SSI OFFICES
Strategic Solutions did not have a facility that anyone would recognize as a “situation room.” But the company boardroom often was strewn with easels and maps for reference to far-flung operations, and such was the case at the moment.
Frank Leopole had taped a map of the Mediterranean and northwestern Africa to a cork board appropriated for that purpose. He referred to the colored pins depicting Don Carlos’s known location and Tarabulus Pride’s estimated position. “Our guys are in a good position to intercept the target vessel when it clears Gibraltar. That should be sometime today.”
Sandy Carmichael looked at the map. She pointed a polished fingernail. “Cadiz to Tangier must be—what? Only fifty miles or so?”
“Less, I think. The trouble will be sorting out the Tarabulus from all the other ships in the area. Pope seems to think that could take a couple of days or more.”
“Really? Why’s that? Don’t they have photos?”
The operations chief nodded. “Yeah. Cohen’s contacts got digital images in Misratah and e-mailed them to him. But there’s just a lot of shipping in that area, Sandy. Somebody said a couple hundred a day. And Alex thinks the Libyans might change the Tarabulus’s appearance. New name, false flag, maybe even false structures. Sort of like the Q ships in World War I.”
She cocked her head. “Q ships?”
“They were armed vessels disguised as merchantmen. A U-boat would see a lone ship, surface and close in to gun range to save torpedoes. Then the Q ship would drop its facade and blast the sub.”
“What’s the Q stand for?”
“Nobody knows,” a familiar voice said. Carmichael and Leopole turned to see Derringer in the door. He was almost smiling. “I checked Wikipedia and a couple of other sites a while back. It’s still a mystery after all this time,” he added.
Carmichael looked back at the map. “Well, I still don’t understand how our team is going to ID the target ship. It’s like we said before: we’re relying on Alex Cohen and we don’t know much about his sources.”
Derringer walked to the board and took in the situation. “I’m not too worried yet. I know our skipper, Gerritt Maas. I met him during a NATO tour, and he’s tops. I wasn’t surprised when I learned he was working for the company.”
“But, Admiral, if the captain has to rely on Cohen for all his intel, we’re no better off, are we?”
“Sandy, I don’t think that Gerritt would limit himself to one source, especially on a major operation like this. I’ve avoided bothering him other than to say we’ll lend any help we can provide. But trust me: with his knowledge and contacts, if Cohen falls through, Captain Maas will have a Plan Bravo and a Charlie as well.”
Carmichael folded her arms, obviously unconvinced. “I’d feel better if we knew more about the intel on this op. If Dave Dare can’t turn up something, you know it’s deep.”
Derringer flipped the North Atlantic with a forefinger. “It’s a big ocean, Sandy. We should have lots of time.”
M/V DON CARLOS
Pope stood before the combined teams, jotting notes on a white board in the crew galley. He wore khaki Navy swim trunks, a sleeveless sweater, and Nikes. The space was empty except for the SSI operators. Chatter abated as the audience caught his serious demeanor.
“All right, people, listen up. I want to go over the contingencies that I’ve drafted with the captain. Like any special op, this is one has low prospects for total success but I think we stand a good chance of achieving the primary goal, which is intercepting the yellow cake.”
He turned to the list he had penned on the board. “Best case: we achieve surprise, take the ship without casualties, and put our prize crew aboard. They sail it to a neutral port, depending on where the intercept is made, and we disappear. We could be back home in less than seventy-two hours.” He checkmarked the first item.
“More likely: we get aboard, meet resistance, and shoot our way to the bridge and engine room. After some time, we own the ship, evacuate our casualties, and come on home.” He crossed off that item.
“Case three: we get aboard but there’s a standoff. We can’t get to the critical areas but the opposition can’t push us off. At that point I’d probably put an EOD guy over the side to disable the screw. The ship goes dead in the water, this vessel comes to ‘render assistance’”—he etched quote marks in midair—“and rigs a tow. At that point the bad guys probably would surrender. If for some reason they scuttle, we step off and come home. Mr. Langevin would take charge of the salvage operation, assuming there is one.” Another check mark.
“Case four: we can’t get aboard or can’t gain a foothold. That’s a tough one, guys. We don’t know for sure what’s aboard, but Mr. Cohen’s sources seem to think they have automatic weapons and some kind of explosives.”
Several of the operators turned toward Cohen, seated in the middle of the group. He remained expressionless, looking straight ahead.
“Getting off the ship, under fire, means losses. There’s just no way around it. We’d probably have to leave the critical cases, and as much as that galls any of us, that’s how it has to be. There’s no point losing men who may have to come back and try again.”
“Sir.” Breezy raised his hand.
“Yes, Brezyinski.”
“I have some medic training. I’d be willing to stay with any WIAs.”
