Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (46 page)
Mack immediately hit the transmission switch and without hesitation called out in response:
This is the fishing boat
Tantrum
out of Plymouth, England, bound for the port of Saint-Malo. We suffered satellite and radio transmission difficulties in the storm. Will report harbor master Saint-Malo on arrival. Wave band nine-three dead . . . over.
Mack switched off the radio, and instantly made his course change coming right sixty degrees. He flashed on the GPS screen and checked he would run somewhere between the island of Guernsey and tiny Sark, which were lonely waters at this time of night.
The wind had died, and the sea was calmer. Sheltered by the big island he would make all of 20 knots through here, running toward the coast of Brittany, every yard of the way. Course: one-nine-five, sou’sou’west.
The Alderney Coast Guard had received a signal from Cherbourg that a hunt was forming for the missing British trawler. But they accepted that
Tantrum
out of Plymouth was having radio difficulties and would berth in Saint-Malo within three hours. Nonetheless, they reported the radar sighting on the coast guard link, confirming the presence of the Plymouth-based British fishing boat and requesting a confirmation from the Saint-Malo harbor master when it arrived at around five o’clock.
Tantrum
out of Plymouth was having radio difficulties and would berth in Saint-Malo within three hours. Nonetheless, they reported the radar sighting on the coast guard link, confirming the presence of the Plymouth-based British fishing boat and requesting a confirmation from the Saint-Malo harbor master when it arrived at around five o’clock.
Cherbourg was more interested, having been given a very strong warning from the head of the Brittany police that anything, repeat anything, pertaining to an unknown boat in the sea-lanes approaching Brittany was to be treated with the utmost diligence.
Coast Guard Cherbourg instructed the little station at Alderney to get on the case. But two hours later they had been unsuccessful in making contact. The young officer trying to reach Mack Bedford by radio was obliged to observe, “Of course she won’t answer—her radio is up the ’chute; she already told us that.”
And now
Eagle
was out of radar range, as Mack Bedford drove her farther south, comprehensively “wooded” by the little island of Hern. All she needed to do was move swiftly down the nine-mile channel between St. Peter Port, Guernsey, and the island of Sark. At which point Mack faced a sixty-mile straight run across the Gulf of Saint-Malo in open water all the way, then down into the deep V of Saint-Brieuc Bay. And there was not a whole lot anyone could do about it, since there was not an active French Coast Guard boat within a hundred miles. And, anyway, it was still pitch black, and Mack Bedford was still without running lights, and he was still transmitting nothing. The coast guard no longer knew his course, and, better yet, no one knew whether the mysterious radar “paint” that appeared on the Alderney screen was
Eagle
or not.
Eagle
was out of radar range, as Mack Bedford drove her farther south, comprehensively “wooded” by the little island of Hern. All she needed to do was move swiftly down the nine-mile channel between St. Peter Port, Guernsey, and the island of Sark. At which point Mack faced a sixty-mile straight run across the Gulf of Saint-Malo in open water all the way, then down into the deep V of Saint-Brieuc Bay. And there was not a whole lot anyone could do about it, since there was not an active French Coast Guard boat within a hundred miles. And, anyway, it was still pitch black, and Mack Bedford was still without running lights, and he was still transmitting nothing. The coast guard no longer knew his course, and, better yet, no one knew whether the mysterious radar “paint” that appeared on the Alderney screen was
Eagle
or not.
The weather worsened as the trawler came out of the protection of the islands, and once more
Eagle
was pitching and rolling, but still pushing along, throttles open, making 20 knots or just below.
Eagle
was pitching and rolling, but still pushing along, throttles open, making 20 knots or just below.
By this time, Teddy Rickard had made out a much more detailed signal, which he fed to the coast guard station at Dartmouth, and now at 0300 this latest intelligence went on the international link, and immediately Cherbourg Station began transmitting urgently:
All stations alert . . . North coast Dieppe, Gulf of Saint-Malo to Saint-Pol-de-Léon. Searching for British fishing trawler
Eagle
, dark-red, sixty-five-foot hull, black lettering. Maybe running under false identity as
Tantrum
out of Plymouth.This is Cherbourg. Repeat, Coast Guard Cherbourg. English fishing trawler
Eagle
running under illegal master. Big, black-bearded male. Caucasian. May be dangerous. Hijacked
Eagle
off English county Devon.All coast guard boarding parties to be fully armed. Alert all coast guard vessels in your area. Last known position
Tantrum
: 49.39 North 2.20 West—four miles west of Alderney. Course and speed unknown.
