Prometheus's Child

48

“We just heard from Steve Lee,” Leopole said.

Marshall Wilmont took his half-spectacles off the bridge of his nose. “Well?”

Leopole made a point of waving the e-mail. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“C’mon, Frank…” SSI’s chief operating officer seldom had time for banter.

The former Marine inhaled, then let his breath out. “Okay. We lost a helo. The bad guys had man-pack SAMs and shot down Marsh’s aircraft. He’s critical and three of the Chadians are dead.”

“My God. What…”

“And the Frenchies got away with a truckload of yellow cake.”

Wilmont was on his feet before he knew it. “Don’t play freaking games with me, Frank! What in hell’s the good news?”

The director of foreign operations slid the printout across the desk. “The good news is that they only got away with part of the load.”

Wilmont almost seemed to deflate as he sagged back into his chair. “Tell me,” he croaked.

“Long story short: Steve decided to move in at dawn because he didn’t want his troops running around, maybe shooting at each other in the dark. That was a mistake, seen in hindsight. It gave the mercs enough time to load one trailer and part of another. They drove out the back as our guys approached the front. Steve had a blocking force astride the road leading to the border, but when the helo was shot down, Nissen made a command decision and went to the site. He probably saved Marsh’s life and maybe a couple of others. But…”

“That left the way open for the yellow cake.”

“Affirm.” Leopole leaned forward, elbows on the polished desk. “I think Steve did the right thing, though. He was having Keegan tail the truck, keeping out of missile range, but he didn’t have the muscle to stop it. So Steve recalled him as a med-evac. Keegan took Marsh and the other survivors back to the airfield where there was proper medical care.”

Wilmont emitted a noncommittal “Ummm.” Then he asked, “What about the mine? Did they secure it?”

“Yeah. There was a little trouble after the shootdown. One or two of the FGN guys went spastic and started shooting at our people so they killed them. Nobody else got hurt.”

“So we don’t know where the yellow cake is?”

Leopole shook his head. “I doubt that even Qadhafi knows.”

“Come on,” Wilmont said. “We need to see Mike and Omar.”

It was a small meeting: Derringer, Wilmont, Mohammed, Carmichael, and Leopold. The SSI brain trust.

“First things first,” Derringer began. “I talked to Ryan O’Connor yesterday. He confirmed that State wants our training team to finish its contract in Chad. But I think we need to make some adjustments.”

Leopole’s brow furrowed. “Sir, are you going to pull Steve? I…”

“No, Frank. I think we’ve all been in Steve’s shoes once or twice. He had to make some decisions based on incomplete information. I certainly don’t fault him for that.”

Leopole and Carmichael exchanged glances. If Derringer didn’t catch it, Mohammed did. He could read their minds. They don’t want Lee to feel any worse than he probably already does.

“Very well,” Derringer continued. “Sandy and Frank, operations is your ballpark. What do you recommend?”

Carmichael’s blue eyes fixed on her employer. “Sir, you mentioned some adjustments. I think any recommendations we make would depend on those.”

“Oh, yes. Quite right.” Derringer’s practiced fingers performed a paradiddle cadence, as they often did when he was distracted. “Well, all I meant is that if we’re going to pursue the yellow cake, we’ll probably have to pull some people out of Chad.”

Wilmont picked up some radiations from his sometime golf partner’s emotional antennae. “Mike, you didn’t mention the uranium shipment. Does State really want us to stay on it?”

SSI’s CEO nodded slowly. “I think so. O’Connor is running it up the ladder, but since we’re already involved and we have some assets in the area, we’re likely to get a go-ahead pretty soon.”

“Sir,” Carmichael intoned, her voice low and earnest. “I’d think that sooner is better. That’s why…”

“Yes, Sandy, I know. It takes me back to what we were saying about your recommendations. If we keep the team there for training, who can we put on another team to track down the yellow cake?”

She flipped through her folder. “Well, sir, obviously we want to keep our people there with language ability. That’s Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender. I’m keeping a running tab with Jack Peters and Matt Finch. They’re best equipped to find some more French or Arabic speakers for us.”

Derringer nodded decisively. “Very well, put them on it.”

Mohammed glanced at Marshall Wilmont. If he resented the retired admiral taking over the operating end of things, he did not show it.

Leopole had a thought. “Admiral, I’d like to pull Bosco and Breezy, ah, Boscombe and Brezyinski, from the training team. They’re about the best door-kickers we have. Their talents would be better used on an operational mission.”

Derringer remembered to check visually with Wilmont, who shrugged. Carmichael said, “Concur, Admiral.” Then she asked, “What about Martha?”

No one spoke for a long moment.

49

The heat was everywhere around them, like the heavy, dry air. Hurtubise called a midday stop and parked his Range Rover in the lee of Deladier’s trailer. The four men dismounted — two from each vehicle — and conferred in the shade, such as it was.

“My motor is running a temperature,” Hurtubise began. “I think we’ll wait until later in the day to continue. Maybe we’ll wait until night.”

Alfonso Rivera, Deladier’s driver, knew about working in extreme heat from his days in the Spanish Legion. “As long as we have water for the radiators we should be all right,” he said. “Aren’t we due in Misratah in a couple of days?”

Hurtubise waved a dismissive hand. “We have some time to spare. The ship won’t be ready for a while. Cell communication is erratic out here in the desert, and I cannot always reach our contacts. But I’d rather be late than early. We don’t want to have this cargo sitting around very long before loading on board. Somebody might get suspicious.”

After long hours on the road, with delays for bureaucratic procedures and haggling over fuel, Deladier was growing impatient. However, he knew that Groupe FNG’s Chadian government contacts had greased the skids — and some palms — to ease the journey. But other problems remained. “Marcel, we left in such a hurry. What in hell are we going to do for money? And passports?” Felix Moungar had arranged things at the border but there were intermediate stops as well.

Hurtubise gave a grim smile. “Don’t you ever learn, my lad? I never go anywhere without at least one passport and a thousand dollars on me.” He let the sentiment sink in, then continued. “Don’t worry. We’ll have new papers and cash at Birak.”

Alfonso cocked his head. “You’re sure of that?”

Hurtubise took a step toward him. “Yes, I’m sure! Look, just because we left in a hurry doesn’t mean I haven’t done all the planning. Understand?”

The young Spaniard looked upward, shielding his face against the Saharan sun. His meaning was implicit: The heat gets to everybody.

“Sure, Marcel. I understand.”

Steve Lee waited until Mark Brezyinski and Jason Boscombe had finished putting their gear away. It didn’t take long, since most of the equipment used on the mine raid officially belonged to the Chadian Army.

“I’d like to see you guys in private,” Lee said.

Bosco and Breezy exchanged quick looks. Breezy had the quicker tongue. “Something wrong, sir?”

Lee chuckled softly. “You know, you remind me of a guy I knew in the Army. He was an excellent warrant officer but he was always in trouble with his CO in Vietnam. Nickel and dime stuff. Then one day his XO tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Fred, the CO wants to talk to you.’ Fred asked, ‘What did I do now?’

“The exec said, ‘Well, I think they’re going to give you the Medal of Honor.’“

Bosco’s eyes widened. “Wow. Like, we’re gonna…”

“No, Mr. Boscombe. You are not receiving a medal. But something better.”

Breezy perked up. “Boy, that means money. What’s the job, Boss?”

Lee winked as he closed the door.

“You’re right. I heard from Frank Leopole. Most of us are staying here to finish the training contract, but he’s putting together a team to go after the yellow cake that got away. It means working down and dirty and it’ll likely be dangerous.”

Breezy straightened visibly. With a straight face he declared, “Sir, danger is my middle name.”

“I thought it was Casimir,” Bosco deadpanned.

“Libya?” Breezy asked.

“No, no,” Lee exclaimed. “Maybe Beirut, biggest port in the eastern Med. But it could be almost anywhere in the region. We won’t know until there’s better intel.”

“Well, if they load the cake on a ship in Libya, why go to Lebanon? Why not just sail right to Iran?”

Lee nodded in deference to Breezy’s acumen. “Good question, Mark. The answer is, we don’t know. It’s possible they’ll drive a thousand miles or more and load at a Red Sea port in Sudan or even Ethiopia.”

Bosco ran the options in his gambler’s mind. “Major, wouldn’t it make more sense to fly the stuff? I mean, just a couple of big planeloads should do it, and that’d be a whole lot faster.”

Lee agreed. “Yes, it would. But there’s complications having to do with international flights. So Arlington thinks that the cake will go by sea.” He hunched his shoulders. “If the Frenchies and Iranians do fly it, we’re out of the picture.”

“So what do we do, sir?” Breezy began unloading a G3 magazine, returning the cartridges to a box on the worktable.

“All you guys have to do is tell me if you’re interested. Frank wants you on the action team, and of course the combat bonus applies.”

“Who’d we be working with?” Bosco asked.

“I don’t know yet, but I’d think that Jeff Malten will be involved. SEALs know how to take down a ship.”

Breezy went to work on a stick of gum. “Jeff did good in Pakistan. I’d go to war with him again.”

Bosco nodded. “Me, too.”

“All right,” Lee replied. “You two continue working with Gunny Foyte but we’ll start easing you out of training work. Carmichael and Leopole are leaning on their talent scouts to find other instructors, preferably with some language background. I’ll get back to you on your rotation schedule.”

Bosco and Breezy exchanged ritual knuckle taps. In their arcane world, it meant, “Get some” and “Me, too.”

Steve Lee turned down the corridor from the small armory and looked into the cubicle that served as SSI’s office. He found the person he sought.

“Hey there.”

Whitney looked up from some paperwork. “Hey yourself, Maje. How your

“I’m just precious,” Lee quipped.

“I knowed that, honey.” She gave him the Aunt Jemima grin again.

Lee sat in the vacant chair. “Martha, I wanted you to hear from me before somebody else. Headquarters is calling you home. You’ll be leaving in a couple of days, no more than three.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He cocked his head. “You don’t seem surprised. Or disappointed.”

“Naw, I’m not. After the operation went down, there wasn’t much else for me to do. I been helpin’ Gunny with le Français, you know?”

