Prometheus's Child

71

Cadiz Bay slid astern as the leased cargo ship departed the Spanish coast. Standing on the stern with some of his team as Rota Naval Station faded into the distance, Victor Pope said, “Hard to believe we left Dover barely thirty hours ago.”

Phil Green massaged the back of his neck. “Hard to believe I’ve gone that long without sleep. Whoever said that people can sleep on airplanes?”

“You’d be surprised where people can sleep. I’ve seen guys curl up on coral rocks and drop off in thirty seconds. And we weren’t on the C-5 even ten hours, including the Azores. Besides, the pilot was a nine and the copilot was at least a seven.”

“Like they’d ever give me the time of day. You know, all my life, my problems have involved women: both because I had one and because I didn’t.” The ex-cop glanced around. “Well, I’ll say this: whoever arranged for this boat had his priorities right. Nice bunks and the kitchen smelled good.”

Pope gave his erstwhile Army colleague a sideways glance. “I don’t know about the kitchen, but I think they’re shelling crab in the galley.”

Green responded with an exaggerated shrug. “Brrr… I get nervous when I hear about ships and galleys. You know, like in Ben Hur. ‘Row well and live.’“

Don Pace ambled up, slightly unsteady on his feet. “I couldn’t sleep downstairs. Too much noise from the motor.”

The former SEAL realized that he was being set up. He ignored the landlubbers’ studied ignorance and returned his gaze to shore. To no one in particular he declared, “We could be at sea for a week or more. Maybe a lot more. We’ll have to get used to this sort of life.”

Geoffrey Pascoe strode to the stern on experienced legs. Pope had only met him hours previously, but the former Royal Marine Commando took to a ship’s motion in marked contrast to most of the Americans. He spoke in terse, clipped tones. “Commander, I understand you want to see me.”

“Yes, thank you, Geoff. We don’t stand on rank here.”

“As you wish. Sir.” The Brit gave an icy smile.

“I want to get acquainted while we have time,” Pope said. “I’m certainly glad to have you aboard. Especially on such short notice.”

“Well, apparently your Admiral Derringer and I have a few mutual acquaintances. I’ve only been out barely a fortnight — was planning to get married. But when a couple of chaps in trench coats bought me a drink and waved a lot of money in my face, I found myself on the way to Heathrow with a ticket to Spain.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I still don’t think that Leslie believes I plan to return.”

“You were in M Squadron?”

“Yes… si… ah, yes. Two years.”

“Right up our alley,” Pope replied. He noticed querulous expressions on some of the Americans. “M Squadron, Special Boat Service, is the Royal Marines’ maritime counterterror unit.”

Pascoe asked, “Commander…” He grinned self-consciously. “Sorry about that. Old habits, you know. Ah, what do you think about this setup?”

“It’s a good ship. I wish we could’ve got our gear loaded faster, but I think SSI did a really good job coordinating everything. Not just the air transport, but having the trucks ready to move us from the air station to the pier. I halfway expected that we’d land and find nobody waiting for us.”

“No,” Pascoe replied. “I mean the captain and the crew. Here we are, going to sea for who knows how long with these guys, and we don’t really know anything about them.”

“Spooks,” Pace declared. “I can always tell.”

Pope nodded his bald head, which somehow seemed immune to sunburn. “Not a doubt in my military mind. But that’s okay. I’ve worked with the company before. The Langley types may be screwed up six ways to breakfast, but the operators I’ve known are almost always good guys. I think these guys will tell us what we need to know.”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Pace responded.

Pope pointed abaft the bridge. “They should know plenty. Look at those antennae. VHF, UHF, and satellite. This ship is wired.”

He stretched his muscular arms and flexed his shoulders. “Well, we’re far enough out now. I’ll go talk to the captain and see about arranging a training schedule.”

Jeff Malten joined the group, squeezing his grip strengthener with his left hand. “Vic, I just came past the bridge. Cohen’s talking to the skipper right now.”

Pope gave the junior SEAL a suspicious look. “Do you think they know each other?”

“Damned if I know. Why?”

“Just a thought. They both work this part of the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re both company men, if you know what I mean.”

Malten thought for a moment, quickening the squeezes of his left hand. “Well, I still don’t know the details, but he had a twenty-knot ship ready for us to take from Haifa if we needed it. How many door-kickers have that kind of pull?”

Pope dismissed the subject: he preferred to focus on the future. “As long as we have some slack time, we can put it to good use. Especially boat handling.”

Geoff Pascoe knew an opportunity when he saw one. He leveled a gaze at the ex-cop. “You’ll love it, Pace. Nobody throws up more than two or three times in a Zodiac. After that, it’s just the dry heaves.” He smiled broadly.

Pace gave an exaggerated gulp. “Uh, when’re we gonna do that training?”

Pope kept a straight face. “As often as possible. In fact, I’m going to check with the captain to see when we can put some Zodiacs over the side.”

In the pilothouse, Pope found Cohen just leaving. They exchanged brief greetings before the SEAL stepped inside. “Captain? Do you have a minute?”

The skipper turned toward the American. “Oh, sure.” It came out “Chur.” Captain Gerritt Maas spoke a vaguely accented English that shifted between western and northern Europe. That was small wonder, since he spoke Dutch, French, Spanish, and Norwegian, and could produce convincing proof that three of them were his native tongue.

“Sir, I’d like to discuss some details with you. We got under way so fast that we didn’t have time to get acquainted.”

“Veil, ve verk for de same people,” Maas replied. His eyes said as much as his voice. “Besites, ve haf plenty of time now.” He gestured with his pipe. “Seferal days at sea, maybe efen veeks.”

Pope decided to talk shop before moving to more delicate subjects. “Tell me about this ship. What can she do?”

“Don Carlos, she can do almost anything. At ninety-four hundred gross registered, she can make seventeen knots. We have bow thrusters so we can dock without tugs. She’s 128 meters by 20.5 in the beam. She draws ten to eleven meters.”

“How long can you maintain seventeen knots?”

Maas smiled broadly. “As long as fuel lasts.”

Pope eyed his colleague. “Skipper, who really owns this vessel?”

A light illuminated in the skipper’s hazel eyes. He inclined his head, as if studying a specimen in a bottle, then said, “Consolidated Industrial Affiliates, out of Amsterdam.” After a pause he added, “I can show you the papers.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“My dear commander, do you think it implausible that Certain Important Associates would have no sense of humor?”

Pope almost allowed himself to smile. “Actually, yes, I do.”

Maas sucked his pipe and muttered a noncommittal, “Ummm.”

The American judged the European to be ten to twelve years older than himself — enough to justify some deference. “Sir, I’d like to confirm the, ah, command relationship. I mean, among you, me, and Mr. Cohen.”

The skipper blew an aromatic smoke ring. “Easy enough, I think. I command this ship, you command the commandos, Cohen provides the information. That’s how SSI wants it, yes?”

“Yes, sir. That’s my understanding. But I don’t know anything about the communications setup. Command and control, we call it. If you or I need some additional information — more details about the operation— I don’t think we should have to go through Cohen for everything.”

Maas’s eyes narrowed as he studied the former SEAL. “So you don’t trust him.”

“Well, I…”

“Neither do I.”

“Sir?”

“He’s Israeli, yes?”

Pope nodded. “Israeli-American. Dual citizenship.”

“You work with him before?”

“No. But he’s a regular SSI employee.”

Maas grinned. “Admiral Derringer, good man. I’ve known him for years now. Don’t see him so often, of course, but I trust him.” He motioned with the pipe again. “This one, Cohen. I think he’s a good one, too. Competent, I mean. But… where is his loyalty? Maybe more in Tel Aviv than Washington.”

Pope was surprised to find himself feeling defensive about Alexander Cohen. “Captain, it seems to me that we have to trust each other. Considering what’s at stake — the shipment headed for Iran — we’re all… in the same boat, should I say?”

Maas chuckled and slapped Pope’s arm. “Good one, boy!” He cackled again.

“Well, Captain, as I was saying, I need to know about the communications setup. I understand that we receive intelligence through Cohen, but that doesn’t mean we’re limited to asking our own sources for other information.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, what if something happens to Cohen? There has to be a contingency — a backup.”

The skipper nodded decisively. “There is. But for now, come with me. I’ll show you the radio shack and you can talk to the operators.”

“I saw your antenna layout. I guess you can talk to SSI and anybody else you need to.”

“Commander Pope, we can talk to the man in the moon.”

“We need to talk,” Zikri said.

Hurtubise laid down the FA-MAS he was cleaning and wiped his hands on a stained cloth. The two men walked to the portside rail where they could be alone.

“What is it?” Hurtubise asked.

“My second radio operator, Shatwan. Since we are making no more calls than necessary, he has much time on his hands.”

“Yes?”

“Last night he entered the radio shack earlier than he was scheduled. He noticed Aujali transmitting by key, which is most unusual. When Shatwan asked what was happening, Aujali appeared a little flustered. He said that he was communicating with an amateur operator in Rabat.”

The Frenchman rubbed his perennially stubbled chin. He focused on the horizon for a long moment, then turned to the captain. “Didn’t you tell the operators that no messages would be sent without approval from you or me?”

“Yes. You were going to tell them yourself, but I think you were called to inspect something.”

“The machine-gun mounts. Yes, I remember now.”

Zikri spread his hands. “In any case, I thought you should be told.”

“What did Aujali send in that message?”

“We do not know. He said it was innocent enough: asking for news reports from Palestine.”

Hurtubise folded his arms and leaned forward. “Do you believe him?”

“I have not questioned him. I thought it best to tell you first.”

The mercenary nodded slowly. “You did right.” He thought for a moment. “What do you know about him? Not what he told you: I mean, what do you really know?”

“Well, I have his papers as a seaman and radioman. I suppose they could be forged, but he has sailed with me before. I have never had reason to doubt him.”

“You said he has relatives in Israel?”

“That’s right. His grandmother’s family. They have tried to emigrate but the Jews always prevent it.”

Hurtubise chewed his lip, as if physically masticating the information. Why would the Israelis want to keep an old woman from rejoining her family? “And Shatwan said he was communicating about events in Palestine?”

“Correct.”

“You trust Shatwan completely?”

“As I said before, we grew up together. He is a younger cousin.”

Hurtubise gave an ironic smile. “Captain, my brother-in-law once tried to put a knife in my back. I trusted him up to that moment, too.”

The Arab’s eyes widened. “I do not suppose he tried that again.”

The wolf’s smile reappeared. “He did not try anything again.”

Zikri thought better of asking details. Instead, he said, “Well, monsieur, Salih Shatwan and I are as close as brothers. I cannot add anything to that.”

Hurtubise turned and paced several steps. At length he returned and faced the captain. “Do you have a way of monitoring all broadcasts without the sender knowing?”

“Not that I know of. I would have to discuss it with Salih. But I think that we could be monitored from another ship with knowledge of the suitable frequencies.” He looked more closely at the Frenchman. “You think that Aujali will continue transmitting?”

“I think that he might. And I would be very interested to know what he’s really saying to his friend in Morocco. If it is Morocco.”

Zikri shifted his weight in response to the ship’s movement. Tarabulus Pride was approaching Gibraltar, where the current increased in the narrows. “We will be within easy range of Rabat for the next few days, and communication is easier with night time atmospherics. I can talk to Aujali and tell him to stop all communications, or we can see about arranging some discreet monitoring. But that will take time.”

Hurtubise thought for a long moment. Then he said, “All right, tell Aujali to stop all unauthorized communication. But I want to talk to Shatwan right away. I’ll have him contact some friends of mine to see what they can find out about this Palestinian family.”

Zikri’s face betrayed his reaction. “You can get such information?”

“Yes, given time.”

The seaman nodded. “Time is one thing we have in quantity.”

“I hope so, but I have learned not to take it for granted. I see your crew has started repainting part of the superstructure. Some of my men can help.”

“Well, that would speed things along.” Zikri gave an ironic smile. “Assuming it is not beneath their dignity as men of war.”

Hurtubise leaned forward. “Captain, I will tell you something. It is not beneath my dignity to deceive my enemies. So my men will do whatever possible to cause doubt or confusion among those who pursue us. Whether the men’s dignity is scratched”—he made a deprecating gesture—”it will be repaired as soon as they are paid.”

The captain made an exaggerated bow. “Monsieur, I salute your sense of priorities.”

72

Strategic Solutions did not have a facility that anyone would recognize as a “situation room.” But the company boardroom often was strewn with easels and maps for reference to far-flung operations, and such was the case at the moment.

Frank Leopole had taped a map of the Mediterranean and northwestern Africa to a cork board appropriated for that purpose. He referred to the colored pins depicting Don Carlos’s known location and Tarabulus Pride’s estimated position. “Our guys are in a good position to intercept the target vessel when it clears Gibraltar. That should be sometime today.”

Sandy Carmichael looked at the map. She pointed a polished fingernail. “Cadiz to Tangier must be — what? Only fifty miles or so?”

