by Harold Coyle
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to have one ship tail us?”
“Yeah, but that could draw attention. And if we actually chase the yellow cake all the way around the Horn of Africa, that ship probably will need to fuel somewhere.”
Pope surveyed his audience once more: an assembly of serious, focused young men who belonged to the same guild, having paid mostly the same dues to gain membership. The only exceptions were Bosco and Breezy, typically laughing and scratching. “All right,” Pope concluded. “If there’s nothing else for now, we’ll break it off. Continue checking gear, especially the Zodiacs. Boat captains, take over.” He nodded toward Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoff Pascoe.
As Malten started to leave, Pope beckoned him aside. “Jeff, I’d like your take on Bosco and Breezy: I can’t always tell them apart. They seem to feed off each other.”
Malten laughed. “I had the same trouble in Pakistan. Bosco’s about two inches taller, otherwise they’re interchangeable Army pukes to me.”
“This afternoon I saw them clowning in the galley. They’re taken to wearing kerchiefs on their heads and one of them got an earring from someplace. Next thing you know, they’ll have a peg leg and a parrot on one shoulder.”
“Yeah,” Malten said, chuckling. “They’ve started saying things like Avast!’ and ‘Aye, Cap’n,’ and saluting with two fingers. Breezy even got the lyrics to ‘Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest.’ I think they’ve seen too many pirate movies.”
“They act like frat boys,” Pope said. “Frankly, it makes me a little nervous. I’m thinking of putting them on two of the M-60s.”
Malten’s eyebrows raised. “I know they come across as juvenile delinquents sometimes. But don’t sell them short: they’re real serious after the kickoff.”
Pope glanced down while rubbing his bald head. “Well, I admit it surprised me when Breezy volunteered as a stay-behind medic. He may be some kind of surfer dude, but he doesn’t strike me as a grandstander.”
“He’s not. Like I said, I worked with both of them on the last op in Pakistan and Afghanistan. They’re solid when we’re in contact.”
“You mean when there’s lead in the air?”
Malten kept a straight face. He rendered a two-finger salute and uttered a throaty, “Aye, Cap’n.”
“Now don’t you start that!” Pope made a shooing motion. “See to your boat, Mr. Malten.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
73
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
Hurtubise motioned to Zikri in the galley. They went to a far table and sat down. “We need to have a more definite plan if we are intercepted.”
The captain said, “I thought you would fight off any attempt to board.”
“That depends on the attacker. If we are hailed by a warship, we do not have many options, do we?”
“Well, no. Other than surrender, there are only two choices: fight or scuttle. If we fight, we lose. If we scuttle, we lose. From my view, it would be far better to stop and let them search. There is a chance they might not find all the yellow cake.”
“But you said we were unlikely to be stopped by a warship,” the Frenchman reminded him.
“Yes, that’s right. We are exercising legitimate right of passage. Where possible, I will keep within the territorial limits of each country we pass. The Americans have no authority there — even less than in the open sea.”
Hurtubise bit his lip in concentration. “Very well, then. We are most likely to be intercepted by an American or Israeli commercial ship, with naval commandos.” He paused, considering the likelihood. “We have a good chance of beating them off, but they may chase us.”
Zikri gave an indifferent shrug. “They can chase us all they like. As long as we are in international waters, and they cannot actually stop us, all they can do is follow.”
“Well, what could they do to stop us?”
“If they cannot put a boarding party on deck?”
Hurtubise nodded.
“Maybe they would try to disable our rudder or propeller, but to do that they have to get very close. They must have no deck guns or heavy weapons. Maybe if they have rocket launchers…”
“No, they cannot get that close. Our machine guns and RPGs would rip their speedboats apart.” Hurtubise thought for a moment. “What else could they do?”
“I cannot think of anything else. Unless… well, maybe they would ram us.”
“With their own ship?” Hurtubise asked.
Zikri’s eyes went to the vinyl tabletop, then back to the Frenchman’s. “It is possible. But that is no guarantee they could stop us. They might only dent some plates.”
“Could they disable your steering by collision?”
Zikri did not like the direction the conversation was turning, but he tried to remain objective. “Perhaps. But it is unlikely. You see, our stern overhangs the rudder and propeller. They would have to ram us very hard from just the right angle to have a chance. And I would be maneuvering to avoid them.”
“So that could go on for a long time?”
“Yes, yes.”
Hurtubise tapped the table in a momentary pique. Finally he said, “If they get that close to us, I could turn my RPGs on them. I doubt that they have anything comparable, and after we put a few grenades on their bridge, they will have to respect us. That should keep them at least a hundred meters away.”
“Would your grenades be effective against a ship?”
“They cannot sink a ship. But the warheads are powerful enough to penetrate a tank’s armor. So… ordinary steel plate?” He snapped his fingers with a surprisingly loud pop.
“But they could still follow us indefinitely.”
“Then we are back to where we began,” Hurtubise replied. “As you said before, let them follow us to Iran if they like.”
Before Zikri could reply, Hurtubise pursued another subject. “With so many men repainting the ship, we are starting to look different already. Now, what identity have you found for us?”