The West Pointer could not stifle a laugh. “Yeah, I know. If there’s such as thing as Redneck French, I guess he’s fluent.”

She was all spunk and vinegar again. “Ain’t that the truth? Wait’ll I tell Sandy and Frank about the way he pronounces chemin de fer, let alonela pièce de résistance or la boulangerie!”

A pause settled over them. They both squirmed in embarrassment. At length Lee said, “Martha, you’ve done a good job here. I just…”

“I know, Steve. I know.” She touched his hand. “It’s just that I keep thinking, maybe I could’ve handled things a little… different. You know?”

Lee dropped his gaze to the cluttered desktop. When he looked up, he said, “Sure. All of us could always do things differently. But we don’t. We only get one chance to do anything the first time. If you’re thinking that you could’ve saved that French gal…”

“Gabrielle.” Whitney pronounced the name in a low, husky whisper. “Gabrielle Tixier.”

“Martha, she was in way over her head. She should’ve walked away from that bastard years ago.” He stood up, eager to end the conversation.

She looked up at him. “Get him for me, Steve. And for her.”

“Martha, it’s out of my hands. But Arlington is putting together a covert team right now. They’ll get him. You know they will.”

“I’m counting on that, Maje. I truly am.”

50

Ryan O’Connor met the SSI delegation at the door of the undersecretary’s office. For someone as attuned to Beltway nuances as Mike Derringer, it was as perceptible as a ten-knot wind on the face. Something unusual is coming our way. He thought he knew what it was.

O’Connor was unusually businesslike, almost brusque. He showed Derringer and Wilmont to their seats, offered the perfunctory coffee, and for a change, he got directly to the point. “Gentlemen. This meeting will remain off the record for reasons that are obvious. But I’m confirming that State wants you to proceed with your Chad mission. And I do not mean just the training segment. That will continue, not only to meet the obligation, but to provide some cover for the more immediate operation.”

“So you want us to go after the yellow cake,” Derringer said.

“Just so. You will have the full support of State and DoD intelligence assets, as well as other, ah, sources. Please understand that we may not be able to reveal those to you, but be assured that we will not pass along anything that we do not consider reliable.”

Derringer asked, “What if we get contradictory info?”

The diplomat shrugged. “We’ll try to filter and deconflict, but as always, it’s up to the men in the field to act as they think best.”

Bat guano, Derringer thought. If anything goes south, SSI will hold the bag. But them’s the risks.

Wilmont shifted in his chair. Generally he held back, absorbing information and scribbling occasional notes, but now he spoke up. “Ryan, excuse me for asking what might seem an obtuse question. But if we’re chasing the cake, which seems headed for Iran, obviously it’s going by sea. Why not send the SEALs after it?”

O’Connor regarded the overweight executive with a perceptible, disapproving frown. “Well, the usual reason, Marshal. Deniability. As you say, the operation will almost certainly take place at sea, and likely in international waters. The United States Government does not condone piracy, let alone participate in such things.”

Wilmont nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. I understand that. But we just don’t have the assets — the gear — for something like this. And we can’t get it fast enough to meet the schedule.”

“Oh, I think you can trust me on that score. You’ll have maximum support across the board: intelligence, technical, whatever you need. If there’s ever an audit of the operation — extremely unlikely, by the way — the investigators will find that all the equipment was declared surplus months before SSI ever saw it.”

Derringer pulled an envelope from his Brooks Brothers suit coat. “Ryan, I brought a list of equipment needs and some operational concerns. This is for our liaison officer — whoever that might be.”

O’Connor scooped up the paper but did not bother looking at it. “Right. I’ll give it to the case officer and he’ll get back to you today. He’s arranging logistics right now. But you have the keys to the kingdom on this one, Admiral. Speed boats, a couple of leased ships, communications, even unmarked helicopters if you need them.”

The SSI men looked at each other. Without a word, they rose in unison. “Right,” Derringer said. “We’ll get going. Ah, do we communicate with you or with the case officer from now on?”

O’Connor stood behind his desk. “Preferably through Grover Hinds, but if you need me, call anytime, day or night.” He paused for emphasis. “This is off the record, of course, but I’m in constant contact with the secretary If you need any logjams broken, she’ll see to it personally.”

Wilmont raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s about as much as we could ever want. Thanks, Ryan.”

“Just get the job done, gentlemen. There’s too much riding on this one.”

51

Paul Deladier sipped his tea and regarded Marcel Hurtubise across the outdoor table. Looking around the square, Deladier could not help comparing the elegant surroundings to his truck-bound existence over the past three days.

“I never knew there were such places in Libya,” he declared. “This is wonderful! Modern facilities, an oasis, a view of the ocean. It’s like a Hollywood movie set.”

Hurtubise hefted his own cup. “Enjoy it while you can, mon ami. We will not be here long.”

Deladier cocked his head. “Oh? I thought our work was finished when we delivered the shipment.”

“Well, that depends.” Marcel squinted against the glare — he seldom wore sunglasses — and laid down his cup. He would have enjoyed a good Mosel at the moment, but Libyan sensibilities had to be respected. For a Mediterranean seaport town, the local regulations seemed onerous. Female tourists had to wear long skirts, and bare arms were prohibited.

“What I mean, Paul, is that I may not be here long. The client wants extra security, so I have decided to go with the product, and the ship will leave in a few days. If you would like to come…”

Deladier sat back, pondering a response.

“What is it?” Marcel asked.

“Well, it’s just that I… had not expected to do more. After all, we barely got out of Chad in time.” He tugged at his new shirt. “I don’t even have a suitcase for travel!” He laughed aloud, hoping that it did not sound forced. But driving a semi truck and trailer twelve hundred kilometers across the Sahara had not been an experience he cared to repeat.

Hurtubise looked at his colleague and felt a queasy twinge. Something is not quite right. Be careful — take your time. He made a point of swiveling his head, as if enjoying the view. Certainly Misratah had something to offer: the seventh-century caravan stop had evolved into a modern, comfortable city. The steel and textile industries had brought wealth to the place the Romans called Thubactis. Tree-lined avenues met ancient, narrow streets where Turkish architecture mixed with European. Yes, a young man might enjoy himself in such a place — for a while. “You are right, Paul. I have seen worse places. And so have you!”

Before Hurtubise could continue, Deladier asked, “When did you decide to take the ship? We didn’t discuss that before.”

“Just yesterday. I meant to tell you, but you were out most of the day.” He forced a knowing grin. “Did you find some agreeable company in this Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Republic?”

Deladier saw a chance and took it. “Actually, I met two agreeable ladies. Italian sisters. We did not discuss politics, but maybe tonight. Their ship sails tomorrow.”

Hurtubise nodded his close-cropped head. “Well then, after you kiss them good-bye, maybe you’ll consider an ocean voyage yourself. I’m going to need some good men for security.”

“Mmmm. Does it pay a bonus?”

“Yes, half in advance, the rest on arrival.”

Deladier leaned close enough to whisper. “Arrive where?”

Marcel arched an eyebrow. “You know where.”

52

It was a rare event: a full-scale meeting of SSI’s operations staff. As officer in charge of all the firm’s fieldwork, Sandra Carmichael chaired the meeting with Frank Leopole beside her.

Carmichael stood to emphasize the importance of the event. “We will come to order.” She modulated her voice with West Point precision, emphasizing every word.

“The purpose of this meeting is to make some important decisions, rapidly.” She reached for the console on the table and turned down the lights in the room. With deft motions she brought the PowerPoint display onto the screen.

“All right. We’re operating on partial information that gets older by the hour, but since we have to start somewhere, we’ll start here.” She traced her laser pointer along the Libyan coast. “We have reason to believe that the yellow cake that was taken from Chad will be sent by sea to Iran.”

Sandra Carmichael could be unusually attractive when she wanted— but Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael, U.S. Army (Retired), kept a brisk, almost brusque demeanor. Those who knew her recognized the signs and paid strict attention.

“Since State and DoD have given us approval to pursue the product, we’re laying contingency plans. Libya is obviously off-limits— there’s just no way we can operate there. But that opens a couple of options. I’ve asked Frank to examine them for us since our foreign ops department is most involved.”

Leopole rose to his feet. “Okay let’s look at the geography.” He returned to the map of Africa. “The quickest route obviously is through the Suez Canal down the Red Sea and around Oman via the Arabian Sea, then into the Persian Gulf. Call it three thousand miles or so. But look at the choke points.” He ticked them off: “Suez, the entrance to the Gulf, and finally the Strait of Hormuz. The smugglers can read a map: they know that they could be intercepted anywhere along that route.

“Now, look at the other way Yes, it’s about four times longer to sail around the whole damn continent, but once past Gibraltar it’s wide open spaces with an enormous amount of room for maneuver. Until they hit the Oman coast, they’re practically home free. And even then, they don’t have to go all the way to Bandar Abbas. There’s two smaller ports on the Makran coast.” He traced the southern shore of Iran, in Baluchistan.

“Sounds like you’re betting on the longer route,” Wilmont said.

Leopole shook his head. “No, sir. We can’t afford to put all our eggs in either basket. We’re going to need two teams and hope that nothing goes wrong with either one. But my gut tells me the cake will take a slow boat to Iran. After all, there’s no big rush. Even if it takes six weeks, the Iranians have time to get ready.”

Derringer was scanning the map like a chess master examining the board, anticipating his next moves. “Where do we base our people to intercept either route?”

“Sir, I’m thinking Cairo for the Med with Morocco as an alternate. Down in the Gulf, probably Oman, assuming that can be arranged. Our liaison at State seems to think it’ll be no biggie.”

“Why not keep them at sea aboard the leased ships? They’d be more flexible that way, and a lot less likely to be spotted.”

Leopole knew where Derringer was coming from. The admiral’s experience included pre-positioning ships at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. “That’s certainly a possibility, sir. We’ll examine that as an option.” He looked at Carmichael, who took over again. The usual cheerleader enthusiasm was absent from her voice.

