by Harold Coyle
Leopole made a quick motion of his fingers to his lips. “Martha, it’s pretty clear that only one or two of the French security people were directly involved, and the one who fired the missile was killed. The main thing is, the leader and a couple of his aides got away. That’s our priority. That and the cake.”
Martha Whitney brushed the liquid off the cloth. “Well, honey, all I can say is, if it was up to me, that Marcel bastard would be my priority.”
58
MISRATAH, LIBYA
Hurtubise walked up to Deladier, who was unloading a box of documents that the end users would require. “Paul?”
Deladier turned at the sound of his name. As he swiveled his head, he heard a loud crack. A searing pain stabbed the back of his left knee. He sagged to the floor, reaching inside his jacket.
Before Deladier could pull his own Makarov, Hurtubise fired again. Once, twice. One round went slightly wide, grazing the right forearm. The other broke the radius. Deladier registered the fact that Marcel wielded the pistol with easy familiarity, shooting one-handed.
Deladier looked into the muzzle. He visualized the chamber containing 95 grains of copper-plated extinction.
“Pourquoi?” Hurtubise asked.
“You know why. Just end it.”
The muzzle lowered several centimeters and the next round punched through Deladier’s left sleeve. The pain forced a short, sharp bark from him.
Hurtubise regarded his colleague through dull, heavy-lidded eyes. “I have eight rounds left. How many shall I use, Paul?”
Deladier’s mind raced, treading the precipice between outrage and resignation. He was aware that his breathing had quickened; his throat was raspy dry. He thought of the afternoon in the desert where the rival PMC men were dispatched. Gabrielle had related the incident in clinical detail. Marcel had said, “Some men choose to die on their feet, but most will lick your boots for five more minutes of life.”
The next round went into the floor, a hand’s width from Deladier’s crotch. “Well?” Hurtubise used both hands now, obviously concerned with accuracy. “It wasn’t just money, was it?”
Deladier shook his head. “Gabby.”
“I thought so.” Hurtubise was eerily calm. Had he not resigned himself to dying this hour, Deladier realized that he would feel bone-deep fear. But Marcel Hurtubise had time to give Paul Deladier. Man as god.
“When did you first screw her?”
“I never did. Never.”
“I don’t believe you, Paul.”
“Screw you, Marcel:”
“Then why did you betray me?” Hurtubise’s voice raised an octave, atypically agitated.
“I didn’t betray you, you bastard! I told them where the load was embarked and what ship. It had nothing to do with you! The job was done! I didn’t know you had decided to go along!”
Hurtubise shook his head, as if avoiding a bothersome insect. He absorbed Deladier’s words, realized their validity, then focused again. “What’s that got to do with Gabrielle?”
“She wanted to leave you but she had nothing, no money, nowhere to go. And she knew she would never be free of you.”
“She loved me!”
“You’re such a fool, Marcel. She tolerated you!”
Hurtubise aimed a fast, hard kick at Deladier’s ruined knee. The blow connected and Deladier screamed from the bottom of his lungs.
“You were going to run off with her.” He kicked again. “Weren’t you?”
Deladier inhaled deeply, feeling again the dry rot building inside him. He could scent the fear now, seeping out through his pores and running down his face. In an ephemeral revelation, he grasped his revenge against his slayer.
“Yes, she wanted to be with me.” Spend the rest of your life thinking about that, you bastard.
Hurtubise’s well-oiled risk assessment machine crunched the information and spat out the conclusion. “Then you were going to kill me! That’s the only way it could happen!”
Paul Deladier forced himself to smile. “That’s what she wanted, Marcel. Only I told her I wouldn’t do it.”
Another kick. “Menteur! Nothing but lies!”
Deladier bit down the pain. “Then why are you still alive? If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it by now.”
Hurtubise leaned forward, his face flushed with anger. “You think I’m stupid? You’re stalling for time!”
