riflemen farther forward, he screamed, “You imbeciles! Get the hell out of the way of the RPGs!” One or both would have been seared the instant the rocket-propelled grenades were fired.
Meanwhile, Hurtubise had taken the flare gun from one of his men. Holding the pistol overhead, he began a countdown. “When you see them, fire!”
Fifty meters out, Victor Pope realized that he was holding his breath. There was very little illumination on the ship’s stern — only the required navigation lights. He took that as a good sign.
Then the world turned garish-white as a parachute flare erupted overhead.
In the second boat, Jeff Malten thought that his heart skipped a beat. “We’ve been made!” Without awaiting orders, he directed his coxswain to reverse course.
Automatic weapons fire erupted from the port quarter of
Two smoke trails leapt outward from the ship. Both struck the waves within meters of the lead boat. “Christ! They’ve got RPGs!” Victor Pope did not even realize that he had just committed blasphemy.
Pope’s boat and Pascoe’s were closest to the ship. Men in the bows returned fire with their MP-5 s, more for morale than for effect, as the Zodiacs swerved to escape the fusillade.
By then, Hurtubise had reloaded and launched another parachute flare. The sea was turned into a black- and-white film: garish overhead lights burning with phosphorescent intensity, clashing starkly with the dark waves while red tracer rounds scythed the sea.
Before Pascoe’s boat could get out of the way, the shipboard gunner got a quick sight picture and fired. Once the tracers entered the Zodiac, the shooter held the trigger down.
Three men were hit: Pace was knocked overboard almost before anyone noticed. One operator took a grazing round to a leg. But another man, a former Ranger named Peter Chadburn, took two rounds through the torso. His body armor was not proof against armor-piercing ammo. Green dropped his weapon and began removing the man’s gear, trying to render first aid. In the jostling, water-swept craft, it was almost impossible.
In Pope’s boat, Bosco and Breezy returned fire as the CRRC sped away. Each emptied his magazine, reloaded, and stared at each other, wide-eyed and gasping for breath.
79
“What in hell happened?” Cohen asked.
From the cryptic chatter on the tactical circuit, Cohen had a decent idea of what had gone wrong. But he needed more information before sending the bad news to Arlington.
Victor Pope unslung his MP-5 and handed it to Breezy. Then he stalked up to the Israeli and prodded him with a gloved finger. “I think I’m the one to ask that question, Cohen. They were ready for us and we lost people! Now you tell
Cohen stood his ground, glaring at Pope. “Nothing went out from this ship except the e-mail to SSI that the op was under way. It was sent in the company’s encryption program so there was no breach.” He inhaled, exhaled, and willed himself to stare down the former SEAL. He modulated his voice, aware of the slight tremor.
“Come on, Vic. I need to send the preliminary report.”
“You can talk to somebody else. I’m going back to look for Pace.”
Cohen raised a placating hand. “Vic, come on. Just give me the basics. Of course you can look for him. Hell, I’ll go with you. But I need to confirm what I heard. One dead, one missing, and one wounded.”
A terse nod of the bald head. “Correct.”
Jeff Malten overheard the dispute while supervising the retrieval of two Zodiacs. He was tempted to let Pope continue arguing with Cohen but thought better of it. “Vic, I don’t know how long Pfizer can keep searching. Do you want to refuel your boat? Pascoe’s needs serious repairs, probably more than we can do, and my motor took a round.”
Pope thought for a moment. At length he said, “All right. Jeff, you take mine. Tell Tom that you’ll relieve him, but work out a search pattern that doesn’t duplicate his area.”
“Will do. Oh. What shall we do with Chadburn’s body?”
“Uh… take him to the freezer, I guess. I’ll confirm that when I talk to the captain.”
Malten disappeared forward, where Pascoe’s shot-up CRRC was hauled aboard.
Pope tugged off his gloves and began unbuckling his gear. As he brushed past Cohen he croaked, “You come with me.”
Sandy Carmichael delivered the news.
“We just heard from Vic Pope. Here’s the text, quote: ‘CRRC attack 0220 local failed. One KIA, one WIA, one MIA. Regrouping. Unodir will attempt later today. Require highest priority msg to DDs this area deliver at least two 7.62 miniguns this ship. Send op-immediate. Advise soonest.’ “
Marshall Wilmont asked, “What’s ‘unodir’?”
Leopole almost grinned. “Unless otherwise directed. It means he’s taking the responsibility and doesn’t want to hear ‘no’ from us.”
Wilmont still seemed perplexed. “So what do we do?”
“We wake up the secretary of the Navy,” Mohammed interjected.
Derringer spoke up. “To hell with him. We’ll wake up SecDef. In fact, let me do it.” He strode toward his office.
Leopole checked the clock again. “That was barely an hour ago. But I doubt they’ll be able to try again before dawn, which means at least twenty-four hours more.” He looked at Carmichael. “With the ship alerted now, it’s going to be even harder than before.”
Carmichael sat down and braced her chin on her hands. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I wonder who’s dead.”
80
“We’ve beaten them!” Rene Pinsard’s volubility bubbled to the surface of his normal sangfroid. “They won’t dare try it again.”
Hurtubise made one more scan of the dark ocean, then set down his NVD. “Not tonight, I wouldn’t think. But we will take nothing for granted. Keep at least half the men on watch until dawn.”
“All right. As you wish, Marcel.” Pinsard’s tone was plain: he considered the crisis at an end.
The mercenary chief leaned against a bulkhead and rubbed his chin. It was stubbled, as usual. Sometimes he thought he might grow a beard, but that required trimming and grooming. Easier just to shave whenever he felt like it.
He looked closely at Pinsard. “Think, Rene. Put yourself in their place. What would you do now?”
Pinsard pondered for a long moment. At length he said, “The only option I can think of would involve helicopters, and apparently they do not have any.”
“Very well. Suppose they get helicopters. How would you deal with them?”
The younger man patted a MAG-58 on its improvised mount. “Automatic weapons will keep them away. Too bad we do not have any SAMs, but we could not anticipate everything.” He paused, then added, “But we still have some RPGs.”
Hurtubise nodded. “Keep two teams on alert, and keep all the guns manned. It’s still a long damned way to Iran.” He straightened himself and began walking forward.
