“Mark,” Scott repeated back, starting the timer on his watch. “Water temperature?”
“Still running a bit cooler than normal.”
Scott nodded. Temperature affected the air supply. Diver’s experience, too. Cooler temperatures condensed the air and shortened breathing time somewhat. Experienced divers knew how to conserve air through carefully regulated breathing. “17 to 21 minutes before they’ll have to surface?”
“That’s where I figure it,” Garet said.
Scott nodded. Plenty of time for a clean retrieval once the fishing boats dispersed, as long as no one was trapped in a net this time. “What’s this about the Bardot?”
“They sank her,” Garet said. “Opened fire with their chase guns without warning. Sank her before she could get away.”
Chapter 2
Sam, a crewer on a fire hose, turned away from incoming metal, spraying a fountain of water over the forward deck. Scott brushed aside the water like a bothersome bug. “Chase guns didn’t sink the Bardot. She’s too big.”
“Been too busy to think about it.” Garet shrugged. “Must’ve been anti-ship missiles then. Heard they didn’t give the crew time to abandon to life rafts.”
“Terrorists?” Scott asked. In the Mediterranean, terrorists were about the only wildcards with the capability and a more likely aggressor than Libya.
Four bells rang out — a warning. The Sea Shepherd stopped her protective circling. Scott turned to look back and up to the wheelhouse. Captain Pendleton, at the helm, was fixed on something on the starboard side. A moment later, Scott heard, but didn’t see, what approached. The 470-horsepower twin Caterpillar Diesel motors were unmistakable. Out here that noise meant Naval Special Warfare Rigid Inflatable Boats (NSW RIBs) and the Navy’s Sea, Air and Land Forces (SEALs).
Two NSW RIBs meant they were getting special attention. Each RIB had a crew of 3 and an 8-man SEAL squad aboard. The standard complement.
Scott grinned ear to ear. The SEALs were right on time, if a little showy. Normally, the fishermen would try to flee the RIBs, and two of the five boats were fleeing. The others looked to be staying in place, however. Two with nets in the water.
Scott felt a presence behind him before Edie spoke. “Here,” she said. Scott reached out, took the Kalashnikov without turning away from the fast approaching RIBs. AK-47s weren’t his weapons of choice, but they were plentiful enough in the region to buy in quantity. In a pinch, he preferred the .45 Beretta Px4 he had holstered. The Storm Special Duty gave maximum firepower with nine rounds in the standard magazine and ten in the extendeds, though it weighed nearly 28 ounces unloaded.
Edie kneeled down, pressed her body into Scott’s purposefully. Her constant desire for closeness made him want to climb over the rail. Not because he’d bumped uglies with her and felt guilty, but because he hadn’t and wanted to as much as she did.
“Get a cabin — later,” Garet shouted. “For now, do your crisis management voodoo because it looks like some of our Tunisian friends are staying.”
Scott offered no immediate reply, but agreed with Garet’s assessment. He’d make his move when it was time, and after he’d assessed all that needed assessing.
Being separated from Cynthia these past 14 months was a fresh hell every day, more so with Edie on the prowl. To say that Edie was an everyman’s wet dream was an injustice because she was so much more than that. Blue-eyed and red-haired — sapphires and flames — she spoke plainly and with a quiet intelligence. She was long-limbed, trim. Tall, but not overly so. Nicely bosomed, though not much more than a fair handful.
Her roundhouse kick could knock his head from his shoulders — and almost had several times during sparring rounds. She could field-strip an AK-47 in 14 seconds and reassemble it in 30 seconds — blindfolded — drink like a fish all night, and still function at 150 percent the next day.
The khaki survival vest that she wore over her skimpies was the clincher, though. The vest coupled with her fierceness was for him as catnip was to cats. There was nothing sexier than an unabashed warrior woman. In short, she made him wish he were a younger man, which he wasn’t. Twelve years older than her 28, he was much too old for her and he’d told her as much a few times already. Her single word response was deadly: Cynthia. She said it because Cynthia was 25, and his ex-wife.
Scott clasped a hand to Lian’s shoulder. “Get Kathy and Angel out of the water now.” Lian grinned his approval and moved off. To Garet, Scott said, “Midship post. Take the riot shield.”
Scott and Edie stood. “Admit it,” Edie whispered in Scott’s ear seductively as she awaited orders.
Scott knew what she wanted him to say but held his tongue. He’d told her once that she must have Cossack blood, and she’d replied she was of the blood of czars and gypsies both. For him, the reply explained how she could switch from stoic to impassioned in the span of heartbeats — how she could flirt with him even in the midst of fire hoses, wailing alarms, and flying chains.
“Boat ahoy!” sounded a voice over a megaphone. “Prepare to be boarded.”
Scott noted a RIB coming alongside the Shepherd’s starboard just as Lian at the stern was slipping away in a zodiac, moving to port. The zodiac was his answer to the RIBs. Its twin 150 horsepower engines weren’t as powerful or fast as those of the 11-meter RIBs, but they were fast enough for what he needed doing right now. He grabbed Sam’s fire hose, switched it off as he shouted, “Stand down, stand down.”
A feeling that something wasn’t right caught at the back of Scott’s thoughts. The fishing boats should have turned tail and ran. The fishermen didn’t want trouble any more than the Shepherd’s crew did. Three boats staying was unusual. “I don’t like the feel of this,” Scott told Sam and Edie quietly. “Edie, wheelhouse. Get us ready to move fast. Sam, clear this deck. Stand ready below.”
Edie and Sam did as told without question. Scott shouldered his AK-47, caught the tie rope from one of the Navy SEALs and held it without tying down. The SEAL’s lieutenant he knew on sight. “Bob.”
“Scott.”
Military code of conduct meant addressing others with last names, first names though, as good-natured insults, were their standard greeting. The U.S. Sixth Fleet, based in Naples, had the Mediterranean Sea as its sole area of responsibility. The aircraft carrier, USS Harry S. Truman, back from the Red Sea, along with other warships in the strike group, like the guided-missile destroyers USS Gettysburg and USS Bulkeley, had been deployed in the eastern Mediterranean for several weeks.
Scott asked, “Any real reason you need to board us?”
“You know it’s standard procedure.”
“You know my reply.” Scott’s smug smile broadened. “Hand over your ARXs and you’re welcome aboard any time.”
“How many in the water?” The lieutenant asked.
Scott tossed back the tie rope, watching the fishing boats out of the corner of his eye. “You know better than to ask. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Right?”
The lieutenant glared, signaled for the rope to be tossed back. “We’re not going anywhere this time. Orders.”
Lieutenant Ansely’s floating bucket was the amphibious assault ship USS Kearsarge. Sending out two RIBs instead of the typical one must mean an alert status, perhaps the Bardot really had been sunk by terrorists. Scott said, “Well, Bob, we’re not going anywhere either. Stalemate?”