by Patrick Dent
“When I transmit the double blind launch codes, the Prometheus will launch her entire complement of Soviet SS-18's, focusing on downtown Tel-Aviv. By the time they are in radar range, the missiles will be on their decent and it will be too late for counter measures.”
“Continue,” the DCI said without inflection.
“When Prometheus launches her missiles, two things will happen. First, based on the composition and last known vector of the missiles, the Israelis will assume they were launched from northwestern Saudi Arabia. Our intelligence indicates the Saudis have Soviet ICBM capability in that sector. Second, the damage to Tel-Aviv will decimate the Israeli government, leaving them helpless.
“With Israel near death's door, the US will have to come to their aid in defense of such an unconscionable attack by the Saudis. The UN would not consider standing in our way, given the circumstances. This will give us a legitimate excuse to attack Saudi Arabia and ultimately take control of the world's oil supply. This will ensure our country's independence well into the next century.”
The DCI appeared pleased. Fulton knew the DCI had hired him because he owed him a debt of honor. He wanted to prove himself worthy of the honor.
“Agent Fulton,” the DCI continued, “you can't expect an oil tanker to launch hundreds of missiles from a high traffic area and remain undetected. You do remember what I said about sanitation, don't you?”
“I do, Sir, which is why I designed shaped charges into the Prometheus' primary hull. They will be automatically be triggered when the missiles are launched.”
“And you have no moral issues with this? You are comfortable killing not only thousands of allied civilians in Tel Aviv, but a ship full of American soldiers?” The DCI had a challenging tone in his voice. Fulton knew the old man was just testing his mettle.
He remembered his vow to return to the FBI if this project collapsed. What Fulton didn't know was whether he was expected to regret the killings or not. Did the DCI want a heartless bastard as his successor, or a compassionate man who did what he must for the greater good? Ultimately, he went with heartless bastard.
“Sir, with control over the world's energy supply, the US will be completely independent. We'd answer to no one. Those men must die, but they will die patriots. The most unfortunate thing is that they will never be recognized in the history books. But, then, neither will we.” Fulton was becoming animated, and had to remind himself to maintain a calm demeanor.
To Fulton, Project Crossfire was the ultimate challenge. This was exactly the type of ambitious undertaking he loved. He tolerated the tiresome and perpetual game of befriending traitors in the perpetual search for information so he could do the fun things like this.
“How do you plan to sink a ship of such size without someone coming to the rescue? It must take hours for a multi compartment vessel like that to go down.”
Robert grinned, having received validation of his life's greatest accomplishment. The DCI was down to questions about minor details. “I have a man in the Suez Canal. He will direct traffic, ensuring that no other vessel goes near the Prometheus. He thinks the US is staging an extraction from Syria – a downed pilot.”
“Two hours?”
“Remember, Sir, the Prometheus only looks like an oil tanker. It doesn't have the multiple compartments designed to keep it afloat. I specifically engineered it to sink in just under fifteen minutes.”
“What about their SOS?”
“What SOS? The radio will detonate along with the hull.”
“Lifeboats?”
“Sieves for hulls, with iron weights built into the keel. No trace of the Prometheus will remain.”
“Life jackets?”
“Might as well be lead.”
“You think those Navy guys ever heard of treading water?”
“Not in the vortex created when a ship with a displacement of three hundred thousand tons sinks in just under a quarter of an hour.”
“This operative in the Suez Canal – he's a loose end.”
“He won't be after we rendezvous in Norfolk. I'm meeting him personally to transfer the money he was promised. Let's just say he'll be a permanent component of the new bridge being constructed there.”
“Well.” The DCI smiled. “It looks like you've thought this out pretty well. By the way, I like the name 'Crossfire' - pretty cute. Congratulations on a job well done.”
The men stood and shook hands.
“Thank you, Sir,” Fulton said.
“I don't need to tell you that this conversation never took place, do I? If this thing goes south, you're going with it and I'm not moving a goddamn inch. Understood?”
