M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
On the bridge, Captain Abu Yusuf Zikri paced from port to starboard and back again. Acutely aware that he could not see what was happening behind him, he had to rely on cryptic, often unintelligible calls from Hurtubise and his European hirelings.
“All ahead full,” he ordered the engine room. Though he had no chance of escaping the Zodiacs, at least he could prolong their approach and thereby render them more vulnerable.
The Libyan noticed the helmsman and navigator watching him closely—more than he liked. I am behaving like a nervous woman, he realized. He stopped pacing and adopted as dignified a demeanor as he could manage. Ordinarily he would open up on the international emergency frequency and request help before he was boarded. But under the circumstances, being found hauling contraband uranium ore to Iran did not seem a career-enhancing option.
He placed his trust in Marcel Hurtubise and his gunmen.
* * *
Overlooking the stern, Hurtubise and Pinsard deployed their men to repel boarders. In frustration, Pinsard shook his NVG. “This damned thing is no damned good! It’s whiting out!” In frustration he tossed it overboard.
“Too many tube hours,” Hurtubise commented calmly. He handed his commercial optic to Pinsard, who scanned to port. “There they are! Three coming this way.”
“Let me see,” Hurtubise said.
Activating the device, Hurtubise took in the situation, then set it down. “We can ignore the boat to starboard. The threat is here.”
He turned toward the stern machine gunner. “Prepare to fire.” The French-Algerian mercenary tugged the MAG-58’s charging handle twice.
Hurtubise looked around. Two RPG shooters were nearby. Almost with disgust in his voice, Hurtubise nudged Pinsard and pointed to the men. “Merde!” Pinsard exclaimed. Shoving two automatic riflemen farther forward, he screamed, “You imbeciles! Get the hell out of the way of the RPGs!” One or both would have been seared the instant the rocket-propelled grenades were fired.
Meanwhile, Hurtubise had taken the flare gun from one of his men. Holding the pistol overhead, he began a countdown. “When you see them, fire!”
* * *
Fifty meters out, Victor Pope realized that he was holding his breath. There was very little illumination on the ship’s stern—only the required navigation lights. He took that as a good sign.
Then the world turned garish-white as a parachute flare erupted overhead.
In the second boat, Jeff Malten thought that his heart skipped a beat. “We’ve been made!” Without awaiting orders, he directed his coxswain to reverse course.
Automatic weapons fire erupted from the port quarter of Tarabulus Pride. None of the initial volleys were on target, but many were close. The water was spumed with geysers as bullets impacted around the Zodiacs.
Two smoke trails leapt outward from the ship. Both struck the waves within meters of the lead boat. “Christ! They’ve got RPGs!” Victor Pope did not even realize that he had just committed blasphemy.
Pope’s boat and Pascoe’s were closest to the ship. Men in the bows returned fire with their MP-5s, more for morale than for effect, as the Zodiacs swerved to escape the fusillade.
By then, Hurtubise had reloaded and launched another parachute flare. The sea was turned into a black-and-white film: garish overhead lights burning with phosphorescent intensity, clashing starkly with the dark waves while red tracer rounds scythed the sea.
Before Pascoe’s boat could get out of the way, the shipboard gunner got a quick sight picture and fired. Once the tracers entered the Zodiac, the shooter held the trigger down.
Three men were hit: Pace was knocked overboard almost before anyone noticed. One operator took a grazing round to a leg. But another man, a former Ranger named Peter Chadburn, took two rounds through the torso. His body armor was not proof against armor-piercing ammo. Green dropped his weapon and began removing the man’s gear, trying to render first aid. In the jostling, water-swept craft, it was almost impossible.
In Pope’s boat, Bosco and Breezy returned fire as the CRRC sped away. Each emptied his magazine, reloaded, and stared at each other, wide-eyed and gasping for breath.