“Less, I think. The trouble will be sorting out the Tarabulus from all the other ships in the area. Pope seems to think that could take a couple of days or more.”

“Really? Why’s that? Don’t they have photos?”

The operations chief nodded. “Yeah. Cohen’s contacts got digital images in Misratah and e-mailed them to him. But there’s just a lot of shipping in that area, Sandy. Somebody said a couple hundred a day. And Alex thinks the Libyans might change the Tarabulus’s appearance. New name, false flag, maybe even false structures. Sort of like the Q ships in World War I.”

She cocked her head. “Q ships?”

“They were armed vessels disguised as merchantmen. A U-boat would see a lone ship, surface and close in to gun range to save torpedoes. Then the Q ship would drop its façade and blast the sub.”

“What’s the Q stand for?”

“Nobody knows,” a familiar voice said. Carmichael and Leopole turned to see Derringer in the door. He was almost smiling. “I checked Wikipedia and a couple of other sites a while back. It’s still a mystery after all this time,” he added.

Carmichael looked back at the map. “Well, I still don’t understand how our team is going to ID the target ship. It’s like we said before: we’re relying on Alex Cohen and we don’t know much about his sources.”

Derringer walked to the board and took in the situation. “I’m not too worried yet. I know our skipper, Gerritt Maas. I met him during a NATO tour, and he’s tops. I wasn’t surprised when I learned he was working for the company.”

“But, Admiral, if the captain has to rely on Cohen for all his intel, we’re no better off, are we?”

“Sandy, I don’t think that Gerritt would limit himself to one source, especially on a major operation like this. I’ve avoided bothering him other than to say we’ll lend any help we can provide. But trust me: with his knowledge and contacts, if Cohen falls through, Captain Maas will have a Plan Bravo and a Charlie as well.”

Carmichael folded her arms, obviously unconvinced. “I’d feel better if we knew more about the intel on this op. If Dave Dare can’t turn up something, you know it’s deep.”

Derringer flipped the North Atlantic with a forefinger. “It’s a big ocean, Sandy. We should have lots of time.”

Pope stood before the combined teams, jotting notes on a white board in the crew galley. He wore khaki Navy swim trunks, a sleeveless sweater, and Nikes. The space was empty except for the SSI operators. Chatter abated as the audience caught his serious demeanor.

“All right, people, listen up. I want to go over the contingencies that I’ve drafted with the captain. Like any special op, this is one has low prospects for total success but I think we stand a good chance of achieving the primary goal, which is intercepting the yellow cake.”

He turned to the list he had penned on the board. “Best case: we achieve surprise, take the ship without casualties, and put our prize crew aboard. They sail it to a neutral port, depending on where the intercept is made, and we disappear. We could be back home in less than seventy-two hours.” He checkmarked the first item.

“More likely: we get aboard, meet resistance, and shoot our way to the bridge and engine room. After some time, we own the ship, evacuate our casualties, and come on home.” He crossed off that item.

“Case three: we get aboard but there’s a standoff. We can’t get to the critical areas but the opposition can’t push us off. At that point I’d probably put an EOD guy over the side to disable the screw. The ship goes dead in the water, this vessel comes to ‘render assistance’“—he etched quote marks in midair—”and rigs a tow. At that point the bad guys probably would surrender. If for some reason they scuttle, we step off and come home. Mr. Langevin would take charge of the salvage operation, assuming there is one.” Another check mark.

“Case four: we can’t get aboard or can’t gain a foothold. That’s a tough one, guys. We don’t know for sure what’s aboard, but Mr. Cohen’s sources seem to think they have automatic weapons and some kind of explosives.”

Several of the operators turned toward Cohen, seated in the middle of the group. He remained expressionless, looking straight ahead.

“Getting off the ship, under fire, means losses. There’s just no way around it. We’d probably have to leave the critical cases, and as much as that galls any of us, that’s how it has to be. There’s no point losing men who may have to come back and try again.”

“Sir.” Breezy raised his hand.

“Yes, Brezyinski.”

“I have some medic training. I’d be willing to stay with any WIAs.”

Pope scratched his bald head. He noticed some other men looking at the former Ranger. “Well, that’s very generous of you. We’ll just have to leave that decision until it happens.”

Pope returned to the board. “Now, at that point we still might have a card to play. If it’s apparent that we can’t board or stay on deck, I’ll call or signal one of the boat crews. They’ll try to place charges around the rudder or near the screw before we leave. It’s a low-percentage shot but it’s still an option.” Another check mark.

“Case five: actually, from our view it’s better than case four. We’re spotted inbound, take fire, and cannot close the target. At that point we break off and come back here.”

“What then?” Malten asked.

“I don’t know right now, Jeff. I suspect that one of the DDs or frigates in the area would take overt action rather than let the yellow cake get away.”

“That’s illegal, isn’t it? High seas and all that.”

Pope’s heavy-lidded eyes seemed to light up. “To paraphrase Chairman Mao, ‘Legality grows from the barrel of a gun.’“

Bosco could not suppress his enthusiasm. “Break out the jolly roger, Cap’n. Show ‘em our true colors.” Obviously his arm wound from Chad wasn’t hindering him.

Breezy adopted a Wallace Beery scowl. “Arrr, matey, arrr…”

Pope resumed speaking. “For now, let’s say we get aboard. Once we have more than a couple of men on deck, we’re pretty much committed. A retrograde movement off a ship is a losing proposition.”

He picked up a timer used to detonate explosives. It resembled a miniature cooking timer, variable to sixty seconds. “We’ll have breaching charges to blow the hinges off any dogged hatches. Each team has an EOD tech, but I want each of you familiar with these gadgets. Remember: mainly we want control of the bridge and the engine room. If the bad guys are holed up somewhere else, we can probably just contain them. Get them out later.

“Now, we have a minimum crew to put aboard once we control the ship. At that time the Don Carlos will come alongside, transfer the ‘prize crew,’ and proceed, assuming there’s no engineering casualty.”

“What kind of casualty?” Pace asked.

“Engineering. If the engine is damaged or the rudder’s jammed, something like that. In which case we’ll have to rig a tow — slow going but it can be done. At that point, depending on where we are, we’ll make for a neutral port. With a U.S. Navy warship escort.”

Tom Pfizer, a former SEAL, was impressed. He asked, “How’d you arrange that, sir?”

“I didn’t. The admiral did. There’s two frigates available: the Woodul in the Med and the Powell off Gibraltar. I understand that the Millikin might be rounding the cape sometime this month, too. Additionally, there are two frigates that could be detached from an exercise with Spain—Greenberg and Heifers.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to have one ship tail us?”

“Yeah, but that could draw attention. And if we actually chase the yellow cake all the way around the Horn of Africa, that ship probably will need to fuel somewhere.”

Pope surveyed his audience once more: an assembly of serious, focused young men who belonged to the same guild, having paid mostly the same dues to gain membership. The only exceptions were Bosco and Breezy, typically laughing and scratching. “All right,” Pope concluded. “If there’s nothing else for now, we’ll break it off. Continue checking gear, especially the Zodiacs. Boat captains, take over.” He nodded toward Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoff Pascoe.

As Malten started to leave, Pope beckoned him aside. “Jeff, I’d like your take on Bosco and Breezy: I can’t always tell them apart. They seem to feed off each other.”

Malten laughed. “I had the same trouble in Pakistan. Bosco’s about two inches taller, otherwise they’re interchangeable Army pukes to me.”

“This afternoon I saw them clowning in the galley. They’re taken to wearing kerchiefs on their heads and one of them got an earring from someplace. Next thing you know, they’ll have a peg leg and a parrot on one shoulder.”

“Yeah,” Malten said, chuckling. “They’ve started saying things like Avast!’ and ‘Aye, Cap’n,’ and saluting with two fingers. Breezy even got the lyrics to ‘Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest.’ I think they’ve seen too many pirate movies.”

“They act like frat boys,” Pope said. “Frankly, it makes me a little nervous. I’m thinking of putting them on two of the M-60s.”

Malten’s eyebrows raised. “I know they come across as juvenile delinquents sometimes. But don’t sell them short: they’re real serious after the kickoff.”

Pope glanced down while rubbing his bald head. “Well, I admit it surprised me when Breezy volunteered as a stay-behind medic. He may be some kind of surfer dude, but he doesn’t strike me as a grandstander.”

“He’s not. Like I said, I worked with both of them on the last op in Pakistan and Afghanistan. They’re solid when we’re in contact.”

“You mean when there’s lead in the air?”

Malten kept a straight face. He rendered a two-finger salute and uttered a throaty, “Aye, Cap’n.”

“Now don’t you start that!” Pope made a shooing motion. “See to your boat, Mr. Malten.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

73

Hurtubise motioned to Zikri in the galley. They went to a far table and sat down. “We need to have a more definite plan if we are intercepted.”

The captain said, “I thought you would fight off any attempt to board.”

“That depends on the attacker. If we are hailed by a warship, we do not have many options, do we?”

“Well, no. Other than surrender, there are only two choices: fight or scuttle. If we fight, we lose. If we scuttle, we lose. From my view, it would be far better to stop and let them search. There is a chance they might not find all the yellow cake.”

“But you said we were unlikely to be stopped by a warship,” the Frenchman reminded him.

“Yes, that’s right. We are exercising legitimate right of passage. Where possible, I will keep within the territorial limits of each country we pass. The Americans have no authority there — even less than in the open sea.”

Hurtubise bit his lip in concentration. “Very well, then. We are most likely to be intercepted by an American or Israeli commercial ship, with naval commandos.” He paused, considering the likelihood. “We have a good chance of beating them off, but they may chase us.”

Zikri gave an indifferent shrug. “They can chase us all they like. As long as we are in international waters, and they cannot actually stop us, all they can do is follow.”

“Well, what could they do to stop us?”

“If they cannot put a boarding party on deck?”

Hurtubise nodded.

“Maybe they would try to disable our rudder or propeller, but to do that they have to get very close. They must have no deck guns or heavy weapons. Maybe if they have rocket launchers…”

“No, they cannot get that close. Our machine guns and RPGs would rip their speedboats apart.” Hurtubise thought for a moment. “What else could they do?”

“I cannot think of anything else. Unless… well, maybe they would ram us.”

“With their own ship?” Hurtubise asked.

Zikri’s eyes went to the vinyl tabletop, then back to the Frenchman’s. “It is possible. But that is no guarantee they could stop us. They might only dent some plates.”

“Could they disable your steering by collision?”

Zikri did not like the direction the conversation was turning, but he tried to remain objective. “Perhaps. But it is unlikely. You see, our stern overhangs the rudder and propeller. They would have to ram us very hard from just the right angle to have a chance. And I would be maneuvering to avoid them.”

“So that could go on for a long time?”

“Yes, yes.”

Hurtubise tapped the table in a momentary pique. Finally he said, “If they get that close to us, I could turn my RPGs on them. I doubt that they have anything comparable, and after we put a few grenades on their bridge, they will have to respect us. That should keep them at least a hundred meters away.”

“Would your grenades be effective against a ship?”

“They cannot sink a ship. But the warheads are powerful enough to penetrate a tank’s armor. So… ordinary steel plate?” He snapped his fingers with a surprisingly loud pop.

“But they could still follow us indefinitely.”

“Then we are back to where we began,” Hurtubise replied. “As you said before, let them follow us to Iran if they like.”

Before Zikri could reply, Hurtubise pursued another subject. “With so many men repainting the ship, we are starting to look different already. Now, what identity have you found for us?”

The captain touched the side of his nose in an exaggerated gesture of confidentiality. “We have many flags to fly. But the blue and white paint fits Greece so I have decided on a new name. Star of Hellas.”

“Is there such a ship?”

“Yes and no. That is the beauty of the name. There was such a vessel a few years ago, but apparently she was sold for scrap. However, that name still appears on some registries. Anybody who checks closely will learn the facts, but it will take time. Meanwhile, I have a man over the stern, painting the new name right now.”

“Greece,” Hurtubise mused. “I have been there only twice. I didn’t much care for ouzo.”

Zikri leaned against the back of his chair, adopting a relaxed posture. “Well, mon ami, whatever you like to drink, I suggest that you finish it before we get to Iran. You will find my Shia friends far less tolerant than I am.”

Pope finished the briefing and set down his marker. He folded his brawny arms and looked around the room. Fifteen operators stared back at him. He decided not to comment on Breezy’s and Bosco’s attire: both wore pirate-style kerchiefs on their heads. Bosco even had an improvised eye patch. Green grinned; Pace yawned.

“There’s not much else to say,” Pope stated. “I’m certainly not going to give you guys a pep talk. In the first place, you don’t need it, and in the second place, you’d resent the hell out of it. But I do want to say just a bit about how I feel about this mission.”

He glanced at the deck, then looked up again. “I think we’re engaged in a battle for Western civilization. No, I don’t think it’s going to be settled tonight. This is a long-term commitment, probably for generations. After all, the Crusades lasted two hundred years and the Moors occupied Spain for about eight hundred. I see myself as one man among other men — you guys. Whatever happens to me tonight, there’s no place I’d rather be and nothing else I’d rather be doing.