“Gentlemen, this mission will succeed or fail largely on the basis of intelligence. We have Dave Dare working on it already. Frankly, I have more confidence in him and his mysterious sources than I do State and DoD and CIA and NSA and the rest of the alphabet. But we’re establishing a cell within the working group to coordinate all information and provide it directly to our teams. There will be an absolute minimum of middle-level filter. If our teams want raw data, they’ll get raw data and draw their own conclusions.”

Joe Wolf, in charge of SSI domestic operations, sat in the back of the room. Without a direct hand in the operation, he was present as an observer but he had a thought. “Sandy, it seems that any Iranian nuke program is aimed at Israel sooner or later. What about their sources?”

Carmichael rolled her big blue eyes. “Joe, I think most of us who have ever worked with the Israelis have enormous respect for them, but we don’t trust them beyond arm’s reach. It’s a one-way street: we give them satellite imagery and all kinds of intel, not to mention a whole lot of money, and we don’t get much back. They let us know what they want us to know if it suits them. There are always hidden agendas with any intelligence organization, but that goes double for Israel.

“Now, in answer to your question: yes, we’ll gladly accept any information. But it’ll probably come via State, and that’s another filter that could just get in the way. So you see why we’re relying on our own sources as much as possible.”

“What about Alex Cohen? Isn’t he dialed in?”

Carmichael looked at Leopole. They exchanged knowing glances before the former Marine stood again. “Alex is a valuable asset. After all, he has dual citizenship and has served in the Israeli Army. I can say that he’s been working on this situation in the Middle East as well as Africa, and he’ll probably be on one of the teams. Other than that… we’ll see what develops.”

Derringer seldom got involved in operational details but SSI was planning for a rare naval operation and the salt water was stirring inside him. “We need SEAL expertise for this job.”

“Yes, and we’ve got it,” Leopole replied. “I expect that Vic Pope will lead the first team and Jeff Malten the second.”

“Are they inbound?”

“Ah, Admiral. I talked to Jeff today. He should be here tomorrow. We’re still trying to contact Vic. It’s awfully short notice.”

Derringer nodded slowly. “Very well. But who else? We’ll certainly need more than two men from the teams.”

Leopole raised a hand toward Matthew Finch. “Personnel is Matt’s domain.”

Finch raised partway from his seat. “Sir, we have three other SEALs in the files. I’ve talked to Dave La Rue and he’s interested. The other two are out of touch but my assistant is concentrating on getting hold of them today.”

Derringer shifted in his padded chair and looked at Wilmont. “Marsh, I’ve said for months now that we need more SEALs or Force Recon. There may not be enough time to teach some of our snake eaters how to debark from a Zodiac or take down a ship at sea.”

The chief operating officer cleared his throat. It was rare for Derringer to raise business matters in an operations meeting. “No argument, Mike. But this is the first maritime op we’ve had in, what? Must be a couple of years.”

Derringer rubbed his chin, staring at the map on the wall. “The thing that worries me, assuming we find the yellow cake, is leadership. Basically, it’s down to two men, and while I’m sure Malten’s a good man, he has no command experience. That means if we can’t get Pope, we’re in deep trouble.” He looked up at Wilmont again. “We need more depth in the organization.”

The COO gave an ironic grin. “All it takes is money. Think the board will kick loose some discretionary funds?”

“I’ll damn well find out.” Derringer looked back to Leopole. “Frank, is there any way we could tap some Brits on short notice?”

The foreign ops director looked surprised. “You mean former Special Boat Service?”

“Yes, Royal Marine Commandos.”

Leopole scratched his crew-cut head. “That’s a good idea, Admiral. I’ll huddle with Jeff right after this meeting and see what turns up.”

“Very well,” Derringer replied. “Let’s not waste any time, people. The clock is running.”

53

Sandy Carmichael poked her blond head into Leopole’s cubicle. “Like some coffee, Frank?” She winked at him.

As Leopole liked to say, he was smarter than the average Marine. He took the hint and said, “Sure, I’d love some.”

“I have a special blend in my office.” She walked down the hall, waited for her colleague, and closed the door behind him. When she reached for the coffeepot, Leopole raised a hand. “No thanks. I changed my mind.” He grinned.

Carmichael leaned on her desk. “Frank, according to the admiral, State says that we have the point on this job, and we probably do. But I just don’t believe that we’re the only team. I mean, if I were running a job this important, I sure wouldn’t rely on one shot. I’d have at least one more team on tap, maybe two. That means another PMC, which I doubt, or active-duty guys.”

“SEALs,” he replied.

“You betcha.” The south was back in her mouth.

“Well, I agree with you, Sandy. But I don’t see any point in stewing about it. After all, if we miss the boat — so to speak — we’ll be irrelevant. At that point I have to believe that somebody will move in.”

“But in any case we’re short of maritime operators. So tell me about Pope. I only met him once or twice and I’ve never dealt with him since I took the operations job.”

Leopold inhaled, thought a moment, and began. “Single, never married far as I know. Late thirties. Apparently he considered becoming a priest back home in Jacksonville but he went for the SEALs instead.”

Carmichael smacked her forehead. “Pope! I can just imagine. You know, ‘Is Pope Catholic?’ I guess he takes some ribbing over that.”

“Not much,” Leopole laughed. “He’s one tough cookie, though it takes some people a while to figure that out. They see that baby face and shaved head and think he’s some kind of wimp. They finally get the point when they look up at him from the floor.”

“So why’d he get out?”

“His team had a mission in South America a few years ago. I don’t know the details, but it tanked pretty bad. I only heard him mention it once: six guys went in and Pope carried the other survivor out. He got an unpublished Silver Star, for whatever that’s worth. If I had to guess, I’d say he got out because he had survivor’s guilt. Maybe still does.”

Carmichael thought for a moment. “Well, it couldn’t be too bad if he’s still working in the operational world.”

“He’s a lot like Steve Lee. Really likes the work, especially the leadership aspects. He’s a very good rifleman and he’s into martial arts. Ninjutsu and some Israeli discipline.”

“Krav Maga?” she asked.

“Hell, I don’t know. Anyway, as you’d expect, Pope is a tremendous swimmer. His idea of a good way to start the day is to jump out of an airplane ten miles at sea and swim ashore before breakfast.”

Carmichael absorbed that information. Then she asked, “Is Pope available? We need him immediately.”

“I left a message on his machine and sent an e-mail. We should hear something soon.”

“So you think he’ll go?”

“I’d bet the ranch on it. And it’s not just the action, Sandy. Pope takes his religion seriously. He and Terry Keegan really got into a pretty loud philosophical argument a while back. You know Terry was molested by a priest and left the faith as a teenager?”

She said, “Yeah, I know.”

“Well, Vic says that’s no reason to write off the Church of Rome. Anyway, Vic sees a spiritual aspect to the war on terror: Christianity against Islam. It’s not the sort of thing we’d ever publicize, but I tell you what: I’ve never known anybody as motivated as he is.”

54

Deladier had shaved and showered, changing into slacks and a polo shirt with blazer. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said with a grin.

Hurtubise waved nonchalantly from the bed. He had a notepad and two pencils, obviously absorbed in another planning session. “I’ll leave the light on, in case you’re back before dawn.”

The younger man ran a hand through his thick, dark brown hair and made a point of checking his wallet. He had turned one quarter of his paycheck into cash: more than enough for an extended stay in the city. “Oh, I’ll be back. After all, how long does it take to lay two sisters?”

Marcel conjured up a male-bonding smile. “Kiss them for me.”

“Of course! Twice each.” Deladier turned to go.

“Paul.”

“Yes?”

“What are their names?”

Deladier felt an ephemeral spike of fright. He recovered quickly: “Ah, Francesca and… Elena. Why?”

Hurtubise picked up his pad again. “I just like to know who’s getting my stand-in kisses, that’s all.” He grinned again. “Have fun.”

“Always, my friend. Always.”

Forty-five seconds after the door closed, Hurtubise picked up the phone and dialed another room number. The occupant answered on the second ring. “Alfonso? Yes, he just left. Have our friends tail him from the lobby until he returns.”

55

“What do we want to call this mission?” Wilmont asked the SSI brain trust.

Derringer drummed his fingers in the rudimental patterns of his youth. Lieutenant General Thomas Varlowe, sitting in as an ex-officio, scrawled “USMA ‘66” on his notepad.

Omar Mohammed said, “Why not Prometheus?”

Derringer considered himself well read, but ancient mythology was not high on his list. “Well, I suppose so…”

“Consider this,” Mohammed said. “Prometheus was no fool, but he attempted the impossible. He tried to deceive Zeus, who knows all and sees all, by staging a false sacrifice. Then Prometheus stole fire from Zeus and gave it to mortals on earth. Therefore, Zeus did not merely punish Prometheus: he punished the entire world for the offense that Prometheus committed.”

“Well, the comparisons are pretty obvious, considering the Iranian situation. All right, it’s the Prometheus Project.”

George Ferraro had been awaiting the chance to discuss finances. It’s always like this, he mused. The company’s involved in serious business, but most of the directors feel queasy about talking money. He cleared his throat. “Ah, gentlemen, if I may…”

Derringer nodded. “Yes, of course, George.”

“Thank you, Admiral.” He turned his head, looking at each person in the room. “You know, as chief financial officer it’s my responsibility to look after SSI’s cash flow. I realize that we’re all concerned with the national security implications of this… Prometheus… project, but since things happened in Chad we’re looking at serious cost escalation. I mean, something approaching an order of magnitude.”

Wilmont, as chief operating officer, appreciated Ferraro’s background as a leading bean counter with Naval Systems Command. “George, I don’t think anybody here disagrees with you. Certainly I do not. But you must realize that there’s just no time for the usual contractual process.” He grinned at the standing joke: “The U.S. Government buys slow-drying ink that doesn’t blot for 180 days.”

“Yeah, I understand that, Marsh. All I’m saying is that we’ve been focused on getting the job done, and really all we have from State and DoD is barely a handshake commitment to reimburse us for our upfront costs. That doesn’t even begin to address the standard fees for personnel, equipment, and routine things like consultation.”