The captain touched the side of his nose in an exaggerated gesture of confidentiality. “We have many flags to fly. But the blue and white paint fits Greece so I have decided on a new name. Star of Hellas.”
“Is there such a ship?”
“Yes and no. That is the beauty of the name. There was such a vessel a few years ago, but apparently she was sold for scrap. However, that name still appears on some registries. Anybody who checks closely will learn the facts, but it will take time. Meanwhile, I have a man over the stern, painting the new name right now.”
“Greece,” Hurtubise mused. “I have been there only twice. I didn’t much care for ouzo.”
Zikri leaned against the back of his chair, adopting a relaxed posture. “Well, mon ami, whatever you like to drink, I suggest that you finish it before we get to Iran. You will find my Shia friends far less tolerant than I am.”
M/V DON CARLOS
Pope finished the briefing and set down his marker. He folded his brawny arms and looked around the room. Fifteen operators stared back at him. He decided not to comment on Breezy’s and Bosco’s attire: both wore pirate-style kerchiefs on their heads. Bosco even had an improvised eye patch. Green grinned; Pace yawned.
“There’s not much else to say,” Pope stated. “I’m certainly not going to give you guys a pep talk. In the first place, you don’t need it, and in the second place, you’d resent the hell out of it. But I do want to say just a bit about how I feel about this mission.”
He glanced at the deck, then looked up again. “I think we’re engaged in a battle for Western civilization. No, I don’t think it’s going to be settled tonight. This is a long-term commitment, probably for generations. After all, the Crusades lasted two hundred years and the Moors occupied Spain for about eight hundred. I see myself as one man among other men — you guys. Whatever happens to me tonight, there’s no place I’d rather be and nothing else I’d rather be doing.
“That’s enough oration. Now, let’s ruck up and get g
oing.”
* * *
Gerritt Maas spoke with Pope, Malten, and Cohen on the bridge. Tapping the Feruni color radar display, the skipper pointed out nearby ships. “You should not have much trouble identifying the target. These two are well to the south and not in your intercept area.” He noted another blip nearby. “This big one is a supertanker, at least one hundred thousand tons. Depending on whether it maintains course, you might use it to cover your approach to Tarabulus.”
The captain touched the display to indicate another large vessel. “This is probably a container ship. If you match its speed for a while, you might get within one or two miles before you break out of the radar coverage of the tanker.” He looked at Pope. “That’s up to you, of course. I will monitor your frequency the full time.”
Alex Cohen added, “I’ll be in the radio room the full time. If I hear anything unusual, I’ll pass the word to you immediately.”
Don Carlos’s executive officer stood behind the operators. “Captain, we also have light signals in case radio communication fails.”
“Yes, yes,” Maas responded. “I am glad you reminded us, Carl.” He looked at Pope and Malten again. “I think our main concern will be finding anyone overboard or a lost Zodiac. We will flash a Morse Code DC. You do the same.”
“Delta Charlie,” Malten replied. “Dah-dit-dit, dah-dit-dah-dit?”
The Dutchman smiled around his pipe stem. “I don’t know! I haven’t used Morse since I was a cadet.”
Then he turned somber. “Good luck, gentlemen. And good hunting.”
* * *
74
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“There’s a quarter moon,” Zikri said. “I think they would prefer a dark night.”
“That’s what I would choose,” Hurtubise agreed. “But we don’t know their schedule. They may want to take us closer to friendly ports around Gibraltar.”
“Well, no matter. I set the duty watch already. With some of my men as lookouts as well as yours, we should be all right.”
The mercenary hefted a night-vision device. “We cannot count on radar picking up their boats very far away. So I gave my men some extra night vision.” He raised the commercial product, a three-power NZT-35 monocular.
“How good is that?”
“This? It’s supposed to be good to something over a hundred meters. It’s waterproof besides. But the trouble with the old Soviet devices is that you never know how much tube life is left. Any of them could quit on you at any time — probably when you need it most.”
The Frenchman hefted another model. “This model with third-generation technology is good to three hundred meters.” He almost laughed. “It costs about thirteen dollars per meter.”
Zikri had thought out his steaming plan for the night. “I can continue zigzagging as you wish. Or we can do random direction changes. Either way it will not be very easy for small craft to track us. They can’t see very much, riding so low.”
“Well, all we need is some warning. We can put up a barrage of flares and use the machine guns and RPGs. Once we open fire, nobody’s going to keep coming in a rubber boat. It would be suicide. We’re on a much more stable platform than they are.”
The Libyan leaned back against the plotting table. “What do you want to do after we repel their attack? Surely they won’t try the boats again.”
“At that point, they probably will back off, at least for a while. Unless they have a plan that Cochon and I have not considered, they will either let us go or they will turn to the Navy.”
“I agree,” Zikri said. “And we can enter almost any port and wait out their warships if we have to.”
Hurtubise turned to the map. “What do you recommend?”
“Oh, almost anywhere once we’re south of Western Sahara. It’s still occupied by Morocco, yes?”
“Correct. That means it’s probably friendly to America.”
