An explanation arrived, mixing fact and fiction, brilliantly improvised and fluently delivered. The young Greek invoked the name of a powerful Turkish drug magnate, Orham Murat, to whose cartel the merchant on board belonged. He explained that their commanding officers had assigned him and the other soldiers to search suspect freighters but that Murat had paid them generously to ensure that his own vessels were protected from seizure. “A generous, generous man,” the young officer had said, in a tone of solemnity and greed. “My children have him to thank for their three meals a day. With what the government gives us? Bah!” The other Greeks were silent at first, their reticence interpreted as simple fear and awkwardness. Then they began to nod, as they understood that their colleague was telling this tale for their own sakes. They lowered their weapons and kept their gaze downcast, unchallenging.

“If you are lying …” the seniormost member of the Turkish guard began in a growl.

“All we ask is that you not radio about this—our superiors monitor all maritime communications, and they have your codes.”

“Lies!” barked a gray-haired Turk. It was the merchant himself who had finally appeared on deck.

“It is the truth! The American government has helped our commanders with this. If you radio about us, you might as well shoot us now, because the army will have us executed when we return. In fact, I would beg you to shoot us now. Then the Greek army will think we died as heroes and provide pensions to our families. As to whether Orham Murat will be as generous to your widows and children when he learns that you destroyed an operation he spent so much time and money on—this you will have to decide for yourselves.”

A long, uncomfortable silence ensued. Finally, the merchant broke in: “Your claims are preposterous! If they had access to our communications—”

“If? If? Do you think it is an accident that we were ordered to board your freighter?” The Greek snorted contemptuously. “I ask you one question. Do you really believe in coincidence?”

With that, the salvation of his unit was secured. No smuggler—none who survived long, anyway—ever believed in coincidence.

The young Greek led the other frogmen back into the water and to the American-run frigate. Loss of life: zero. Seven hours later, a flotilla of maritime security vessels converged on the Minas: artillery engaged and aimed. In the face of an overwhelming display of force, the drug merchant and his guard surrendered.