That kind of signal from the normally restrained and careful coast guard operations on both sides of the Channel sends an electric shock through the service. And right now sleeping officers were being awakened and told to head to the jetties.
To Pierre Savary and Marcel, who were both wide awake and looking at the police computer screen in Rennes, however, it sent a tremor well up the Richter scale. These two had, of course, more to lose than anyone else. Except for Henri Foche.
Chief Savary hit the open line to the coast guard station at Cherbourg and demanded some fast answers, which he did not get. The duty officer told him they had every available man on the case, and there were three possibilities in their area: (1) a fishing boat apparently headed for Saint-Malo, (2) another heading for the same coastline but more westerly, and (3) a small freighter that may have switched course to Le Havre. Even with helicopters it was a vast area to search in darkness. If Chief Savary could just be patient, they’d have a far better idea how to proceed when the sun came up and boats could be seen.
With something less than good humor, Chief Savary put down the phone. “It seems to me,” he said, “the two fishing boats are our concern. If there’s some kind of murderer on the freighter going into Le Havre, that’s Normandy’s problem, not ours. But if he’s in one of those fucking trawlers and he really is after Henri Foche, we’d better start moving.”
“Well, we can’t do anything from Rennes, that’s for sure. This place is so far from the ocean, half the population has never even seen it.” At this time of night, with sheeting rain and high winds, the forty-five miles up to the northern shore seemed a hell of a long way to Henri Foche’s number-one bodyguard.
“Marcel,” said Pierre, “I think you should round up Raymond, get into the car, and get up to the coast. Because that’s where this bastard is going to show. By the time you arrive it’ll be four thirty, and the coast guard will be tracking both boats inshore. Why not go for somewhere like Ploubalay? That way you can double back to Saint-Malo or head more west.”
“And what do we do if they catch the guy, or we catch him?”
“In the interests of French justice I’d be inclined to act fast, with as little fuss as possible. The way we usually do in operations of this kind where there may be some embarrassment to people of grand stature. Remember, he’s foreign, and if we stay legal there’ll be enough red tape to throttle a stud bull.”
“Pierre, you can leave it to us. If he lands that boat, he won’t get five meters. Because there is only one fact that matters: Foche lives in Brittany, and anyone who wants to assassinate him is coming to Brittany. That narrows it down to the fishing boats. We’ll stay in touch.”
Marcel hurried out of the police department and once more hit the road, bound for the apartment block where Raymond lived. He called his cohort on his cell phone, and the two of them were on the road in ten minutes, both armed with the powerful French Special Forces handgun, the Sig Sauer 9mm. Chief Savary’s wishes were clear to both of them.
The storm had veered inshore, and
Eagle
ran on south through the dark. The sea was now choppy, but without those long, rolling swells. Mack switched on his radar only in ten-second bursts, just to check he was not yet being tracked by the coast guard. Right now he was eight miles offshore, just north of the great jutting headland of Sables d’Or les Pin.
Eagle
ran on south through the dark. The sea was now choppy, but without those long, rolling swells. Mack switched on his radar only in ten-second bursts, just to check he was not yet being tracked by the coast guard. Right now he was eight miles offshore, just north of the great jutting headland of Sables d’Or les Pin.
He flashed on his depth finder and saw one hundred meters below the keel. He wanted to move in closer to the land because the backdrop would confuse coast guard radar. And he’d already chosen his spot to come ashore, the little town of Val André, about six miles southwest of Sables d’Or. He thus had about fourteen miles to make landfall and an hour to do it before six o’clock when the sun would be above the eastern horizon. Mack knew he was too late to land in darkness, but he wanted the cloak of the night to shield him for as long as possible.
What he did not know was that at four thirty, three coast guard boats, one from Cherbourg and two from Saint-Malo, had cleared the jetties and were out there searching for
Eagle,
reporting in with signals that were relayed to Pierre Savary in Rennes, and onward to Marcel and Raymond.