Derringer leaned forward, fixing the younger man with his gaze. “George, please don’t take this the wrong way. I realize that you’re doing your job, and you’ve always been conscientious about it. But when I started this firm, it was not with the sole intention of making money. I saw things that needed doing because various agencies of our government were not doing them. That’s what SSI is all about. If we have to dip into our reserves to meet expenses for a while, I’m prepared to do that.”

Ferraro bit down the frustration he felt rising inside him. I’ve got the heart of a sailor and the soul of a banker, he told himself. “Admiral, as you say, I’m just doing my job on behalf of the firm. Our reserves are adequate at present — not ample, but adequate. I can juggle some accounts for a while, but unless we get a major transfusion in the next couple of months, we’re going to be looking at red ink in seven digits. I mean, ships cost a hell of a lot of money, even when you lease them!”

Wilmont sought to placate the senior VP. “Mike and I had a face-to-face with O’Connor at State. He anticipated our concern and said flat out that we’ll have everything we need, some of it gratis. His operating group is starting a set of books to show any auditors that whatever goodies we get from the Navy or elsewhere were already written off as surplus.” He tapped the tabletop. “Believe me, George, we’re covered.”

Ferraro grinned sardonically. “Trust me: I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”

“Well, there you go,” Derringer interjected. “The government is by far our largest client. It’s always come through before, but also consider this: Uncle Sugar keeps coming back to SSI because we deliver. If we declined an important contract because some of our accounts receivable were slow, we’d be out of business before long.”

The CFO ceded the argument by raising his hands, palms up. “All right, gentlemen. I understand, that’s the nature of the PMC business. I’d just like somebody to explain why I always seem to read about all these contractors being extravagantly overpaid, but it’s never Strategic Solutions.”

56

Marcel Hurtubise strode along the Qasr Ahmad waterfront, seeking a particular vessel. He glanced seaward, noting the Yugoslavian-built breakwater, and took in the maritime air. It might have been restful had he been interested in resting. But he was on business. Sometimes he wondered if he knew how to rest anymore.

He found what he was looking for. With no indication to the contrary, he strode up the gangway and asked for the captain. The seaman— a Turk by the look of him — nodded brusquely and disappeared through a hatch. Moments later it opened again.

“Welcome aboard,” the captain said in accented French. “I have been waiting for you.” He shook Hurtubise by the hand with more vigor than custom allowed, grinning widely at the passenger. He damn well should smile, Hurtubise thought. With what he’s being paid.

“Merci, mon capitaine,” the mercenary replied. He studied the skipper of M/V Tarabulus Pride, reserving judgment for the moment. Hurtubise saw a short, swarthy Libyan of indeterminate age with a face featuring a prominent nose, weathered skin, and yellowed teeth.

In turn, Captain Abu Zikri saw a reserved, fortyish Frenchman who spoke passable Arabic but whose eyes seldom stopped moving. The grip was firm, brisk, and devoid of warmth. In a word, businesslike.

“Would you like to settle in right away?” Zikri asked.

“No, I’ll just look around. My men and I will stay ashore for another day or so. But we will be here every day to make… arrangements.”

“Très bien,” the skipper replied. “Meanwhile, permit me to show you my pride and joy.”

Zikri motioned expansively as he walked, literally taking Hurtubise from stem to stern. “She’s not as pretty as she once was,” the Arab began, “but she’s fully serviceable. Oh, I admit, she could use some paint, but most women do, too, don’t you think?”

Hurtubise made a noncommittal response, preferring to evaluate the ship’s layout. He began visualizing how he would board the vessel in order to capture her, then worked backward to arrive at a defense.

Zikri seemed not to notice. Striding the deck, he became expansive. “Eighty-eight meters long, thirteen meters beam. She draws six and a half meters at thirty-one hundred tons. The engines are recently overhauled, and we can make twelve knots if we have to…”

“How many in the crew?”

“Ah, eighteen good seamen, tried and true. Mostly Arabic, a couple of Greeks. Their papers are all in order, I assure you. But depending on the length of our voyage, I may need as many as twenty-five. You know, rough weather, long watches. That sort of thing.”

“Of course,” Hurtubise replied. And the more money for you, my Arab friend, as if the crew will see much of it.

Marcel Hurtubise never had much interest in things nautical, but he knew what to look for. Though much of the vessel was unkempt, he was pleased to see that the engineering spaces were clean. It spoke well of Captain Zikri’s priorities. The Frenchman nodded to himself, a gesture that his host noticed. “You approve, Monsieur Hurtubise?”

“Oui, mon capitaine. J’approuve.”

The seaman beamed. Thus encouraged, he said, “Perhaps you would like to take some refreshment in my cabin. Some tea or… something else.” He winked broadly.

So, my Arab friend, you are not among the devout. Hurtubise filed that information for future reference. “Thank you, no. I must meet some associates. But I will return tomorrow. I hope the loading can proceed on schedule.”

“Naturellement, monsieur. Naturellement.”

57

Frank Leopole entered the Rock Fish Bistro on Wilson Boulevard, scanned the crowd. He was late, which was unusual.

Martha Whitney had been early which also was unusual.

Sandy Carmichael and Colonel David Main were into their first round of margaritas while Whitney worked on her second green tea. “No more alcohol for me, sugar,” she declared. “I had enough in Chad to last me for years.” She did not bother to elaborate upon her conspicuous consumption with Gabrielle Tixier. Carmichael and Main looked at each other across their salt-rimmed glasses — the West Point classmates knew Whitney as a conventional Baptist who tolerated demon rum but seldom indulged in it.

“There’s Frank,” Carmichael exclaimed. She waved, caught his attention, and made room for him at the table.

“Anybody else coming?” Leopole asked.

“I don’t think so,” Whitney replied. “We done been here for ever so long.” She winked at him.

“Yeah, sorry I’m late. I had to wait for the latest from Dave Dare.”

Main, who provided DoD liaison for the firm, showed his interest. “You know, I keep hearing about this Dare guy. But apparently nobody ever sees him.”

“He da Phantom. Ain’t nobody never see’d him ‘less it be da admiral.”

Carmichael almost spilled her margarita. “Honestly, Martha, sometimes I wonder what your normal speaking voice is like.”

Another broad wink. “Keeps ‘em guessing, honey.”

Main pressed the subject. “Well, is it true? Only Admiral Derringer knows Dare?”

This time Carmichael locked eyes with Leopole. Dare’s face and true identity were a corporate secret. “Oh, I’m sure somebody besides the admiral has seen him face-to-face. He has some researchers who follow his leads, but really there’s no need for the rest of us to deal with him directly.” She wrinkled her nose at Leopole, who ignored the hint. They had both spoken with David Dare in person, twice each. Carmichael even knew his actual given name.

“Well then, how do you know how much credibility to give his information?”

“Results,” Leopole said. “I’ve never known him to be wrong on a major point. If he’s uncertain about something important, usually he’ll just tell you he doesn’t know.”

Carmichael leaned across the table toward Leopole. “Did he come up with anything yet?”

The former Marine shook his head. “Nothing definite. He’s working on the shipping angle but said it’ll be a little while. Actually, I think he probably has a lead or two but doesn’t want to tell us anything until he’s sure.”

Sandy leaned back, brushing her shoulder against Main’s. Since he was not in uniform, he could drop the military decorum. Though touching Main’s hand, she regarded Leopole for a moment. She felt no special attraction to him, nor would she permit an office romance, but she wished he would let her introduce him to one or two of her girlfriends. Not a bad-looking guy, even with the scar on his neck. As far as she knew, he had never married.

Whitney broke the silence. “So, Frank. How’re things doing in… Africa?” She raised an eyebrow.

Leopole looked around. The dining area was crowded and suitably noisy. He felt free to speak in a conversational tone. “Since you left Chad, Steve’s team is wrapping up the training contract. Terry Keegan traveled to Germany with Eddie Marsh. The admiral got Marsh admitted to Ramstein, by the way. Since he’s ex-Army, there wasn’t much problem. Terry said he’s still bedridden but he should recover his health. Whether he ever flies again…”

“Is Terry coming home, then?”

Leopold shook his head. “No, he went back to Cairo. He’s putting together a jet freighter and crew in case we have to fly one of our teams someplace on short notice.”

“That makes sense,” Whitney replied. “So what about the yellow cake operation?”

“It’s now under government and U.N. supervision, for whatever that’s worth. The French PMC was ordered out of the country, but I don’t know if there’s going to be any prosecution. Steve says three or four embassies are involved, and basically everybody wants it to go away so it probably will.”

Whitney was building a head of steam. She set down her tea harder than intended, spilling some on the tablecloth. “But damn it, Frank! They shot down a helo.” Her voice hiked two octaves. “They killed a couple of Chadian soldiers and nearly killed that Marsh boy.”

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

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

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

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

“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.”

Leopole’s mouth did not curl. “Sandy, when they declare Vic Pope KIA, they’ll find a pistol with the slide locked back in one hand and a rosary in the other.”

He paused for a moment, then added, “You know, it takes all kinds to float a boat like ours. Most of our guys are operators like Bosco and Breezy: ‘hey-dude’ types who like the guns and gear and enjoy the down time. Farther up the ladder are the dedicated pros like Gunny Foyte and Steve Lee. Then there’s a few like Vic Pope: true believers. Frankly, some of those make me a little nervous.”

“How’s that?”

“To them, this is more than a profession. It’s more like… a calling. That’s how Vic Pope sees the war on terror. Christianity and Western civilization against Islamo-fascism. I’m not saying he’s a fanatic or anything, but he might bear watching at times.”

Her forehead furrowed. “My gosh, Frank. If we can’t trust him, how can we justify putting him in command?”

“Oh, I trust him. Absolutely. I’m just a little worried that when we finish this job, he may not know when to stop.”

“How do you take down a ship?”

Victor Pope stood before a three-view drawing of a typical merchant vessel, with interior layout depicted in dotted lines.

“With a submarine?” Breezy looked around, appreciating the laughter to his flippant response.

Pope decided to ignore the former paratrooper. The SEAL veteran had read each man’s SSI file, and clearly Mark Brezyinski was a qualified operator. But the California surfer persona that Breezy projected did not sit well with an intense, focused leader like Victor Matthew Pope.

