Prometheus's Child

by Harold Coyle

  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.

  M/V DON CARLOS

  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.

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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!”

  M/V DON CARLOS

  “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.

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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.

  M/V DON CARLOS

  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.”

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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

  M/V DON CARLOS

  “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.

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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 c
orners 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!”

  M/V DON CARLOS

  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.

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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.”

  M/V DON CARLOS

  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.”

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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 hatc
h, 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.”