Strait of Hormuz

by Davis Bunn

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sharm el-Sheikh was a resort city located on the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula. They crowded around the cockpit door as Carter Dawes approached from the south, flying up the Red Sea. The tip of the Sinai was known by two names, depending on the side. On the left, the Muhammad Strait opened into the Gulf of Suez. To its right, the Straits of Tiran marked the beginning of the Gulf of Aqaba.

  Sharm el-Sheikh was a shimmering jewel in an otherwise ocher vista. The pilot motioned them back to their seats as three connecting highways appeared, stretching like dusty arteries to bind the city to the rest of Egypt. The waters below them were dotted with hundreds of boats, everything from shipping vessels to military destroyers to ocean liners to private yachts to lateen-sailed dhows. The Gulf of Aqaba connected Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Egypt, and Israel. The entire Saudi Peninsula lay between them and the Strait of Hormuz. If Marc was right, the U.S. Navy was nine hundred miles off target. If wrong, and the deadly vessel was indeed steaming for Hormuz, it meant the end of Marc’s career, a risk he was prepared to take.

  They landed and crossed the airport’s baking tarmac, led by a bored customs official, and entered the private customs hall. Not even their varied passport originations raised an eyebrow. Their luggage was given a perfunctory search. When they emerged from the terminal, two dusty, vintage Mercedes were there to greet them.

  Sharm el-Sheikh was bleak. Rubble and scrawny dogs and starving palm trees lined the empty stretches. Then came a postage stamp of luxury. The private villas were hidden behind vast concrete walls. The hotels were rimmed by palm trees and lawns and flower beds that looked artificial in their perfection. Guards with uniforms imprinted with hours of sweat strolled the grounds. Then the opulence ended, and there was another stretch of rubble and desert, waiting for the bulldozers and the money.

  The Ritz-Carlton was located on the finest of the Red Sea beaches, just beyond the main tourist strip known as Naama Bay. The hotel’s main structure was built from bricks, one shade off red and the color of the surrounding desert. Out front a giant fountain mocked the desert dryness, while another sparkled inside the vast lobby. A third played in the waters of the pool area beyond. The hotel beach was rimmed by private villas of the ultra-rich. The air-conditioning was set so low they all shivered.

  A male voice called in English, “Dominique? Can that truly be you?”

  To her credit, Kitra showed neither surprise nor confusion over hearing her assumed name. She glanced once at Marc, received a nod in response, then turned and smiled, then laughed. “What are you doing here?”

  A compact young man wearing a white linen shirt and swimming trunks hurried across the lobby from the café, his sandals slapping against the marble tiles. He swept Kitra up in a dancing embrace. She slipped her arms around his neck and played along. The man was handsome in the classical Mediterranean fashion—dark hair and deep tan and strong legs and sharp features. His smile was brilliant, his gaze easy in the manner of a man who had known far too many conquests.

  He released her only when a beautiful woman, probably in her late twenties, emerged from the café and demanded, “Should I be jealous?”

  “You remember me telling you about Dominique?”

  “Of course I remember.” She slipped her arm possessively around the young man. “All too well.”

  Marc stepped forward, hand extended. “Hello. I’m Marc Royce.”

  As they exchanged handshakes, the young woman asked, “You are with this one?”

  “I am. Yes.”

  “What a relief. I am Sandrine. And this is Henri. You have heard of Henri?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “This is shocking news.” The young man showed Kitra mock dismay. “You did not tell him about me?”

  Kitra played the role, stepping over and slipping her hand into Marc’s. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  Sandrine smiled. “I feel even better.”

  “Listen, you must drop your bags and come with us,” Henri told them. “We have rented a boat. We are going to snorkel around the outer reefs. There is a protected area off the peninsula, live coral atolls, over a thousand species of fish.”

  Marc got a whiff of the jet’s air still clinging to Kitra’s hair. “We’re pretty beat, we’ve just flown in—”

  The man made a scoffing noise. “Who cares where you came from? This is happening now! It’s a beautiful day, we ride the boat, we swim, we watch the sunset. What could be better?”