“There’re two approaches to a ship at sea,” Pope explained. “By small craft and by helicopter. The advantages and disadvantages are obvious. Helos are fast but they’re noisy, they can’t surprise anybody who’s half awake. On the other hand, boats like a Zodiac can approach pretty quietly, especially with a muffled engine, and avoid visual detection depending on the approach angle. It’s best done at night, which of course is when the ship’s crew expects an attack.”

Pope used a red marker on the white board displaying the schematic. “I like to think of a ship as a moving bridge.” He gave the audience his teacher’s look again. “How do you take a bridge?”

“BOTH ENDS AT ONCE,” the class chanted. Everybody present had attended the same schools.

“Correct. But most ships have an elevated platform.” He tapped the marker against the bridge and pilothouse. “From here, the duty watch can see forward past the bow. As soon as anybody pops up over the railing, they’re going to be spotted. So, what we do is…”

He marked an X on each side, just behind the bridge. “… come aboard from port and starboard at the same time. If there’s enough operators, we come over the stern as well.”

Bosco raised a hand. “But what about the lookouts? I mean, don’t they have guys walking guard around the deck?”

“Sure they do. Or at least we have to assume so.” He looked to his naval special warfare colleague. “Mr. Malten?”

Malten stood up in the front row and turned to face the others. “We used to run this scenario until we could do it in our sleep. Same thing applied whether the ship was in port or under way. In fact, it also applied to offshore oil platforms and the like. Depending what you see when you first scan over the deck edge, either you neutralize anybody there or let him go, if he’s a rover. Then you get at least three men on deck immediately. They face forward and aft, covering the others while they get aboard. The third man looks up: there’s always structure above you. If there’s no opposition, you have a foothold and then you can start maneuvering. If it comes to a fight, at least you have some support right away.”

Pope nodded his bald head in approval. “A-plus, right out of the manual.” He turned to the audience again. “Any questions so far?”

Pace, who was decidedly unenthusiastic about recreational boating, raised a hand. “When you say you neutralize a guard, what’s the preference?”

“We’ll have suppressed SMGs and pistols. We might take a couple of rifles, but essentially a ship is a building several stories high. That applies inside as well as outside. You’ll be fighting your way upward or downward as much as fore and aft, so it’s usually close quarters. Now, in this particular case, we have to assume the guards will be armed and they’ll shoot on sight. At least that’s what I’m told, based on what happened in Chad. But even a head shot might prompt a reflex action that fires a warning shot. So if we can take out somebody without shooting, that’s preferred. We’ll have Tasers, flex cuffs, and gags. However, if you jump somebody and he’s putting up a real fight, just pitch him overboard. He can yell all he wants but he won’t be heard from a moving ship.

“Details: we don’t want to get aboard and then have somebody notice wet footprints on deck. Because we’ll board from the CRRCs, your feet should be dry but in case they’re not, take them off and go in your socks. Tie your shoes together and take them with you.”

He stood with hands on his hips, consciously exuding an air of confidence. He would seldom admit it, but he learned the trait in parochial school, long before reporting to Coronado Amphibious Base.

Green raised a hand. “Commander, what happens once we have the ship? I don’t know about the other guys, but I can’t run a rowboat.”

“We only need a small crew: enough qualified people to run the ship while the real crew is being held. Admiral Derringer is arranging that. And we’ll have a nuclear expert, Mr. Langevin, to handle the yellow cake. He’s with the team in the Middle East right now.” He scanned the room from front to back. “Anything else?”

When there was no response, Pope started walking to the door. “Let’s get going, gentlemen. Time’s our enemy right now.”

62

SS Bruno Gaido was nearly three decades older than any of the SSI operators who boarded her at Pier Two that morning. But the World War II Victory Ship had some lessons to impart.

Victor Pope stood on the foredeck, noting that some of the visitors interested in historic ships cast envious glances his way. Other vessels such as the decommissioned destroyer Barry were open for viewing, but retired Rear Admiral Michael Derringer had made a couple of calls and got his team exclusive access for two days.

“We’re going to practice interior tactics during the day,” Pope explained to his team. “After hours we’ll haul out the Zodiacs and work on boarding. That’s just as well, because in the real world we’ll probably operate at night anyway.”

The former SEAL began pacing, organizing his thoughts. He already had the lesson plans in mind, but he wanted to keep the training sessions logical, focused. “Let’s go inside,” he said.

Pope led the dozen men to the mess area, which offered the best prospects for a classroom. Once the former SEALs, Marines, Rangers, and police alumni were settled, he got right to work.

“Any of you who’ve never been aboard a ship can see why we’re not taking any long guns. We’re in tight quarters anywhere we go, so we’ll be using SMGs and pistols. Eye and ear protection are mandatory. Believe me: you cap off a round inside a steel compartment and you’ll be hearing bells for hours. That’s an advantage we’ll probably have over the opposition.

“Now, because it’s so tight in here, weapon retention is a major concern. I brought dummy weapons for us to practice with: Glocks and MP-5s. All of you know about moving to corners: don’t lead with your muzzle.” He nodded to Phil Green, an erstwhile artilleryman who had become a motorcycle patrolman. Officer Green had written a record number of citations until some of his customers complained to the department. They objected to his custom-made ticket book, featuring a rearranged bumper sticker proclaiming, “Die, yuppie scum.”

Green held a red plastic Glock close to his chest, muzzle parallel to the deck. In one fluid movement, Pope grabbed the dummy weapon with both hands and shoved it upward. As Green retreated, Pope pressed forward, keeping the muzzle beneath Green’s chin.

“You can see he’s purely defensive,” Pope explained. “I control the gun, and he can’t fight me off because he needs both hands on it. But I can use one hand to poke his eyes or smack his ear. Eventually I’m going to own his pistol.”

At a signal from Pope, Green returned to the head of the room, now holding the Glock in a low ready position, angled forty-five degrees downward. When Pope made a grab for the pistol, he got one hand on it but Green stepped back three paces, pulling his assailant off balance.

“You see what’s happened?” Pope asked. “He still has control. I can force the gun down somewhat, but it’s still pointed at my legs. He can light me up, and after the first couple of rounds I’m going to let go.”

Don Pace said, “If I’m a real smart crook, I can force the slide out of battery.”

“Well, you’d have to be one really cool customer,” Pope replied. “But how long can you keep the slide back? If Mr. Green gets in battery for less than one second, I’m toast.”

A former SWAT cop named Bob Ashcroft raised a hand. “Are we going to have suppressors on our guns? If we are, the HKs will be about as long as an M4 carbine.”

“Good point,” Pope replied. “I’d recommend putting the cans on the MP-5s when we’re on deck, since that might buy us a little time when we need it most. Once we’re inside, I’d lead with unsilenced guns and keep a few suppressed as backups once the shooting starts. Sort of have it both ways. But ear protection is still important, since the bad guys probably won’t have suppressors.”

Pope glanced at his briefing notes. “We’ll practice these retention drills and get used to working corners together. Then we’ll move to the vertical plane, with decks and ladders.”

Pace wrinkled his brow. “Ladders?”

“Okay,” Pope said. “For you landlubbers, pay attention.” He stomped his right foot twice. “This is not the floor, it’s the deck.” He tapped the wall behind him. “That’s a bulkhead.” Pointing upward, he said, “That’s the overhead. There’s no ceiling on a ship. Same applies to ladders— what you call stairs. And by the way: we’re not in a ‘room’ with a ‘corridor’ outside. This is a compartment adjoining a passageway. Got it?”

“Yessir,” Pace mumbled, obviously unconvinced.

“And another thing,” Pope added. “We probably won’t know the physical layout of our target until we get aboard, but it may have watertight doors. That means knee-knockers.” He walked to the compartment entrance and kicked the lower lip of the hatchway, elevated above the deck to contain water. “If you spend much time aboard ship, eventually you’ll skin your shins on these contraptions. If you’re doing a tactical Michael Jackson, moon walking backward while covering your team from behind, you can trip over one of these things real easy. So I recommend single-footing it.” He demonstrated by backing several steps, leading with his right foot each time.

Ashcroft shook his head. “Man, oh, man, that’s a lot of really basic stuff to absorb in a short time.”

“You’re right. That’s why we’re getting started here, and we’ll keep at it as long as we can. If our target vessel takes the western route around Africa, we’ll have a lot more time for training.”

“What about communications?” Green asked.

“We have some off the rack gear that should work but I’m still looking into that. One of the SSI directors is a major stockholder in an electronics outfit that has a new tactical headset. It’s a combination radio and hearing protector. If it works, that’s just what we need. I’m supposed to have a sample in a day or so.”

He looked around the room. “No more questions for now? All right. Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me through the hatch, down the passageway, and up the second ladder, we’ll try not to get lost.”

63

Bosco and Breezy were making the most of the down time.

Clad in garish swim trunks that screamed “American tourist,” the two operators occupied their recliners in a strategically advantageous position. Few of the resort’s patrons could enter the pool area without passing within fifteen yards of the athletic young men.

Breezy was growing tired of the routine. Their fourth day at the Mediterranean Hotel had produced another confirmed date and one probable, but they were not there entirely for R&R. “I thought we’d hear from our contact by now,” the erstwhile paratrooper declared.

Bosco shrugged. “Don’t matter to me, dude. The guys in Arlington know where to find us. If this Cohen guy can’t be reached, we might as well enjoy ourselves, you know?”

As a string bikini wiggled past, Bosco lowered his Oakley shades off the bridge of his nose for a better view of the owner’s derriere. He shook his head in appreciation of the human female’s gluteus maximus. “Mmm… mmm. Dude, we came to the right candy store.”

Breezy did not bother to look up. “Man, you know that half these babes don’t even show up when they say they will.”

The Ranger’s ingrained confidence and sense of mission were both bulletproof. “Yeah, but half of them do.” The latter sentiment was accompanied by a male-bonding click-click sound of the tongue.

Breezy finally looked at his friend from four feet distance. “Man, I can see it from here. You’re approaching a state of physical and mental exhaustion.”

“Like that’s a bad thing?”

While Bosco was absorbing that response, his friend hit upon a fresh thought. “Hey, I gotta go shopping this afternoon. You want me to pick up anything for you?”

