Prometheus's Child s-2

by Harold Coyle

  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.”

  Hurtubise 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?”

  Hurtubise knelt by the reclining Frenchman. “The explosives you brought aboard — where is it stored?”

  “Semtex in the aft storage locker. Caps and detonators in my compartment. Why?”

  “I may want to place some quantities in the engine room and elsewhere down below. See me when you come off duty.”


  Pinsard cocked an eye at the older man. “Marcel, are you thinking of scuttling this rust bucket?”

  “I am just thinking, René. But keep it to yourself.”

  83

  M/V DON CARLOS

  Pope sat down next to Maas and said, “I want to see how this ship compares to theirs.”

  “Well, that’s not difficult. I can tell you right away that we are bigger and faster. Let me see…” Maas turned to his computer console and accessed a commercial shipping Web site. “Tarabulus Pride, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Maas put on his glasses and his fingers flicked across the keyboard, then he hit Enter. The data and a photo appeared on the screen. “Yes, Greek construction, thirty-four hundred gross registered tons, twelve to thirteen knots. We are nearly three times her tonnage and four to five knots faster.”

  He raised his spectacles. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Assuming she maintains ten knots, how long would it take to overtake her?”

  “Oh… several hours. But if she sees us — and she will — she could go to full speed and prolong the chase.” He paused. “Although…”

  “Yes?”

  Maas looked at the screen again. “She’s rated at 12.5 knots but that’s probably absolute top speed. I doubt that she can hold it indefinitely whereas we can make fifteen all day long. Seventeen maximum.”

  The captain looked at Pope again, scanning for a hint on the SEAL’s impassive face. “To repeat, Commander. What do you have in mind?”

  Pope ignored the question. “Let’s assume her mast is fifty feet above the waterline. How far is the radar horizon to us?”

  Maas applied his dexterous fingers to the keyboard again. In seconds he said, “Fifteen to seventeen miles, depending on her height versus ours. That’s mast height — superstructure is less, of course.”

  “All right,” Pope replied. “Let’s say she sees us hull down and identifies us. She goes to full speed at fifteen miles. With our overtake, that’s about four hours to catch up.”

  “Correct. Commander…”

  “Captain, could you match your speed to hers and hold position if she was maneuvering?”

  “Hold how close? One hundred meters or so, probably no problem. I have an excellent helm.”

  “I’m thinking more like five meters or less.”

  Maas stood up and faced the SSI man. “Mr. Pope, what in the hell are you thinking of doing?”

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  Marcel Hurtubise and René Pinsard huddled in the latter’s berthing area. He pulled a box of detonators from beneath the bunk and slid them across the deck. “There you go. These are time delay. The others are command detonation.”

  “These will do.”

  “Marcel, you didn’t say what you plan to do. If we’re boarded, are you going to…”

  “If we’re boarded, we’ve probably lost,” Hurtubise interrupted. “We cannot hold this ship against a determined assault if they get enough men on deck.”

  “No, but how would they do that? We already showed them they can’t surprise us.”

  “Just the same, I’m planning for contingencies. I will rig some surprises for our uninvited guests. Enough to buy us some time to take action — or get away.”

  Pinsard wanted to ask for details, but a few years of working with Marcel Hurtubise had proven useful in delineating certain barriers. Professional matters: almost unlimited. Personal matters: proceed at one’s own risk. The present subject seemed to tread the hazy boundary between the two. “How would we get away?”

  Hurtubise gave a wry grin. “The enemy may provide that for us, mon vieux. I would not object to hijacking one of their boats. Would you?”

  “Not if that’s the only way out.”

  Hurtubise slapped his partner on one knee. “There’s always a way out, René. If you do enough thinking beforehand.” He winked at the younger man, then added, “Just don’t say anything to the captain. Or anyone else.”

  On the way out, humming loudly enough to be heard, Hurtubise exuded an air of mysterious confidence. It would be distressing to sacrifice a good lad like René, but if things turned sour, it would not be the first time that Marcel Hurtubise had faced that choice.

  84

  M/V DON CARLOS

  The Sikorsky SH-60B of HSL-44 normally answered to its squadron call sign—”Magnum”—but for this operation its identity was intentionally generic. As arranged on a discreet UHF channel two hours before, the VHF transmissions would be short and cryptic.

  Maas’s senior watch stander was on the bridge when the Mayport-based sub hunter made its approach. “Charlie Delta, this is U.S. Navy helicopter. I am approaching your starboard quarter. Where do you want your supplies? Over.”