  Kitra looked at Marc and broke his heart with her smile. “I could think of no finer an invitation.”

  Marc surrendered with, “Can our friends come too?”

  They dropped their luggage in their rooms and changed for the beach. Kitra appeared in a swimsuit covered by an ivory shirt that reached her knees, as delicate as gauze. She had never looked more beautiful. Marc greeted her with a smile he had wanted to show her since forever. But when he started to compliment her, Kitra whispered so softly he did not hear so much as see her shape the words, “Don’t. Please.”

  Their new-old friends, Sandrine and Henri, joined them in the lobby and led them across the rose-colored sand toward their boat, anchored thirty meters off the beach. A young Egyptian rowed them out in a dinghy from another era. He accepted Marc’s payment with a musical salaam and sang his way back to the shore.

  Their rental turned out to be a beautiful Hatteras yacht, perhaps thirty years old but impeccably maintained. It had the stumpy look of an outdated Buick. The lone crewman helped them onboard, stowed their goods, made a process of offering drinks from the cooler. The boat slipped from its anchorage and began to ply through the sparkling waters.

  Rhana had turned the seat across from the skipper into her personal rest area. Bernard and Amin lounged on the starboard berth, exchanging pleasantries with the couple performing the part of hosts. Marc settled in the back, Kitra beside him. They watched the waves and played at having a good time for any curious bystanders with binoculars.

  The group ate a meal and chatted among themselves as any wealthy tourists would do, past the main commercial harbor and then the naval base. The water was dotted with a multitude of crafts, all sizes and ages, and they exchanged waves with many other vessels. As they sailed farther from the shore, Marc settled onto the aft swivel chair by the rumbling motors and returned to his silent aloofness. It was the role Kitra found easiest to endure, he told himself, needing to repeat it every time she glanced his way.

  They passed through the Straits of Tiran, motoring past the two main islands marking the entry into the Gulf of Aqaba’s calmer waters. The tip of the peninsula held the Nabq Preserve, a broad stretch of mangroves and dunes and water birds. As they entered the Red Sea, the shores dropped away and the waters emptied of all save the larger commercial craft. And then these vessels were gone as well. The sea belonged to them alone.

  Only then did the Israeli couple drop the smiles and empty chatter. The young man said, “I am Dov. The lady’s name truly is Sandrine. She tends to forget her aliases. A pity. Such a lovely lady, but her mind is like a sieve.”

  The young woman flipped a hand at his shoulder. “We have no need for different names. We carry French passports, we are tourists. But Dov loves his games.”

  “You have to find pleasure where you can, no?” The man’s dark eyes flashed toward Sandrine, and he grinned. It looked like she was used to his teasing. Then he cocked a thumb at the skipper. “Our driver is Shimon.”

  Their pilot called back, “Please thank whoever is responsible for this vessel and all our little toys.”

  “First chance I get.” Marc made the introductions again, then asked, “You are friends of Chaver?”

  “We hold that honor, yes.”

  Sandrine added, “Chaver’s definition of a friend is someone who survives. Let us hope we all hold that honor for a very long time.”

  Dov pointed beyond the bow, out over the empty sea. “Our friends have located the research vessel. They did a flyover at thir
ty thousand feet—nothing to raise alarms. The boat is thirty miles out and closing. But there is a mystery. It travels at a tourist’s pace. You understand?”

  “The ship is in no hurry,” Marc replied. “Maybe it wants to enter the Strait after dark.”

  “The Gulf of Aqaba is tightly patrolled at night,” Sandrine said. “Tourist vessels are forbidden out of the harbor after sunset. The Egyptians, the Israeli Navy, the Saudis, and the Jordanians have destroyers operating in these waters. Even the smugglers work in daylight.”

  “So maybe they’re timed for a rendezvous,” Marc suggested.

  “Yes, indeed. With us.” Dov pushed open the cabin doors and motioned them to join him. “Let’s get started.”

  They shifted the threadbare cushions and pulled open the seat tops. Sandrine unlocked hidden bolts to reveal a series of secret lockers. They began dumping items from the central crawl space onto the table—web belts, flippers, goggles, packets of C4 explosive, blast caps and timers, night-vision glasses, waterproof radios, carbon blades, and pistols wrapped in plastic bags. The pile of carefully selected equipment grew by the minute.