“Shopping? For what? Souvenirs?”

“Condoms, dude. Condoms.”

Bosco returned to his supine position. “Man, you live your life between your legs.”

“Like that’s a bad thing?”

“Well,” the former paratrooper replied, “there’s more to life than sex.”

Breezy knew when he had his partner’s goat. “Of course there is. There’s violence, too. They go together, sorta like the yin and yang of the universe. Like, you know, the duality of nature.”

Bosco sat bolt upright. “The duality of nature! Brezyinski, where the hell did you ever hear a phrase like that? You sure didn’t read it.”

“Hell, man, I dunno. I heard it somewhere.”

“But you don’t know what it means.”

Two Alitalia flight attendants walked past, chattering in delightfully melodic voices. Both Americans interrupted their philosophical discourse to track the young women for several meters.

At length Breezy said, “Of course I know what it means.”

“What?” Bosco was still distracted. He was seriously serious about slender, raven brunettes.

The Ranger tagged the paratrooper with the back of one hand. “We were talking about the duality of nature. You know, like, sex and violence.”

Bosco was focused again. “Are you trying to tell me that you like war as much as sex?”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never been to a real war. That’s why I got out. But what I’m saying is, if I had to choose between sex every day and combat every day, I don’t know what I’d take.”

Bosco regarded his friend, as if seeing him for the first time. “Well, for one thing, if you got shot at every day of your life, eventually you’d be KIA.”

Breezy unzipped a knowing grin. “Sex can kill you, too.”

“So you’re trying to tell me that you enjoy sex as much as killing people. That’s pretty far out, dude.”

“No, not exactly. I’m saying that I really like shooting people who shoot at me. It doesn’t matter if they’re killed or not. C’mon, man, you know what I’m saying. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“Look,” Bosco said. “Yeah, sometimes I enjoy the rush of double tapping some guy who’s trying to kill me. But that’s not why I stay with SSI. I’d do the same work for the same pay if I never had to shoot.”

“So it’s the gear more than the job.”

“Well, yeah, pretty much. I mean, I still get paid really well to do what I like: parachuting, rappelling, stuff like that. But it’s a lot better than the Army because I do it on my terms, and I can walk away almost anytime I want. With the money I’m saving, it’s a no-brainer.”

“Excuse me,” a voice intruded.

The Americans looked up from their recliners. They saw a thirtyish, obviously fit young man who spoke almost unaccented English.

“Are you Mr. Boscombe and Mr. Brezyinski?” the man asked.

Bosco raised his sunglasses, better to inspect the stranger. “You Mr. Cohen?”

“Alex Cohen. Frank Leopole sent me. We need to talk.”

64

A crewman of Tarabulus Pride approached Hurtubise, who was compiling notes in his two-bunk cabin. “Monsieur, a man to see you. He is on the pier.”

The mercenary secured his papers, stuck the Makarov in his waistband, and pulled on a jacket. Making his way to the starboard gangway, he saw a familiar face. “René, mon vieux.” Hurtubise strode down the plank and embraced the former Legionnaire. After much back slapping he exclaimed, “Your timing is good. I was beginning to wonder about my sources.”

René Pinsard grinned broadly. “I did not get your message until last night, and I could not reach you on board your mighty ship.” Pinsard tilted his head toward the cargo vessel.

“Oh, I’m spending most nights aboard now. My other three men alternate so they can get more rest. I never knew that ships were so damned noisy.”

Pinsard’s hazel eyes focused on his former Legion comrade. “You do look tired. But now that Caporal Pinsard is here, your problems are over!”

Hurtubise tried not to appear too skeptical. “My personnel problems or my equipment problems?”

“Both, of course!” Pinsard reached a tanned hand into his shirt pocket and produced a list. “There’s the inventory of what you wanted and what we can provide. As you will see, eight men instead of twelve, but they’re reliable. I have worked with them all. Two or three even have some nautical experience.”

“And the hardware?”

As if on cue, a van drove down the pier and stopped a few meters away. The sign on the side proclaimed that it belonged to a maritime provisioning firm. “Everything you wanted, Marcel. And I mean everything.”

“RPGs?”

“RPG-7s. Four launchers with ten rounds apiece. I could have got some 18s, but they cost more. Speaking of which…”

Hurtubise knew where his friend was leading. “That is not a problem, mon ami. Everything in cash, as agreed. My, ah, financiers are quite generous in that regard.”

He returned to the list that Pinsard had provided. “Hmmm… gas masks, good. Small arms and ammunition, heavy machine guns, very good. Oh, maybe not enough body armor for everybody.”

“Enough for you and me.” Pinsard smiled.

Hurtubise appreciated the man’s humor — and priorities. “What about motion detectors?”

“I have some but we should talk to your captain. I am not sure that they will work on a ship. I mean, they should work, but too well. All that rolling, and water coming over the deck.” He shrugged. “I would not count on them being very useful. Too many false alarms.”

Hurtubise pocketed the list and looked at the van. “All right, let’s get everything loaded. I want to leave tomorrow or the next day.”

65

Derringer and Carmichael huddled with Leopole for an update on the deployed teams.

The former Marine officer began, “Jeff Malten is taking the SEAL cadre to Israel. He’ll arrive today and meet Bosco and Breezy, who’ve been there a few days. Jeff’s coordinating with Alex Cohen on intel and he’ll be our go-to guy when we learn about the ship. If the yellow cake heads east, we know it’s Suez and Jeff’s team will follow. If we learn the ship’s headed west, that means Gibraltar and the long way around.”

“There could be false leads,” Carmichael said. “You know, disinformation.”

“Affirm. We expect that. But between Dave Dare’s shop and what we get from State and elsewhere, we should be able to shake things out.”

“Okay, then,” Sandy replied. “Let’s hope it’s Gibraltar. That’ll give us a big breather.”

At length, Derringer spoke up. “You know, one thing really bothers me. About the intelligence, that is. Yes, we’re getting reports from Dave and State and DoD, but we don’t know how independent the sources are.”

“How’s that, Admiral?” Leopole asked.

“Dave and his spooks are good at what they do — really good. But without access to the raw data, we could be relying on just one or two actual sources. You know the routine: A tells B; B tells C; C tells A. It looks like three reports, but actually it’s one.”

Leopole’s forehead wrinkled. “Admiral, we already talked about sources. Dare’s working group is supposed to get raw data when we request it. That’s how the operation was set up.”

“Yes, but I talked to Dave this morning. That’s one reason I wanted to meet with both of you. So far, he’s got nothing more than what we see from government sources. He said that worries him, because usually he can get inside the loop in a matter of days and at least conclude whether data is original or filtered. So far, he thinks most reports come via Israel.”

Carmichael set down her coffee cup. “Well, things happened so fast that we didn’t have much time to establish a more thorough network. But you’re right: we don’t know if the intel so far is raw or not. It could be doctored.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Derringer said.

Leopole rubbed his crew cut. “Well, we need to let our operators know that.”

“Yes, but it’ll need some delicate handling. Alex is in the loop and…”

“My God,” Leopole exclaimed. “You’re saying he might be the reason…”

“We have to consider it.”

Carmichael resisted the impulse to bite one of her manicured nails. “Sir, maybe we’re overlooking an obvious source.”

“Yes?” Derringer replied.

“Well, Iran.”

The two males exchanged wide-eyed looks.

“Sure,” Carmichael continued. “If I understand it, all our information so far comes from our own sources but maybe it’s all from the Israelis. Well, you know them. They’ll share what’s in their interest to share and not much more. But if we could tap into one or two Iranian sources, that’d tend to confirm or deny what we’ve heard so far.”

Leopole raised his hands, palms up. “Sandy, that’s a primo consideration. But presumably anything originating in Iran would come to us via NSA or the CIA or State or whatever.”

“Yes, Frank. But we don’t know. That’s why it’s so important to see raw data, and Dave Dare is saying he can’t break it out. I’m just wondering who else we can call on.”

Leopole slapped his knee. “Under our noses.”

“What?”

“Omar.”

Derringer grinned. “Get him.”

66

“Hey, there’s Jeff!”

Breezy turned at Bosco’s exclamation and glimpsed Jeff Malten walking through the hotel lobby.

Bosco could not help himself. “Hey, we’re a circus act!” The ex-Army men extended their arms like Joan Rivers, clapping their hands and balancing imaginary balls on their noses. “Arf arf! We’re trained SEALs!”

Malten looked at his Navy friend. “Some things you can always count on in a changing world.” He shook hands with his colleagues and introduced his partner. “Bosco, Breezy, this is Scott Pfizer. He’s another trained SEAL.”

Breezy allowed himself to grin. “Trained? Does that mean you balance balls on your nose or do you do water tricks?”

Pfizer was short, muscular, and businesslike. “Well, I’d say that I do tricks. By the way, how far can you swim under water?”

“Depends on what I see,” Breezy quipped. “But I met this Greek gal the other night and she could hold her breath longer than—”

Bosco interrupted his friend’s reverie with an elbow to the ribs. “Jeff, what’s the rest of the team look like?”

Malten swiveled his head. “I think we’d better talk in one of the rooms. This Cohen guy was supposed to make reservations for us.”

“Yeah, we met him. He seems to have things organized. C’mon, we can talk in our room until he gets back.”

Following Brezyinski down the corridor, Malten asked, “Where’d he go?”

“Damn if I know. He comes and goes all the time, like he’s the only one involved but there has to be other people. Maybe the Israelis just like to keep their contacts to a minimum.”

In their room, Bosco helped himself to the refrigerator and offered drinks to the others. Malten passed while Pfizer accepted a ginger ale. Dropping Breezy’s wet trunks on the floor, Malten occupied the chair and organized his thoughts. “Are you guys in contact with Arlington?”

Bosco sipped his beer and nodded. “We check e-mail at least twice a day. We have a phone card but we’re not supposed to use it if we don’t have to.”

“Well, then you’re probably pretty much up-to-date. Vic Pope is running the other team, and he’ll take the ship if it goes the long way around. I’m getting another SEAL and four other guys to start, with maybe a couple more besides. It’s real loosy-goosy, but I guess it has to be until we know more. If the ship goes via Suez, we’ll get the nod.”

