AFRICAN COAST
The four combat raiding craft sped away from Don Carlos on a southerly heading. As Pope plotted the relative positions of his ship and the target, he would maintain 190 true for nine miles. Presumably there would be no return trip, since the plan called for Maas to rendezvous with Tarabulus Pride once she was secured.
Meanwhile, Maas planned to keep Don Carlos to seaward of Tarabulus, lest she veer westward and try to lose her pursuers in the expanse of the North Atlantic.
In the lead Zodiac, Pope kept a constant watch on the other three craft, conned by Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoffrey Pascoe, late of Her Majesty’s Special Boat Service.
Pope could think of nothing else to be done. Now he was focused on the unfolding mission. He turned to the former Force Recon Marine at the stern of the CRRC and motioned slightly to port. He wanted to compensate for the southwesterly Canary Current that predominated off the Moroccan coast.
M/V DON CARLOS
“There’s the first one,” Maas said, pointing out the blip on the radar screen. “And there’s the others.”
Alex Cohen took in the display, noting the transponder codes indicating each Zodiac. “It sure simplifies things on a dark night,” he offered.
“Umm.” Maas did not enjoy conversing with the Israeli-American. But they were both professionals, accustomed to putting aside personal opinions in favor of accomplishing a mission.
Cohen sought a way to ease the tension between them. He had to admit that he would feel much the same as Maas if their roles were reversed. “Which is the target, Captain?”
“Same as before,” Maas said. Immediately he regretted his choice of words. Cohen could not be expected to keep a changing radar picture in his head after leaving the bridge to see the raiders on their way. The skipper touched an image almost straight ahead, just inside the ten-mile circle. “It’s keeping course and speed. Our boys should overtake her in about ten minutes.”
“How well can they see a Zodiac on a night like this?”
Maas shot a sideways glance at the SSI man. He recognized the question for what it was: a peace offering of sorts.
“Same as we can, Mr. Cohen. With the naked eye, maybe a hundred meters or so if the boats stay out of the reflected moonlight. But Pope thinks they’ll have night vision. Depending on how good—two or three hundred meters.”
“That makes it hard to take them by surprise.”
“It certainly does.”
AFRICAN COAST
Idling in the waves, compensating for the Zodiac’s motion, Malten glassed the merchantman off the port bow. His five-power night-vision binoculars provided a green glimpse of the nocturnal world. He turned toward Pope in the nearest rubber craft. “Looks like part of the name is Hellas. Hard to tell about the flag. I guess it’d be Greek.”
“Well, that’s the info Cohen gave us. I still think the only way he could know that is from somebody on board. Mossad must’ve bribed somebody.”
“I just hope he stays bribed,” Malten replied.
Pope nodded and pulled his balaclava over his face. Green did not know Pope well enough to insult him about possible shine off his bald head, but Malten recognized that was exactly why the leader wore the trademark commando garment. Pope gave the signal and the boats deployed as briefed: one off each quarter, one astern, and one farther astern as backup.
Bouncing through the water, taking salt spray that spattered on their goggles and roughened their lips, the operators kept their focus on the objective. From 250 meters out, they tried to discern whether anybody was visible on deck. It was no good—the rough, tossing motion of the Zodiacs precluded a clear picture of the objective.
The coxswains opened the throttles and four outboard motors whined.