On his way to the port bridge wing, Jake walked by the rifles he had stashed on the deck for contingencies. The warm breeze relaxed him, and he raised binoculars from his chest to his face.
“Holy shit,” he said. “You may want to avert your eyes.”
The priest’s voice issued from the doorway.
“Why?”
“You’ll lose your religion if you see what I see.”
Through his optics, he gazed at the trailing craft where a trio of young women flattered bright bikinis of pornographic skimpiness. The yacht’s graceful majesty served as a mere backdrop for serving up the three glistening, oiled female forms from which Jake failed to avert his eyes.
“If you have a prayer to erase my mind of what I’m thinking about, please hurry. God help me.”
“I see what you mean. Temptation is easiest to resist by avoidance. Perhaps it’s best if we look at something else.”
Jake looked ahead.
“Dang, Liam wasn’t kidding. That yacht’s even bigger than the one behind us, and it looks brand spanking new. I’m sure it’s an absolute beauty from any angle other than its stern, which isn’t a bad view at all.”
“It’s easier to hide in plain sight with distractions.”
“Pierre’s a genius. Nobody’s looking at us.”
He allowed himself a parting lustful glance at the bikinis before leading Andrew back inside.
“And I mean — nobody.”
Lacking air conditioning, the bridge felt stifling, but Andrew’s spirits seemed strong.
“Pierre showed a lot of foresight when he surrounded us with these yachts and all their splendor.”
“Splendor’s a good description. Leather, bells, whistles, and the full lap of luxury. Throw in the girls with all the sex you could want, and it sounds great. But if you think about it, what does all the wealth mean? I have all the money I could want, and look at me. I have to pay a priest to make sure I don’t throw temper tantrums and commit genocide. Why has it always been so tempting for me to lash out?”
“C.S. Lewis described temptation as an ever increasing appetite for an ever decreasing pleasure. You must get some sort of relief from your anger, but it’s never complete. That’s the nature of this fallen world that tries to pull you away from doing what you know is right.”
“So what’s right, and how do I know it? I mean, is this mission right? You’ve said that the Vatican approves it, at least hypothetically based upon its position on Crimea. But nobody’s tapped my shoulders with a sword and knighted me for this crusade.”
Andrew frowned in thought.
“Once you step outside obvious doctrine, the definition of what’s right or wrong comes down to the moral law imprinted upon your heart and your ability to tap into it. I can only guide you, but God is the ultimate authority, and even He will let you stumble from time to time to learn.”
“But am I doing the right thing now? You must have an opinion. This mission is big enough to warrant knowing.”
“Yes, you’re doing the right thing,” Andrew said. “Consider me the sword against your shoulder.”
As the sun yielded to the lights of Port Said behind him, Jake bid farewell to Walker and the Russian-Arabic translator, who descended to find rest. Cahill’s face moved within the borders of the laptop’s screen.
“Turn us northwest, Terry.”
As the Australian obeyed, the lights of Northern Africa slid up the ship’s port side.
“Henri says we’re being hailed in English,” Cahill said.
“Right on time. It’s the Israelis, right?”
“It’s coming over a secure data channel, and they say they’re the Israeli corvette, Hanit. So I sure hope so.”
“Well, they’ve either discovered our plans and have broken our encryption, or we’ve found our escort to the Dardanelles. That’s the biggest ship in the Israeli surface fleet.”
“Our identity may remain a secret all the way to Turkey,” Cahill said. “With a little luck, it may remain a secret forever.”
Two days later, Jake watched the icon on the laptop display representing the Israeli warship turn back from the entrance to the Dardanelles.
“I rather enjoyed their company, quiet as they were,” Walker said. “We never had them within visual range, did we?”
“They may have been on our horizon once or twice, but I’m glad they just shadowed us. Their proximity would only have raised suspicions.”
“And now we’re alone again. There’s no way to have an escort from now into the Black Sea without drawing suspicion.”
“Agreed,” Jake said. “But look at this strait. I suspect it has more four-legged observers than people. I’m not concerned about the Dardanelles. It’s the Bosporus where we may need a little help.”
Ten hours later, the setting sun cast long shadows into the waters as Jake watched the underside of the aging First Bosporus Bridge pass over him.
“Get a couple guys up here with binoculars,” he said. “This strait is tough and filled with moving and hidden dangers, especially at night.”
“Right,” Walker said. “I’m on it.”
Thirty minutes later, artificial lights of all colors danced from the European and Asian shores over the shimmering water.
“I’m tempted to take advantage of a solid fix to feed corrections into our satellite navigation,” Jake said. “We’ve got the Istanbul Sapphire over there, the western spire of the Blue Mosque, and I think I can see the dome spire of Hagia Sophia.”
“How can you tell which is which?” Walker asked. “There’s a mosque on every hill.”
“I should remember. I took Linda here on our honeymoon tour of Europe. But you’re right, I could be wrong.”
“A visual fix sounds good, though. I’m sure we could figure out which mosque is which on the chart.”
“Don’t bother. I said I was tempted, but I’m not going to. All fixes on this ship are relative to the periscope, which I won’t raise.”
“Well then, you’d be best to keep your eyes on the water.”
As the Australian finished his sentence, the starboard lookout yelled through the open door that a small boat was about to hit.
As Jake raced after Walker to the bridge wing, he heard an ugly scraping and crushing sound. He looked down and stared at a fishing boat embedded in his exoskeleton.
The boat’s driver stared at the puncture wound his small vessel had inflicted upon the freighter, incredulous that his hull remained intact. Jake screamed and waved his arm for the man to reverse engines. Shock or chemical abuse prevented the man from responding. Walker and the lookout yelled as well, to no avail.
Jake stormed inside, grabbed a rifle, and returned.
“Don’t hurt him, Jake,” Walker said.
“Just motivating the proper behavior.”
He aimed at the vessel’s bow and fired. The ricochet caught the man’s attention, and he turned his head over his shoulder while shifting his vehicle into reverse. Clearing the fake ship, the boat drove away, leaving a three-meter gap at the waterline.
“What now?” Walker asked.
“We reduce our freeboard to hide as much of that as we can, and we pray that nobody sees it.”
Ten minutes passed, and the fake ship Marie Lucille settled into the Bosporus, leaving a small but visible chink in its camouflage.
“Any deeper, and we may as well just submerge,” Jake said.
“I hope you have your priest friend praying,” Walker said.
“I wouldn’t worry. We’re more than half way through this messy passage.”
Ten minutes later, Jake saw a spotlight illuminate a ship several hundred yards behind him, and red and blue lights pulsated atop the watercraft.