Prometheus's Child

“Yes, Marcel?”

Hurtubise handed him the message without comment. When Pinsard finished reading, the concern was visible on his face. “How did they know?”

“I can guess.” Paul, you bastard. I was right to kill you. And I was wrong to regret it. “But that doesn’t matter. Right now, I think we have to assume that we’ll be intercepted rather than consider it a possibility.”

“What’s the source of this information? It doesn’t say.”

“It doesn’t have to. I know who’s involved, and the authenticator is valid. If the source says the Americans and Israelis know we’ve sailed, that’s the end of it.”

Pinsard returned the paper, folded his arms, and regarded his friend. “You think it’ll be the Americans or the Jews?”

Hurtubise arched an eyebrow. “Qui sait? Maybe both. Anyway, we made the right choice by avoiding Suez. Too much chance of being boarded for routine inspection. This way, the captain says we can alter our course and speed, maybe give them the slip. For a while, anyway.”

Pinsard looked outboard, scanning the Middle Sea. “There’s a lot of ships out here. It will not be easy finding us among so many others.”

“No, it won’t be easy. But they will find us. I feel it, here!” He punched himself in the solar plexus.

Pinsard unzipped a confident smile. “Then we’ll just have to give them a warm reception.”

“The best kind, mon ami. The best kind.”

69

“REACH ZERO THREE HEAVY”

The C-5B Galaxy climbed away from Dover Air Force Base, Delaware, propelled by forty-one thousand pounds of thrust. At the controls was the newest aircraft commander in the wing, flying her first trip in the left seat. Captain Debra McClintock turned the steering bug on the autopilot console to refine the outbound heading. “Next stop, Azores,” she told her copilot. The blond first lieutenant, a former cheerleader called Barbie, gave a thumbs-up. She received no end of kidding about her fiance, a captain named Ken.

In the passenger deck farther aft, the SSI team settled down to make use of the ensuing several hours. Though the compartment held seventy-three seats, the operators kept to themselves, carried on the passenger list as retirees flying space available to Europe. The cargo manifest made no mention of their Zodiacs nor the shipping crates containing interesting items common to the spec-ops trade. They wore standard-issue nomex flight suits to blend in as much as possible.

Phil Green leaned back, hands behind his head. “I gotta hand it to the admiral and his guys. I mean, coordinating two teams five thousand miles or more from D.C. takes some doing. Let alone getting us on this plane.”

Don Pace looked around. “Yeah. How’d they arrange this, anyway?”

Pope knew the background. “There’s two hooks they can hang this on: joint airborne and transportability training, or a special assignment airlift mission. I don’t know exactly how the blue suits will log this, but I’d guess SAAM since we’re not actually military. But the fact that they’re delivering spare parts and some people to Spain and Italy provides decent cover.”

“What’s it matter?” asked Pace. “I mean, we’re all working for Uncle Sugar, aren’t we?”

The former SEAL looked around, satisfying himself that the adjoining seats were empty. “Right now it doesn’t matter at all. But if this thing tanks, and Congress starts investigating, then it could matter a lot.”

“Politics,” Green said.

“You got it.” He shrugged. “That’s how it is with government.”

“I’m an anarchist,” the erstwhile cop declared. “When my great-great-grandfather got off the boat from England, he asked, ‘Is there a government in this country?’ When they told him there was, he said, ‘I’m against it!’“

Pope felt himself warming to Green. The onetime motorcycle patrolman came across as cynically flippant, but when he rucked up, he put on his game face and remained focused until the gear was stowed. Pace, on the other hand, was perennially laid-back. He appeared unflappable, possessing a street cop’s visceral disdain of front- office types. Pope knew that Green had shot for blood, and the fact that both had been SWAT instructors lent credibility in the SEAL’s opinion.

“Now, everybody gather ‘round.” Pope waited for the other team members to close in for the impromptu briefing.

“A lot can go wrong just getting the full team together,” he began. “The admiral has to coordinate not just our schedule with the ship in Rota, but getting approval for Keegan to fly Malten’s team there in time to meet us. Then we have to move our gear as well as his to the ship, get everything and everybody aboard, and be ready to deploy.”

“Isn’t Cohen handling some of that?” Green asked.

“I suppose he is, at least the Israeli end. But I don’t want to dwell on that: there’s not much we can do about it, and we have to proceed based on a unified operation plan.”

“I understand there was some sort of argument about who’s calling the shots. With Cohen, I mean.”

Pope cocked his head. “Where’d you hear that?”

“I heard Leopole and Carmichael in the coffee room.”

“Well, you know almost as much as I do. Frank told me the same thing, but he said there’s been a phone call and it’s thrashed out. Cohen has authority feet dry; Jeff takes the conn when they’re feet wet.”

“How does that work with getting their ship?”

“I don’t know, other than they already have a fast one lined up. But Jeff’s a good head. He doesn’t let his ego get in the way.”

Green’s blue eyes sparkled in the cabin lighting. “Gosh, how’d he ever get to be a SEAL?”

70

M/V TARABULUS PRIDE

“Captain, what can we expect at Gibraltar?” Hurtubise had informed himself of the basics of maritime traffic control but there had been no time for details. He had to trust Zikri on matters of seamanship.

The Libyan skipper looked forward, visualizing the exit to the Atlantic, somewhere beyond the mist and haze. He turned to a map on the chart table. “We are here,” he said, tapping a position opposite Bizerte. “About four hundred miles out of Misratah, day before yesterday.”

Hurtubise shook his head. “What is that in kilometers?”

Zikri rubbed his stubbled chin. “Ohhh… maybe seven hundred.” He grinned at the landlubber. “There are nautical miles and statute miles. We do not bother with statute — that’s for the Americans.

“Anyway, we are making a little over ten knots — say, eighteen kilometers per hour. At that rate we reach Gibraltar in about ninety hours. When we approach the eastern end of the strait, we contact traffic control. Most ships identify themselves, but the international convention permits corporate security.” He grinned broadly. “Very considerate, yes? We file a discreet report that avoids public announcement. After that, we monitor Tarifa Radio for traffic information. As long as we stay in one of the shipping lanes, there should be no problem.”

Hurtubise viewed the map with practiced eyes, noting the geographic geometry. “Are there other ways to track us?”

“Well, there is satellite coverage that helps with traffic control. I think about two hundred ships pass the strait every day. It can get very crowded: the narrows are only eight miles wide.” He looked at the Frenchman. “Twelve kilometers.”

“How good is the satellite coverage?”