Surprise registered on Zikri’s face. “You mean for identification?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I do not know for certain. But I doubt that a ship could be identified beyond its length and maybe its beam. That is, width. Certainly not by name.”
The Arab shrugged. “Maybe so. But I believe it is a very great problem to position a satellite to cover a moving object, like a ship. Besides, how could they pick us out of hundreds of other vessels in a given area?”
“Maybe they can’t. But I want to take no unnecessary chances. Once we are past Gibraltar, I want the crew to start repainting.”
“Well, yes, we can do that. Not the entire ship, as I explained before. But we can use a different color on the upper works, and change the name on the stern.” Tikri regarded his colleague. “We will need your men to do the work as fast as possible.”
“Of course. They’re not here for a sea cruise.”
Part 4
THE ATLANTIC
71
Cadiz Bay slid astern as the leased cargo ship departed the Spanish coast. Standing on the stern with some of his team as Rota Naval Station faded into the distance, Victor Pope said, “Hard to believe we left Dover barely thirty hours ago.”
Phil Green massaged the back of his neck. “Hard to believe I’ve gone that long without sleep. Whoever said that people can sleep on airplanes?”
“You’d be surprised where people can sleep. I’ve seen guys curl up on coral rocks and drop off in thirty seconds. And we weren’t on the C-5 even ten hours, including the Azores. Besides, the pilot was a nine and the copilot was at least a seven.”
“Like they’d ever give me the time of day. You know, all my life, my problems have involved women: both because I had one and because I didn’t.” The ex-cop glanced around. “Well, I’ll say this: whoever arranged for this boat had his priorities right. Nice bunks and the kitchen smelled good.”
Pope gave his erstwhile Army colleague a sideways glance. “I don’t know about the kitchen, but I think they’re shelling crab in the galley.”
Green responded with an exaggerated shrug. “Brrr… I get nervous when I hear about ships and galleys. You know, like in
Don Pace ambled up, slightly unsteady on his feet. “I couldn’t sleep downstairs. Too much noise from the motor.”
The former SEAL realized that he was being set up. He ignored the landlubbers’ studied ignorance and returned his gaze to shore. To no one in particular he declared, “We could be at sea for a week or more. Maybe a lot more. We’ll have to get used to this sort of life.”
Geoffrey Pascoe strode to the stern on experienced legs. Pope had only met him hours previously, but the former Royal Marine Commando took to a ship’s motion in marked contrast to most of the Americans. He spoke in terse, clipped tones. “Commander, I understand you want to see me.”
“Yes, thank you, Geoff. We don’t stand on rank here.”
“As you wish. Sir.” The Brit gave an icy smile.
“I want to get acquainted while we have time,” Pope said. “I’m certainly glad to have you aboard. Especially on such short notice.”
“Well, apparently your Admiral Derringer and I have a few mutual acquaintances. I’ve only been out barely a fortnight — was planning to get married. But when a couple of chaps in trench coats bought me a drink and waved a lot of money in my face, I found myself on the way to Heathrow with a ticket to Spain.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I still don’t think that Leslie believes I plan to return.”
“You were in M Squadron?”
“Yes…
“Right up our alley,” Pope replied. He noticed querulous expressions on some of the Americans. “M Squadron, Special Boat Service, is the Royal Marines’ maritime counterterror unit.”
Pascoe asked, “Commander…” He grinned self-consciously. “Sorry about that. Old habits, you know. Ah, what do you think about this setup?”
“It’s a good ship. I wish we could’ve got our gear loaded faster, but I think SSI did a really good job coordinating everything. Not just the air transport, but having the trucks ready to move us from the air station to the pier. I halfway expected that we’d land and find nobody waiting for us.”
“No,” Pascoe replied. “I mean the captain and the crew. Here we are, going to sea for who knows how long with these guys, and we don’t really know anything about them.”
“Spooks,” Pace declared. “I can always tell.”
Pope nodded his bald head, which somehow seemed immune to sunburn. “Not a doubt in my military mind. But that’s okay. I’ve worked with the company before. The Langley types may be screwed up six ways to breakfast, but the operators I’ve known are almost always good guys. I think these guys will tell us what we need to know.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Pace responded.
Pope pointed abaft the bridge. “They should know plenty. Look at those antennae. VHF, UHF, and satellite. This ship is wired.”
He stretched his muscular arms and flexed his shoulders. “Well, we’re far enough out now. I’ll go talk to the captain and see about arranging a training schedule.”
Jeff Malten joined the group, squeezing his grip strengthener with his left hand. “Vic, I just came past the bridge. Cohen’s talking to the skipper right now.”
Pope gave the junior SEAL a suspicious look. “Do you think they know each other?”
“Damned if I know. Why?”
“Just a thought. They both work this part of the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re both company men, if you know what I mean.”
Malten thought for a moment, quickening the squeezes of his left hand. “Well, I still don’t know the details, but he had a twenty-knot ship ready for us to take from Haifa if we needed it. How many door-kickers have that kind of pull?”
Pope dismissed the subject: he preferred to focus on the future. “As long as we have some slack time, we can put it to good use. Especially boat handling.”
Geoff Pascoe knew an opportunity when he saw one. He leveled a gaze at the ex-cop. “You’ll love it, Pace. Nobody throws up more than two or three times in a Zodiac. After that, it’s just the dry heaves.” He smiled broadly.
Pace gave an exaggerated gulp. “Uh, when’re we gonna do that training?”
Pope kept a straight face. “As often as possible. In fact, I’m going to check with the captain to see when we can put some Zodiacs over the side.”
In the pilothouse, Pope found Cohen just leaving. They exchanged brief greetings before the SEAL stepped inside. “Captain? Do you have a minute?”
The skipper turned toward the American. “Oh, sure.” It came out “Chur.” Captain Gerritt Maas spoke a vaguely accented English that shifted between western and northern Europe. That was small wonder, since he
