracked rib. After some gasps and croaks, he managed, “One more.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind … the main … control panel.”

  Pope dropped the line and walked toward the exit. He adjusted his lip mike. “Jeff, Vic here.”

  “Yeah. Go.”

  “Look behind the main control panel.”

  Less than one minute later Malten’s voice was back. “Got it. But what about the initiator?”

  “Stand by one.”

  Hurtubise was still on one side, gasping for breath. Pope had not loosened the nylon line more than a fraction of an inch.

  “Where’s the remote detonator?”

  The victim gagged and coughed. “One in my cabin. The other beneath the chart table.”

  Pope ran a finger between the line and Hurtubise’s chafed neck. Then he stood erect and called Malten again. “Jeff, I’m sending somebody to get the remotes. But keep looking.” He glanced down at the exhausted mercenary. “I don’t trust this bastard.”

  “Will do, Boss.”

  Pope looked around. The ship’s original crew and the remaining mercenaries regarded the tall American with unblinking interest. An idea stirred inside Victor Pope’s bald head.

  “Bridge, this is Pope.”

  “Bridge, aye.” It was Harvey, the British captain now conning the vessel.

  “Cap’n, we’re removing two explosive charges from the engineering spaces but I think there might be more. I recommend that we evacuate to Don Carlos until we know we’re safe.”

  After a pause, Harvey came back. “That’s prudent, Commander. But we still haven’t opened the holds. I’m told that will take some time because they’re welded.”

  “It’s your call, Skipper. But we may not have much time. Over.”

  Harvey took a moment to ponder the situation. “Stand by, please. I’ll consult with Captain Maas on the ship-to-ship frequency.”

  Pope looked around again. Nearly twenty captives were guarded by Bosco and Breezy, who had run out of decks to watch.

  “You two,” Pope said. “Start these people topside along the starboard rail. We can save some time by getting them up there now.”

  Bosco grinned. “Right, Boss. But, uh, what about him?” He indicated Hurtubise.

  Pope looked down and registered mild surprise, as if just noticing the supine prisoner. “Him? Well, he’s going to stay here.” Pope wrapped the loose end of his line around a stanchion and secured it with a half hitch. “If he’s lying to me, he’ll ride this boat to the bottom.”

  Marcel Hurtubise heard the words and concentrated on the man’s tone. From a lifetime of closely reading human behavior, he thought he had taken the measure of Victor Pope. But now was not the time for discourse. The Frenchman emitted a realistic gagging, choking sound.

  It was not imitation.

  89

  M/V DON CARLOS

  “Everybody back?” Langevin had not made a head count, and as chief investigator he felt responsible for the operation at this point.

  “Everybody but one,” Pope said.

  Langevin looked around. At that moment Don Carlos’s sailors and the SSI men were leading the captives to a holding area. Cohen was with them—he seemed especially interested in one of Zikri’s radio operators.

  “Vic, are you really going to let that Frenchman go down if the ship sinks?”

  Pope almost grinned. “Well, let’s just say I want him to think so.”

  “My God,” the scientist exclaimed. “If there is another charge hidden someplace, the ship could sink pretty fast. I mean, it’s not very big.”

  Langevin lowered his voice. “Look,” he began. “My area is physics, but I know one or two things about explosives. If Hurtubise is hog-tied, he can’t detonate any hidden charges if even he wanted to. So what’s the point?”

  “My point is, Doctor, that he could’ve set a timer. And I don’t think it would’ve been for very long because he wouldn’t want us looking in the hold. If we get some contraband yellow cake, that can be used against him.”

  Langevin lowered his gaze to the deck, obviously pondering the SEAL’s logic. “Okay, that makes sense. But how much longer will you wait?”

  Pope looked at his watch. “It’s now been about fifty minutes. I’m going to let him wait an hour-plus and then I’ll go back.”

  “Well, okay. But I sure would like to get to that hold before something…”

  A low, rumbling ka-whump interrupted the physicist. Heads swiveled toward Tarabulus Pride, dead in the water two hundred yards away.

  “That’s it!” Pope exclaimed. Ignoring Lanvegin, he called over the side. “Jeff! Fire up the Zodiac! Get me over there right now!”

