Prometheus's Child

by Harold Coyle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Okay. I’ll get to work, Admiral.”

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

  68

  MEDITERRANEAN SEA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Only the radio operator and me.”

  “Is the operator trustworthy?”

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

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

  Zikri nodded animatedly. “He already knows that.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Which others?”

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

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

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

  “As you wish, monsieur.”

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

  “René.”

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

  “Yes, Marcel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  69

  “REACH ZERO THREE HEAVY”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Politics,” Green said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How does that work with getting their ship?”

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

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

  70

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How good is the satellite coverage?”

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

  “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  PART IV

  THE ATLANTIC

  71

  M/V DON CARLOS

  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?”

&nb
sp; “Yes … sí … 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.”