“They cannot sink a ship. But the warheads are powerful enough to penetrate a tank’s armor. So… ordinary steel plate?” He snapped his fingers with a surprisingly loud pop.
“But they could still follow us indefinitely.”
“Then we are back to where we began,” Hurtubise replied. “As you said before, let them follow us to Iran if they like.”
Before Zikri could reply, Hurtubise pursued another subject. “With so many men repainting the ship, we are starting to look different already. Now, what identity have you found for us?”
The captain touched the side of his nose in an exaggerated gesture of confidentiality. “We have many flags to fly. But the blue and white paint fits Greece so I have decided on a new name.
“Is there such a ship?”
“Yes and no. That is the beauty of the name. There was such a vessel a few years ago, but apparently she was sold for scrap. However, that name still appears on some registries. Anybody who checks closely will learn the facts, but it will take time. Meanwhile, I have a man over the stern, painting the new name right now.”
“Greece,” Hurtubise mused. “I have been there only twice. I didn’t much care for ouzo.”
Zikri leaned against the back of his chair, adopting a relaxed posture. “Well,
Pope finished the briefing and set down his marker. He folded his brawny arms and looked around the room. Fifteen operators stared back at him. He decided not to comment on Breezy’s and Bosco’s attire: both wore pirate- style kerchiefs on their heads. Bosco even had an improvised eye patch. Green grinned; Pace yawned.
“There’s not much else to say,” Pope stated. “I’m certainly not going to give you guys a pep talk. In the first place, you don’t need it, and in the second place, you’d resent the hell out of it. But I do want to say just a bit about how I feel about this mission.”
He glanced at the deck, then looked up again. “I think we’re engaged in a battle for Western civilization. No, I don’t think it’s going to be settled tonight. This is a long-term commitment, probably for generations. After all, the Crusades lasted two hundred years and the Moors occupied Spain for about eight hundred. I see myself as one man among other men — you guys. Whatever happens to me tonight, there’s no place I’d rather be and nothing else I’d rather be doing.
“That’s enough oration. Now, let’s ruck up and get going.”
Gerritt Maas spoke with Pope, Malten, and Cohen on the bridge. Tapping the Feruni color radar display, the skipper pointed out nearby ships. “You should not have much trouble identifying the target. These two are well to the south and not in your intercept area.” He noted another blip nearby. “This big one is a supertanker, at least one hundred thousand tons. Depending on whether it maintains course, you might use it to cover your approach to
The captain touched the display to indicate another large vessel. “This is probably a container ship. If you match its speed for a while, you might get within one or two miles before you break out of the radar coverage of the tanker.” He looked at Pope. “That’s up to you, of course. I will monitor your frequency the full time.”
Alex Cohen added, “I’ll be in the radio room the full time. If I hear anything unusual, I’ll pass the word to you immediately.”
“Yes, yes,” Maas responded. “I am glad you reminded us, Carl.” He looked at Pope and Malten again. “I think our main concern will be finding anyone overboard or a lost Zodiac. We will flash a Morse Code DC. You do the same.”
“Delta Charlie,” Malten replied. “Dah-dit-dit, dah-dit-dah-dit?”
The Dutchman smiled around his pipe stem. “I don’t know! I haven’t used Morse since I was a cadet.”
Then he turned somber. “Good luck, gentlemen. And good hunting.”
74
“There’s a quarter moon,” Zikri said. “I think they would prefer a dark night.”
“That’s what I would choose,” Hurtubise agreed. “But we don’t know their schedule. They may want to take us closer to friendly ports around Gibraltar.”
“Well, no matter. I set the duty watch already. With some of my men as lookouts as well as yours, we should be all right.”
The mercenary hefted a night-vision device. “We cannot count on radar picking up their boats very far away. So I gave my men some extra night vision.” He raised the commercial product, a three-power NZT-35 monocular.
“How good is that?”
“This? It’s supposed to be good to something over a hundred meters. It’s waterproof besides. But the trouble with the old Soviet devices is that you never know how much tube life is left. Any of them could quit on you at any time — probably when you need it most.”
The Frenchman hefted another model. “This model with third-generation technology is good to three hundred meters.” He almost laughed. “It costs about thirteen dollars per meter.”
Zikri had thought out his steaming plan for the night. “I can continue zigzagging as you wish. Or we can do random direction changes. Either way it will not be very easy for small craft to track us. They can’t see very much, riding so low.”
“Well, all we need is some warning. We can put up a barrage of flares and use the machine guns and RPGs. Once we open fire, nobody’s going to keep coming in a rubber boat. It would be suicide. We’re on a much more stable platform than they are.”
The Libyan leaned back against the plotting table. “What do you want to do after we repel their attack? Surely they won’t try the boats again.”
“At that point, they probably will back off, at least for a while. Unless they have a plan that Cochon and I have not considered, they will either let us go or they will turn to the Navy.”
“I agree,” Zikri said. “And we can enter almost any port and wait out their warships if we have to.”
Hurtubise turned to the map. “What do you recommend?”
“Oh, almost anywhere once we’re south of Western Sahara. It’s still occupied by Morocco, yes?”
“Correct. That means it’s probably friendly to America.”
“Well then,” the seaman continued, “just look at the options. Senegal, Gambia, Guinea, Sierra Leone. Considering the diplomatic situation, Liberia and Nigeria and Ghana may not be such good choices, but after that we have the
Hurtubise gave an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a very long trip.”
“Cheer up, my friend. A long sea cruise is good for your health!”
“Where’s Pope?” Pfizer asked. “We’re ready to go.”
Malten thought he knew, but kept the information to himself. “Uh, I think he’s with the captain. I’ll go check.”
The team leader trotted down the passageway to the berthing area and undogged a hatch. He peeked inside the compartment and found what he suspected.
Victor Pope was kneeling beside his bunk, rosary in hand. Malten was struck by the seeming incongruity: a muscular, bald young man in his late thirties, bedecked with tactical gear, his submachine gun resting beside him. Malten withdrew a few steps around the corner but could hear Pope’s low baritone reciting the ancient words.