“That’s enough oration. Now, let’s ruck up and get going.”

Gerritt Maas spoke with Pope, Malten, and Cohen on the bridge. Tapping the Feruni color radar display, the skipper pointed out nearby ships. “You should not have much trouble identifying the target. These two are well to the south and not in your intercept area.” He noted another blip nearby. “This big one is a supertanker, at least one hundred thousand tons. Depending on whether it maintains course, you might use it to cover your approach to Tarabulus.”

The captain touched the display to indicate another large vessel. “This is probably a container ship. If you match its speed for a while, you might get within one or two miles before you break out of the radar coverage of the tanker.” He looked at Pope. “That’s up to you, of course. I will monitor your frequency the full time.”

Alex Cohen added, “I’ll be in the radio room the full time. If I hear anything unusual, I’ll pass the word to you immediately.”

Don Carlos’s executive officer stood behind the operators. “Captain, we also have light signals in case radio communication fails.”

“Yes, yes,” Maas responded. “I am glad you reminded us, Carl.” He looked at Pope and Malten again. “I think our main concern will be finding anyone overboard or a lost Zodiac. We will flash a Morse Code DC. You do the same.”

“Delta Charlie,” Malten replied. “Dah-dit-dit, dah-dit-dah-dit?”

The Dutchman smiled around his pipe stem. “I don’t know! I haven’t used Morse since I was a cadet.”

Then he turned somber. “Good luck, gentlemen. And good hunting.”

74

“There’s a quarter moon,” Zikri said. “I think they would prefer a dark night.”

“That’s what I would choose,” Hurtubise agreed. “But we don’t know their schedule. They may want to take us closer to friendly ports around Gibraltar.”

“Well, no matter. I set the duty watch already. With some of my men as lookouts as well as yours, we should be all right.”

The mercenary hefted a night-vision device. “We cannot count on radar picking up their boats very far away. So I gave my men some extra night vision.” He raised the commercial product, a three-power NZT-35 monocular.

“How good is that?”

“This? It’s supposed to be good to something over a hundred meters. It’s waterproof besides. But the trouble with the old Soviet devices is that you never know how much tube life is left. Any of them could quit on you at any time — probably when you need it most.”

The Frenchman hefted another model. “This model with third-generation technology is good to three hundred meters.” He almost laughed. “It costs about thirteen dollars per meter.”

Zikri had thought out his steaming plan for the night. “I can continue zigzagging as you wish. Or we can do random direction changes. Either way it will not be very easy for small craft to track us. They can’t see very much, riding so low.”

“Well, all we need is some warning. We can put up a barrage of flares and use the machine guns and RPGs. Once we open fire, nobody’s going to keep coming in a rubber boat. It would be suicide. We’re on a much more stable platform than they are.”

The Libyan leaned back against the plotting table. “What do you want to do after we repel their attack? Surely they won’t try the boats again.”

“At that point, they probably will back off, at least for a while. Unless they have a plan that Cochon and I have not considered, they will either let us go or they will turn to the Navy.”

“I agree,” Zikri said. “And we can enter almost any port and wait out their warships if we have to.”

Hurtubise turned to the map. “What do you recommend?”

“Oh, almost anywhere once we’re south of Western Sahara. It’s still occupied by Morocco, yes?”

“Correct. That means it’s probably friendly to America.”

“Well then,” the seaman continued, “just look at the options. Senegal, Gambia, Guinea, Sierra Leone. Considering the diplomatic situation, Liberia and Nigeria and Ghana may not be such good choices, but after that we have the Cote d’Ivoire and Benin. On and on down the continent.”

Hurtubise gave an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a very long trip.”

“Cheer up, my friend. A long sea cruise is good for your health!”

“Where’s Pope?” Pfizer asked. “We’re ready to go.”

Malten thought he knew, but kept the information to himself. “Uh, I think he’s with the captain. I’ll go check.”

The team leader trotted down the passageway to the berthing area and undogged a hatch. He peeked inside the compartment and found what he suspected.

Victor Pope was kneeling beside his bunk, rosary in hand. Malten was struck by the seeming incongruity: a muscular, bald young man in his late thirties, bedecked with tactical gear, his submachine gun resting beside him. Malten withdrew a few steps around the corner but could hear Pope’s low baritone reciting the ancient words.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in midieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”

He still uses Latin, Malten realized. None of the modern recitation for him.

After a few seconds of silence, Malten risked another peek. He saw Pope cross himself, kiss the crucifix, and tuck it inside his shirt.

Malten backed up several steps and rapped loudly on the hatch. “Vic? You in here?”

Pope stepped through the hatchway. “I was just taking a minute for myself.”

“I hope you said one for me.” The younger operator kept any levity from his voice.

Pope cocked his head slightly. “You’re allowed to pray for yourself, Jeff.”

“Don’t need to,” Malten replied. His tone now was flippant. He tapped Pope’s vest with the back of his hand. “I got you, babe.”

“Let’s rock,” Pope said.

“Let’s roll.”

In the dim light of the bridge, the screens glowed according to their purpose. Mostly green for data; color radar for navigation and weather. Awaiting a last-minute position report to confirm the target’s position for the raiders, Maas paced until Cohen arrived.

The SSI operative stepped onto the bridge. “Captain, we got it. I just received confirmation.”

Maas turned to face Cohen. “Well?”

Cohen was momentarily taken aback. He had not expected jubilation, but he did anticipate some degree of enthusiasm. “Same speed and course as before. And it’s definite now. They’ve finished repainting most of the superstructure and the stack, and they changed the name.” He held out a message form with the information penciled in block letters.

The captain accepted the paper, read it twice, and set it down. “I will stay here until our people return. You can tell them the news.”

Cohen looked at the Dutch seaman. The man’s eyes were mostly concealed in shadow amid the subdued lighting. Cohen realized that reflection on the windows could detract from visibility but for a man who had spent much of his life in the desert, the shipboard ambience was cavelike, eerie. “What’s the matter, Captain?”

“The same thing as before, Mr. Cohen. You are forcing me to send four small craft in harm’s way based only on your information, which you refuse to explain to me or to them.” He paused, wondering if the younger man could be moved by such sentiment. When he drew no response, he continued. “I do not like the arrangement any more now than before. Less, in fact.”

Cohen shifted his feet, less from the ship’s motion than from resentment at being challenged again. “Why less?”

Maas inclined his head toward the Zodiacs on deck. “Because in a few minutes those boys are going on a mission that could turn sour. That’s why.”

“Captain, if the information is wrong, that’s my fault, not yours. Our operators know that. They accept it. But my sources are too sensitive to risk, so there’s no option but to continue as planned.”

Sources. Plural. Does he really have more than one? While Maas was formulating a reply, Cohen turned and walked off the bridge.

Don Carlos continued on course through the dark.

75

“Frank, we just got an encrypted e-mail from Alex Cohen. Pope and Malten’s teams are going in right now.” Sandy Carmichael’s southern accent smoothed over the emotional ridges she felt.

Leopole looked at the wall clock. “They’re near the Canaries? It’s 2135 here; plus four is 0135 there. Did he say when they’ll board?”

“No. Just that the boats are in the water. I’d imagine they’re several miles out.”

Omar Mohammed, ordinarily the soul of composure, was sharing the watch. He surprised his two colleagues by biting the nail of his ring finger. “I wonder who else he’s told.”

“What’s that?” Carmichael asked.

The elegant Iranian caught himself and dropped his hand to the table. “I am just wondering out loud, Sandra. I am sorry, but I just do not trust Cohen yet. Oh, I don’t mean he would send our people into unnecessary danger. Nothing like that. But he may be communicating with Tel Aviv and who knows who else.”

Carmichael pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, he’s certainly not telling State or DoD. This whole thing is about deniability.”

“Yeah,” Leopold said. “I guess we don’t need to call O’Connor or anybody else until we know what happens.”

Carmichael gave him a tight grin. “Small favors, Frank. That’s up to the admiral or Marsh Wilmont.”

Several laden moments ticked by. Finally Leopold spoke. “Damn. I feel like Ike on D-Day.”

Mohammed eyed him. “The waiting?”

Leopole nodded. “Once you’ve pushed the button, all you can do is wait for the machine to go to work. I think we’ve built a pretty damn good machine. But there’s always some cog waiting out there to foul it up.”

76

The four combat raiding craft sped away from Don Carlos on a southerly heading. As Pope plotted the relative positions of his ship and the target, he would maintain 190 true for nine miles. Presumably there would be no return trip, since the plan called for Maas to rendezvous with Tarabulus Pride once she was secured.

Meanwhile, Maas planned to keep Don Carlos to seaward of Tarabulus, lest she veer westward and try to lose her pursuers in the expanse of the North Atlantic.

In the lead Zodiac, Pope kept a constant watch on the other three craft, conned by Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoffrey Pascoe, late of Her Majesty’s Special Boat Service.

Pope could think of nothing else to be done. Now he was focused on the unfolding mission. He turned to the former Force Recon Marine at the stern of the CRRC and motioned slightly to port. He wanted to compensate for the southwesterly Canary Current that predominated off the Moroccan coast.

“There’s the first one,” Maas said, pointing out the blip on the radar screen. “And there’s the others.”

Alex Cohen took in the display, noting the transponder codes indicating each Zodiac. “It sure simplifies things on a dark night,” he offered.

“Umm.” Maas did not enjoy conversing with the Israeli-American. But they were both professionals, accustomed to putting aside personal opinions in favor of accomplishing a mission.

Cohen sought a way to ease the tension between them. He had to admit that he would feel much the same as Maas if their roles were reversed. “Which is the target, Captain?”

“Same as before,” Maas said. Immediately he regretted his choice of words. Cohen could not be expected to keep a changing radar picture in his head after leaving the bridge to see the raiders on their way. The skipper touched an image almost straight ahead, just inside the ten-mile circle. “It’s keeping course and speed. Our boys should overtake her in about ten minutes.”

“How well can they see a Zodiac on a night like this?”

Maas shot a sideways glance at the SSI man. He recognized the question for what it was: a peace offering of sorts.

“Same as we can, Mr. Cohen. With the naked eye, maybe a hundred meters or so if the boats stay out of the reflected moonlight. But Pope thinks they’ll have night vision. Depending on how good — two or three hundred meters.”

“That makes it hard to take them by surprise.”

“It certainly does.”

Idling in the waves, compensating for the Zodiac’s motion, Malten glassed the merchantman off the port bow. His five-power night-vision binoculars provided a green glimpse of the nocturnal world. He turned toward Pope in the nearest rubber craft. “Looks like part of the name is Hellas. Hard to tell about the flag. I guess it’d be Greek.”

“Well, that’s the info Cohen gave us. I still think the only way he could know that is from somebody on board. Mossad must’ve bribed somebody.”

“I just hope he stays bribed,” Malten replied.

Pope nodded and pulled his balaclava over his face. Green did not know Pope well enough to insult him about possible shine off his bald head, but Malten recognized that was exactly why the leader wore the trademark commando garment. Pope gave the signal and the boats deployed as briefed: one off each quarter, one astern, and one farther astern as backup.

Bouncing through the water, taking salt spray that spattered on their goggles and roughened their lips, the operators kept their focus on the objective. From 250 meters out, they tried to discern whether anybody was visible on deck. It was no good — the rough, tossing motion of the Zodiacs precluded a clear picture of the objective.

The coxswains opened the throttles and four outboard motors whined.

77

René Pinsard had never fought a battle at sea. For that matter, neither had anyone else aboard, but the mercenary did not object to the prospect. He accepted Zikri and Hurtubise’s assessment that an interception was likely in the more confined waters between the Canaries and the Moroccan coast, and therefore stationed himself in the most favorable position. He stood beside the stern machine-gun mount overlooking the stern, night-vision device in hand.

The gunner, a man of indeterminate age and French-Algerian extraction, stifled a yawn. He stamped his feet as if to keep warm, though the night air was almost pleasant. “Three more hours,” he said, ruefully acknowledging that he had drawn the longest watch of the night.

“Suit yourself,” Pinsard replied. “I’m going to stay here until after dawn. They won’t try to attack in daylight.”

“Speedboat to starboard!”

The call came from somewhere forward. Immediately, hired guns and hired sailors crowded the rail, looking to seaward. As practiced, a quiet alarm sped through the ship, sending men to their stations.

Hurtubise found Pinsard looking to port.

“Situation,” the leader demanded.

“There’s a small boat out there maybe two hundred meters, slowly pulling ahead of us,” Pinsard explained. “I think it’s a diversion. It makes more sense for an attack from this side, so they’re not silhouetted.”

Hurtubise looked toward Africa and slapped his friend on the back. “I agree. They’ll blend into the shore.” He paused long enough to admire the professionalism of the intruders, then moved to deal with them.

“There! Two boats behind us!”