“Well then,” the seaman continued, “just look at the options. Senegal, Gambia, Guinea, Sierra Leone. Considering the diplomatic situation, Liberia and Nigeria and Ghana may not be such good choices, but after that we have the Cote d’Ivoire and Benin. On and on down the continent.”
Hurtubise gave an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a very long trip.”
“Cheer up, my friend. A long sea cruise is good for your health!”
M/V DON CARLOS
“Where’s Pope?” Pfizer asked. “We’re ready to go.”
Malten thought he knew, but kept the information to himself. “Uh, I think he’s with the captain. I’ll go check.”
The team leader trotted down the passageway to the berthing area and undogged a hatch. He peeked inside the compartment and found what he suspected.
Victor Pope was kneeling beside his bunk, rosary in hand. Malten was struck by the seeming incongruity: a muscular, bald young man in his late thirties, bedecked with tactical gear, his submachine gun resting beside him. Malten withdrew a few steps around the corner but could hear Pope’s low baritone reciting the ancient words.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in midieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
He still uses Latin, Malten realized. None of the modern recitation for him.
After a few seconds of silence, Malten risked another peek. He saw Pope cross himself, kiss the crucifix, and tuck it inside his shirt.
Malten backed up several steps and rapped loudly on the hatch. “Vic? You in here?”
Pope stepped through the hatchway. “I was just taking a minute for myself.”
“I hope you said one for me.” The younger operator kept any levity from his voice.
Pope cocked his head slightly. “You’re allowed to pray for yourself, Jeff.”
“Don’t need to,” Malten replied. His tone now was flippant. He tapped Pope’s vest with the back of his hand. “I got you, babe.”
“Let’s rock,” Pope said.
“Let’s roll.”
* * *
In the dim light of the bridge, the screens glowed according to their purpose. Mostly green for data; color radar for navigation and weather. Awaiting a last-minute position report to confirm the target’s position for the raiders, Maas paced until Cohen arrived.
The SSI operative stepped onto the bridge. “Captain, we got it. I just received confirmation.”
Maas turned to face Cohen. “Well?”
Cohen was momentarily taken aback. He had not expected jubilation, but he did anticipate some degree of enthusiasm. “Same speed and course as before. And it’s definite now. They’ve finished repainting most of the superstructure and the stack, and they changed the name.” He held out a message form with the information penciled in block letters.
The captain accepted the paper, read it twice, and set it down. “I will stay here until our people return. You can tell them the news.”
Cohen looked at the Dutch seaman. The man’s eyes were mostly concealed in shadow amid the subdued lighting. Cohen realized that reflection on the windows could detract from visibility but for a man who had spent much of his life in the desert, the shipboard ambience was cavelike, eerie. “What’s the matter, Captain?”
“The same thing as before, Mr. Cohen. You are forcing me to send four small craft in harm’s way based only on your information, which you refuse to explain to me or to them.” He paused, wondering if the younger man could be moved by such sentiment. When he drew no response, he continued. “I do not like the arrangement any more now than before. Less, in fact.”
Cohen shifted his feet, less from the ship’s motion than from resentment at being challenged again. “Why less?”
Maas inclined his head toward the Zodiacs on deck. “Because in a few minutes those boys are going on a mission that could turn sour. That’s why.”
“Captain, if the information is wrong, that’s my fault, not yours. Our operators know that. They accept it. But m
y sources are too sensitive to risk, so there’s no option but to continue as planned.”
Sources. Plural. Does he really have more than one? While Maas was formulating a reply, Cohen turned and walked off the bridge.
Don Carlos continued on course through the dark.
75
SSI OFFICES
“Frank, we just got an encrypted e-mail from Alex Cohen. Pope and Malten’s teams are going in right now.” Sandy Carmichael’s southern accent smoothed over the emotional ridges she felt.
Leopole looked at the wall clock. “They’re near the Canaries? It’s 2135 here; plus four is 0135 there. Did he say when they’ll board?”
“No. Just that the boats are in the water. I’d imagine they’re several miles out.”
Omar Mohammed, ordinarily the soul of composure, was sharing the watch. He surprised his two colleagues by biting the nail of his ring finger. “I wonder who else he’s told.”
“What’s that?” Carmichael asked.
The elegant Iranian caught himself and dropped his hand to the table. “I am just wondering out loud, Sandra. I am sorry, but I just do not trust Cohen yet. Oh, I don’t mean he would send our people into unnecessary danger. Nothing like that. But he may be communicating with Tel Aviv and who knows who else.”
Carmichael pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, he’s certainly not telling State or DoD. This whole thing is about deniability.”
“Yeah,” Leopold said. “I guess we don’t need to call O’Connor or anybody else until we know what happens.”
Carmichael gave him a tight grin. “Small favors, Frank. That’s up to the admiral or Marsh Wilmont.”
Several laden moments ticked by. Finally Leopold spoke. “Damn. I feel like Ike on D-Day.”
Mohammed eyed him. “The waiting?”
Leopole nodded. “Once you’ve pushed the button, all you can do is wait for the machine to go to work. I think we’ve built a pretty damn good machine. But there’s always some cog waiting out there to foul it up.”
