M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“There’s a quarter moon,” Zikri said. “I think they would prefer a dark night.”
“That’s what I would choose,” Hurtubise agreed. “But we don’t know their schedule. They may want to take us closer to friendly ports around Gibraltar.”
“Well, no matter. I set the duty watch already. With some of my men as lookouts as well as yours, we should be all right.”
The mercenary hefted a night-vision device. “We cannot count on radar picking up their boats very far away. So I gave my men some extra night vision.” He raised the commercial product, a three-power NZT-35 monocular.
“How good is that?”
“This? It’s supposed to be good to something over a hundred meters. It’s waterproof besides. But the trouble with the old Soviet devices is that you never know how much tube life is left. Any of them could quit on you at any time—probably when you need it most.”
The Frenchman hefted another model. “This model with third-generation technology is good to three hundred meters.” He almost laughed. “It costs about thirteen dollars per meter.”
Zikri had thought out his steaming plan for the night. “I can continue zigzagging as you wish. Or we can do random direction changes. Either way, it will not be very easy for small craft to track us. They can’t see very much, riding so low.”
“Well, all we need is some warning. We can put up a barrage of flares and use the machine guns and RPGs. Once we open fire, nobody’s going to keep coming in a rubber boat. It would be suicide. We’re on a much more stable platform than they are.”
The Libyan leaned back against the plotting table. “What do you want to do after we repel their attack? Surely they won’t try the boats again.”
“At that point, they probably will back off, at least for a while. Unless they have a plan that Cochon and I have not considered, they will either let us go or they will turn to the Navy.”
“I agree,” Zikri said. “And we can enter almost any port and wait out their warships if we have to.”
Hurtubise turned to the map. “What do you recommend?”
“Oh, almost anywhere once we’re south of Western Sahara. It’s still occupied by Morocco, yes?”
“Correct. That means it’s probably friendly to America.”
“Well then,” the seaman continued, “just look at the options. Senegal, Gambia, Guinea, Sierra Leone. Considering the diplomatic situation, Liberia and Nigeria and Ghana may not be such good choices, but after that we have the Côte d’Ivoire and Benin. On and on down the continent.”
Hurtubise gave an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a very long trip.”
“Cheer up, my friend. A long sea cruise is good for your health!”
M/V DON CARLOS
“Where’s Pope?” Pfizer asked. “We’re ready to go.”
Malten thought he knew, but kept the information to himself. “Uh, I think he’s with the captain. I’ll go check.”
The team leader trotted down the passageway to the berthing area and undogged a hatch. He peeked inside the compartment and found what he suspected.
Victor Pope was kneeling beside his bunk, rosary in hand. Malten was struck by the seeming incongruity: a muscular, bald young man in his late thirties, bedecked with tactical gear, his submachine gun resting beside him. Malten withdrew a few steps around the corner but could hear Pope’s low baritone reciting the ancient words.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
He still uses Latin, Malten realized. None of the modern recitation for him.
After a few seconds of silence, Malten risked another peek. He saw Pope cross himself, kiss the crucifix, and tuck it inside his shirt.
Malten backed up several steps and rapped loudly on the hatch. “Vic? You in here?”
Pope stepped through the hatchway. “I was just taking a minute for myself.”
“I hope you said one for me.” The younger operator kept any levity from his voice.
Pope cocked his head slightly. “You’re allowed to pray for yourself, Jeff.”
“Don’t need to,” Malten replied. His tone now was flippant. He tapped Pope’s vest with the back of his hand. “I got you, babe.”
“Let’s rock,” Pope said.
“Let’s roll.”
* * *
In the dim light of the bridge, the screens glowed according to their purpose. Mostly green for data; color radar for navigation and weather. Awaiting a last-minute position report to confirm the target’s position for the raiders, Maas paced until Cohen arrived.
The SSI operative stepped onto the bridge. “Captain, we got it. I just received confirmation.”
Maas turned to face Cohen. “Well?”
Cohen was momentarily taken aback. He had not expected jubilation, but he did anticipate some degree of enthusiasm. “Same speed and course as before. And it’s definite now. They’ve finished repainting most of the superstructure and the stack, and they changed the name.” He held out a message form with the information penciled in block letters.
The captain accepted the paper, read it twice, and set it down. “I will stay here until our people return. You can tell them the news.”
Cohen looked at the Dutch seaman. The man’s eyes were mostly concealed in shadow amid the subdued lighting. Cohen realized that reflection on the windows could detract from visibility, but for a man who had spent much of his life in the desert, the shipboard ambience was cavelike, eerie. “What’s the matter, Captain?”
“The same thing as before, Mr. Cohen. You are forcing me to send four small craft in harm’s way based only on your information, which you refuse to explain to me or to them.” He paused, wondering if the younger man could be moved by such sentiment. When he drew no response, he continued. “I do not like the arrangement any more now than before. Less, in fact.”
Cohen shifted his feet, less from the ship’s motion than from resentment at being challenged again. “Why less?”
Maas inclined his head toward the Zodiacs on deck. “Because in a few minutes those boys are going on a mission that could turn sour. That’s why.”
“Captain, if the information is wrong, that’s my fault, not yours. Our operators know that. They accept it. But my sources are too sensitive to risk, so there’s no option but to continue as planned.”
Sources. Plural. Does he really have more than one? While Maas was formulating a reply, Cohen turned and walked off the bridge.
Don Carlos continued on course through the dark.