M/V DON CARLOS
Pope sat down next to Maas and said, “I want to see how this ship compares to theirs.”
“Well, that’s not difficult. I can tell you right away that we are bigger and faster. Let me see…” Maas turned to his computer console and accessed a commercial shipping Web site. “Tarabulus Pride, right?”
“Yes.”
Maas put on his glasses and his fingers flicked across the keyboard, then he hit Enter. The data and a photo appeared on the screen. “Yes, Greek construction, thirty-four hundred gross registered tons, twelve to thirteen knots. We are nearly three times her tonnage and four to five knots faster.”
He raised his spectacles. “What do you have in mind?”
“Assuming she maintains ten knots, how long would it take to overtake her?”
“Oh … several hours. But if she sees us—and she will—she could go to full speed and prolong the chase.” He paused. “Although…”
“Yes?”
Maas looked at the screen again. “She’s rated at 12.5 knots but that’s probably absolute top speed. I doubt that she can hold it indefinitely, whereas we can make fifteen all day long. Seventeen maximum.”
The captain looked at Pope again, scanning for a hint on the SEAL’s impassive face. “To repeat, Commander. What do you have in mind?”
Pope ignored the question. “Let’s assume her mast is fifty feet above the waterline. How far is the radar horizon to us?”
Maas applied his dexterous fingers to the keyboard again. In seconds he said, “Fifteen to seventeen miles, depending on her height versus ours. That’s mast height—superstructure is less, of course.”
“All right,” Pope replied. “Let’s say she sees us hull down and identifies us. She goes to full speed at fifteen miles. With our overtake, that’s about four hours to catch up.”
“Correct. Commander…”
“Captain, could you match your speed to hers and hold position if she was maneuvering?”
“Hold how close? One hundred meters or so, probably no problem. I have an excellent helm.”
“I’m thinking more like five meters or less.”
Maas stood up and faced the SSI man. “Mr. Pope, what in the hell are you thinking of doing?”
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
Marcel Hurtubise and René Pinsard huddled in the latter’s berthing area. He pulled a box of detonators from beneath the bunk and slid them across the deck. “There you go. These are time delay. The others are command detonation.”
“These will do.”
“Marcel, you didn’t say what you plan to do. If we’re boarded, are you going to…”
“If we’re boarded, we’ve probably lost,” Hurtubise interrupted. “We cannot hold this ship against a determined assault if they get enough men on deck.”
“No, but how would they do that? We already showed them they can’t surprise us.”
“Just the same, I’m planning for contingencies. I will rig some surprises for our uninvited guests. Enough to buy us some time to take action—or get away.”
Pinsard wanted to ask for details, but a few years of working with Marcel Hurtubise had proven useful in delineating certain barriers. Professional matters: almost unlimited. Personal matters: proceed at one’s own risk. The present subject seemed to tread the hazy boundary between the two. “How would we get away?”
Hurtubise gave a wry grin. “The enemy may provide that for us, mon vieux. I would not object to hijacking one of their boats. Would you?”
“Not if that’s the only way out.”
Hurtubise slapped his partner on one knee. “There’s always a way out, René. If you do enough thinking beforehand.” He winked at the younger man, then added, “Just don’t say anything to the captain. Or anyone else.”
On the way out, humming loudly enough to be heard, Hurtubise exuded an air of mysterious confidence. It would be distressing to sacrifice a good lad like René, but if things turned sour, it would not be the first time that Marcel Hurtubise had faced that choice.