“So well have, what? Eight or maybe ten guys?”

“Yeah, I think so. Frank wanted to load what he’s calling our East Team with most of our SEALs because we won’t have as much time to prepare as Pope’s team. Our job is to get you guys aboard the ship. After that, it’s pretty much interior tactics.”

“Fine,” said Breezy. “But what then? I mean, like, what do we do once we own the boat?”

Malten shrugged. “That’s still up in the air. I guess part of it depends on what Cohen turns up.”

Bosco asked, “So what do you know about Cohen?”

“Just what Frank and Sandy told me. Dual citizenship, apparently a lot of experience with the Israelis, though I don’t know details. He’s worked with SSI before. What’d he tell you?”

“Well, he’s lined up a ship for us to use. He wants a twenty-knot speed and big enough to carry a couple of Zodiacs. He said it needs to be foreign registry, which I guess means anything but Israeli.”

Malten glanced at Pfizer. The younger SEAL said, “That’s not a big deal. Ships change registry now and then, and they can fly a flag of convenience.”

Bosco gave him a blank stare. “Flag of convenience?”

“It’s a tax dodge. Panama is a real small country, but I think it registers more ships than anyplace else. There are even countries without coastlines that register ships because the fees are so low.”

“You mean, like, Nebraska could register ships?”

Pfizer chuckled aloud. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I’ve seen merchant vessels with Mongolian registry.”

“You gotta be shitting me,” Bosco exclaimed.

“No lie, GI.”

The operators heard four sharp raps on the door. Breezy looked through the peephole and said, “It’s Cohen.” He admitted the Israeli-American and introduced the new arrivals.

Alexander Cohen quickly surveyed the team but showed no interest in the individuals’ opinions. Instead, he took charge of the assembly and exercised his home-court advantage. “I know that none of you have been to Israel before, but that doesn’t matter too much. We won’t be here very long because I just have confirmed that our target is docked in Misratah. It will probably sail in the next two days or so.”

“Where the hell’s Misratah?” Bosco asked. He resented Cohen’s attitude and could tell that most of the others shared his impression.

“Oh, that’s in Libya.” His tone seemed to imply Of course.

Jeff Malten was not prepared to accept much on faith. “What’s the source of that information?”

Cohen raised his hands, palms up. “I cannot discuss sources, Mr. Malten. I’m sure that you understand the need for security.”

“No, actually, Mr. Cohen, I don’t. Especially when it’s our necks. I think we’re entitled to know something about the information we’re acting on.” He made a point of looking around. “I think we all do.”

“Damn straight,” Breezy said.

Bosco added a Ranger “Hoo-ah.”

Pfizer, sensitive to his status as the new guy, merely returned Cohen’s gaze.

“Another thing as long as we’re discussing priorities,” Malten added. “As far as I know, I’m leading this team. That’s what Colonel Leopole told me when Scott and I left Washington yesterday, and I don’t think anything’s changed since then. If I’m wrong, now’s the time to hear it. From him.”

Cohen’s brown eyes took a gunslinger squint at the former SEAL; a gaze of respectful resentment. At length Cohen said, “That is my information as well, Mr. Malten. But since this is my country and since I am arranging our equipment and shipping, I believe that SSI grants me control over the preparations. Once the operation begins, of course you are in charge.”

Malten’s brain registered the phrase My country. He could not resist making his point. “Well, maybe that’s the difference between us. These guys and me, we’re Americans. That’s our country. I understand that you have dual citizenship…” He allowed the sentiment to dangle in the thickening air.

Alexander Cohen was unaccustomed to having his loyalty questioned by Americans or Israelis. He bit off the response he felt building in his throat and, controlling his voice, replied, “I was born in America of Israeli parents. Considering what that ship is carrying to Iran, I think we both have cause for concern, don’t you?”

Jeffrey Malten nodded, then pressed his point. “So how do you know what ship we’re after?”

Cohen decided on a middle course. “The ship is called Tarabulus Pride. It’s Libyan registry, about three thousand tons. Apparently it’s loaded and ready to sail. We don’t know why it hasn’t left yet, but maybe the French security firm wants to get more men. They must know well be tracking the shipment.”

Malten was unwilling to concede the intelligence argument. “Okay, that helps. But how do you know all this?”

Cohen folded his arms. “Mr. Malten, for now I can just say that we are confident of the information. I can ask for permission to share that with you, but it will take some time. And I do not think we have much time.”

“All right, I’ll trust you to do that. Now, what about our own ship and equipment?”

Cohen sat at the writing desk and laid down a notepad. “Our ship is leased for one month, which should be plenty of time if the yellow cake goes via Suez. It’s fully fueled and manned. We have three Zodiacs, weapons, radios, and boarding equipment. Here’s the list. Let me know if you need more.”

Malten looked at Pfizer with raised eyebrows. “Well, that’s a lot of gear in a short time. Mr. Cohen, I don’t…”

The Israeli smiled. “As long as we’re arguing so well, make it Alex.”

“Okay, I’m Jeff.” Malten looked at the list again. “Ah, right now I don’t know if we’ll have enough men for three boats. But it’s good to have a spare.”

Cohen leaned back, hands behind his head. “Nothing’s too good for our American friends.”

67

Mike Derringer was a well-known workaholic: he arrived early each weekday and often spent part of a weekend at the office. Today was no different. He checked the coffeepot, noticed that Peggy Springer already had turned it on, and not for the tenth time admired her efficiency.

He turned on his office computer to check overnight e-mail and found the usual clutter of messages: reminders, jokes, reunion notices, occasional obituaries. SSI’s computer support division had installed a powerful firewall in all the company’s machines, and Derringer— certainly no prude — gladly did without the Internet’s marketing pollution: penis enlargement, enhanced sexual performance, and teenage Asian sluts. Occasionally Karen assured him that, at age sixty-seven, he needed neither of the first two, but she would personally see to organ reduction if he ever dabbled in the third.

He believed her.

Quickly working his way through the list, making frequent use of the Delete button, Derringer saw a message from a sender called “Double Dare.” Derringer opened the message.

Admiral: Our boat left late yesterday PM, probable heading 270.

More to follow. DD.

Derringer swiveled in his chair, punched the intercom, and buzzed Wilmont’s office. There was no response, nor did the admiral expect one at 0745. Marsh is more an 0900 kinda guy, the admiral thought. In descending order down the ladder, he buzzed Sandra Carmichael and Frank Leopole.

“Leopole here.”

“Frank. I’m glad you’re in. Our bird has flown the coop.”

“Be right there, sir.”

“Ah, have you seen Sandy?”

“Negative. I think she’s still inbound.”

“Very well. Hustle up here and I’ll try her cell phone.”

Derringer checked his Rolodex — he still trusted electrons just so far — and punched in the number.

“This is Sandra Carmichael.”

“Sandy, Mike.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your ETA?”

“Ah, I’m still on Sixty-six, approaching the Twenty-nine exit. Call it one-five mikes. Less if this idiot ahead of me moves over.”

Derringer visualized the geography. Carmichael’s Nissan would exit onto the Lee Highway, take Danville Street south across Wilson Boulevard to Clarendon, and proceed east toward Courthouse Road. “Very well. Come straight to my office. Frank and I are working the latest intel.”

“You heard from Dave?”

“That is affirm.”

“Gotcha, sir.” The line went dead.

Leopole walked directly into the office without bothering to knock. “What’ve we got, Admiral?”

“Just a preliminary report from Dave Dare. He says the ship left yesterday afternoon or evening, probably westbound. That’s all we have for now.”

“Then Jeff Malten’s team is…”

“Way out of position in Israel. Yes, I know. I understand that Pope’s people are set to fly out today.”

“Yessir.” The foreign ops director stood for a moment, rubbing his chin and wishing he could dispense with his tie. “Admiral, we could try repositioning Malten but I think maybe we…”

“Concur.” Derringer allowed himself to laugh. “Frank, if we keep this up much longer, we’re going to be telepathic. It took me about eight years before I could do that with Karen.”

Leopole laughed politely, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “Looks like a long day, sir. But if I read you, we still don’t know for certain that Dare’s report is complete enough to act on. I mean, yes, the ship could’ve left, but until we know that it’s definitely headed west, we could end up chasing our own tail.”

“Concur again. But get on the horn and see if you can talk to Malten. Or Cohen might be a better prospect. Just call it a warning order: prepare to fly to Morocco, but also be ready to execute the Suez option.”

“Well, Terry Keegan’s back in Cairo with a leased cargo plane and crew. That’s one of the better contingencies we arranged. He should be able to get to Haifa on pretty short notice.”

“Yes, we should let him know as well.” Derringer looked at the ship’s clock on his wall. “Call it 0800 here — about 1500 there. I’ll try that call myself. Report back here when you’re done and we’ll huddle with Sandy.”

Minutes later, Carmichael entered the office. She dropped her purse in a chair and waited while Derringer got off the phone. “Sandy, good morning. Sit down and I’ll fill you in.”

“Thanks, Admiral. I take it that we’re talking to Jeff Malten this morning?”

“Frank’s doing that. I just talked to Terry Keegan in Cairo. He says he could be gear-up for Haifa with less than an hour’s notice, though the air traffic regs are more bureaucratic in the Hindu-Muslim part of the world. He’s going to talk to our embassy and see if they can get him a short-notice waiver.”

Carmichael’s blond hair bobbed as she nodded. Then she said, “Admiral, the thing that worries me is intelligence. Not that I doubt Dave Dare, but I just don’t think we can launch two teams without more confirmation.”

“I agree. In fact, Frank and I already discussed that. Sandy, I know it’s below your usual responsibility, but could you coordinate all our intel sources until we know something positive? Dave’s working group will have its hands full.”

She stood, straightened her skirt, and said, “I’m on it.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, I meant to ask: anything from Omar about some Iranian contacts?”

“Just that he’s working it. Actually, I wouldn’t expect too much, Sandy. At least not anytime soon. After all, he’s been out of the country over thirty-five years. He said he still has some relatives there, but I don’t think they’re connected. If he turns up something, it’ll be among the expatriate community.”

