“How well can they see a Zodiac on a night like this?”
Maas shot a sideways glance at the SSI man. He recognized the question for what it was: a peace offering of sorts.
“Same as we can, Mr. Cohen. With the naked eye, maybe a hundred meters or so if the boats stay out of the reflected moonlight. But Pope thinks they’ll have night vision. Depending on how good — two or three hundred meters.”
“That makes it hard to take them by surprise.”
“It certainly does.”
Idling in the waves, compensating for the Zodiac’s motion, Malten glassed the merchantman off the port bow. His five-power night-vision binoculars provided a green glimpse of the nocturnal world. He turned toward Pope in the nearest rubber craft. “Looks like part of the name is
“Well, that’s the info Cohen gave us. I still think the only way he could know that is from somebody on board. Mossad must’ve bribed somebody.”
“I just hope he stays bribed,” Malten replied.
Pope nodded and pulled his balaclava over his face. Green did not know Pope well enough to insult him about possible shine off his bald head, but Malten recognized that was exactly why the leader wore the trademark commando garment. Pope gave the signal and the boats deployed as briefed: one off each quarter, one astern, and one farther astern as backup.
Bouncing through the water, taking salt spray that spattered on their goggles and roughened their lips, the operators kept their focus on the objective. From 250 meters out, they tried to discern whether anybody was visible on deck. It was no good — the rough, tossing motion of the Zodiacs precluded a clear picture of the objective.
The coxswains opened the throttles and four outboard motors whined.
77
Rene Pinsard had never fought a battle at sea. For that matter, neither had anyone else aboard, but the mercenary did not object to the prospect. He accepted Zikri and Hurtubise’s assessment that an interception was likely in the more confined waters between the Canaries and the Moroccan coast, and therefore stationed himself in the most favorable position. He stood beside the stern machine-gun mount overlooking the stern, night-vision device in hand.
The gunner, a man of indeterminate age and French-Algerian extraction, stifled a yawn. He stamped his feet as if to keep warm, though the night air was almost pleasant. “Three more hours,” he said, ruefully acknowledging that he had drawn the longest watch of the night.
“Suit yourself,” Pinsard replied. “I’m going to stay here until after dawn. They won’t try to attack in daylight.”
“Speedboat to starboard!”
The call came from somewhere forward. Immediately, hired guns and hired sailors crowded the rail, looking to seaward. As practiced, a quiet alarm sped through the ship, sending men to their stations.
Hurtubise found Pinsard looking to port.
“Situation,” the leader demanded.
“There’s a small boat out there maybe two hundred meters, slowly pulling ahead of us,” Pinsard explained. “I think it’s a diversion. It makes more sense for an attack from this side, so they’re not silhouetted.”
Hurtubise looked toward Africa and slapped his friend on the back. “I agree. They’ll blend into the shore.” He paused long enough to admire the professionalism of the intruders, then moved to deal with them.
“There! Two boats behind us!”
A Libyan sailor, augmenting Hurtubise’s shooters, spotted unnatural dark shapes near the wake. Shapes that did not belong there. One of the Frenchmen picked up a flare gun but Hurtubise stayed his arm. “Not yet.”
“But, Marcel, they’re almost close enough…”
“Not yet!” Hurtubise raised his voice in a calculated combination of authority and anger.
Pinsard lowered his Russian night goggles and called over his shoulder. “Marcel! There’s one out there on my side. Maybe 150 meters.”
Hurtubise visualized the geometry of the developing situation. In military terms, a multi-axis attack calculated to split his defenses. He suspected that at the last moment two or more of the boats would converge on one point and try to gain local superiority.
It was what he would do.
It was time for a command decision.
Pacing the ship to port, Victor Pope ran a last-minute communications check. “Flipper One is up. Check and go.”
“Two. Clear to go.”
“Three. Looks good, Boss.”
“Four. Go.”
Satisfied that his boat captains saw no sign of danger, Pope accepted their assessment. Keeping the tension out of his voice, he said, “Stand by. Stand by. Execute!”
Pope, Malten, and Pascoe turned their CRRCs toward the target.
78
On the bridge, Captain Abu Yusuf Zikri paced from port to starboard and back again. Acutely aware that he could not see what was happening behind him, he had to rely on cryptic, often unintelligible calls from Hurtubise and his European hirelings.
“All ahead full,” he ordered the engine room. Though he had no chance of escaping the Zodiacs, at least he could prolong their approach and thereby render them more vulnerable.
The Libyan noticed the helmsman and navigator watching him closely-more than he liked.
He placed his trust in Marcel Hurtubise and his gunmen.
Overlooking the stern, Hurtubise and Pinsard deployed their men to repel boarders. In frustration, Pinsard shook his NVG. “This damned thing is no damned good! It’s whiting out!” In frustration he tossed it overboard.
“Too many tube hours,” Hurtubise commented calmly. He handed his commercial optic to Pinsard, who scanned to port. “There they are! Three coming this way.”
“Let me see,” Hurtubise said.
Activating the device, Hurtubise took in the situation, then set it down. “We can ignore the boat to starboard. The threat is here.”
He turned toward the stern machine gunner. “Prepare to fire.” The French-Algerian mercenary tugged the MAG-58’s charging handle twice.
Hurtubise looked around. Two RPG shooters were nearby. Almost with disgust in his voice, Hurtubise nudged Pinsard and pointed to the men.
