Prometheus's Child s-2

by Harold Coyle

  76

  AFRICAN COAST

  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.

  M/V DON CARLOS

  “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.”

  AFRICAN COAST

  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

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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.

  AFRICAN COAST

  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

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  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 overboar
d.

  “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

  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 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.”