A Libyan sailor, augmenting Hurtubise’s shooters, spotted unnatural dark shapes near the wake. Shapes that did not belong there. One of the Frenchmen picked up a flare gun but Hurtubise stayed his arm. “Not yet.”

“But, Marcel, they’re almost close enough…”

“Not yet!” Hurtubise raised his voice in a calculated combination of authority and anger.

Pinsard lowered his Russian night goggles and called over his shoulder. “Marcel! There’s one out there on my side. Maybe 150 meters.”

Hurtubise visualized the geometry of the developing situation. In military terms, a multi-axis attack calculated to split his defenses. He suspected that at the last moment two or more of the boats would converge on one point and try to gain local superiority.

It was what he would do.

It was time for a command decision.

Pacing the ship to port, Victor Pope ran a last-minute communications check. “Flipper One is up. Check and go.”

“Two. Clear to go.”

“Three. Looks good, Boss.”

“Four. Go.”

Satisfied that his boat captains saw no sign of danger, Pope accepted their assessment. Keeping the tension out of his voice, he said, “Stand by. Stand by. Execute!”

Pope, Malten, and Pascoe turned their CRRCs toward the target.

78

On the bridge, Captain Abu Yusuf Zikri paced from port to starboard and back again. Acutely aware that he could not see what was happening behind him, he had to rely on cryptic, often unintelligible calls from Hurtubise and his European hirelings.

“All ahead full,” he ordered the engine room. Though he had no chance of escaping the Zodiacs, at least he could prolong their approach and thereby render them more vulnerable.

The Libyan noticed the helmsman and navigator watching him closely-more than he liked. I am behaving like a nervous woman, he realized. He stopped pacing and adopted as dignified a demeanor as he could manage. Ordinarily he would open up on the international emergency frequency and request help before he was boarded. But under the circumstances, being found hauling contraband uranium ore to Iran did not seem a career-enhancing option.

He placed his trust in Marcel Hurtubise and his gunmen.

Overlooking the stern, Hurtubise and Pinsard deployed their men to repel boarders. In frustration, Pinsard shook his NVG. “This damned thing is no damned good! It’s whiting out!” In frustration he tossed it overboard.

“Too many tube hours,” Hurtubise commented calmly. He handed his commercial optic to Pinsard, who scanned to port. “There they are! Three coming this way.”

“Let me see,” Hurtubise said.

Activating the device, Hurtubise took in the situation, then set it down. “We can ignore the boat to starboard. The threat is here.”

He turned toward the stern machine gunner. “Prepare to fire.” The French-Algerian mercenary tugged the MAG-58’s charging handle twice.

Hurtubise looked around. Two RPG shooters were nearby. Almost with disgust in his voice, Hurtubise nudged Pinsard and pointed to the men. “Merde!” Pinsard exclaimed. Shoving two automatic riflemen farther forward, he screamed, “You imbeciles! Get the hell out of the way of the RPGs!” One or both would have been seared the instant the rocket-propelled grenades were fired.

Meanwhile, Hurtubise had taken the flare gun from one of his men. Holding the pistol overhead, he began a countdown. “When you see them, fire!”

Fifty meters out, Victor Pope realized that he was holding his breath. There was very little illumination on the ship’s stern — only the required navigation lights. He took that as a good sign.

Then the world turned garish-white as a parachute flare erupted overhead.

In the second boat, Jeff Malten thought that his heart skipped a beat. “We’ve been made!” Without awaiting orders, he directed his coxswain to reverse course.

Automatic weapons fire erupted from the port quarter of Tarabulus Pride. None of the initial volleys were on target, but many were close. The water was spumed with geysers as bullets impacted around the Zodiacs.

Two smoke trails leapt outward from the ship. Both struck the waves within meters of the lead boat. “Christ! They’ve got RPGs!” Victor Pope did not even realize that he had just committed blasphemy.

Pope’s boat and Pascoe’s were closest to the ship. Men in the bows returned fire with their MP-5 s, more for morale than for effect, as the Zodiacs swerved to escape the fusillade.

By then, Hurtubise had reloaded and launched another parachute flare. The sea was turned into a black-and-white film: garish overhead lights burning with phosphorescent intensity, clashing starkly with the dark waves while red tracer rounds scythed the sea.

Before Pascoe’s boat could get out of the way, the shipboard gunner got a quick sight picture and fired. Once the tracers entered the Zodiac, the shooter held the trigger down.

Three men were hit: Pace was knocked overboard almost before anyone noticed. One operator took a grazing round to a leg. But another man, a former Ranger named Peter Chadburn, took two rounds through the torso. His body armor was not proof against armor-piercing ammo. Green dropped his weapon and began removing the man’s gear, trying to render first aid. In the jostling, water-swept craft, it was almost impossible.

In Pope’s boat, Bosco and Breezy returned fire as the CRRC sped away. Each emptied his magazine, reloaded, and stared at each other, wide-eyed and gasping for breath.

79

“What in hell happened?” Cohen asked.

From the cryptic chatter on the tactical circuit, Cohen had a decent idea of what had gone wrong. But he needed more information before sending the bad news to Arlington.

Victor Pope unslung his MP-5 and handed it to Breezy. Then he stalked up to the Israeli and prodded him with a gloved finger. “I think I’m the one to ask that question, Cohen. They were ready for us and we lost people! Now you tell me what the hell happened.”

Cohen stood his ground, glaring at Pope. “Nothing went out from this ship except the e-mail to SSI that the op was under way. It was sent in the company’s encryption program so there was no breach.” He inhaled, exhaled, and willed himself to stare down the former SEAL. He modulated his voice, aware of the slight tremor.

“Come on, Vic. I need to send the preliminary report.”

“You can talk to somebody else. I’m going back to look for Pace.”

Cohen raised a placating hand. “Vic, come on. Just give me the basics. Of course you can look for him. Hell, I’ll go with you. But I need to confirm what I heard. One dead, one missing, and one wounded.”

A terse nod of the bald head. “Correct.”

Jeff Malten overheard the dispute while supervising the retrieval of two Zodiacs. He was tempted to let Pope continue arguing with Cohen but thought better of it. “Vic, I don’t know how long Pfizer can keep searching. Do you want to refuel your boat? Pascoe’s needs serious repairs, probably more than we can do, and my motor took a round.”

Pope thought for a moment. At length he said, “All right. Jeff, you take mine. Tell Tom that you’ll relieve him, but work out a search pattern that doesn’t duplicate his area.”

“Will do. Oh. What shall we do with Chadburn’s body?”

“Uh… take him to the freezer, I guess. I’ll confirm that when I talk to the captain.”

Malten disappeared forward, where Pascoe’s shot-up CRRC was hauled aboard.

Pope tugged off his gloves and began unbuckling his gear. As he brushed past Cohen he croaked, “You come with me.”

Sandy Carmichael delivered the news.

“We just heard from Vic Pope. Here’s the text, quote: ‘CRRC attack 0220 local failed. One KIA, one WIA, one MIA. Regrouping. Unodir will attempt later today. Require highest priority msg to DDs this area deliver at least two 7.62 miniguns this ship. Send op-immediate. Advise soonest.’ “

Marshall Wilmont asked, “What’s ‘unodir’?”

Leopole almost grinned. “Unless otherwise directed. It means he’s taking the responsibility and doesn’t want to hear ‘no’ from us.”

Wilmont still seemed perplexed. “So what do we do?”

“We wake up the secretary of the Navy,” Mohammed interjected.

Derringer spoke up. “To hell with him. We’ll wake up SecDef. In fact, let me do it.” He strode toward his office.

Leopole checked the clock again. “That was barely an hour ago. But I doubt they’ll be able to try again before dawn, which means at least twenty-four hours more.” He looked at Carmichael. “With the ship alerted now, it’s going to be even harder than before.”

Carmichael sat down and braced her chin on her hands. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I wonder who’s dead.”

80

“We’ve beaten them!” René Pinsard’s volubility bubbled to the surface of his normal sangfroid. “They won’t dare try it again.”

Hurtubise made one more scan of the dark ocean, then set down his NVD. “Not tonight, I wouldn’t think. But we will take nothing for granted. Keep at least half the men on watch until dawn.”

“All right. As you wish, Marcel.” Pinsard’s tone was plain: he considered the crisis at an end.

The mercenary chief leaned against a bulkhead and rubbed his chin. It was stubbled, as usual. Sometimes he thought he might grow a beard, but that required trimming and grooming. Easier just to shave whenever he felt like it.

He looked closely at Pinsard. “Think, René. Put yourself in their place. What would you do now?”

Pinsard pondered for a long moment. At length he said, “The only option I can think of would involve helicopters, and apparently they do not have any.”

“Very well. Suppose they get helicopters. How would you deal with them?”

The younger man patted a MAG-58 on its improvised mount. “Automatic weapons will keep them away. Too bad we do not have any SAMs, but we could not anticipate everything.” He paused, then added, “But we still have some RPGs.”

Hurtubise nodded. “Keep two teams on alert, and keep all the guns manned. It’s still a long damned way to Iran.” He straightened himself and began walking forward.

“Where are you going?” Pinsard called out.

Hurtubise stopped and turned briefly. “I am going to ask some very pointed questions.”

“Flipper One, this is Four. Over.”

“That’s him!” Pope exclaimed. On the bridge, standing beside Maas, he pressed his hand against his headset. “Four, One here. Go.”

Pfizer’s voice came back, subdued and tentative. “Ah, be advised. We recovered the, uh, item. Over.”

Even on the dimly lit deck, Cohen could see Pope’s eyes close and his lips move. He’s praying.

“One here. RTB, Four.”

“Roger that.” Pfizer went off the air with chilling finality.

Cohen asked, “My God, how’d they find him in the dark?”

“Our PFDs have strobe lights on them. They’re water-activated.”

The SSI men and Maas were still consulting when the last Zodiac pulled alongside. Looking down from the glass-enclosed bridge, Pope felt a dreadful sense of responsibility. Without a word, he walked through the access and headed amidships, where Pfizer was holding position at the accommodation ladder.

When the former SEAL arrived, Phil Green was helping move Don Pace’s body on a wire litter. It was not easy: it took four men to carry the load. Pope placed a hand on Green’s shoulder. “You can take him to the freezer, Phil. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Malten knew Pope’s meaning. He’s going to say a prayer over him.

When the litter bearers set down their burden, Green said, “I’ll take it from here.”

Bosco knelt beside the ex-cop. “I’ll be glad to help.”

Green shook his head. “No. He’s my friend.”

When he rose, Bosco gave his colleague a squeeze on the arm. We’re not really friends yet but we got shot at together. That means a lot.

As Bosco stepped through the access, Green turned his head. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Pope, whatever’s going down, I’m in.”

Bosco silently nodded, then closed the door behind him.

81

“How did they find us?” Hurtubise demanded.

Zikri almost rocked back on his heels. “I do not know, monsieur. But we…”

“They had to have a source on this ship. It’s the only way I can imagine they picked us out of all the ships in this part of the ocean.”

“I agree,” the Libyan replied. “We should talk to Aujali again.”

“Where is he?”

“He came off duty about ninety minutes ago. He must be in his cabin or maybe the galley.”

“Come on,” Hurtubise said. “And bring your cousin.”

Four minutes later, Nuri Aujali landed on his face in a vacant compartment. Shatwan dogged the hatch and leaned against it, arms folded. Zikri stood over the prostrate radioman, ready to translate Hurtubise’s pointed questions while René Pinsard applied physical motivation to reply promptly and accurately.

Aujali screamed in pain, yammering in a high, fast voice.

“What’s he say?” Hurtubise demanded. His Arabic had its limits.

Zikri turned to the Frenchman, obviously uncomfortable with the process but unwilling to interfere. “He says, he does not know why you abuse him.”

“Tell him this is an object lesson. We will do far worse if he does not tell us what we want to know.”

The captain translated, immediately gaining a pained, gasping consent from the suspect. “Yes, he will answer. He says the Zionists forced him to do it.”

Hurtubise shook his head in mild confusion. “To do what? I have not even asked him anything.”

Aujali choked out something incomprehensible. “The pain,” Zikri explained. “Your man, he…”

Hurtubise tapped Pinsard on the shoulder. The younger mercenary released the victim and stood up. With one hand Aujali massaged his ears, reddened where Pinsard had applied hard, twisting pressure. His other hand was impaired by a broken finger. The ex-Legionnaire was disgusted: he had suffered worse for much longer in routine training exercises.

After more back and forthing, Zikri summarized. “His mother’s mother’s family have tried for years to leave Israel and join him in exile. They are always denied. He says the Jews keep promising to let them leave after each job he does for them. This time, two were given exit visas with a promise that the others would be released when we reach port.”

Hurtubise nodded to himself. So that explains it. “The Jews have been blackmailing him. I wonder how many others there are.”

Zikri shrugged eloquently.

The Frenchman squatted by the young man, speaking English. “You are a radioman. You understand me?”

Aujali nodded. “Yes. Some English…”

“How did you communicate with the Americans?”

