Slaton was nudged awake by Bloch. He opened his eyes to see a gate with a guardhouse a hundred meters ahead. Bloch drew the SUV to a stop at the checkpoint. While a port security man studied their IDs, which seemed to pass muster, his partner, a woman, went around the outside of the vehicle with an undercarriage mirror. It was a cursory inspection, suggesting there had been no recent breaches or terror alerts. Whatever threat scale was used here, it had sunk to its lowest level.
They were cleared to proceed, a simple railroad gate lifted, and Bloch steered into the vast port complex. They passed row after row of factory-fresh automobiles awaiting trailers that would disperse them across Israel. In the distance Slaton saw a small cruise ship, and the festive lights strung across the superstructure reminded him of those he’d seen on Pyotr Ivanovic’s yacht. The cruise ship was the only thing in sight that wasn’t industrial in nature. Tall loading cranes hovered over the wharves, looking like great birds, and container trucks were being loaded under bright lights. A rail yard was active on the shoreward perimeter, and a new thoroughfare leading north was in the initial stages of construction. Altogether, a busy place that aspired to one day be busier.
They eventually reached an isolated tract far from the piers, a little-used stretch of gravel along the perimeter fence. Bloch parked in front of a dilapidated double-wide trailer that was resting on concrete blocks—it actually appeared to lean slightly to one side. Equipment tugs and cargo containers were rowed on either side of the trailer, some of them rusting and discarded, a few pieces looking operable. The fence behind was twelve feet high, the top laced with razor wire, and on the other side was a wide cleared area washed in bright security lights. Beyond that Slaton saw barren desert stretching into rising terrain, the shadows of rough-edged hills evident in the gloom.
Bloch pulled the Kia up to the trailer and parked next to two other vehicles—one a generic sedan, the other a white work van. On the side of the van was the same CSR International logo that was stenciled on his ID. It struck him that the vehicle was resting low on its suspension, implying a heavy load inside. Clearly the groundwork for this Mossad venture had long been in place. He wasn’t surprised. Top tier intelligence agencies kept a ready supply of corporate facades: papers in order, licenses granted, tax records current, facilities rented or purchased. All waiting for the day when they were required on short notice. Or the night.
Bloch hadn’t been kidding about the vermin—near the steps that led up to the trailer’s only door Slaton saw the carcasses of three dead rats, all of which looked to have suffered small-caliber gunshot wounds. No doubt silenced weapons.
He followed Bloch up a set of loose wooden stairs and through a dented metal door. The interior of the trailer was a hostage to overdone fluorescents, and in the harsh light he saw three familiar faces. Slaton shook their hands in turn. Tal, with intense dark features; Matai, whose shaggy black mane perpetually begged for a haircut; and the leader, Aaron, whose strong build was nearly a match for Slaton’s, and who exuded a commander’s confidence.
“You look no worse for wear,” Slaton said to Tal. They’d all worked together on a mission in the Golan earlier that year, and Tal had suffered a minor gunshot wound—if there could be such a thing.
The commando rolled his right arm like a baseball pitcher in warm-ups. “No issues. The surgeons did a nice job.”
Bloch intervened. “You can all reminisce later. Time is critical.”
The four operators took seats around a cheap plastic table, the kind typically used to hold grocery store hors d’oeuvres at office parties. Bloch launched into a ten-minute mission update, and little had changed. “The bottom line, gentlemen … we must find out what this ship is carrying.”
“What’s the general plan?” Slaton asked.
“To begin, Matai has acquired a boat,” Aaron said.
“What kind of boat?”
“Nothing military,” Matai replied. “From here, we can’t reach the spot where Argos is anchored without traversing both Egyptian and Saudi waters. That means we need a cover. I’ve done a lot of diving down here, and I have a friend who owns a small dive boat. It’s a six-pack,” he added, meaning it was sized for six divers.
“Is it fast?” Bloch asked. “You have a fifty-mile crossing to reach Argos.”
“If the seas are calm, which they’re forecast to be tonight, she’ll do thirty knots, forty in a crisis.”
“I’d rather not go there,” Slaton said.
“Me neither, but it’s a good thing to have in your back pocket.”
“What else?” Slaton asked.
Aaron smiled. “I’m glad you asked.”
* * *
Aaron led Slaton outside to the van. With a quick look over his shoulder to ensure the coast was clear, he pulled the rear doors open. The back of the van was so full of gear it blocked the view of the driving compartment.
“Tal got a little carried away,” Aaron said.
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I like having options.” The first thing Slaton saw was transportation. “Nice DPDs.” It stood for diver propulsion device, and there were three of them. The DPDs looked like a cross between a jet ski and a torpedo, and Slaton noted that they were made by Stidd Systems, an American company specializing in military-grade nautical accessories.
“Top of the line,” said Aaron, “and of course modified. Sonar, autopilot, extended-range lithium-ion batteries. Almost six knots at top end.”
Slaton was impressed. Six knots didn’t sound like much in the fast-paced terrestrial world, but for a fully geared diver in open ocean it was the equivalent of skydiving. He looked at the sidewalls of the vans and saw the rest. Three full sets of dive gear, including tanks, wetsuits, and monocular underwater night-vision goggles. The masks were full-face units with comm ability, which would be critical given what they were attempting. On the more tactical side, he saw enough guns and explosives to conquer a small town.
“What kind of mixture?” Slaton asked, pointing to the scuba tanks.
“Enhanced gas rebreathers. We can go all the way to the bottom in the area we’ll be working, no exhaust bubbles to give us away.”
Slaton eyed it all thoughtfully. “Most of this will look right at home on a dive boat,” he said.
“That’s the idea. This stuff gives us a lot of options, but we still haven’t finalized a strategy for how to approach Argos.”
“Strategy?” Slaton repeated. He slammed the doors shut. “Who needs strategy with firepower like that?”