  The merchant officer glanced rearward, saw nothing, but sensed the geometry of the situation. He keyed his mike. “Ah, Navy helicopter, we are ready on the bow. Over.”

  Two mike clicks acknowledged the instruction. Moments later the gray Sea Hawk hove into view off the starboard beam and settled into a thirty-foot hover over the bow. The crew chief winched down three rectangular metal containers that the deckhands hauled in. Fighting the rotor wash, they disconnected the load and set each container aside. The helo then delivered a smaller box that was easier to handle.

  Jeff Malten supervised the operation and quickly inspected the contents of each container. Satisfied, he stood up and waved to the HSL-44 Swamp Fox’s detachment commander. The helo pilot nodded, added power, pulled pitch, and motored away.

  Malten led the way into the vessel’s superstructure where other SSI operators were waiting. “Are we set?” Pope asked.

  “Affirmative. Three ‘60s and about a thousand rounds of linked ammo.”

  “Okay. Get ‘em ready. We need to function test every one and then work out the best way to mount them.”

  Malten nodded, then asked, “Who do you want for shooters?”

  “Whoever’s the most experienced. I’ll leave that to you. But keep our naval people for the boarding party.”

  Malten eyed his senior colleague. “Wish we had night sights. It’d be a lot quicker target acquisition.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that, Jeff. Besides, I think the muzzle flash will white out the NVGs. We’ll just have to establish fire superiority from the start.”

  “Well, yeah. But if we don’t, there’s no way we can get aboard.”

  Pope slapped his friend’s arm. “That’s why we get the big bucks.”

  85

  M/V DON CARLOS

  Victor Pope made a final tour of the ship’s exterior. Gerritt Maas’s men had been up most of the night, fashioning mounts for the M-60s, and Jeff Malten was still supervising the test firing. They met aft of the bridge.

  “How’s it going?” Pope asked.

  “Well, we had to headspace that one gun. Those idiots on that destroyer hadn’t even bothered to do that. Obviously they hadn’t tested it.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, and we’re the beggars.”

  Malten shifted his weight against the transport’s roll. He was hardly aware of his movement. “Well, Admiral Derringer must’ve been kneeling on a pretty thick carpet. I didn’t really think we’d get the guns this soon.”

  Pope merely nodded. Then he said, “We have thirteen healthy operators but we need at least three on the guns. I don’t like trying to take down a ship with just ten guys.”

  “Hey I was going to tell you. One of the crew saw what we were doing and took an interest. He even helped us degrease the ‘60 that hadn’t been fired. Turns out that he was a Marine E-3. Think we can use him?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, is he any good?”

  Malten smiled. “He had a pretty good pattern around the empty can we tossed overboard. And he doesn’t lean on the trigger too much.”

  Pope thought for a few heartbeats. “Does he know what’s likely to happen?”

  “Yeah. I told him everything. The bad guys have belt-fed weapons
and RPGs, and any M-60 is gonna be a priority target. But he said he spent Desert Storm afloat off Kuwait and figures this is his chance to make up.”

  “Well, okay. I’ll talk to him. What’s his name?”

  “Ritter. Goes by Tex.”

  “Figures. Texans are like that.”

  Malten laughed again. “That’s what I thought. But he’s from Vermont.”

  Pope leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded. “Okay. That gives us eleven operators, unless another crewman can help.”

  “I talked to Dr. Faith. He says that Verdugo can stand up as long as he doesn’t have to move.”

  “That’s what Esteban said when I checked on him, but he didn’t mention doing any shooting.”

  “Might be worth checking out,” Malten offered. “We can see how he does with the gun and the mount to hold on to. That would make a dozen door-kickers.”

  “Let’s do it.” Pope turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, one other thing, Jeff. Tell the gunners that if possible, they need to stagger their firing. We don’t have a lot of ammo, and there won’t be any A-gunners to reload for them. I don’t want everybody running dry at the same time.”

  Malten nodded. Then, eyeing his superior, he asked, “Vic, what’s your plan? Can we take a ship with only two full boats?”

  “Actually, Jeff, I’m not planning on using the boats.”

  Malten muttered, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”

  Pope turned and walked away from the workers. “Here’s what I have in mind.”

  86

  M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

  Hurtubise gawked at the nine-thousand-ton ship pounding alongside, looking as big as a small mountain. Zikri watched out the starboard side of the bridge, gauging the intruder’s interval. Abruptly the bigger vessel’s bow swung to port.

  “My God!” Hurtubise shouted. “They’re going to ram!”

  The Libyan captain braced himself, then said, “Maybe not.”