“Oh, you idiot! Gabby’s gone and I’ve already been paid. So have you! We both got acknowledgment of the deposits from Geneva, didn’t we?”
Marcel Hurtubise almost reeled from the emotional shock of realization. He knew at once that Paul’s logic was unassailable.
Deladier was speaking again, but Hurtubise’s mind was somewhere else. He looked down at the crippled man. “What did you say?”
Propping himself on his good arm, Deladier replied, “Albert. I said Albert Rumel.”
“What about him?” The voice was flat, petulant.
“He’s the ex-Legionnaire you killed. You thought that he betrayed you, too. But he hadn’t. And neither did I.”
“Then who did you see the other night? It wasn’t any Italian sisters.”
Deladier managed a crooked grin. “So you had me followed.” He nodded in comprehension. “Not that it matters, but I told my contact the ship’s name. That’s all.” The crippled man bit down a moan. How much longer?
“Who is he?” Hurtubise demanded. “Who owns him?”
“I don’t know his politics, Marcel. Only the color of his money.”
Hurtubise stepped back, inhaling deeply and glancing around. Deladier knew what he was thinking. He’s just realized he made a terrible mistake, but he can’t let me live because after what he’s done, I’ll find him again.
Deladier closed his eyes three seconds before Hurtubise emptied the magazine.
59
LITTLE CREEK, VIRGINIA
The saltwater spray was invigorating. It hit the men full in the face as the fifteen-foot Zodiac thumped and lurched through the choppy water. At the stern of the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft, a forty-horsepower outboard propelled the inflatable boat at nearly thirteen knots.
Master Chief Carlos Bitow looked forward from amidships, assessing the rookies’ performance. He had worked the SSI men up by stages, getting them progressively accustomed to the bucking, spume-tossed ride in the rubberized craft. Most were former Army pukes — a term he applied literally, considering that two had succumbed to seasickness— but at least they gamely stuck it out.
Seated amid the trainees, Bitow employed his basso profundo voice to shout criticism mixed with occasional encouragement. “Keep your balance, damn it!” He nudged the closest security operator. Hollering over the outboard’s shrill whine, he called, “Stay low! Don’t upset the center of gravity!”
Glancing aft, the master chief signaled the SEAL petty officer to cut the throttle. The Johnson motor subsided to a steady putt-putting and the CRRC crested a small wave, riding the tide onto the beach.
“All ashore that’s goin’ ashore,” Bitow announced. The SSI men gratefully debarked, clambering over the side and tromping through the surf. One man, a hefty former Ranger named Pace, dropped to his hands and knees. He dry heaved a couple of times, having emptied his stomach a half hour before.
Bitow stood beside the craft, immune to the wet and cold. He wore swim trunks, boots, a floatation device, and a cap that once was green. Now it was a salt-faded shade of its former self. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The SSI men immediately realized that Master Chief Bitow dealt in rhetorical questions. None required an answer, though frequently he insisted on one.
“Come back here and pick up this boat! Nobody’s happy until I’m happy, and I ain’t happy until my boat is happy.” He pointed an accusing finger at the Zodiac. “Does this look like a happy boat to you?”
The eight trainees obligingly sloshed back to the offending Zodiac, four men to a side. They made a valiant effort to hoist its
320 pounds, but its bulk defeated them. Finally they dragged the thing to the high tide mark and let it sulk there under Carlos Bitow’s perpetual glare.
Jeffrey Malten gave the daddy SEAL a knowing grin. “Well, Master Chief. Nobody drowned. Better luck next time.”
As the petty officer led the men off to some hot chow, Bitow allowed himself to smile. “Actually, they did okay. Not great but okay.” He regarded his former partner from Team Two. “You seem to remember what to do with a CRRC.”
“Like riding a bicycle, Carlos. It’s kind of nice to be back in the saddle, you know?”
“Well, in that case why’d you leave? Hell, you coulda made chief by now.”