“Yes Sir.”
* * *
Tarfaya, Morocco
It was 9:00 a.m., and Drake was already sweating. “Damn, it's hot. I mean, I grew up in the South, where the temperature stays in the triple digits most of the summer, and I'm about to die here.”
Gip didn't look much better. Large beads of sweat rolled down his bald head. Of course, the jet lag and sleep deprivation did not help improve their moods. Drake had managed a few hours sleep on the plane. He had heard that the airlines decreased the oxygen level in the passenger compartment shortly after takeoff to help induce drowsiness. Surely enough, despite his tension, he had dozed off. Still, this was their third continent in as many days. As they maneuvered the throngs, moving toward the port, he already felt his legs tiring.
The streets of Tarfaya were crowded and dusty. Drake saw a boy of ten standing on his head, with his hat laid out for tipping. He got the impression the boy maintained that position for hours on end. There was an old man with a white scraggly beard handling a King Cobra. As the man stared into its eyes and sang an incomprehensible song, the snake seemed to be hypnotized. Pretty risky career choice, Drake thought. He remembered biology class. One drop of King Cobra venom contained enough poison to kill thirty-two adult men.
An unbelievably thin young man was doing back flips, always landing in the same spot on his small rug in the street. Passersby occasionally tossed coins on the rug. He looked like he ate three crickets a day, whether he was hungry or not. Women were everywhere, their entire bodies covered except for their eyes and feet. They carried baskets of laundry balanced on their heads, using no hands. How can they stand the heat wearing all that? Drake wondered. He and Gip seemed to be the only ones sweating. One woman balanced an urn on her head with at least ten gallons of water. She never wavered. Her hands were relaxed at her sides. Drake saw constant muscle flexes in her feet as she plodded along, choosing each step carefully. She seemed to balance her load by minor motions of her ankles.
The air was hot and stagnant. Drake prayed for even a slight breeze. The stillness, however, was actually a blessing to the natives, since it kept the sand on the ground where it belonged. Hundreds of vendors sold every conceivable type of handcrafted souvenir. They shouted in Arabic, English and French at passersby.
The streets of Tarfaya reminded Drake of the state fair back home. That world, the one where children popped balloons with darts while ice cream melted and ran down their hands seemed light years away. Time and space were distorted for Drake because he had been through so much in such a short time. Three years ago, he would never have guessed that this day he would be walking the streets of a foreign land as a soldier, a murderer - an instrument of justice.
Drake was carrying a satchel full of US currency. He wondered what would happen if the natives knew this. In a country where a man will handle venomous snakes for people's spare change, what would a man do for three hundred thousand dollars?
“The manifest said The Lady and the Tramp has a crew of eight,” Gip said, “She's due to arrive in Tarfaya tomorrow. That gives us roughly twenty four hours to acquire weapons and devise a plan.”
“So, what happens now? If we let them dock, we'll never get on board. The boat will be crawling with Harbor Patrol agents,” Drake replied. He was tense, and rubbed his knotted neck with both hands. He put his
palm under his chin and twisted his head sharply to the side, cracking his neck loudly.
“Hey, didn't anyone ever tell you that causes arthritis?”
“Gip, we'll be lucky to live through tomorrow, and you want to preach to me about arthritis in my old age? Get real.”
“Okay, so we know where they'll be and when. We also know how many men there are. So, how do we take the ship? When will She be vulnerable?” Gip asked.
“What procedure does a commercial ship follow when entering an international port? Can we get them in customs?” Drake asked.
“Customs? I don't think so. That's probably the highest security risk. Wait a second. I wonder how they do make it through customs? I'm sure they would be boarded and searched.” Gip looked up and rubbed his chin. Both he and Drake drew a blank on that one.
They arrived at the port. The sea was teeming with vessels of every size. Sailboats loaded with rich tourists, tramp steamers full of merchandise, military boats, Harbor Patrol boats and fishing boats - both commercial and private - all shared the limited space, somehow managing not to collide with each other. They sat and watched the activities of the harbor, hoping inspiration would strike.
