After a few seconds of silence, Malten risked another peek. He saw Pope cross himself, kiss the crucifix, and tuck it inside his shirt.
Malten backed up several steps and rapped loudly on the hatch. “Vic? You in here?”
Pope stepped through the hatchway. “I was just taking a minute for myself.”
“I hope you said one for me.” The younger operator kept any levity from his voice.
Pope cocked his head slightly. “You’re allowed to pray for yourself, Jeff.”
“Don’t need to,” Malten replied. His tone now was flippant. He tapped Pope’s vest with the back of his hand. “I got you, babe.”
“Let’s rock,” Pope said.
“Let’s roll.”
In the dim light of the bridge, the screens glowed according to their purpose. Mostly green for data; color radar for navigation and weather. Awaiting a last-minute position report to confirm the target’s position for the raiders, Maas paced until Cohen arrived.
The SSI operative stepped onto the bridge. “Captain, we got it. I just received confirmation.”
Maas turned to face Cohen. “Well?”
Cohen was momentarily taken aback. He had not expected jubilation, but he did anticipate some degree of enthusiasm. “Same speed and course as before. And it’s definite now. They’ve finished repainting most of the superstructure and the stack, and they changed the name.” He held out a message form with the information penciled in block letters.
The captain accepted the paper, read it twice, and set it down. “I will stay here until our people return. You can tell them the news.”
Cohen looked at the Dutch seaman. The man’s eyes were mostly concealed in shadow amid the subdued lighting. Cohen realized that reflection on the windows could detract from visibility but for a man who had spent much of his life in the desert, the shipboard ambience was cavelike, eerie. “What’s the matter, Captain?”
“The same thing as before, Mr. Cohen. You are forcing me to send four small craft in harm’s way based only on your information, which you refuse to explain to me or to them.” He paused, wondering if the younger man could be moved by such sentiment. When he drew no response, he continued. “I do not like the arrangement any more now than before. Less, in fact.”
Cohen shifted his feet, less from the ship’s motion than from resentment at being challenged again. “Why less?”
Maas inclined his head toward the Zodiacs on deck. “Because in a few minutes those boys are going on a mission that could turn sour. That’s why.”
“Captain, if the information is wrong, that’s my fault, not yours. Our operators know that. They accept it. But my sources are too sensitive to risk, so there’s no option but to continue as planned.”
75
“Frank, we just got an encrypted e-mail from Alex Cohen. Pope and Malten’s teams are going in right now.” Sandy Carmichael’s southern accent smoothed over the emotional ridges she felt.
Leopole looked at the wall clock. “They’re near the Canaries? It’s 2135 here; plus four is 0135 there. Did he say when they’ll board?”
“No. Just that the boats are in the water. I’d imagine they’re several miles out.”
Omar Mohammed, ordinarily the soul of composure, was sharing the watch. He surprised his two colleagues by biting the nail of his ring finger. “I wonder who else he’s told.”
“What’s that?” Carmichael asked.
The elegant Iranian caught himself and dropped his hand to the table. “I am just wondering out loud, Sandra. I am sorry, but I just do not trust Cohen yet. Oh, I don’t mean he would send our people into unnecessary danger. Nothing like that. But he may be communicating with Tel Aviv and who knows who else.”
Carmichael pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, he’s certainly not telling State or DoD. This whole thing is about deniability.”
“Yeah,” Leopold said. “I guess we don’t need to call O’Connor or anybody else until we know what happens.”
Carmichael gave him a tight grin. “Small favors, Frank. That’s up to the admiral or Marsh Wilmont.”
Several laden moments ticked by. Finally Leopold spoke. “Damn. I feel like Ike on D-Day.”
Mohammed eyed him. “The waiting?”
Leopole nodded. “Once you’ve pushed the button, all you can do is wait for the machine to go to work. I think we’ve built a pretty damn good machine. But there’s always some cog waiting out there to foul it up.”
76
The four combat raiding craft sped away from
Meanwhile, Maas planned to keep
In the lead Zodiac, Pope kept a constant watch on the other three craft, conned by Jeff Malten, Tom Pfizer, and Geoffrey Pascoe, late of Her Majesty’s Special Boat Service.
Pope could think of nothing else to be done. Now he was focused on the unfolding mission. He turned to the former Force Recon Marine at the stern of the CRRC and motioned slightly to port. He wanted to compensate for the southwesterly Canary Current that predominated off the Moroccan coast.
“There’s the first one,” Maas said, pointing out the blip on the radar screen. “And there’s the others.”
Alex Cohen took in the display, noting the transponder codes indicating each Zodiac. “It sure simplifies things on a dark night,” he offered.
“Umm.” Maas did not enjoy conversing with the Israeli-American. But they were both professionals, accustomed to putting aside personal opinions in favor of accomplishing a mission.
Cohen sought a way to ease the tension between them. He had to admit that he would feel much the same as Maas if their roles were reversed. “Which is the target, Captain?”
“Same as before,” Maas said. Immediately he regretted his choice of words. Cohen could not be expected to keep a changing radar picture in his head after leaving the bridge to see the raiders on their way. The skipper touched an image almost straight ahead, just inside the ten-mile circle. “It’s keeping course and speed. Our boys should overtake her in about ten minutes.”
