Prometheus's Child s-2
Page 32
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.”
Bernard Langevin, with wider knowledge of the world than Phil Green, tried to recall a time when he shared the younger man’s sense of justice. He could not.
“I guess this isn’t the first time that two PMCs have shot at each other, and I don’t suppose it’ll be the last.” Gathering his thoughts, Langevin added, “The Chadian government has lots of people. Believe me, it doesn’t care about a few casualties. Not even those that SSI trained.”
Green regarded the scientist with a level gaze, equal to equal. “Don’t make it right, sir.”
Langevin chose his reply with care. “No, it don’t.”
91
SSI OFFICES
Derringer walked into the firm’s lobby, barely nodded to the receptionist and guard, and proceeded straight through the security door. SSI’s leadership was awaiting him in the boardroom.
Marshall Wilmont asked, “What’s the bad news, Mike?”
Derringer set down his fedora and smoothed his thinning hair. “What makes you think it’s bad news?”
“Mike, you’re a lousy poker player. I can read your face, and right now you look like you’re holding a pair of deuces.”
Derringer began to pace. The others had rarely seen him so distracted; Sandy Carmichael and Frank Leopole looked at each other, concern in their eyes. Omar Mohammed remained unflappable as ever, but he followed the CEO’s circular pattern across the carpet, sensing the nuances of posture and expression.
At length Derringer dropped anchor. Turning to face his colleagues, he said, “O’Connor laid it out for me. We’ve been had. In fact, everybody involved has been had, including DoD and State.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Wilmont’s tone contained more anger than he intended.
Derringer took a seat at the head of the conference table. “You all know how we were worried about credible intelligence on this mission. Not even Dave Dare could break out the real sources. He came closer than most, apparently, because he traced what he could back to one source.”
“Israel?” Carmichael already had her suspicions.
“You got it,” Derringer replied. “O’Connor may be a liberal leftover of the Carter era, but he’s able to tap some diplomatic sources. This is not for publication, people, but when I arrived, he was with John Shaw of the U.N. Secretariat. They knew each other at Brown.”
Mohammed sat upright. “Shaw? He monitors private military contractors, doesn’t he?”
“That’s right. He’s even less of a friend to us than Ryan O’Connor, but neither of them likes being stiffed by Tel Aviv.”
Nobody asked the obvious question; everyone present knew that Derringer would fill in the blanks.
“It turns out that the Israelis were behind the yellow cake shipment. It’s part of a plan to focus attention on Iran’s nuke program. But State and the U.N. didn’t know that at the time, otherwise they probably wouldn’t have sent us after it.”
Leopole’s tanned hands were clenched into fists. “How do they know that, Admiral?”
“They wouldn’t reveal sources, Frank, and I guess I can’t blame them. But they talked freely in my presence, and there’s no doubt that both State and the U.N. are sure of the facts.” Derringer made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “For all I know, the leaks could be from inside Israel. Evidently there’s a power play under way in their intel community, on top of arguments about what to do about Iran.”
Carmichael gave Leopole a sideways glance. He nodded.
“Admiral, while you were out, we got word from Victor Pope in Casablanca. Langevin took the captured crew and French mercs ashore to hand them over to French and Libyan diplomats. Where they’ll go from there we don’t know. But Cohen went with the ship’s radio operator, who had been feeding him information on Tarabulus Pride’s location and activities. Nobody’s seen them since.”
Derringer’s face betrayed his emotion: disbelieving anger.
Leopole interjected. “There’s more, and it fits with what you’ve said, sir. Pope and Maas both confirm that Aujali, the radioman, was an Israeli asset who’d been blackmailed into cooperating in exchange for release of some relatives in Israel. We think Cohen probably took him there to complete that part of the bargain.”
“I don’t understand,” Derringer replied. “Why would Alex Cohen just up and disappear? He’s on our payroll, for Pete’s sake!”
Mohammed cleared his throat, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. “This seems to be a day of revelations, Admiral. David Dare called for you just after you left so I spoke to him. It’s after the fact, but here’s what he found:
“Cohen wasn’t just coordinating with the Israelis; he was working with Mossad, which apparently was pulling everybody’s strings. Obviously he didn’t want to answer any embarrassing questions. Once Mossad learned the ship involved, they made sure that we and Hurtubise knew what each other knew. The Israelis wanted us focused on the ship, and the ship aware that we were closing in. It’s a perfect game; a classic double cross to the exclusion of both parties for the satisfaction of the third party. Israel.”