The seaman raised himself to a sitting position on the deck. “Not with the Americans. With an Israeli.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know. He only goes by a code name.”

Hurtubise’s right hand snaked out, hard and fast. He slapped Aujali twice, once on each cheek. “You want to deal with René again? Tell me everything when I ask a question!”

Aujali’s dark eyes betrayed all his emotions. For a man of Marcel Hurtubise’s vast experience, they were easily read. Fear and anger. Basic psychology. Anger is fear expressing itself.

“Jacob. Only Jacob.”

“Good. Very good. Now, how long have you been in contact with him? What did you tell him?”

Aujali’s Arabic pride overcame some of the fear. He looked up at Zikri. “I want some water, Captain.”

Zikri motioned to Shatwan, who retrieved a bottle and handed it to his colleague. Before he opened it, Aujali glanced at Pinsard, then began speaking. “I was approached by a Frenchman in Misratah. He called himself Remy LeClerc. He said he worked with Jacob and gave me the frequencies and schedule.”

As Aujali sipped some water, Hurtubise’s eyes narrowed. Paul, you bastard! Working both sides of the fence! “Describe him.”

“A young man, about my age. Sandy hair, built like a wrestler.”

Hurtubise looked at Pinsard. “That was Deladier. You met him in Marseille, I think.”

Pinsard absorbed that information with typical aplomb. “I don’t suppose I will meet him again.”

“Not this side of hell.”

Hurtubise rose to his feet, regarding the radioman. “We will keep this one for a while. He might be useful later on.” He nodded to Shatwan, who escorted the younger man from the compartment.

Zikri finally found his voice. “What do you intend for Aujali?”

Hurtubise’s eyes were shark-dull. “Do not ask stupid questions.”

82

They held a death watch in Arlington, Virginia.

None of the SSI officers wanted to leave without knowing which of their associates had been killed. It was nearly midnight when the next e-mail was received. “It’s from Vic Pope,” Leopole explained. “He must’ve bypassed Cohen.”

“Well?” Sandy Carmichael’s tone was unusual: curt, insistent.

“Don Pace is dead. They found his body.”

“So that’s Chadburn and Pace killed. What about Verdugo?”

“Apparently he’s going to recover but he’s out of action.” Leopold dropped the printout on the table before Carmichael. The gesture said, Read it yourself.

Omar Mohammed understood the tension but wanted to defuse a potential eruption. While he admired Sandra Carmichael more than most women he had ever known, she had an Alabama country girl’s feistiness. “We should let Matt Finch know. Personnel is his responsibility.”

Nobody in the room knew any of the casualties well, but everyone felt a sense of responsibility. Finally Carmichael said, “I think it’ll keep ‘til morning.” She looked up at Leopole, who nodded agreement.

Marshall Wilmont fidgeted in his seat. He felt somehow out of place among operators and planners, even though everyone else in the room rated below him on the organizational chart. “You know, Sandy, the admiral usually contacts next of kin himself.”

“Yeah, I know.” She turned toward to door, as if expecting Derringer to appear. “I wonder if he’s woken the SecDef yet.”

“Look at this,” Zikri said.

Hurtubise looked over the Libyan’s shoulder. “What is it?”

The navigation radar gave a God’s eye view of the area south of the Canary Islands, operating on the ten-mile scale. Zikri fingered a blip astern of Tarabulus Pride. “This one has been trailing us all day. I have been watching it since dawn. Twice I sped up and slowed down, but it never varies more than two or three knots faster than we are making.”

“You think it’s our Jewish friends?”

Zikri gave a grunt. “Monsieur Hurtubise, you know that I have no Jewish friends. Or Americans. But yes, I think so. Otherwise they would have passed us, like many other ships.”

“Well, what can they do? Ram us?”

“I think they would have done so by now. But then what? As you say, they are probably not going to try their rubber boats again. So we watch them. And wait.”

“I have one-third my men on guard all the time. Until the Jews try something else, there is little for us to do. Now I am going back to sleep. But call me if there’s any change.”

Hurtubise descended the ladder from the bridge and went aft. He wanted to talk before he slept.

“René,” he called to his deputy.

Pinsard was sunning himself with his feet up. Officially he was supervising the lookouts. “Yes?”

Hurtubise knelt by the reclining Frenchman. “The explosives you brought aboard — where is it stored?”

“Semtex in the aft storage locker. Caps and detonators in my compartment. Why?”

“I may want to place some quantities in the engine room and elsewhere down below. See me when you come off duty.”

Pinsard cocked an eye at the older man. “Marcel, are you thinking of scuttling this rust bucket?”

“I am just thinking, René. But keep it to yourself.”

83

Pope sat down next to Maas and said, “I want to see how this ship compares to theirs.”

“Well, that’s not difficult. I can tell you right away that we are bigger and faster. Let me see…” Maas turned to his computer console and accessed a commercial shipping Web site. “Tarabulus Pride, right?”

“Yes.”

Maas put on his glasses and his fingers flicked across the keyboard, then he hit Enter. The data and a photo appeared on the screen. “Yes, Greek construction, thirty-four hundred gross registered tons, twelve to thirteen knots. We are nearly three times her tonnage and four to five knots faster.”

He raised his spectacles. “What do you have in mind?”

“Assuming she maintains ten knots, how long would it take to overtake her?”

“Oh… several hours. But if she sees us — and she will — she could go to full speed and prolong the chase.” He paused. “Although…”

“Yes?”

Maas looked at the screen again. “She’s rated at 12.5 knots but that’s probably absolute top speed. I doubt that she can hold it indefinitely whereas we can make fifteen all day long. Seventeen maximum.”

The captain looked at Pope again, scanning for a hint on the SEAL’s impassive face. “To repeat, Commander. What do you have in mind?”

Pope ignored the question. “Let’s assume her mast is fifty feet above the waterline. How far is the radar horizon to us?”

Maas applied his dexterous fingers to the keyboard again. In seconds he said, “Fifteen to seventeen miles, depending on her height versus ours. That’s mast height — superstructure is less, of course.”

“All right,” Pope replied. “Let’s say she sees us hull down and identifies us. She goes to full speed at fifteen miles. With our overtake, that’s about four hours to catch up.”

“Correct. Commander…”

“Captain, could you match your speed to hers and hold position if she was maneuvering?”

“Hold how close? One hundred meters or so, probably no problem. I have an excellent helm.”

“I’m thinking more like five meters or less.”

Maas stood up and faced the SSI man. “Mr. Pope, what in the hell are you thinking of doing?”

Marcel Hurtubise and René Pinsard huddled in the latter’s berthing area. He pulled a box of detonators from beneath the bunk and slid them across the deck. “There you go. These are time delay. The others are command detonation.”

“These will do.”

“Marcel, you didn’t say what you plan to do. If we’re boarded, are you going to…”

“If we’re boarded, we’ve probably lost,” Hurtubise interrupted. “We cannot hold this ship against a determined assault if they get enough men on deck.”

“No, but how would they do that? We already showed them they can’t surprise us.”

“Just the same, I’m planning for contingencies. I will rig some surprises for our uninvited guests. Enough to buy us some time to take action — or get away.”

Pinsard wanted to ask for details, but a few years of working with Marcel Hurtubise had proven useful in delineating certain barriers. Professional matters: almost unlimited. Personal matters: proceed at one’s own risk. The present subject seemed to tread the hazy boundary between the two. “How would we get away?”

Hurtubise gave a wry grin. “The enemy may provide that for us, mon vieux. I would not object to hijacking one of their boats. Would you?”

“Not if that’s the only way out.”

Hurtubise slapped his partner on one knee. “There’s always a way out, René. If you do enough thinking beforehand.” He winked at the younger man, then added, “Just don’t say anything to the captain. Or anyone else.”

On the way out, humming loudly enough to be heard, Hurtubise exuded an air of mysterious confidence. It would be distressing to sacrifice a good lad like René, but if things turned sour, it would not be the first time that Marcel Hurtubise had faced that choice.

84

The Sikorsky SH-60B of HSL-44 normally answered to its squadron call sign—”Magnum”—but for this operation its identity was intentionally generic. As arranged on a discreet UHF channel two hours before, the VHF transmissions would be short and cryptic.

Maas’s senior watch stander was on the bridge when the Mayport-based sub hunter made its approach. “Charlie Delta, this is U.S. Navy helicopter. I am approaching your starboard quarter. Where do you want your supplies? Over.”

The merchant officer glanced rearward, saw nothing, but sensed the geometry of the situation. He keyed his mike. “Ah, Navy helicopter, we are ready on the bow. Over.”

Two mike clicks acknowledged the instruction. Moments later the gray Sea Hawk hove into view off the starboard beam and settled into a thirty-foot hover over the bow. The crew chief winched down three rectangular metal containers that the deckhands hauled in. Fighting the rotor wash, they disconnected the load and set each container aside. The helo then delivered a smaller box that was easier to handle.

Jeff Malten supervised the operation and quickly inspected the contents of each container. Satisfied, he stood up and waved to the HSL-44 Swamp Fox’s detachment commander. The helo pilot nodded, added power, pulled pitch, and motored away.

Malten led the way into the vessel’s superstructure where other SSI operators were waiting. “Are we set?” Pope asked.

“Affirmative. Three ‘60s and about a thousand rounds of linked ammo.”

“Okay. Get ‘em ready. We need to function test every one and then work out the best way to mount them.”

Malten nodded, then asked, “Who do you want for shooters?”

“Whoever’s the most experienced. I’ll leave that to you. But keep our naval people for the boarding party.”

Malten eyed his senior colleague. “Wish we had night sights. It’d be a lot quicker target acquisition.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that, Jeff. Besides, I think the muzzle flash will white out the NVGs. We’ll just have to establish fire superiority from the start.”

“Well, yeah. But if we don’t, there’s no way we can get aboard.”

Pope slapped his friend’s arm. “That’s why we get the big bucks.”

85

Victor Pope made a final tour of the ship’s exterior. Gerritt Maas’s men had been up most of the night, fashioning mounts for the M-60s, and Jeff Malten was still supervising the test firing. They met aft of the bridge.

“How’s it going?” Pope asked.

“Well, we had to headspace that one gun. Those idiots on that destroyer hadn’t even bothered to do that. Obviously they hadn’t tested it.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, and we’re the beggars.”

Malten shifted his weight against the transport’s roll. He was hardly aware of his movement. “Well, Admiral Derringer must’ve been kneeling on a pretty thick carpet. I didn’t really think we’d get the guns this soon.”

Pope merely nodded. Then he said, “We have thirteen healthy operators but we need at least three on the guns. I don’t like trying to take down a ship with just ten guys.”

“Hey I was going to tell you. One of the crew saw what we were doing and took an interest. He even helped us degrease the ‘60 that hadn’t been fired. Turns out that he was a Marine E-3. Think we can use him?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, is he any good?”

Malten smiled. “He had a pretty good pattern around the empty can we tossed overboard. And he doesn’t lean on the trigger too much.”

Pope thought for a few heartbeats. “Does he know what’s likely to happen?”

“Yeah. I told him everything. The bad guys have belt-fed weapons and RPGs, and any M-60 is gonna be a priority target. But he said he spent Desert Storm afloat off Kuwait and figures this is his chance to make up.”

“Well, okay. I’ll talk to him. What’s his name?”

“Ritter. Goes by Tex.”

“Figures. Texans are like that.”

Malten laughed again. “That’s what I thought. But he’s from Vermont.”

Pope leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded. “Okay. That gives us eleven operators, unless another crewman can help.”

“I talked to Dr. Faith. He says that Verdugo can stand up as long as he doesn’t have to move.”

“That’s what Esteban said when I checked on him, but he didn’t mention doing any shooting.”

“Might be worth checking out,” Malten offered. “We can see how he does with the gun and the mount to hold on to. That would make a dozen door-kickers.”

“Let’s do it.” Pope turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, one other thing, Jeff. Tell the gunners that if possible, they need to stagger their firing. We don’t have a lot of ammo, and there won’t be any A-gunners to reload for them. I don’t want everybody running dry at the same time.”

Malten nodded. Then, eyeing his superior, he asked, “Vic, what’s your plan? Can we take a ship with only two full boats?”

“Actually, Jeff, I’m not planning on using the boats.”

Malten muttered, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”

Pope turned and walked away from the workers. “Here’s what I have in mind.”

86

Hurtubise gawked at the nine-thousand-ton ship pounding alongside, looking as big as a small mountain. Zikri watched out the starboard side of the bridge, gauging the intruder’s interval. Abruptly the bigger vessel’s bow swung to port.

“My God!” Hurtubise shouted. “They’re going to ram!”

The Libyan captain braced himself, then said, “Maybe not.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Monsieur, I think they intend to grapple.”

Hurtubise took six fast heartbeats to absorb the implications. Then he spun on his heel and shouted down to Pinsard. “RPGs up here. Now!”