  Marc said firmly, “The two ladies who travel with us won’t need to gear up.”

  The aft holds contained two rubber dinghies and compact gas canisters for inflating them. Marc unlashed the netting, twisted the release valve, and stepped back. The dinghies unfolded in lightning speed. He and Dov lashed the skiffs to the gunnels and fitted on ultra-quiet motors. The sunset was a ruddy glow on the western reaches, the sky a flamboyant display of fading colors. They pushed hard, for timing was everything now.

  Amin hesitated over the selection of personal gear. Marc took that as his cue and ordered him to stay onboard and see the two women safely back to the hotel. Their decoy duties had been completed, and the Hatteras would ferry them to the commercial port. There wasn’t time to make it back to the hotel. The nighttime curfew through the Aqaba waters was strictly enforced. Amin did his best to hide his relief, quickly agreeing.

  Marc nodded toward Sandrine, silently acknowledging her training and skills as part of the team. He asked Bernard if he had ever trained for a waterborne night attack. Bernard showed him a soldier’s grin and replied, “The waters of the Swiss lakes are far colder. Does that matter?”

  Dov, a true professional, took over the operation, repeating the instructions several times as they prepped. Their target was the Pakistani research vessel. Dov passed around containers of black face paint and stated the facts with the calm ferocity of a tiger ready to be unleashed. First, they had to confirm that the vessel contained both the blowers and the chemicals. They then were to set the charges and flee.

  Afterward, Dov explained, they would hide in the mangrove swamp by Ras Muhammad. Then at dawn they would rendezvous with the Hatteras, and all would return to the hotel. They were to radio the Israeli Navy only in an extreme emergency. All Israeli vessels were shadowed by either the Egyptian Navy or the Saudi Navy, or both. Radioing the Israelis would mean igniting an international incident.

  Dov eyed them intently, then finished with, “There will be no emergency.”

  “Roger that,” Marc said. “Let’s move.”

  They boarded the two skiffs and set out. Dov ran one motor, Marc the other. Bernard traveled with Dov, Sandrine with Marc. One skiff could have carried them all and their gear, but it would have ridden low and cost them the flexibility to split up and patrol. Plus they were hoping to return with both evidence and prisoners—anything to shame the Iranians into a public admission.

  His face blackened, Marc peered out across the waters as they pulled away. Kitra stood by the aft gunnel, her dark hair blowing away from her face in the evening wind. She called something, words he wished she had spoken while he was still close enough to hear. He lifted his hand in heartfelt farewell.

  The dinghies were black, as was all the gear and apparel. The little boats were fitted with tentlike tops that could be folded back and stowed away. When they were up, they looked like crinkled black aluminum foil held in place by collapsible rods. The tops were radar deflectors, and the rods were carbon fiber. With the tops up, the boats were lost to the tossing waves. Enemy radar would read them as porpoises or some other sea mammal.

  Each crew member was fitted with black knit vests that could be cinched tight. Dov showed how they included tiny gas canisters that would inflate automatically upon severe impact, flipping the body on its back in the process. Marc had heard of these but never seen one, as he had not been involved in a seaborne action in years. The canisters were the size of his little finger and filled with an ultralight gas, so even when the vests were fully inflated they were less than a third of an inch thick.

  The water, warm as a bath, splashed over the gunnels. They pushed through the gathering dusk and the rising wind. The Red Sea stretched out around them in utter isolation. Marc didn’t see a single vessel, not a sail, not even a seabird. The stars came out one by one, and a silver thread of moon peeked over the horizon. Soon it was night, one filled with the engine’s whisper and the splashing waves. They pushed on.

  Sandrine handed him a pair of night-vision glasses. The other dinghy leaped into ghostly view. The waves showed a sparkling froth. Otherwise the sea remained spectral and empty. Sandrine operated a miniature radar, held like an iPad. She aimed the radar over the bow and directed Marc with hand signals.