“Okay. I’ll get to work, Admiral.”

Watching the retired Army O-5 walk out, Derringer admired the view. Best legs on any light colonel I ever saw.

68

The acrid oxyacetylene scent lingered in the ship’s relative wind, but Hurtubise ignored the odor and the sparks. Striding from port to starboard, he supervised installation of machine gun mounts on the Tarabulus Pride’s guardrail while René Pinsard and some of his associates degreased the weapons and laid out belted ammunition.

Abu Yusuk Zikri appeared from forward of the superstructure. Hurtubise already recognized the captain’s ambivalence to the modifications, but it mattered little. The Libyan skipper appreciated prompt payment far more than any concerns about quasi-legal alterations to his ship.

“You are nearly finished?” Zikri asked, the hope obvious in his voice.

Pinsard’s welder finished fusing the vertical pipe to the rail, completing the crude weapon mount. Then he snuffed out his torch, turned off the regulator. He raised his visor and nodded to Hurtubise. Then he pulled off his gloves and prepared to move the portable equipment.

“Back here, yes. Now we’ll add two more mounts ahead of the pilothouse.”

“Oh,” Zikri replied, noncommittal as ever. “Is that necessary?”

Hurtubise gave a sly grin. “I hope not.”

“Ahem. Yes, I see your point.” He returned the smile, minus the enthusiasm. “Ah, monsieur, could we speak? In private?”

“Of course.” He walked farther aft, away from Pinsard’s men.

Though clear of the others, Zikri still spoke in a low voice. “I have received a confidential message from our… benefactors. I thought you should see it immediately.”

Hurtubise accepted the message form and read it twice. Then he raised his eyes to Zikri’s. “Who else has seen this?”

“Only the radio operator and me.”

“Is the operator trustworthy?”

“Monsieur, he is my second cousin. We grew up together.”

But can he be trusted? The Frenchman decided against repeating the question aloud. “All right. Just make sure he does not discuss any messages with anyone else, not even my men.”

Zikri nodded animatedly. “He already knows that.”

“What about the others?”

“Which others?”

“You have other radio operators, don’t you? Your cousin, he does not remain on duty twenty-four hours.”

“Oh. Well, anything but routine traffic always comes to me or the first officer, day or night. But my second operator is reliable. His mother’s mother’s family is still in Palestine. They hate the Jews.”

Hurtubise thought for a moment, sorting priorities. “I want to talk to each of your operators, with you present. I want them to know that Pinsard or I are to be told of any such messages, no matter what time of day or night.” He lanced the captain with a predator’s stare. “No exceptions.”

“As you wish, monsieur.”

Hurtubise dismissed the captain with a curt nod. Then he rejoined Pinsard’s men.

“René.”

The mercenary looked up from his work. He had just hefted a pintle-mounted MAG-58 onto one of the welded stanchions. It swiveled reasonably well. With a word to one of the armorers, he joined his former comrade.

“Yes, Marcel?”

Hurtubise handed him the message without comment. When Pinsard finished reading, the concern was visible on his face. “How did they know?”

“I can guess.” Paul, you bastard. I was right to kill you. And I was wrong to regret it. “But that doesn’t matter. Right now, I think we have to assume that we’ll be intercepted rather than consider it a possibility.”

“What’s the source of this information? It doesn’t say.”

“It doesn’t have to. I know who’s involved, and the authenticator is valid. If the source says the Americans and Israelis know we’ve sailed, that’s the end of it.”

Pinsard returned the paper, folded his arms, and regarded his friend. “You think it’ll be the Americans or the Jews?”

Hurtubise arched an eyebrow. “Qui sait? Maybe both. Anyway, we made the right choice by avoiding Suez. Too much chance of being boarded for routine inspection. This way, the captain says we can alter our course and speed, maybe give them the slip. For a while, anyway.”

Pinsard looked outboard, scanning the Middle Sea. “There’s a lot of ships out here. It will not be easy finding us among so many others.”

“No, it won’t be easy. But they will find us. I feel it, here!” He punched himself in the solar plexus.

Pinsard unzipped a confident smile. “Then we’ll just have to give them a warm reception.”

“The best kind, mon ami. The best kind.”

69

The C-5B Galaxy climbed away from Dover Air Force Base, Delaware, propelled by forty-one thousand pounds of thrust. At the controls was the newest aircraft commander in the wing, flying her first trip in the left seat. Captain Debra McClintock turned the steering bug on the autopilot console to refine the outbound heading. “Next stop, Azores,” she told her copilot. The blond first lieutenant, a former cheerleader called Barbie, gave a thumbs-up. She received no end of kidding about her fiancé, a captain named Ken.

In the passenger deck farther aft, the SSI team settled down to make use of the ensuing several hours. Though the compartment held seventy-three seats, the operators kept to themselves, carried on the passenger list as retirees flying space available to Europe. The cargo manifest made no mention of their Zodiacs nor the shipping crates containing interesting items common to the spec-ops trade. They wore standard-issue nomex flight suits to blend in as much as possible.

Phil Green leaned back, hands behind his head. “I gotta hand it to the admiral and his guys. I mean, coordinating two teams five thousand miles or more from D.C. takes some doing. Let alone getting us on this plane.”

Don Pace looked around. “Yeah. How’d they arrange this, anyway?”

Pope knew the background. “There’s two hooks they can hang this on: joint airborne and transportability training, or a special assignment airlift mission. I don’t know exactly how the blue suits will log this, but I’d guess SAAM since we’re not actually military. But the fact that they’re delivering spare parts and some people to Spain and Italy provides decent cover.”

“What’s it matter?” asked Pace. “I mean, we’re all working for Uncle Sugar, aren’t we?”

The former SEAL looked around, satisfying himself that the adjoining seats were empty. “Right now it doesn’t matter at all. But if this thing tanks, and Congress starts investigating, then it could matter a lot.”

“Politics,” Green said.

“You got it.” He shrugged. “That’s how it is with government.”

“I’m an anarchist,” the erstwhile cop declared. “When my great-great-grandfather got off the boat from England, he asked, ‘Is there a government in this country?’ When they told him there was, he said, ‘I’m against it!’“

Pope felt himself warming to Green. The onetime motorcycle patrolman came across as cynically flippant, but when he rucked up, he put on his game face and remained focused until the gear was stowed. Pace, on the other hand, was perennially laid-back. He appeared unflappable, possessing a street cop’s visceral disdain of front-office types. Pope knew that Green had shot for blood, and the fact that both had been SWAT instructors lent credibility in the SEAL’s opinion.

“Now, everybody gather ‘round.” Pope waited for the other team members to close in for the impromptu briefing.

“A lot can go wrong just getting the full team together,” he began. “The admiral has to coordinate not just our schedule with the ship in Rota, but getting approval for Keegan to fly Malten’s team there in time to meet us. Then we have to move our gear as well as his to the ship, get everything and everybody aboard, and be ready to deploy.”

“Isn’t Cohen handling some of that?” Green asked.

“I suppose he is, at least the Israeli end. But I don’t want to dwell on that: there’s not much we can do about it, and we have to proceed based on a unified operation plan.”

“I understand there was some sort of argument about who’s calling the shots. With Cohen, I mean.”

Pope cocked his head. “Where’d you hear that?”

“I heard Leopole and Carmichael in the coffee room.”

“Well, you know almost as much as I do. Frank told me the same thing, but he said there’s been a phone call and it’s thrashed out. Cohen has authority feet dry; Jeff takes the conn when they’re feet wet.”

“How does that work with getting their ship?”

“I don’t know, other than they already have a fast one lined up. But Jeff’s a good head. He doesn’t let his ego get in the way.”

Green’s blue eyes sparkled in the cabin lighting. “Gosh, how’d he ever get to be a SEAL?”

70

“Captain, what can we expect at Gibraltar?” Hurtubise had informed himself of the basics of maritime traffic control but there had been no time for details. He had to trust Zikri on matters of seamanship.

The Libyan skipper looked forward, visualizing the exit to the Atlantic, somewhere beyond the mist and haze. He turned to a map on the chart table. “We are here,” he said, tapping a position opposite Bizerte. “About four hundred miles out of Misratah, day before yesterday.”

Hurtubise shook his head. “What is that in kilometers?”

Zikri rubbed his stubbled chin. “Ohhh… maybe seven hundred.” He grinned at the landlubber. “There are nautical miles and statute miles. We do not bother with statute — that’s for the Americans.

“Anyway, we are making a little over ten knots — say, eighteen kilometers per hour. At that rate we reach Gibraltar in about ninety hours. When we approach the eastern end of the strait, we contact traffic control. Most ships identify themselves, but the international convention permits corporate security.” He grinned broadly. “Very considerate, yes? We file a discreet report that avoids public announcement. After that, we monitor Tarifa Radio for traffic information. As long as we stay in one of the shipping lanes, there should be no problem.”

Hurtubise viewed the map with practiced eyes, noting the geographic geometry. “Are there other ways to track us?”

“Well, there is satellite coverage that helps with traffic control. I think about two hundred ships pass the strait every day. It can get very crowded: the narrows are only eight miles wide.” He looked at the Frenchman. “Twelve kilometers.”

“How good is the satellite coverage?”

Surprise registered on Zikri’s face. “You mean for identification?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I do not know for certain. But I doubt that a ship could be identified beyond its length and maybe its beam. That is, width. Certainly not by name.”

“Mon capitaine, do not be so casual about the Americans with their statutory miles. They have satellites that can show a golf ball.”

The Arab shrugged. “Maybe so. But I believe it is a very great problem to position a satellite to cover a moving object, like a ship. Besides, how could they pick us out of hundreds of other vessels in a given area?”

“Maybe they can’t. But I want to take no unnecessary chances. Once we are past Gibraltar, I want the crew to start repainting.”

“Well, yes, we can do that. Not the entire ship, as I explained before. But we can use a different color on the upper works, and change the name on the stern.” Tikri regarded his colleague. “We will need your men to do the work as fast as possible.”

“Of course. They’re not here for a sea cruise.”