Before Pinsard could respond, Hurtubise was on the opposite side. “Man the machine guns! Starboard fore and aft but keep one amidships to port.”

René Pinsard gave his superior a wry grin. “You’re sounding very nautical this morning, mon vieux.” Then he was gone.

From the bridge, Gerritt Maas judged the closure nicely. He ensured that his ship established a three-knot overtake, anticipating his rival’s likely move. “Steady as you go,” he told the helmsman. “Wait for it… wait…”

Tarabulus Pride began veering to port, away from her assailant. Her thirty-four hundred tons answered the helm more quickly than the larger Spanish flagged vessel, but with the speed differential she could not escape.

Phil Green manned the center gun, watching for likely targets. When armed men appeared on the target vessel’s superstructure, he called, “Fire!” At the same time he drew a bead on two men abaft the bridge and pressed the trigger. He walked his rounds across the targets, holding slightly low to offset the ship’s rolling movement.

Several yards on either side of him, Verdugo and Ritter also opened fire. Glass shattered as 7.62 mm rounds punched their way across the superstructure. Green, mindful of Malten’s caution against everyone shooting at once, held his fire when his targets went down.

Hurtubise flung himself on the deck as incoming rounds snap-cracked overhead and ricochets pinged off the bulkheads. Zikri kept low, turning bug-eyed to the Frenchman, mouthing words that were inaudible.

An RPG gunner appeared at the port access. Hurtubise gestured in anger and frustration. “Their bridge! Shoot their bridge, you idiot!”

The shooter possessed a wealth of Middle East experience but none at sea prior to the Zodiac assault. Now he low-crawled to the aft access, raised himself to a kneeling position, and looked behind him. The blast zone was clear so he placed his sight reticle on the offending ship’s bridge and pressed the trigger.

The back blast nearly destroyed the hearing of everyone on the bridge. Hurtubise, knowing what was coming, had clapped his hands over his ears, but the high decibels in the confined space were incredible. The shooter screamed in pain and collapsed backward. Hurtubise handed him another rocket and yelled, “Reload!”

“Incoming!”

Maas did not recognize the voice of whomever screamed the warning, but he saw the rocket-propelled grenade’s smoky ignition. With everyone else on the bridge, he dived to the deck and awaited the impact. It came with a loud, authoritative smack, punching through the near windows and exiting beyond.

“What happened?” asked the watch officer.

“Too close,” Maas muttered. “We’re too close for it to arm!” He giggled in giddy gratitude. He scrambled to his feet.

“Now!” Maas shouted. “Move to contact!”

With the helm over to port, Don Carlos cut across the remaining twenty yards of seawater and slid hull to hull. The impact sounded worse than it was: screeching steel plates protesting in a high, ringing sensation.

Hurtubise realized that something was missing. Outgoing gunfire.

He crouched below the level of the bridge windows and stepped over the prostrate RPG man. Risking a look outside, he saw only one MAG-58 in action. The gunner was firing intermittently, alternately triggering ill-sighted bursts and ducking the retaliatory fire from the larger ship. With a fright, he realized, They have fire superiority.

“René!” he shouted. “René, get some gunners going.”

There was no answer.

Reluctantly, Marcel Hurtubise decided that he had to take action himself. He assumed almost a sprinter’s posture, bracing hands and feet on the deck, inhaled, and shot out of the bridge, headed for the nearest MAG.

Abruptly, Pinsard appeared. He shoved the body of the previous gunner aside, grasped the weapon, and swiveled it toward the nearest American shooter. He pressed the trigger as two swaths of M-60 fire intersected him at belt level. The results were a vivid crimson gout sprayed across the steel structure.

Hurtubise reeled in shock and surprise. Sprayed with his friend’s blood, he shrieked in a microsecond of outraged panic.

Then he was in control of himself. He went prone again and rolled away from the gun position. Back inside the bridge, he yelled to Zikri. “We cannot win this way! You have to get away from them!”

The Libyan raised his hands in frustration. “Are you crazy? How can we? They are faster!”

Hurtubise’s mind raced. He sorted through every option that occurred to him, and came up with only one that might work.

“Stop your engine! They’ll shoot ahead.”

Abu Yusuf Zikri knew that would only afford a temporary respite, even if it worked. But he also knew this was not the time to explain basic seamanship to a gun-wielding French mercenary. He gave the order.

On the superstructure, the three gunners had run out of targets. Green and Verdugo had cut down the last opponent — a brave man, no doubt, but a foolish one. Green glanced to his left to acknowledge Verdugo’s contribution. Then he glanced to his right and gasped at the sight.

The volunteer gunner was slumped on the deck, motionless beneath his M-60. Green suppressed the urge to go to him, but the hard-won fire superiority had to be maintained. Green shouted as loudly as he ever had.

“Medic!”

Green turned back to business. With Verdugo on the aft gun, he took turns peppering the enemy’s bridge and any portholes or hatches that might afford an RPG gunner a likely shot.

Victor Pope appeared beside Green. “All clear?” he asked.

“Yessir.” He looked to his right again. Dr. Faith was bending over Ritter. “How is he?”

“I don’t know, Phil. The crew will take him inside, but I gotta go.”

Green nodded impassively. “Good luck, Boss.”

Hurtubise sensed what was coming.

He heard Zikri give additional orders in high, rapid Arabic, and sensed the engine change pitch three decks beneath his feet. But as the ship decelerated, the Frenchman realized that the Zionist vessel’s greater length would temporarily negate the speed differential. It would take a minute or more to force the other ship into an overshoot, and surely the hostile captain would compensate.

Hurtubise tapped Zikri on the shoulder. “I’m going below to organize the defense. I’ll send two men up here to guard you!” Without awaiting a reply, he was gone on a far different mission.

87

“Away all boarders!”

Riding rail to rail, the two ships were mere feet apart as Maas kept Don Carlos almost within arm’s length of Tarabulus Pride. Victor Pope said a silent prayer, then was the first to leap across the narrow gap, feeling eerily vulnerable as he seemed to dangle suspended in space. He knew that Green and Verdugo would hose down anyone who threatened the boarders, but SEALs were conditioned to operate by stealth rather than coup de main.

Pope hit the hostile deck, slumped to his knees, and instantly brought his MP-5 to the ready position. Other operators alit on either side of him. He glimpsed the two juvenile delinquents and almost laughed aloud. Both still had piratical bandanas on their heads, and Breezy, the young fool, clenched a Randall fighting knife between his teeth.

Looking around, Pope was satisfied that his men were deploying as briefed: pairs guarding the approaches fore and aft, two more maintaining a watch on the superstructure above them. Only then did he perceive that Don Carlos seemed to be accelerating ahead when actually Tarabulus was sliding astern.

Automatic fire erupted behind him. Green and Verdugo were shooting into the superstructure behind the bridge. Apparently some hostiles were trying to repel boarders.

Pope led his stern team around the aft end of the superstructure, treating the ship’s exterior corners as they would a building. Visually slicing the geometric pie, they moved with the fluid precision of experienced operators, surveying each segment of deck and bulkhead as it became visible. Their timing was good: within seconds, three armed men appeared on deck, obviously hoping to take the boarders from behind. A quick exchange of gunfire produced no casualties but forced the defenders back inside.

Pope leaned down toward Breezy. “Keep them bottled up here. We’ll have MG support from the ship on the other side, so don’t go forward over here.”

Breezy nodded in acknowledgment, gloved hands supporting his MP-5 while kneeling at the corner. Bosco stood behind him, providing double coverage. He felt almost giddy. “Shiver me timbers, matey, we made it!”

Gerritt Maas realized that the relative motion of the two ships was changing. It took a few seconds to recognize what was occurring, but he quickly compensated.

“All stop. Back two-thirds.” He did not wait for the situation to stabilize. Knowing that Pope’s team needed the fire support of the M-60s, he kept the helm into the hostile vessel, feeling the hulls contact intermittently.

He picked up the mike on the tactical radio and hailed Pope. “Flipper from Dutchman, over.”

Seconds passed with no reply. Maas pressed the button again. “Flipper, this is Dutchman.”

“… man, Flipper here.”

“Victor, they’re backing down but I can probably match them. Over.”

“Ah, roger, Dutchman. Just keep abeam so our guns cover the deck. Over.”

Feeling unaccustomed excitement, Maas lapsed into his native accent. “Chur ting. Ah, you going to Point Alfa or Bravo?”

“Alfa. Watch for us. Out.”

Looking across the several meters separating them, Maas saw Pope lead the first assault team up the ladder toward the bridge.

Pope paused just below the top of the ladder, his weapon poised to engage any threat that peered over the lip of the platform. He waited what seemed a long minute — actually it was less than ten seconds — before he heard Maas’s exec on the tactical net. “Flipper, it looks clear from here.” The officer spoke unaccented English — rare for a seafarer from Maine.

Nice to have somebody watching over your shoulder, Pope thought — a friendly observer with a better view of the top of the world you were about to enter half blind. Those last three feet could be critical.

Victor Pope believed in leading from the front. It was not always the best choice, because it put the commander at the point of contact, and when the action began, inevitably made him a shooter more than a leader. But it was his way and the others accepted it.

Pope made a lobbing gesture with his left hand. Behind and below him, two operators pulled the pins on concussion grenades and tossed them over their leader’s head. One short, one long.

The black and yellow cylinders rolled toward the bridge and exploded with stunning effect. Before the sound had abated, Pope was up the last steps and lateralled right, giving his team room to maneuver past him.

Automatic fire spurted from inside the bridge as somebody hosed a long, searching burst from an AK. An SSI man went down, cursing loudly with a round through his calf. Another Mark 3 sailed through the open access and its eight-ounce charge detonated, blowing out much of the remaining glass.

Pfizer and his partner were instantly through the access, their suppressed MP-5s clattering in short, precise bursts. Three and four rounds. Two more bursts, then silence.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Pope signaled the other operators to watch fore and aft while he entered the bridge. Two men were sprawled in positions that can only be assumed by people who are dead. Three others were flat on the deck, one bleeding from the nose and ears.

Everybody’s hands and feet were tied with flex cuffs, including the two corpses. Pope glanced at the dead men, noting that both had been killed by multiple head shots. Pfizer saw the look, knew its meaning, and said, “They got body armor, Boss.”

Pope stepped outside, standing on the starboard wing of the bridge. He waved and saw Maas return the gesture. Pope saw him turn and speak to two crewmen.

Back inside, Pope knelt beside the oldest man on the deck. “Where is Marcel Hurtubise?”

The man, obviously an Arab, shook his head, sucking in air. He’s still stunned, Pope realized. He waited a moment, then asked, “Are you the captain?”

Abu Yusuf Zikri shook his head again. “No. Captain gone.”

Your mother eats pork, Pope thought. “Where is Hurtubise?”

The Libyan closed his eyes, as if willing the apparition to vanish. Then he felt something sharply uncomfortable in his left nostril. When he looked, he realized that the American had a three-inch knife pressed inside the nasal cavity, and the blade was slowly rising. Soft flesh parted and blood began to flow.

“Below! He is below!”

“Where’s the captain?” More upward pressure.

“Me! I am captain!”

“Name?”

Tikri began to cry. He sucked in more oxygen, inhaling some blood at the same time. Choking and panting, he managed to get the syllables out. “Tikri. Abu Yusuf Tikri.”

The knife disappeared and the pain abated.

One of the operators was behind Pope. “Boss, the bridge crew is here.”

Pope turned to see the men whom Maas had recruited to conn the ship. He stood up. “All right, let’s drag these people out of here and let these gentlemen get to work.”

Maas heard, “Dutchman, Flipper. Point Alfa secure. Proceeding to Bravo.”

The captain knew that the SSI men were about to enter the belly of the beast, descending toward the engine room. He acknowledged Pope’s call, then signaled the new bridge watch on Tarabulus Pride. Both vessels resumed course at a reduced ten knots.

Satisfied that things were temporarily under control, Maas turned to his other colleagues. “Gentlemen, you may stand by until we hear from Pope. I do not think you should go aboard until the ship is fully in our control.”

Alex Cohen nodded, indicating neither dissension nor enthusiasm. Bernard Langevin said, “There’s no hurry, Captain. The yellow cake isn’t going anywhere.”

Pope quickly briefed his team on deck amidships. His assets were being diluted, having to leave guards on the bridge and the stern. He ran the numbers: one casualty plus four security men topside and two manning M-60s on Don Carlos left nine to go belowdecks, including himself.

“All right,” he began. “Two and three-man stacks, everybody going down and aft to avoid confusion. We’ll leave two men to guard the passageways forward in case some tangos are up forward. Remember, they have body armor and hearing protection, so don’t take chances. Clear any suspicious compartments with flash-bangs, and if you have to shoot, double tap above the eyebrows.

“Second: look for booby traps. If you find an undogged hatch, push it open before you enter. Better that way than step into an IED. If it’s dogged, Malten and Pfizer will blow the hinges.

“Third: Jeff’s team will start here. My team will enter from the other side. Wait for my call so we all go in together.