  Then the vessel appeared up ahead. It was no less ugly for the night or the goggles. Marc steered over to where Bernard could reach out and draw the two dinghies close. Motors cut, they sat studying the vessel ahead, which was about three hundred yards away. It was massive and turned into an ungainly lump by the various tarps covering her decks. The wheelhouse was a metal thumb rising from the vessel’s middle. The motor throbbed steadily across the water.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Dov said.

  Marc felt the creepy-crawly tendrils spread through his gut. “Check out the wheelhouse.”

  A moment, then, “So?”

  “It’s empty.”

  “You don’t know that. The glass is small and cracked. You see only half the chamber. Less, perhaps.”

  “The decks are empty too.”

  “They are eating. They are using the head. They have the ship on autopilot. At this speed, why not? The sea is theirs.”

  But Sandrine must have heard the concern in his voice, for she demanded, “What is it, Marc?”

  “I was sent to investigate a gallery in Geneva suspected of money laundering. I entered and discovered the owner dead. It was set up with infrared triggers connected to shaped explosives. I barely escaped.”

  Dov’s only response was to remove his goggles and pick up a pair of binoculars. Sandrine asked, “You think this is a trap?”

  “All I know is, there’s no sign of life anywhere.”

  Dov said, “Their lab is onboard. The gear too.”

  “Correction. All we see are tarps. There could be anything beneath them. Or nothing at all.”

  “You say we should not move?”

  “I’m saying we need to be extremely careful.”

  Dov grunted. “We circle the boat, taking opposite directions. We meet back here.”

  They took their time, trolling in close enough to be shrouded in diesel fumes. Marc found light glowing from every portal, but no movement of shadows, no people. Nothing.

  When they circled back, Dov shook his head. Sandrine said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “We have our assignment,” Dov shot back. “It hasn’t changed.”

  “And if this is a trap?”

  Dov bounced one fist off the air-padded gunnel, thinking hard. Then he asked Marc, “How are you with a rifle and night scope?”

  “Unknown rifle, ditto on the scope, in an inflatable dinghy being tossed by waves.” Marc pretended to give it serious thought. “Call it twenty feet.”

  “That’s still fifteen feet further accuracy than Sandrine.”

  “Give me the gun,” Sandrin
e countered. “I will show you how accurate I can be.”

  “Bernard and I will go in,” Dov decided. “You stay back, keep watch. Sandrine, you take his position by the engine. Marc, arm yourself.”

  Marc didn’t like it, but he could not think of a better alternative. But Dov was in charge at this point, and this was combat. “Roger that.”

  “Bernard, you will take me to the stern landing deck. I will go up alone and check, then flash you with my light. Only then does the second boat approach.”

  “It’s a solid plan,” Marc confirmed, wishing his creepy-crawlies would subside.

  Bernard said, “Enough chatter. I came to dance.”

  Dov liked that enough to show his engaging grin. “For a Swiss, you are not a bad sort. All right. Let’s move.”

  The engine was so quiet they could hear nothing after the vessel had moved two lengths away. Even the splash of waves was silenced by the padded hull. Marc settled in the bow and cradled the .40-40 on his knees. The night scope was battery-operated and amplified all light to alien brilliance. He tracked the other boat’s forward progress, working at maintaining a steady aim despite the dinghy’s rocking motion. He kept both eyes open so as to see the other skiff’s shadow as it approached the stern and through the scope watch Dov tumble onto the stern platform, then scale the narrow ladder.

  Dov emerged above the stern gunnel one inch at a time. He scouted the vessel for what seemed like an hour. Finally he turned and waved at Marc, a swift up-and-down motion. Marc took a long breath, released the rifle’s safety, and fitted the weapon more tightly to his shoulder.

  Dov slipped over the railing onto the deck. He took one step.

  The entire night blasted with a light so brilliant Marc was blinded in both eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  They recovered Bernard first. He was floating faceup, which meant the inflatable vest had worked as intended. Blood leaked from his nose and one ear, turning his face pink in the flashlight’s gleam. His eyelids fluttered, and his limbs moved feebly, which Marc took as a very good sign.