Pope scratched his bald head. He noticed some other men looking at the former Ranger. “Well, that’s very generous of you. We’ll just have to leave that decision until it happens.”
Pope returned to the board. “Now, at that point we still might have a card to play. If it’s apparent that we can’t board or stay on deck, I’ll call or signal one of the boat crews. They’ll try to place charges around the rudder or near the screw before we leave. It’s a low-percentage shot but it’s still an option.” Another check mark.
“Case five: actually, from our view it’s better than case four. We’re spotted inbound, take fire, and cannot close the target. At that point we break off and come back here.”
“What then?” Malten asked.
“I don’t know right now, Jeff. I suspect that one of the DDs or frigates in the area would take overt action rather than let the yellow cake get away.”
“That’s illegal, isn’t it? High seas and all that.”
Pope’s heavy-lidded eyes seemed to light up. “To paraphrase Chairman Mao, ‘Legality grows from the barrel of a gun.’”
Bosco could not suppress his enthusiasm. “Break out the jolly roger, Cap’n. Show ’em our true colors.” Obviously his arm wound from Chad wasn’t hindering him.
Breezy adopted a Wallace Beery scowl. “Arrr, matey, arrr…”
Pope resumed speaking. “For now, let’s say we get aboard. Once we have more than a couple of men on deck, we’re pretty much committed. A retrograde movement off a ship is a losing proposition.”
He picked up a timer used to detonate explosives. It resembled a miniature cooking timer, variable to sixty seconds. “We’ll have breaching charges to blow the hinges off any dogged hatches. Each team has an EOD tech, but I want each of you familiar with these gadgets. Remember: mainly we want control of the bridge and the engine room. If the bad guys are holed up somewhere else, we can probably just contain them. Get them out later.
“Now, we have a minimum crew to put aboard once we control the ship. At that time the Don Carlos will come alongside, transfer the ‘prize crew,’ and proceed, assuming there’s no engineering casualty.”
“What kind of casualty?” Pace asked.
“Engineering. If the engine is damaged or the rudder’s jammed, something like that. In which case we’ll have to rig a tow—slow going but it can be done. At that point, depending on where we are, we’ll make for a neutral port. With a U.S. Navy warship escort.”
Tom Pfizer, a former SEAL, was impressed. He asked, “How’d you arrange that, sir?”
“I didn’t. The admiral did. There’s two frigates available: the Woodul in the Med and the Powell off Gibraltar. I understand that the Millikin might be rounding the cape sometime this month, too. Additionally, there are two frigates that could be detached from an exercise with Spain—Greenberg and Helfers.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to have one ship tail us?”
“Yeah, but that could draw attention. And if we actually chase the yellow cake all the way around the Horn of Africa, that ship probably will need to fuel somewhere.”
Pope surveyed his audience once more: an assembly of serious, focused young men who belonged to the same guild, having paid mostly the same dues to gain membership. The only exceptions were Bosco and Breezy, typically laughing and scratching. “All right,” Pope concluded. “If there’s nothing else for now, we’ll break it off. Continue checking gear, especially the Zodiacs. Boat captains, take over.” He nodded toward Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoff Pascoe.
As Malten started to leave, Pope beckoned him aside. “Jeff, I’d like your take on Bosco and Breezy: I can’t always tell them apart. They seem to feed off each other.”
Malten laughed. “I had the same trouble in Pakistan. Bosco’s about two inches taller, otherwise they’re interchangeable Army pukes to me.”
“This afternoon I saw them clowning in the galley. They’re taken to wearing kerchiefs on their heads and one of them got an earring from someplace. Next thing you know, they’ll have a peg leg and a parrot on one shoulder.”
“Yeah,” Malten said, chuckling. “They’ve started saying things like ‘Avast!’ and ’Aye, Cap’n,’ and saluting with two fingers. Breezy even got the lyrics to ‘Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest.’ I think they’ve seen too many pirate movies.”
“They act like frat boys,” Pope said. “Frankly, it makes me a little nervous. I’m thinking of putting them on two of the M-60s.”
Malten’s eyebrows raised. “I know they come across as juvenile delinquents sometimes. But don’t sell them short: they’re real serious after the kickoff.”
Pope glanced down while rubbing his bald head. “Well, I admit it surprised me when Breezy volunteered as a stay-behind medic. He may be some kind of surfer dude, but he doesn’t strike me as a grandstander.”
“He’s not. Like I said, I worked with both of them on the last op in Pakistan and Afghanistan. They’re solid when we’re in contact.”
“You mean when there’s lead in the air?”
Malten kept a straight face. He rendered a two-finger salute and uttered a throaty, “Aye, Cap’n.”
“Now don’t you start that!” Pope made a shooing motion. “See to your boat, Mr. Malten.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”