Eagle,
reporting in with signals that were relayed to Pierre Savary in Rennes, and onward to Marcel and Raymond.
Thus far, one of them had located the suspect fishing boat heading into Saint-Malo itself and had discovered only that the perfectly legal Spanish crew had switched off the radio and were listening to flamenco. Their boat was not named
Tantrum;
it was
La Mancha.
The master was a slim five-foot-six baldheaded fisherman of some sixty-eight summers. No,
La Mancha
had not been hijacked, but she was low on fuel.
Tantrum;
it was
La Mancha.
The master was a slim five-foot-six baldheaded fisherman of some sixty-eight summers. No,
La Mancha
had not been hijacked, but she was low on fuel.
Those were very moderate events for Lieutenant Commander Bedford because he was by now the only suspect, and deep in his combat-trained soul he guessed there might be some kind of a dragnet closing in on him. But in his mind he knew there had been no other way. He could not possibly have risked coming through a French airport or ferry port with a portable Austrian sniper rifle in his metal toolbox. That would have been suicide. So therefore he had to land in France anonymously, bringing his rifle with him. He could not have hired a boat because everyone in Brixham would have known. He could not have stolen a boat, because it would have been reported missing about three minutes after he left. And he could not have purchased a boat because of the rigid British rules about registration. A car was one thing, a boat, from a working, gossipy seaport, quite another.
The hijack route had been the only route. It gave him time, a head start of several hours, leaving behind a gigantic search area to confuse his enemy. Right now, however, the chase was coming down to what Mack called the short strokes. They must be closing in now. But so far he had not seen another ship. And, thank God, it was still dark.
He rounded the Sables d’Or headland and found himself in much more open water. He switched on his radar, and five miles to the north was a “paint” on the screen. Whatever it was, it was coming dead toward, and it was moving fast, which was unsurprising since this was a brand-new navy cutter, state of the art, with electronic telescopic sights that could pull up a bumblebee on the moon.
Mack slammed open the throttles and aimed straight for the beach at Val André six miles to the southwest, flank speed.
Eagle
shuddered up to 21 knots, but Mack knew if his apparent pursuer was in a coast guard cutter, it would make 35 knots. They’d be alongside as he came inshore. Not good.
Eagle
shuddered up to 21 knots, but Mack knew if his apparent pursuer was in a coast guard cutter, it would make 35 knots. They’d be alongside as he came inshore. Not good.
He ran hard for ten minutes. Dawn was breaking, and he used Fred Carter’s binoculars to check over his shoulder. He could see plainly the running lights of his pursuer, both red and green. She was still coming dead toward. Fast.
0530. This is coast guard cutter
P720
two miles north of Sables d’Or. We have POSIDENT fishing trawler
Eagle
making 20 knots southwest heading toward Val André.
Eagle
is four miles ahead. We are in hot pursuit, repeat hot pursuit. All personnel armed.
P720
two miles north of Sables d’Or. We have POSIDENT fishing trawler
Eagle
making 20 knots southwest heading toward Val André.
Eagle
is four miles ahead. We are in hot pursuit, repeat hot pursuit. All personnel armed.
Saint-Malo station to Chief Pierre Savary: coast guard cutter
P720
located British fishing trawler
Eagle
making 20 knots southwest, toward Val André. POSIDENT 0530. ETA Val André 0600. We are in hot pursuit.
P720
located British fishing trawler
Eagle
making 20 knots southwest, toward Val André. POSIDENT 0530. ETA Val André 0600. We are in hot pursuit.
“Marcel, make straight for Val André.
Eagle
is being chased in by the coast guard. Expected to make landfall at 6:00 A.M.”
Eagle
is being chased in by the coast guard. Expected to make landfall at 6:00 A.M.”
Mack Bedford could see the beach as the sun began to climb into the eastern skies. He snapped the helm onto automatic pilot, cutting back the throttles as he did so. Then he ran below, to the engine room, hoping to high heaven
Eagle
had a plug stopping the drain hole, which he knew most fishing boats have, ready for power-flushing the bilges and fish holds in drydock.
Eagle
had a plug stopping the drain hole, which he knew most fishing boats have, ready for power-flushing the bilges and fish holds in drydock.
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