tough little nut called the Frogman, were the best in the business. They were going to need both men tonight.
Stokely Jones, having now seen Fort Mahoud up close and personal, was glad as hell Hawke had had the wisdom and foresight to fly all of Stoke’s old badass buddies from Martinique in for the party.
“Okay, here goes,” Stoke said. “Me and Alex in the submersible SDV. We splash in the cove off Point Arras at 0200 hours. Descend to fifteen feet and maintain that depth. We proceed north around the point and then southwest to the powder magazine entrance. Arriving at approximately 0215, we reverse direction and enter the magazine tunnel stern-first. We make our way, backing full slow inside the tunnel to Point R-2 on the diagram. We disembark and remove the five RIBS stowed aboard. We inflate the boats, securing them in a daisy-chain aft of the SDV. We secure the vehicle. We rig satchel charges with detonators and fuse igniters on both doors leading to the tunnel and use the right-hand door to enter the magazine itself. Time: 0230 hours.”
There was a smattering of ironic applause at this recitation and Stoke held his hand up for it to stop. They were all punchy as hell.
“Well done,” Fitz said. He then turned to Chief Charlie Rainwater, who was rolling condoms over fuse igniters and tying off both ends so as to make them waterproof, another old trick he’d learned in the Delta.
“How about you, Chief Rainwater? You got enough rubbers there for a division. You going fucking or fighting tonight?”
Rainwater’s teeth showed white in his dark face.
“Rule One,” Rainwater said. “Fight first, fuck later.”
McCoy smiled. “You know what to do?”
“‘Arrow,’ my squad, disembarks and gains entrance to the fort. We do it the easy way or the hard way. We dock at 0215 hours and offload the equipment. After rigging charges at the base of the two towers, we enter the fort. At 0230, we rendezvous with ‘Bow’ squad, Stoke and Hawke, in the powder magazine. Designated Point Q. We ascend the stairs leading to this level where Ahmed believes the hostages to be held. At that point, all hell breaks loose and Bow and Arrow kill all the tangos and save all the women and children.”
Fitz tried not to laugh and saw that it was impossible to continue. They all had to get some sleep. Even Rainwater, who habitually chewed some kind of plant root to stay awake, looked done in. The flight from Martinique to Oman in their old C-130 had not been relaxing. Their brains were weary from planning the operation. Sleep was imperative. They’d reconvene at noon for a final run-through. They were useless now. He had twelve hours left to get them ready.
Rainwater told Froggy to get some sleep. The Frogman sat there staring silently at him with eyes wide open. He was already asleep. That’s how exhausted they were.
Until it all went to hell, it was going pretty good. The cranky diesels worked, at least well enough to get Obaidallah out to her designated location, an anchorage one mile northwest of the target island. They doused the lights and the ship was plunged into darkness. Ali put his first mate, Abu, on the radio, informing the French supply officer on Masara that he was very sorry, sir, that they were late, but they were having engine trouble. They’d lost power and had heaved an anchor until they could determine the problem.
Abu informed the sleepy Frenchman that repairs were well under way and he expected Obaidallah to arrive at the dock sometime just after midnight. The Frenchman accepted this at face value. And why not? The supply ship broke down all the time. He promised to have two dockhands waiting for their arrival.
Point Arras loomed up Sphinx-like against the dark sky. Standing on the foredeck of the darkened vessel with Hawke and Stokely Jones, Captain Ali raised his glasses and watched the lights of the patrol boat disappear around Point Arras. The first mate had clocked two or three circumnavigations now, and reported that a round-trip was averaging one hour and twenty minutes. When the patrol boat was gone, Ali gave Hawke the thumbs-up.
“All right, Stoke, let’s go hunting,” Hawke said. He checked his watch. They were already three minutes behind the atomic clock in his head. The three men walked swiftly aft to where the SDV hung in its sling off the stern. As they passed the wheelhouse, Hawke could hear the murmurs of the men inside, suiting up, checking weapons in the dark. Many of them were donning loose-fitting white garments over their tigerstripes and camo war paint. And substituting turbans for the white kepis the Legionnaires traditionally wore.
At the Masara dock, only a skeleton crew would be on duty at this hour. Maybe, if they were lucky, only a few sleepy Omanis who helped with the lines, pumped gas, and helped unload supplies. It was hoped the guards posted at the front gate wouldn’t look too closely at the men unloading supplies. And that the machine gunners looking down from the twin towers wouldn’t notice anything unusual when Obaidallah arrived at the dock.
Fitz believed that with Abu or Ahmed doing all the talking as they stepped ashore, and some good body language on the part of his disguised troops as they off-loaded equipment, he could get all of his men and materiel inside the front door without firing a shot. That was the plan anyway.
Hawke paused by one of the opened portholes. Fitz was in there now, moving among his men, encouraging them, issuing last-minute instructions, making sure his team was mentally and physically ready to peak. Something was bothering Fitz, Hawke had seen it in his eyes. There just hadn’t been enough time for adequate preparation. But was there ever?
They’d all been cooped up at sea aboard an old rust bucket for two days, with no place to run or stretch or hide. Because of the lack of quarters aboard, they’d been forced to “hot rack” or use the same bed in shifts. These men were jungle and desert warriors, not sea pirates like Stoke and Hawke. Fitz had asked Hawke for another day. Hawke had said no. And, to McCoy’s great chagrin, he didn’t say why.
He couldn’t. Kelly had ordered him not to reveal the truth, believing, correctly, in Hawke’s view, that it would be bad for morale to ask men to put their lives at risk for a hostage who might well be dead already.
“Hoo-ah,” Stoke said, staring at Hawke as he approached, looking like an interplanetary traveler in his undersea warfare gear. Stoke, who’d be driving the boat for a good portion of this mission, had a red-lensed pencil flash, studying their route one last time. On the stern, a crewman was lowering the torpedo-bodied SDV slowly to the surface.
“Let’s go get this bloody thing over with,” Hawke said, putting on his half-helmet and adjusting his lipmike.
Stoke’s gut was talking now, saying it was going to be bad.
It just didn’t say how bad.
Chapter Forty-nine
Southampton, New York
“FINE DAY FOR IT, CHIEF INSPECTOR,” THE HEAD DOORMAN, Michael O’Connell, said, tipping his cap as Ambrose pushed through the hotel doors onto Seventy-sixth Street. He was a cheery rosy-cheeked fellow who’d been on the door at the Carlyle for years. He had Ambrose’s rather tired-looking leather grip in one hand and held a silver whistle to his lips with the other, scanning the solid phalanx of traffic headed north on Madison for a taxi. The sun was out with a vengeance now and steam was rising from the glistening streets.
Something in the air: You could sense the green acres of Central Park baking dry after a good soaking.
“British Airways, sir?”
“No, no taxi to JFK this morning, Michael,” Ambrose said. “Someone’s picking me up.”
“Enjoy your stay, sir?”
“Most enjoyable, Michael. Always feel at home here.”
“Where to now, sir?”
“Out to Long Island for a country weekend. Friends of friends out at Southampton. Some kind of house party, I believe. Chap named Jock Barker. Ever hear of him?”
“Oh, yes. Quite famous, sir. Jack ‘Call me Jock’ Barker. You’re sure to have a good time at Stonefield.”
“Stonefield?”
“The old Barker place. One of the loveliest homes out on the island, sir. Mr. Barker throws this party every summer. Legendary. I believe that’s his car coming around now.”
The car, a Rolls, was one of the new Phantoms. As it swung mightily around the turn into Seventy-sixth