Drake noticed the ubiquitous sea gulls and was again taken back to his defining moment standing over that dove. He kept reminding himself he was still that twelve year old child at heart – that his history from that point forward was a succession of responses to his father's abuses. His violent outbursts were merely reflections of The John – baggage he must unload if he was ever to have inner peace. He thought of the sadist who tortured Felipe to death and tried to convince himself that the end justified the means, and that evil must be combated with an even greater evil. It wasn't working. His actions were not those of a warrior, but of a beast. He saw no honor in what he had done to Felipe. He owed himself more than that, and strangely, he felt he owed the dove more than that.
Drake shelved such thoughts for the moment and put on his game face for the upcoming battle. He and Gip sat in complete silence for almost two hours before Gip spoke.
“Hey, I've been thinking about how these guys move the girls through this port. Remember what the cab driver said? They always come through Tarfaya. I doubt they choose this place at random. They probably have Customs in their pocket. I mean, look at all the street hustlers here. This place has to be corrupt as hell. How else could they pull it off?”
“So what are you getting at?” Drake asked.
“Look, we're in a corrupt port and we have three hundred thousand dollars in American cash. Corruption and money go together like beer and ice. You do the math.” As Gip spoke, Drake gestured to interrupt him. Gip raised his hand to silence his partner, “Hold on. Listen up. I have an idea, one that just might work.”
“I'm all ears,” Drake said.
* * *
The Lady and the Tramp – Tarfarya Bay
The sea was choppy, with ten to twelve foot white-capped waves. Fejo sipped his coffee. He cursed as it burned his lips. Jorge had been with him for eight years, and the idiot still couldn't remember he liked a little ice in his coffee. His anger fleetingly passed as he remembered the bounty he would reap from this shipment. Jorge was a fool, but fools came in handy when it was time to divide the profits. Besides, Jorge did have his talents. He had no fear. Whether this was because he was courageous or because he was stupid did not actually matter. What did matter was his calmness under pressure. So what if he liked to sample the merchandise? How could one expect such a base and ignoble creature not to fulfill nature's calling? At least he cleaned up after himself, and he never left a mark on the girls.
He looked out over the bow and saw Jorge smoking a cigarette with four of the crew, wasting time. As First Officer, he should set a better example, but there was no real harm done. Besides Jorge and himself, the rest of the crew of The Lady and the Tramp was comprised of temporary workers. Their work was menial and their average tenure was one or two voyages. Some even worked simply for one way passage, running away from debts or wives or whatever troubles they had created for themselves.
Off the bow, he saw the Harbor Patrol boat approaching. Fejo wondered why they were paying a second visit. They had already solicited a healthy bribe when they met him at the two-mile marker. The Tarfaya Harbor Patrol officers were notoriously corrupt and were some of the easiest men to bribe Fejo had ever met. In fact, this was the main reason he and Tartus had chosen Tarfaya, rather than a more geographically convenient port. Routing through Tarfaya caused them to have to transport the girls by truck over three hundred miles to Safi - a dangerous proposition. However, the risk was small compared to that of going through Customs in Casablanca. This visit would be nothing more than a small inconvenience, he thought. During his initial encounter with the Harbor Patrol, he had paid ten thousand American dollars for 'special treatment', meaning the Harbor Patrol would turn a blind eye to the transfer of the girls to Falon's private boat.
A dark skinned man was piloting the boat. The blackness of his skin and the prominence of his cheekbones looked Swahili. He obviously was new to the job. His approach was painstakingly cautious as he slowly maneuvered to come alongside The Lady and the Tramp. There was a light skinned man, probably Arabic, lazily manning the fifty caliber mounted machine gun.
The guns were more for show than anything else. Fejo suspected they were seldom loaded, and that even if they were, the officials who manned them were incompetent government bureaucrats, with no weapons training.
