by Harold
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
M/V DON CARLOS
“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.”
* * * *
SSI OFFICES
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
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“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.”
* * * *
M/V DON CARLOS
“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 bu
rden, 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
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“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
SSI OFFICES
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.”
* * * *
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“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.”
Hurtubi
se 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?”