Malten elbowed Bitow’s arm. “C’mon, Chief. Don’t kid a kidder. We’ve both known guys who spent ten years eligible for their crow and never sewed it on. The Navy’s still screwed up the promotion system and probably never will fix it.”
Bitow conceded the point but refused to vocalize it. Instead he said, “So how do you like it on the outside? Growing your hair, staying home, listening to rock ‘n’ roll music that bad-mouths your country?”
The younger man adopted a relaxed stance, tipping his cap back on his head. “Well, I’ll tell you. I miss some of the guys. Hell, once in a great while I might even miss you. But to be honest, no. I like working when I want to, getting paid obscene amounts of money, and actually getting to do the job. Not many false alerts, and… well, I finally got some trigger time.”
Bitow knew when to shut up. “Really?” He arched an eyebrow.
Malten was tempted to tell his former superior about SSI’s Pandora Project and the hunt for a radical Islamic cell in Pakistan and Afghanistan. But his professionalism stayed his tongue. Instead, he merely said, “Gotta love that Benelli entry gun.”
“So what’s this job about? Must be pretty damn important to take a bunch of door-kickers who don’t know port from starboard.”
Malten bit his lip, musing how much to tell the operator. “Chief, all I can say is that it’s a hurry-up job involving maritime ops, and we don’t have enough guys from the teams to fill out a boat crew. That’s why Admiral Derringer leaned on the command here: to get some basic experience. Once we deploy we hope to do more mission-specific training. The only other thing I can tell you is… Vic Pope is involved.”
Bitow’s eyes widened. “No shit! Now there’s an officer I’d like to work with again.”
Malten saw his chance; he swung at it. “Put in your papers and you probably can. We’re looking for a few good… SEALs.”
The master chief’s hazel eyes bored into Malten’s. “Uh, how much did you say you get paid?”
60
MISRATAH, LIBYA
Marcel Hurtubise was in the business of prediction. He had become a competent forecaster of potentially unpleasant events, and the fact that he remained alive was testament to his ability in that arcane art.
Now he transferred his skill from the land to the sea.
In the Tarabulus Pride’s chart house, Hurtubise huddled with Abu Yusuf Zikri, pondering the many options before them. Both were concerned with avoiding the worst that could befall them while hoping to manage things so that they met with the best.
“You are sure you do not want to go via the canal?” Zikri asked. “It is much shorter and therefore faster.”
The mercenary nodded decisively. “Yes. We are liable to be boarded and searched at Suez, and we could easily be intercepted in the Red Sea.” On the map he tapped the northwest coast of Africa. “Once past Gibraltar, we would have all that room to maneuver, and we could change our schedule as needed.”
Zikri stared at the map. At length he exhaled, blowing tobacco breath on his new associate. “It is all the same to me, mon ami. Our employers pay me by the day. Actually by the nautical mile, and I do not object to receiving four times the pay for the same destination.”
Hurtubise suppressed the wry grin he felt building at the corners of his mouth. The same pay rate applied to him. Considering that his future employment was uncertain with Groupe FGN, let alone the French government, it would do no harm to add to his lifetime nest egg in Geneva.
“All right,” Hurtubise concluded. “We will take the long way around. Now, what protective measures do you recommend?”
“Well, you have your guards. What else do we need?”
“No, no. The men I bring are mainly to protect the cargo. But we are not sailors. What measures can be taken to prevent us from being overtaken by another ship?”
Zikri rubbed his chin and fingered his bushy mustache. “Well, the best protection against pirates is a convoy. You know, two or more ships sailing together. But that is not an option for us, unless our Iranian friends wish to lease more vessels.”
Hurtubise leaned toward the Libyan. “Captain, I am not worried about pirates. As I understand it, most piracy these days occurs in Asia. But we could have visitors from places like Paris or Washington. Or Tel Aviv. And they would be well equipped. They might bring helicopters.”