“Everybody clear?”

There were no questions, nor did Pope expect any. “Okay. Pfizer, Pascoe, Collier, and Jacobs. On me.”

Pope led his team aft, around the stern where Bosco and Breezy still guarded the deck portside. Approaching the corner, Pope called, “Boscombe, Breezy, you copy?”

“Read you, Boss.” It was Bosco.

“We’re coming around your end. You guys take the point and move forward of the access while we enter. I’ll leave one man inside while we head below.”

“Gotcha.”

Moments later, Bosco felt Pope’s hand on his shoulder. Without further words, Bosco and Breezy advanced side by side, Breezy’s eyes following his HK’s muzzle that swept the upper deck. Once past the hatch, they stopped while Pope prepared to enter. He spoke into his lip mike.

“Jeff, we’re ready on this side.”

Malten replied from the other side. “On your mark.”

“Okay, I’m testing the hatch. The handle’s not moving.”

“Same here, Boss.”

“Prepare to blow it.” He looked over his shoulder. “Tom, you’re on.”

Pope stood aside while Pfizer quickly attached plastique to the access door’s hinges and handle. He linked the three charges with primer cord and inserted an adjustable one-minute detonator. “Fifteen seconds?”

Pope nodded. Then he called, “Jeff, set your detonator for one-five seconds. Start on my mark.”

“Ready, Vic.”

“Ready, ready, go!”

Malten twisted the dial one-quarter of a rotation. “Fire in the hole.”

Bosco and Breezy did a reverse moon walk, muzzles elevated, while Pope’s team retreated to a safe distance. The Composition Four charges detonated in a rolling, metallic eruption that left Pope’s hatch dangling at an awkward angle. While the team stacked behind him, he peeked inside and saw Malten’s men entering over their flattened door, scanning left and right.

“Clear!” Malten shouted.

“Cover us,” Pope replied. He wedged himself through the opening and the others followed. “Jacobs, you stand by here. Give a shout if you see something.”

Malten looked at his superior. “Well, Boss, they know we’re here now.”

“Roger that.” Pope adjusted his protective goggles and took position behind Pascoe. Checking visually with Malten, he said, “See you guys on the next level.”

“They’re coming,” Rivera said. The explosions two decks above could only mean one thing.

“Of course they are,” Hurtubise replied. Considering what was about to happen, he remained unusually calm. Especially since he was not accustomed to working with explosives.

“How much longer?” the Spaniard asked.

“Maybe ten minutes. Just keep them out of here until I signal. Leave Georges and Felix here to guard the entrance.”

Alfonso Rivera was a competent young man within certain limits, but shipboard tactics remained beyond the ken of his experience. Nonetheless, he hefted his AKM and climbed the ladder from the engine room to the next level, remembering to dog the hatch behind him. He wondered how he was going to hold off a dozen or more intruders with three men besides himself.

Approaching the second level down, Pope’s operators heard the machinery more clearly than before. Even though the SSI prize crew manned the bridge, the ship’s engine remained under control of the black gang.

Malten led the starboard team, descending the narrow ladders between decks. A few yards away, on the opposite side of the hull, Pope’s team kept pace. The two elements were able to maintain visual contact with one another most of the time, communicating by hand signals and occasional whispers over the tactical frequency of their headsets. Pope wanted to present the defenders with a dual-axis offense, concentrating two pairs of leading shooters against whatever the Frenchmen deployed against him.

Malten and Pope took no chances. Knowing that defenders had to be waiting on one or both of the last two levels, the operators stopped to drop flash-bangs down the ladder on each side. The second man in each team produced a Mark 84, pulled the pin, and on Pope’s signal dropped the grenades down the ladders.

The SSI operators had eye and ear protection but reflexively most turned their heads. Two seconds later the stun grenades detonated with 170 decibels, a horrific sound only amplified in the confined steel spaces within the hull.

Instantly the first two men on each side were down the ladders, scanning left and right.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Finding nothing on the second deck, Malten and Pope advanced several steps aft to the next ladder. With compartments on either side, they took time to clear each one in turn, the last man in each team leaving the doors fully open to mark them as checked.

The teams proceeded to the next ladder. They knew that this time somebody was certainly waiting for them.

On the next level, Alfonso Rivera licked his lips. His throat was dry but he was as well prepared as possible, with body armor, gas mask, and hearing protection. He doubted that the intruders would use flash-bangs this close to the engine room, as Mark 84s could ignite fuel vapors, and nobody wanted to fight aboard a burning ship at sea. He glanced at his companions: Georges appeared calm; Felix fidgeted constantly.

From interrogating the bridge crew and one of the wounded mercenaries, the SSI men knew what to expect. Gas would be negated by the defenders’ masks, and smoke would only confuse matters. In extreme close quarters, where a tenth of a second was a meaningful measure, it would be easy to confuse friends and enemies. But a straight-out attack would surely result in friendly casualties.

Pope dropped a Mark 84.

The five-inch-long object clattered down the steps and rolled along the grilled platform where the defenders stood. Instinctively, the three men turned away from the impending blast that could blind and deafen them.

Pope and Pascoe were instantly down the ladder on their respective sides. The next men in the stack were immediately behind them, deploying left and right. Pfizer tripped on the next to last step, tumbling into Collier and causing momentary confusion that could have been fatal.

“Freeze!”

“Ne pas se déplacer!”

“Drop the weapons!”

“Laisser tomber les armes!”

Rivera was closest to the intruders. Wide-eyed behind his mask, he looked down at the grenade. The detonator had been removed. He realized that he had been bluffed and dropped his Kalashnikov. Slowly he raised his hands.

A few feet farther away, the gunman called Felix had a fraction more time to react to the collision at the bottom of the steps. He raised his AKM from the low ready position, aimed at the closest opponent, and began to press the trigger.

Eight 9 mm rounds shattered the faceplate of his mask. Pope’s and Pascoe’s suppressed MP-5s clattered audibly from ten to twelve feet away spilling empty brass onto the deck. Felix’s body went limp as a rag doll and seemed to collapse inward upon itself.

Rivera and Georges were screaming inside their masks, waving their empty hands. “No shoot!”

“Ne pas tirer!”

Collier defaulted to his television youth. “Cuff ‘em, Danno!”

While the survivors were secured with flex cuffs, Pope and Malten considered their next move. Only one hatchway separated them from the engine room, and as they decided how to blow their way in, the door slowly opened. A dirty gray rag appeared at the end of a hand.

“Do not shoot! We surrender.”

Seconds later, Victor Pope looked into the eyes of Marcel Hurtubise.

88

Gerritt Maas could hardly believe what he heard.

“I say again,” Pope advised, “the ship is secure.”

The captain exchanged disbelieving glances with Cohen and Langevin. “That was quick,” Langevin exclaimed. “I thought sure it would take longer.”

Maas puffed aggressively on his pipe, as if seeking an explanation from it. “Well, maybe they saw how things were going and did the smart thing. But I guess you gentlemen will want to see for yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” Cohen responded. “Can we get close enough to jump deck to deck again?”

“Yeah, it’ll take a few minutes though. I think that Captain Harvey will want to lay to.”

Langevin was headed for the exit when he pulled up. “Captain, what about your man? The one who was shot.”

Maas removed his pipe and blew a smoke ring. “Oh, he’s probably going to be okay. Dr. Faith is still with him.”

Langevin stalked up to Pope on the bridge and offered congratulations. “That was good work, Commander. Faster than I expected.”

“Yeah, I’m still wondering about that, Doctor. We’re searching the engine room and will look everywhere else once we get time. Right now we’re still securing the prisoners and Cap’n Harvey’s prize crew is learning about this ship.”

“Well, they have their job and I have mine. I’d like to look at the cargo.” Pope nodded toward the bow. “Apparently the yellow cake is in the forward hold. But all the hatches are secured and it’ll take a while to open them.”

Malten’s voice crackled over Pope’s radio headset. “Vic, this is Jeff. Come back.”

“Yes, Jeff. Go.”

“You better come down here again.”

“On the way.”

“What’s up?” Langevin asked.

“Something in the engineering spaces. You’re welcome to come along.”

Malten met Pope at the hatchway. The junior SEAL extended a hand with an unwelcome sight. Pope’s eyes widened. “Command detonation?”

“Affirm. We’re looking for more.”

Pope took the Yugoslavian made device and turned it over. “How much of a charge?”

“Semtex. About twelve or fifteen pounds.”

“Where was it?”

Malten turned and walked aft. “Down here, under one of the mounts.”

“Where’s the initiator?” Pope asked.

“Haven’t found it.”

Pope glanced around, noting the myriad of possible hiding places. “I’ll get you more guys to search. Meanwhile, I’m going to have a word with Mr. Hurtubise.”

In the galley where the crew and surviving mercs were held, Marcel Hurtubise saw Pope coming. Both knew what to expect.

Pope laid the detonator on the table where the Frenchman sat, hands cuffed behind him.

Hurtubise pretended to examine it. Then he looked up. “Most interesting.”

Leaning forward, Pope braced himself with both hands on the table. He positioned his face eight inches from Hurtubise’s. “Where are the others?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Pope’s hands shot out, grasping Hurtubise by the collar and pulling him off the bench. The American took a nylon line off his tactical vest, looped it around the prisoner’s throat, and hauled him thirty feet across the deck. Other prisoners scrambled to get out of the way.

“Talk to me,” Pope said. His voice was low, calm, chilling.

Hurtubise gasped for air. “I… cannot… breathe…”

Pope loosened the line slightly. “Well?”

“I am… a prisoner. You cannot…”

The former SEAL snugged up the line, hefted it over one shoulder, and proceeded to drag the bound man another twenty feet. Hurtubise’s face was turning a bluish hue.

Pope leaned over the prostrate Frenchman. “I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what I can’t do!” He delivered a swift kick to the man’s ribs. “I can hang you from the overhead, monsieur. If you die, I’m no worse off than if you don’t talk.” He added another hard kick for emphasis. “Well?”

Hurtubise realized that he had sustained a cracked rib. After some gasps and croaks, he managed, “One more.”

“Where?”

“Behind… the main… control panel.”

Pope dropped the line and walked toward the exit. He adjusted his lip mike. “Jeff, Vic here.”

“Yeah. Go.”

“Look behind the main control panel.”

Less than one minute later Malten’s voice was back. “Got it. But what about the initiator?”

“Stand by one.”

Hurtubise was still on one side, gasping for breath. Pope had not loosened the nylon line more than a fraction of an inch.

“Where’s the remote detonator?”

The victim gagged and coughed. “One in my cabin. The other beneath the chart table.”

Pope ran a finger between the line and Hurtubise’s chafed neck. Then he stood erect and called Malten again. “Jeff, I’m sending somebody to get the remotes. But keep looking.” He glanced down at the exhausted mercenary. “I don’t trust this bastard.”

“Will do, Boss.”

Pope looked around. The ship’s original crew and the remaining mercenaries regarded the tall American with unblinking interest. An idea stirred inside Victor Pope’s bald head.

“Bridge, this is Pope.”

“Bridge, aye.” It was Harvey, the British captain now conning the vessel.

“Cap’n, we’re removing two explosive charges from the engineering spaces but I think there might be more. I recommend that we evacuate to Don Carlos until we know we’re safe.”

After a pause, Harvey came back. “That’s prudent, Commander. But we still haven’t opened the holds. I’m told that will take some time because they’re welded.”

“It’s your call, Skipper. But we may not have much time. Over.”

Harvey took a moment to ponder the situation. “Stand by, please. I’ll consult with Captain Maas on the ship-to-ship frequency.”

Pope looked around again. Nearly twenty captives were guarded by Bosco and Breezy, who had run out of decks to watch.

“You two,” Pope said. “Start these people topside along the starboard rail. We can save some time by getting them up there now.”

Bosco grinned. “Right, Boss. But, uh, what about him?” He indicated Hurtubise.

Pope looked down and registered mild surprise, as if just noticing the supine prisoner. “Him? Well, he’s going to stay here.” Pope wrapped the loose end of his line around a stanchion and secured it with a half hitch. “If he’s lying to me, he’ll ride this boat to the bottom.”

Marcel Hurtubise heard the words and concentrated on the man’s tone. From a lifetime of closely reading human behavior, he thought he had taken the measure of Victor Pope. But now was not the time for discourse. The Frenchman emitted a realistic gagging, choking sound.

It was not imitation.

81

“Everybody back?” Langevin had not made a head count, and as chief investigator he felt responsible for the operation at this point.

“Everybody but one,” Pope said.

Langevin looked around. At that moment Don Carlos’s sailors and the SSI men were leading the captives to a holding area. Cohen was with them — he seemed especially interested in one of Zikri’s radio operators.

“Vic, are you really going to let that Frenchman go down if the ship sinks?”

Pope almost grinned. “Well, let’s just say I want him to think so.”

“My God,” the scientist exclaimed. “If there is another charge hidden someplace, the ship could sink pretty fast. I mean, it’s not very big.”

