Free Barracuda 945 by Patrick Robinson

Hamas.”
    “Who funds them?”
    “Dunno, sir. They seem to be pretty damn good at funding themselves. And in my view they better be. Hamas is committed to the total liberation of Palestine and the creation of an Islamic state.”
    Admiral Morris was pensive for almost a minute. Then he said carefully, “If this Major Kerman hopped around the wall in Hebron, there must have been an element of impulsiveness to his actions. Because the Palestinians had not staged, or even caused, a riot. It was the Israelis on the attack, the Arabs were kind of defending. They had planned nothing.”
    “That’s true, sir. But the military documents were very clear. Once the fight broke out, the Palestinians organized themselves very quickly. They brought up rockets and grenades and several machine guns. That’s Hamas, trust me. No one else could have pulled that off.”
    “They got any known strength in Hebron?”
    “Hell, yes, Admiral. They have, all through the Negev Desert, every town from Beersheba to Bethlehem and Jerusalem. The whole place is a tinderbox of Hamas armaments and enclaves. The Gaza Strip is worse. I’m telling you, the ole Hebrews have got their goddamned hands full down there.”
    “Look, Scotty, it’s been several months since Major Kerman made an apparent rush for the desert. Has anything happened inthat time to suggest Hamas has come under some inspired frontline leadership?”
    “I don’t think so, sir. Just the usual rash of bombs and stuff. No firm evidence of anything unusual.”
    “Well, I’ll tell you what. Someone is supplying these guys with heavy cash. Can you run a quick check and see if there’s been any big robberies in any of the Israeli cities. You know, Hamas may not even have been suspected. But ever since we’ve crippled their financing schemes these terror groups have had to turn to regular crime for funds, and the SAS are probably the best break-in guys in the world.”
    “Sir, I’ll have to go check that in Security Ops. They got a very bright young Navy guy in there called Jimmy Ramshawe. He’s new, and he’s on duty tonight. I’ll get him buzzing on it. You know, there’s very few robberies in urban Israel. But if anything’s happened, Jimmy’ll pick it up.”
    “See you back here in a half hour.”
    “You got it, sir.”
    One hour later, the two men were still waiting, up there in the quiet of the eighth floor, for the appearance of Lieutenant Ramshawe when the guard on duty outside tapped on the door, opened it, and said, “Lieutenant Ramshawe would like Captain Wade to go down to his office.”
    “Guess I’ll get another cup of coffee, Scotty. Keep me awake if we’re going to be another hour.”
    “Sir, I won’t be long. Fifteen, max.”
    Admiral Morris already knew all about Lieutenant Ramshawe. In fact, he’d known his father, an Admiral from New South Wales who had ended up Military Attaché at the Australian Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, D.C.
    Young Jimmy had been born in America, but, surrounded by Aussies all his life, he still carried a distinct inflection of Australia in his speech. He could hardly have been more American. Schooled in Connecticut, he was an outstanding baseball pitcher, and had attended the Naval Academy at Annapolis, thus following his father into a career in dark blue.
    At the Academy, he had excelled, demonstrating a brilliant IQ,and a capacity for infinitesimal detail. A tall, lanky, athletic boy, he also showed many of the qualities necessary to command a warship. He was tough, shrewd, and relentless in achieving his objectives.
    It was his brain that set him apart, and his brain that tied him up. One of his instructors once expostulated, “Ramshawe! Jesus Christ, he could end up a second Captain Queeg, counting the fucking strawberries when all hell was breaking loose.”
    But the U.S. Navy is expert at channeling talented people. And they quickly spotted the meticulous and tireless Ramshawe as possibly a