* * *
Gip was nervous behind the wheel of the boat. The twenty-five footer pitched and lurched on the rough seas. They were only two miles out, but the contrast between this water and that of the inner harbor was enormous. Every time he corrected his course, the waves threw him off. They pummeled the boat at a forty-five degree angle off the port bow. He increased power each time he turned into the waves, and was immediately forced to throttle back as he was pushed to starboard.
Drake had his hat pulled down over his eyes. He still had a deep tan from his time spent outdoors in Georgia, probably dark enough to pass for a Moroccan.
There were five men smoking cigarettes on the bow, paying them little attention. Gip made out the pilot or captain in the bridge. This man was looking directly at him.
* * *
The Harbor Patrol boat was about twenty meters out when Fejo saw something strange. The man behind the machine gun seemed to be studying the entire deck of his ship. The man had gone from apathetic to attentive, and Fejo did not like it. The effect was subtle, but something deep in Fejo's mind told him this was wrong. Just as he switched to ship's radio to public address, he heard the first shots.
Jorge was in the middle of telling a filthy joke to one of the new crewmembers when the man's right arm flew away from his body in a violent explosion of scarlet. Time crept to a near halt. Bright red arterial blood shot out of the man's shoulder in spurts. There was a pounding, staccato sound, similar to the hammering sounds of a construction site.
* * *
Drake held the butterfly trigger down, trying his best to compensate for the roughness of the seas. He had hoped to take all the men out in the first round of bullets, but the targets momentarily disappeared as the patrol boat crested a wave and faced Drake skyward. When his line of sight returned to the targets, three were running in panic. He remembered his training. Bullets go where they are aimed, not where they are willed. Muscles stood out on his face as he clenched his jaws. Every muscle in his body was tight, and he would feel a soreness like he had never imagined later. His concentration was so intense he didn't even notice he was biting his lower lip. Blood ran down his chin. His upper teeth were bared in a raging snarl. He cut the other three men nearly in half with a sweeping motion.
Gip roughly pulled alongside the larger vessel, almost bouncing away and necessitating another pass. He and Drake rapidly scurried up the webbing on the side of the boat, each with a tow-line in his mouth and an Uzi 9mm slung over his shoulder. Drake jump
ed over the rail first. He seemed to be able to move and see with extraordinary speed. His environment moved in slow motion. To his right, there were three bodies and one man screaming on the deck with a missing arm. He wouldn't survive more than a few minutes. To his left, he saw Gip tying off his rope. Beyond Gip the deck was vacant. Directly ahead he saw the starboard side of the bridge, also vacant. Just ahead of the bridge was a hatch leading to the lower decks.
Chapter Twenty
The Prometheus
Commander Rymes and his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Joe Killian, were alone on the bridge. It was past midnight, and neither could sleep. Rymes paced nervously.
“Sir, what are you so worried about? This mission can't fail. All we have to do is launch a sneak attack and cruise back home. What could go wrong?”
“Joe…” Rymes paused. “Every mission carries the potential for failure. Not being able to imagine a failure is exactly what worries me. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since we left.”
“Well, if it will make you feel better, we can brainstorm about potential problems.” Killian counted on his fingers. “Okay, there's mechanical failure…”
“Joe,” Rymes interrupted, “This isn't a case of typical mission anxiety.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Rymes thought for several minutes. Both were comfortable with the silence. Finally, he decided he could confide in Killian. The man was solid, and more importantly, not talkative. Although they had known each other for just two weeks, he sensed a quiet strength in Killian.
“It was 1971, my first command,” Rymes began. “The USS Burke. She was a beautiful destroyer, five hundred feet of aluminum with a complete complement of SSM's. She could turn over thirty knots due to her lightweight design. I had served as her XO (Executive Officer) for three years when the skipper was promoted to Full Bird and transferred to an aircraft carrier. I remember kidding him about being a ferry driver for the pilots. Never in my life had I been more ready for the challenge of command. The day my orders came through, I was like a kid at his own birthday party. The crewmen were congratulating me and I was walking on top of the world.