Derringer shook his head as if avoiding a pesky fly. “How did Dave learn that?”
“He’s waiting to talk to you. Whenever you can call back.”
Leopole was on his feet. “The bastards! They…”
Wilmont was almost never involved in operations but he recognized the anger building in the room. SSI still had potential contracts in Israel and the Middle East. “Easy, Frank. Remember, they’re protecting themselves from possible nuclear attack.”
People rose from their seats as their voices became shrill.
“Damn it! We lost people on this op!”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Derringer rapped on the table. It was one of the few times he regretted not having a gavel. “Hey! Everybody! Knock it off. We’re all on the same side here.”
When the voices subsided, Derringer regained control of the meeting. “Where’s Don Carlos now? Still in Casablanca?”
“Yes, sir,” Leopole replied.”Maas is awaiting orders, which he’ll pass to Pope. I imagine everybody wants to come home, especially those who were in Chad.”
Michael Derringer slumped visibly. He seemed burdened with a weight on his head and shoulders. Looking around the room, he said, “I haven’t told you everything yet. State wants us to stay in position.”
Carmichael cocked her head. “Sir, what does that mean? We keep our people there? For how long?”
Shaking his head, Derringer said, “I don’t know, Sandy. But I’m allowed to tell you that something’s brewing in Iran.”
92
M/V DON CARLOS
With little to occupy them in port, Gerritt Maas and Victor Pope had taken to walking the ship twice a day. Maas had been to Casablanca previously but the city’s exotic reputation held little interest for the former SEAL. He preferred to exercise, walk, and talk.
The Dutch skipper tapped his pipe bowl and regarded the American. Maas finally felt comfortable enough to ask a personal question. “Victor, I understand that you considered becoming a priest before the Navy.”
Pope thought, He’s been talking to Derringer. “That’s right.”
“Could I ask why you changed your mind?”
“Oh, there’s a couple of reasons. Even after the Second Vatican Council I was willing to consider the priesthood, but eventually it just wasn’t the same church anymore.”
“When was the Vatican Council?”
“It sat from 1962 to ‘65. John XXIII and Paul VI.”
“My God. You couldn’t have been born yet!”
Pope laughed. “Well, there were other reasons. In my early twenties I thought about spending the rest of my life celibate, and it
just wasn’t for me.” He gave a rare grin. “Besides, neither the Jesuits nor Benedictines issue firearms.”
They continued walking aft, momentarily content to pace in silence. Then Maas said, “Sometimes the occupation finds the man. Like me. I grew up in a farming family — had no interest in the sea until a friend’s father took me sailing.”
Pope nodded quietly. Approaching the stern, he said, “I always enjoyed athletics, competition, and shooting. The SEALs seemed the biggest challenge. But sometimes…”
“Yes?”
“Well, sometimes I wish I could just do the job, you know? Without the responsibility. Sometimes I wish I could just be like… them.” He gestured toward Bosco and Breezy, sitting on a tarp spread on the fantail.
The two friends were still practicing their pirate routine while cleaning the M-60s. According to one’s perspective, either they had perfected the act beyond all reasoning, or it still needed a great deal of work.
Bosco set aside a spare barrel, cocked a squinty eye at his partner, and pitched his voice into a low, gravelly octave somewhere between Wally Beery and Yosemite Sam. “Aye, matey, when we took the Tarabulus, the decks ran red!”
In a poor Johnny Depp imitation, Breezy replied, “Avast! You’re the second best pirate I ever saw.”
“Second best? Why’s that?”
Breezy explained, “You need a peg leg and a parrot named Carl Bob.”
“Well, matey, next time we’re ashore for grog, we can go shopping at a pet store. But by Davy Jones’s locker, I’m keeping both me legs.”
At that clue, the friends broke into something resembling a song:
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest!
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!
The mate was fixed by the bosun’s pike,
The bosun brained with a marlinspike
And cooky’s throat was marked belike,
It had been gripped by fingers ten;
And there they lay, all good dead men
Like break o’day in a boozing ken.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”
Unseen by the latter-day buccaneers, Victor Pope regarded the happy youngsters and envied their buoyant emotions. He knew that the mood would not last long.
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