Captain Zakaryan woke at two that morning to take in the proceedings. While he was not directly involved, Ivan had been forced to tell him the schedule since Zakaryan was the one who would issue orders to the crew: an unloading operation was to take place in the small hours of that morning, essential personnel only, under cover of darkness.
Given the circumstances, Zakaryan wanted to be present. The unloading of a freighter at sea, he knew, was a delicate undertaking, and for that reason exceedingly uncommon. To begin, the weather had to cooperate, and here, at least, fortune was on their side. The Red Sea air was still and warm, and a scimitar moon gave a bit of illumination to the proceedings. The greater problem, and the reason that open water transfers were a highly irregular maneuver, was the matter of placing two ships in close proximity to one another.
Standing on the bridge shortly before 3 a.m., Zakaryan made his case to Ivan. “It is exceedingly dangerous for ships of Argos’ class to rendezvous at sea. If at any time I feel the safety of my vessel is compromised, I will intervene.”
The Russian glanced at him dismissively. “There is no need to worry, Captain. The risks you envision will not come to pass.”
Ivan was proved correct ten minutes later. Not one, but three boats appeared on the radar screen, and soon after materialized on the murky marine horizon. The largest was no more than fifty feet long, on appearances a light fishing trawler. The other two were no more than large dhows, open-deck merchant boats with both a mast and an engine—the kind of coastal traders that were endemic to the region. In the lightest of breezes, and in single-file formation, the little fleet pulled near Argos’ leeward port side like remoras to a shark.
Zakaryan watched intently as the trawler came in tight, tied on, and took the first load. The two smaller boats idled in wait fifty yards seaward. Argos’ deck crane was run by his best man, a wiry Indonesian who could move crates with a deftness to rival any symphony conductor. Three men on the trawler’s deck guided the crate the final few feet, muscling it into place and lashing it down. Over the next thirty minutes, seven more loads were lowered over Argos’ port rail. The dhows proved a quicker operation, each having deck space for only two crates. Within an hour, all three receiving boats were under way, fast blending into the black horizon. None displayed navigation lights, and as they faded from sight the captain referenced the radar. He watched three unmarked blips diverge on separate courses toward the Saudi coast.
Zakaryan descended a ladder to the main deck, and walked amidships. At the lip of the cargo hold he looked down. An even dozen crates remained. He didn’t know precisely what was in them, but he harbored few illusions. Argos was hauling some manner of military hardware, and now, under his watch, she had injected it into a highly unstable part of the world. He tried to imagine the number of laws and regulations they were violating, but was quickly overwhelmed. Then again, having come this far did instill a certain sense of commitment going forward. What was it the British said? In for a penny, in for a pound.
Zakaryan noted a presence behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now,” Ivan said, “we pull anchor and sail south.”
Zakaryan felt like a getaway driver leaving the scene of a crime. Which, in essence, he very much was. “Speed?”
“We are still in no hurry, Captain. But I can tell you one bit of good news … rest assured, you and I will soon part ways.”
* * *
The satellite trained on Argos did its job admirably. It was called USA-245, a curiously opaque name for a device whose every facet of design was intended for clarity. The primary mirror was nearly two and a half meters wide, not coincidentally the same diameter as the mirror in the Hubble telescope, the essential difference being the direction in which it was trained—not toward the heavens, but instead at one of the most embattled regions on earth. It was established in an elliptical polar orbit as part of a tightly managed constellation, and once each day USA-245 passed over the Red Sea where it recorded, and instantaneously relayed, highly accurate visual and infrared images.
These files were downloaded initially to the National Reconnaissance Office. NRO analysts screened the results first for quality assurance, and then ran the raw images through an initial digital enhancement. At that point, they routed the data through well-established channels to various agency departments and desks. Before any detailed analysis took place, interesting first-look footage was shared with sister intelligence agencies—in this case, a section at Langley who’d made a specific request for coverage of the coastal waters around Saudi Arabia. Specialists there quickly sorted through hundreds of images, and extracted a handful that fit certain narrow criteria. These were forwarded by a secure link to the Rome station.
Which was how, over her morning coffee, Anna Sorensen was flicking back and forth through images that had been captured only hours earlier from roughly two hundred miles above the Saudi Peninsula.
She had never been an imagery analyst, but one hardly needed to be to see Argos surrounded by three small boats. Successive photos showed the ship’s deck crane extracting crates from her main hold and depositing them onto the smaller boats. Orbital mechanics being what they were, USA-245 did not capture the entire dubious show. Sorensen knew that other birds might eventually fill in the blanks—most pertinently, where the smaller boats had gone after taking on their loads. They would also likely confirm what was a near certainty—that Tasman Sea and Cirrus were engaged in similar mischief along other shores in the region.
With hard evidence finally in hand, Sorensen decided it was time to push things up the chain. She refilled her coffee cup from a distressed break-room machine, and set out toward the embassy communications room rehearsing her impending call to headquarters.
What Sorensen could not know at that moment was that USA-245 was not the only satellite to have recorded the festivities. Twenty minutes behind, and in a marginally different orbital path, was the Israeli satellite known as Ofeq-11. Its sensor suites and communications platform had a number of technical differences from the NRO bird, and Ofeq-11 did not have the luxury of being backed up by overlapping coverage. What was very much the same, however, was the grim aura of concern its data stirred in headquarters buildings around Tel Aviv.
The unrest began at the Ministry of Defense, which operated Ofeq-11. With little delay, news of a menacing incident in the Red Sea reached Mossad headquarters at Glilot Junction. There, lights in executive suites began flicking on in the very small hours of the morning.