Langevin lowered his voice. “Look,” he began. “My area is physics, but I know one or two things about explosives. If Hurtubise is hog-tied, he can’t detonate any hidden charges if even he wanted to. So what’s the point?”

“My point is, Doctor, that he could’ve set a timer. And I don’t think it would’ve been for very long because he wouldn’t want us looking in the hold. If we get some contraband yellow cake, that can be used against him.”

Langevin lowered his gaze to the deck, obviously pondering the SEAL’s logic. “Okay, that makes sense. But how much longer will you wait?”

Pope looked at his watch. “It’s now been about fifty minutes. I’m going to let him wait an hour-plus and then I’ll go back.”

“Well, okay. But I sure would like to get to that hold before something…”

A low, rumbling ka-whump interrupted the physicist. Heads swiveled toward Tarabulus Pride, dead in the water two hundred yards away.

“That’s it!” Pope exclaimed. Ignoring Langevin, he called over the side. “Jeff! Fire up the Zodiac! Get me over there right now!”

The old freighter was settling by the stern when Pope scrambled up the accommodation ladder. He dashed down to the galley and found Hurtubise still bound hand and foot.

“Ah, Commander,” the Frenchman exclaimed.“Bienvenue à bord!”

Pope barely resisted the urge to put a boot in the man’s face. “I ought to let you sink!”

“But you will not. Just as I knew you wouldn’t.” The smug tone in Hurtubise’s voice told Pope the story. He read me all along.

The American leaned down, produced his knife, and held it to Hurtubise’s nose. Pope wondered if the mercenary had heard of Captain Zikri’s acquaintance with that same piece of tempered steel. The blade made no obvious impression on the phlegmatic saboteur, so Pope cut the flex cuff on the Frenchman’s feet. Hurtubise was hauled upright and shoved toward the exit.

Descending the boarding ladder was awkward with his hands bound behind his back, but Hurtubise wasted little time getting off the doomed ship. As the Zodiac motored away, he looked back. The bow was well clear of the water now, the hull beginning to list to port. “I fear that Captain Zikri will be disappointed in me,” he said. The crooked smile on his face was more than Pope could abide. He erased the superior grin with a right hook that laid the offender prone in the rubber craft.

“Watch your mouth,” Pope said.

90

A day out of Casablanca, the SSI team held a meeting to discuss options. There had been time on the way north to “interview” the former passengers and crew of M/V Tarabulus Pride.

Bernard Langevin scanned the interrogation reports and shook his head. “This Hurtubise is a crafty SOB, I’ll say that for him. He left two fairly small charges for us to find and put the big ones where we wouldn’t see them unless we inspected the hull. And there wasn’t time for that.”

“But why’d he bother to scuttle the ship?” Malten asked. “He still knew he’d get caught.”

“Well, yes, but there’s more to it,” Langevin replied. “Basically, no evidence, no crime. Look, we know the ship had yellow cake aboard. But even if we had some of it, who’s to say where it was headed?”

Pope was incredulous. “My God, Bernie, we know where it was headed.”

“Sure we do. But how would we prove it? The cargo manifest didn’t list it, of course, and the ports of call included three countries except Iran. As long as nobody talks, everybody’s safe.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, look at it legally,” Langevin replied. “Basically, we committed piracy. That’s right: we seized a ship conducting rightful passage through international waters. We had no formal standing with any government— especially the United States — and that’s how Washington wants it. So it’s a standoff. Neither side can complain without drawing unwelcome attention on itself.”

“Well I’ll be dipped.” Pope turned to Cohen. “Alex, what do you make of all this?”

The Israeli agent shrugged eloquently. “Near as I can tell, Bernie’s right. But the main thing is that we prevented the yellow cake from reaching Iran.”

“I still don’t understand one thing,” Pfizer said. “Why didn’t they rig the ship for scuttling before? I mean, if they intended to surrender anyway, why go through all the trouble? They lost people they didn’t have to.”

“Good question,” Langevin replied. “From what I got from their captain, he didn’t know about it. My guess is that he wouldn’t have allowed Hurtubise to prepare for scuttling. From his view, getting boarded and having the cargo confiscated was preferable to losing the ship, even with insurance coverage. Looks like Hurtubise just pretended to go along with the program until he saw how things shook out.”

Pope asked, “So what happens to Hurtubise and his mercs?”

“That’s beyond me. But I’m somewhere between a cynic and a skeptic regarding international legal matters. After all, neither the U.S., French, Libyan, or Iranian governments want this thing publicized.” He wanted to add, I’m not so sure about the Israelis. “Besides that, who would we turn him over to? The only provable offense was in Chad, and if he goes there I guarandamntee he’ll disappear in a New York minute. My guess is they’ll be released.”

Phil Green was still mulling over the death of Don Pace. “Excuse me, sir, but these bastards killed two of our guys. And where’s the Chad Government in all this? After all, their contractor was smuggling yellow cake, and killed some troopies in Chad.”

Bernard Langevin, with wider knowledge of the world than Phil Green, tried to recall a time when he shared the younger man’s sense of justice. He could not.

“I guess this isn’t the first time that two PMCs have shot at each other, and I don’t suppose it’ll be the last.” Gathering his thoughts, Langevin added, “The Chadian government has lots of people. Believe me, it doesn’t care about a few casualties. Not even those that SSI trained.”

Green regarded the scientist with a level gaze, equal to equal. “Don’t make it right, sir.”

Langevin chose his reply with care. “No, it don’t.”

91

Derringer walked into the firm’s lobby, barely nodded to the receptionist and guard, and proceeded straight through the security door. SSI’s leadership was awaiting him in the boardroom.

Marshall Wilmont asked, “What’s the bad news, Mike?”

Derringer set down his fedora and smoothed his thinning hair. “What makes you think it’s bad news?”

“Mike, you’re a lousy poker player. I can read your face, and right now you look like you’re holding a pair of deuces.”

Derringer began to pace. The others had rarely seen him so distracted; Sandy Carmichael and Frank Leopole looked at each other, concern in their eyes. Omar Mohammed remained unflappable as ever, but he followed the CEO’s circular pattern across the carpet, sensing the nuances of posture and expression.

At length Derringer dropped anchor. Turning to face his colleagues, he said, “O’Connor laid it out for me. We’ve been had. In fact, everybody involved has been had, including DoD and State.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Wilmont’s tone contained more anger than he intended.

Derringer took a seat at the head of the conference table. “You all know how we were worried about credible intelligence on this mission. Not even Dave Dare could break out the real sources. He came closer than most, apparently, because he traced what he could back to one source.”

“Israel?” Carmichael already had her suspicions.

“You got it,” Derringer replied. “O’Connor may be a liberal leftover of the Carter era, but he’s able to tap some diplomatic sources. This is not for publication, people, but when I arrived, he was with John Shaw of the U.N. Secretariat. They knew each other at Brown.”

Mohammed sat upright. “Shaw? He monitors private military contractors, doesn’t he?”

“That’s right. He’s even less of a friend to us than Ryan O’Connor, but neither of them likes being stiffed by Tel Aviv.”

Nobody asked the obvious question; everyone present knew that Derringer would fill in the blanks.

“It turns out that the Israelis were behind the yellow cake shipment. It’s part of a plan to focus attention on Iran’s nuke program. But State and the U.N. didn’t know that at the time, otherwise they probably wouldn’t have sent us after it.”

Leopole’s tanned hands were clenched into fists. “How do they know that, Admiral?”

“They wouldn’t reveal sources, Frank, and I guess I can’t blame them. But they talked freely in my presence, and there’s no doubt that both State and the U.N. are sure of the facts.” Derringer made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “For all I know, the leaks could be from inside Israel. Evidently there’s a power play under way in their intel community, on top of arguments about what to do about Iran.”

Carmichael gave Leopole a sideways glance. He nodded.

“Admiral, while you were out, we got word from Victor Pope in Casablanca. Langevin took the captured crew and French mercs ashore to hand them over to French and Libyan diplomats. Where they’ll go from there we don’t know. But Cohen went with the ship’s radio operator, who had been feeding him information on Tarabulus Pride’s location and activities. Nobody’s seen them since.”

Derringer’s face betrayed his emotion: disbelieving anger.

Leopole interjected. “There’s more, and it fits with what you’ve said, sir. Pope and Maas both confirm that Aujali, the radioman, was an Israeli asset who’d been blackmailed into cooperating in exchange for release of some relatives in Israel. We think Cohen probably took him there to complete that part of the bargain.”

“I don’t understand,” Derringer replied. “Why would Alex Cohen just up and disappear? He’s on our payroll, for Pete’s sake!”

Mohammed cleared his throat, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. “This seems to be a day of revelations, Admiral. David Dare called for you just after you left so I spoke to him. It’s after the fact, but here’s what he found:

“Cohen wasn’t just coordinating with the Israelis; he was working with Mossad, which apparently was pulling everybody’s strings. Obviously he didn’t want to answer any embarrassing questions. Once Mossad learned the ship involved, they made sure that we and Hurtubise knew what each other knew. The Israelis wanted us focused on the ship, and the ship aware that we were closing in. It’s a perfect game; a classic double cross to the exclusion of both parties for the satisfaction of the third party. Israel.”

Derringer shook his head as if avoiding a pesky fly. “How did Dave learn that?”

“He’s waiting to talk to you. Whenever you can call back.”

Leopole was on his feet. “The bastards! They…”

Wilmont was almost never involved in operations but he recognized the anger building in the room. SSI still had potential contracts in Israel and the Middle East. “Easy, Frank. Remember, they’re protecting themselves from possible nuclear attack.”

People rose from their seats as their voices became shrill.

“Damn it! We lost people on this op!”

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Derringer rapped on the table. It was one of the few times he regretted not having a gavel. “Hey! Everybody! Knock it off. We’re all on the same side here.”

When the voices subsided, Derringer regained control of the meeting. “Where’s Don Carlos now? Still in Casablanca?”

“Yes, sir,” Leopole replied.”Maas is awaiting orders, which he’ll pass to Pope. I imagine everybody wants to come home, especially those who were in Chad.”

Michael Derringer slumped visibly. He seemed burdened with a weight on his head and shoulders. Looking around the room, he said, “I haven’t told you everything yet. State wants us to stay in position.”

Carmichael cocked her head. “Sir, what does that mean? We keep our people there? For how long?”

Shaking his head, Derringer said, “I don’t know, Sandy. But I’m allowed to tell you that something’s brewing in Iran.”

92

With little to occupy them in port, Gerritt Maas and Victor Pope had taken to walking the ship twice a day. Maas had been to Casablanca previously but the city’s exotic reputation held little interest for the former SEAL. He preferred to exercise, walk, and talk.

The Dutch skipper tapped his pipe bowl and regarded the American. Maas finally felt comfortable enough to ask a personal question. “Victor, I understand that you considered becoming a priest before the Navy.”

Pope thought, He’s been talking to Derringer. “That’s right.”

“Could I ask why you changed your mind?”

“Oh, there’s a couple of reasons. Even after the Second Vatican Council I was willing to consider the priesthood, but eventually it just wasn’t the same church anymore.”

“When was the Vatican Council?”

“It sat from 1962 to ‘65. John XXIII and Paul VI.”

“My God. You couldn’t have been born yet!”

Pope laughed. “Well, there were other reasons. In my early twenties I thought about spending the rest of my life celibate, and it just wasn’t for me.” He gave a rare grin. “Besides, neither the Jesuits nor Benedictines issue firearms.”

They continued walking aft, momentarily content to pace in silence. Then Maas said, “Sometimes the occupation finds the man. Like me. I grew up in a farming family — had no interest in the sea until a friend’s father took me sailing.”

Pope nodded quietly. Approaching the stern, he said, “I always enjoyed athletics, competition, and shooting. The SEALs seemed the biggest challenge. But sometimes…”

“Yes?”

“Well, sometimes I wish I could just do the job, you know? Without the responsibility. Sometimes I wish I could just be like… them.” He gestured toward Bosco and Breezy, sitting on a tarp spread on the fantail.

The two friends were still practicing their pirate routine while cleaning the M-60s. According to one’s perspective, either they had perfected the act beyond all reasoning, or it still needed a great deal of work.

Bosco set aside a spare barrel, cocked a squinty eye at his partner, and pitched his voice into a low, gravelly octave somewhere between Wally Beery and Yosemite Sam. “Aye, matey, when we took the Tarabulus, the decks ran red!”

In a poor Johnny Depp imitation, Breezy replied, “Avast! You’re the second best pirate I ever saw.”

“Second best? Why’s that?”

Breezy explained, “You need a peg leg and a parrot named Carl Bob.”

“Well, matey, next time we’re ashore for grog, we can go shopping at a pet store. But by Davy Jones’s locker, I’m keeping both me legs.”

At that clue, the friends broke into something resembling a song:

Unseen by the latter-day buccaneers, Victor Pope regarded the happy youngsters and envied their buoyant emotions. He knew that the mood would not last long.