M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
René Pinsard had never fought a battle at sea. For that matter, neither had anyone else aboard, but the mercenary did not object to the prospect. He accepted Zikri and Hurtubise’s assessment that an interception was likely in the more confined waters between the Canaries and the Moroccan coast, and therefore stationed himself in the most favorable position. He stood beside the stern machine-gun mount overlooking the stern, night-vision device in hand.
The gunner, a man of indeterminate age and French-Algerian extraction, stifled a yawn. He stamped his feet as if to keep warm, though the night air was almost pleasant. “Three more hours,” he said, ruefully acknowledging that he had drawn the longest watch of the night.
“Suit yourself,” Pinsard replied. “I’m going to stay here until after dawn. They won’t try to attack in daylight.”
“Speedboat to starboard!”
The call came from somewhere forward. Immediately, hired guns and hired sailors crowded the rail, looking to seaward. As practiced, a quiet alarm sped through the ship, sending men to their stations.
Hurtubise found Pinsard looking to port.
“Situation,” the leader demanded.
“There’s a small boat out there maybe two hundred meters, slowly pulling ahead of us,” Pinsard explained. “I think it’s a diversion. It makes more sense for an attack from this side, so they’re not silhouetted.”
Hurtubise looked toward Africa and slapped his friend on the back. “I agree. They’ll blend into the shore.” He paused long enough to admire the professionalism of the intruders, then moved to deal with them.
“There! Two boats behind us!”
A Libyan sailor, augmenting Hurtubise’s shooters, spotted unnatural dark shapes near the wake. Shapes that did not belong there. One of the Frenchmen picked up a flare gun but Hurtubise stayed his arm. “Not yet.”
“But, Marcel, they’re almost close enough…”
“Not yet!” Hurtubise raised his voice in a calculated combination of authority and anger.
Pinsard lowered his Russian night goggles and called over his shoulder. “Marcel! There’s one out there on my side. Maybe 150 meters.”
Hurtubise visualized the geometry of the developing situation. In military terms, a multi-axis attack calculated to split his defenses. He suspected that at the last moment two or more of the boats would converge on one point and try to gain local superiority.
It was what he would do.
AFRICAN COAST
It was time for a command decision.
Pacing the ship to port, Victor Pope ran a last-minute communications check. “Flipper One is up. Check and go.”
“Two. Clear to go.”
“Three. Looks good, Boss.”
“Four. Go.”
Satisfied that his boat captains saw no sign of danger, Pope accepted their assessment. Keeping the tension out of his voice, he said, “Stand by. Stand by. Execute!”
Pope, Malten, and Pascoe turned their CRRCs toward the target.