“Helicopters! Oh, no, you worry too much. There is no room to land a helicopter on this ship.”
After a slow three count, the Frenchman kept an even tone to his voice. “Captain, they do not need to land. They can hover a few meters overhead and lower commandos on ropes. With two aircraft they could have a dozen men on deck in a matter of seconds.”
“Well then, your men would just have to fight them off. Besides, how would they know about this ship? You said that security is perfect.”
“I said no such thing, Captain Zikri. I said that security is as perfect as we can make it. But there is always the possibility of a leak. A careless word, one greedy man. We can take nothing for granted.”
Zikri massaged his chin again, chewing his mustache. After a moment he said, “We can do certain things. We can change course from time to time; we can slow down during the day or the night. We can put into port to refuel more often. And we can have anti-pirate watches. Or anti-Zionist watches, as you might say.”
“Extra lookouts, day and night?”
The captain nodded. “Certainly. But it takes more men, especially at night. And that means more cost. I do not know if our clients will support such things.”
“Oh, I think they will. Considering what they are already spending, and what’s at stake, a few more men will be a small expense.”
Zikri accepted the logic of that argument. “I will make some calls.”
“Please do, Captain. As soon as possible.”
61
SSI OFFICES
“Victor Pope to see you, Colonel.”
Frank Leopole did not bother to respond to the receptionist’s intercom message. He strode to the front of the building and greeted the former SEAL.
They exchanged strong-man grips — an agreed-upon tie, Navy one, Marines one.
“Good to see you, Vic.”
Pope feigned astonishment. “Go on, Colonel. When was a jarhead ever glad to see a squid?”
Leopole was ready for that one. “When the liberty boat’s headed for shore, of course.”
“Speaking of boats, what’s this I hear about Jeff Malten? Building boat teams from the waterline up?”
“We don’t have any time to spare, Vic. The admiral arranged for a crash course in boat handling and deep-water survival down at Little Creek. The team we’ve assembled so far will be there a couple more days.”
Pope nodded in approval. “Who’re they working with?”
“A Master Chief Bitow. You know him?”
“Know of him,” Pope replied with an informed smile. “I think he’ll take good care of them.”
“Okay, let’s get you briefed.” Lieutenant Colonel Frank Leopole and Lieutenant Commander Victor Pope adjourned to Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael’s office. Without preliminaries, she laid out the situation.
“Vic, as you probably have guessed, this is a priority job. Here’s the short version: we have a training team in Chad under Steve Lee and Dan Foyte.
They were doing all right until word got out about a plan to smuggle yellow cake out of the country via Libya. Destination probably Iran.”
Pope’s face, ordinarily frozen in a mask of self-control, registered the implications. His blue eyes reflected as much light as his bald head.
“So,” Carmichael continued, “State tasked our counterinsurgency training team with seizing the yellow cake. But they got there a little late and there was some shooting. One of the helos was shot down and our pilot was badly injured. Half of the yellow cake got away, driven to the Libyan border.”
Pope leaned against the desk, hands clasped before him. “So now we’re going to chase down the ship before it reaches an Iranian port.”
“Right,” Leopole interjected. “But this is pretty much a hail Mary play, Vic. We have to deploy both teams without knowing the ship’s identity or its route. We’re planning on sending your team to the Med and Jeff’s to cover the Suez route. If we get hard intel that the shipment goes one way or the other, we may be able to commit both teams but right now we can’t count on it. We’re also getting a Brit named Pascoe: Special Boat Service.”
Pope shifted his gaze between the former Marine and the former Army officer. “Okay. I’m in.”
“Glad to have you aboard,” Leopole said. Carmichael merely smiled.
“I wouldn’t miss it, Frank. Not for anything.” He looked at both officers, then strode toward the door. “I’ll get started on requirements right away.”
As Pope left, Carmichael looked at her counterpart. “Did you notice anything unusual?”
Leopole shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“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.”