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  The old freighter was settling by the stern when Pope scrambled up the accommodation ladder. He dashed down to the galley and found Hurtubise still bound hand and foot.

  “Ah, Commander,” the Frenchman exclaimed. “Bienvenue à bord!”

  Pope barely resisted the urge to put a boot in the man’s face. “I ought to let you sink!”

  “But you will not. Just as I knew you wouldn’t.” The smug tone in Hurtubise’s voice told Pope the story. He read me all along.

  The American leaned down, produced his knife, and held it to Hurtubise’s nose. Pope wondered if the mercenary had heard of Captain Zikri’s acquaintance with that same piece of tempered steel. The blade made no obvious impression on the phlegmatic saboteur, so Pope cut the flex cuff on the Frenchman’s feet. Hurtubise was hauled upright and shoved toward the exit.

  Descending the boarding ladder was awkward with his hands bound behind his back, but Hurtubise wasted little time getting off the doomed ship. As the Zodiac motored away, he looked back. The bow was well clear of the water now, the hull beginning to list to port. “I fear that Captain Zikri will be disappointed in me,” he said. The crooked smile on his face was more than Pope could abide. He erased the superior grin with a right hook that laid the offender prone in the rubber craft.

  “Watch your mouth,” Pope said.

  90

  M/V DON CARLOS

  A day out of Casablanca, the SSI team held a meeting to discuss options. There had been time on the way north to “interview” the former passengers and crew of M/V Tarabulus Pride.

  Bernard Langevin scanned the interrogation reports and shook his head. “This Hurtubise is a crafty SOB, I’ll say that for him. He left two fairly small charges for us to find and put the big ones where we wouldn’t see them unless we inspected the hull. And there wasn’t time for that.”

  “But why’d he bother to scuttle the ship?” Malten asked. “He still knew he’d get caught.”

  “Well, yes, but there’s more to it,” Langevin replied. “Basically, no evidence, no crime. Look, we know the ship had yellow cake aboard. But even if we had some of it, who’s to say where it was headed?”

  Pope was incredulous. “My
God, Bernie, we know where it was headed.”

  “Sure we do. But how would we prove it? The cargo manifest didn’t list it, of course, and the ports of call included three countries except Iran. As long as nobody talks, everybody’s safe.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, look at it legally,” Langevin replied. “Basically, we committed piracy. That’s right: we seized a ship conducting rightful passage through international waters. We had no formal standing with any government—especially the United States—and that’s how Washington wants it. So it’s a standoff. Neither side can complain without drawing unwelcome attention on itself.”

  “Well I’ll be dipped.” Pope turned to Cohen. “Alex, what do you make of all this?”

  The Israeli agent shrugged eloquently. “Near as I can tell, Bernie’s right. But the main thing is that we prevented the yellow cake from reaching Iran.”

  “I still don’t understand one thing,” Pfizer said. “Why didn’t they rig the ship for scuttling before? I mean, if they intended to surrender anyway, why go through all the trouble? They lost people they didn’t have to.”

  “Good question,” Langevin replied. “From what I got from their captain, he didn’t know about it. My guess is that he wouldn’t have allowed Hurtubise to prepare for scuttling. From his view, getting boarded and having the cargo confiscated was preferable to losing the ship, even with insurance coverage. Looks like Hurtubise just pretended to go along with the program until he saw how things shook out.”

  Pope asked, “So what happens to Hurtubise and his mercs?”

  “That’s beyond me. But I’m somewhere between a cynic and a skeptic regarding international legal matters. After all, neither the U.S., French, Libyan, or Iranian governments want this thing publicized.” He wanted to add, I’m not so sure about the Israelis. “Besides that, who would we turn him over to? The only provable offense was in Chad, and if he goes there I guarandamntee he’ll disappear in a New York minute. My guess is they’ll be released.”

  Phil Green was still mulling over the death of Don Pace. “Excuse me, sir, but these bastards killed two of our guys. And where’s the Chad Government in all this? After all, their contractor was smuggling yellow cake, and killed some troopies in Chad.”