The email list revealed a few anomalies. Two emails from the embassy to the White House in as many days filed at the same time as emails to Secretary of State Helen Forth. Both came from Ambassador Sumner. Why would Sumner copy the White House? Only State should determine if an issue merited informing the White House, and then it would come directly from the secretary of state’s office, not the ambassador. Golzari could have asked the information technology office for the content of the emails, but he didn’t see the need for it just now. He wasn’t supposed to be investigating anything other than Abdi Mohammed Asha, and even if he did have authorization to review other emails, wasting time to do so meant that much less time to find Asha.
He walked down to the senior Marine’s office. “I’d be happy to join you tomorrow morning, Gunny, but I’d like to try something different than you’ve planned.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Suleiman, Gulf of Aden, 0625 (GMT)
While his crew ate their meal on the fantail, Faisal checked his watch and then tapped a cigarette from the pack and lit it, his second of the day. He propped his bare foot on the starboard rail as he inhaled and looked down at the choppy sea.
“How many times have you checked your watch, Faisal?” asked his helmsman, Saddiq.
“I must call Ahmed al-Ghaydah at a specified time,” Faisal responded.
Saddiq looked at him knowingly. “You don’t like him.”
“Why should I? He’s incompetent. He got the job because of his name, not his ability. His family is still powerful, but not as powerful as when the Soviets supported their region.”
“It is true that Ahmed has no interest in business,” Saddiq agreed. “Only for obsolete Russian weapons that he barely knows how to shoot and Ukrainian whores he knows even less about how to handle.”
Faisal ignored the off-color joke while admitting to himself that it was almost certainly true. “He is useful to us. That is all that matters. Let him complain that the job is beneath him. I care only that he does it properly. He won’t be there long anyway.”
“Ah, but does he do it properly?” Saddiq returned. “I hear what the cargo captains in the Gulf are saying. They all complain about him too. He ignores them and doesn’t respond to their complaints.”
“He only ignores the ones he is supposed to ignore,” Faisal said. “All that matters is that he helps those I tell him to help—the ones transporting hashish and khat. At least he manages to give me a daily report on ship movements.”
“Why is it so important that you speak with Ahmed now, Faisal?” Saddiq asked as Faisal checked his watch yet again.
“Hu called me yesterday to say that there is a new American military adviser in Sana’a. He is out on a boat today. He will be an easy target.” He tossed his still-burning cigarette into the water, switched on the satellite phone, and impatiently pecked at the numbers.
Ahmed was slow to answer. Finally, “Yes?”
“Ahmed? It’s me.”
“Yes?”
Damn that idiot, Faisal thought. His speech is too slow. He probably has another wad of khat in his stupid mouth. “Give me the information, Ahmed.”
“The ships are leaving now for the Socotran platforms.”
“How many?”
“Two. One offshore supply vessel. Name is, uh, name is, ah, Endurance. One freighter. Mukalla Ismael. Five thousand tons. They will arrive in twenty-four hours. They are being escorted by the Highland Maritime Defense ship Kirkwall.”
“The one without a helicopter. Have the security ship sunk.”
“What? Why does this matter? What has changed? It will cost a lot of money to make such arrangements so quickly,” Ahmed whined.
“It matters because I say it matters.” Faisal turned off the phone. “Stupid fool,” he muttered as he walked over to one of the AK-47s and inspected it, making sure it was clean and loaded. “Come, have something to eat,” Saddiq said, hoping to calm his captain’s anger.
“Tell me, Saddiq, have you heard from your cousin in England?” Faisal demanded, still holding the AK-47.
“No, Faisal.”
“Then Stark is not dead.”
“I fear not. I would have heard by now. I am sorry, Faisal.”
Faisal raised the weapon and pointed it at Saddiq’s chest. “You will go back to the Katya P. and wait for my orders there. Do you understand?”
Saddiq stepped back and nodded in fearful compliance.
M/V Kirkwall, Gulf of Aden, 0707 (GMT)
Connor was back in the pilothouse in time to watch Jaime Johnson brief the two helmsmen, who would each stand four-hour watches.
“The two supply boats will track to us. Endurance has been directed to be on station eight hundred yards to our port bow, and Mukalla Ismael will be on station eight hundred yards to our starboard bow. This will be a very tight formation, so make sure you keep a close eye on the radar as well as using the Mark I Mod I Eyeball.”
The helmsmen grinned at the Navy-ized term for a simple sensory organ. Most of the Kirkwall’s crew were former Navy or Coast Guarders who appreciated the old joke. The operators—the shooters—however, were a mix of former special forces both American and foreign, with a few tough Nepalese Gurkhas thrown into the mix.
“We will remain on heading one-zero-eight at one-five knots for approximately twenty hours until we hit the only waypoint here”—they watched over the captain’s shoulder as she pointed on the map to a spot just east of Socotra Island—”at 12° 34' 11" N and 54° 38' 37" E. At that waypoint we will then turn on a heading of two-one-nine for two hours until we reach the primary oil platform. Let’s go.”
Stark leaned against the aft bulkhead in the pilothouse. The sea was calm, and only minimal haze obscured the horizon. Absent any breeze he smelled the diesel fuel that hung heavily in the air. The pilothouse was largely silent except for the occasional commercial radio traffic.
“Over here, Commander,” Jaime said quietly. “What do you see on the radar?” In calm seas, a person didn’t have to speak loudly to be heard.
Stark concentrated on the green luminescent screen as the radial arm swung around the circle clockwise in synchrony with the navigational radar above the pilothouse, painting a new picture of the environment within their line of sight every few seconds. At sea level, line of sight was about three miles; after that the earth’s curvature prevented a person—or radar—from seeing farther. But the ship’s radar was mounted high enough to give them a forty-mile picture. Navigational data such as their ship’s longitude and latitude appeared at the edge of the screen.
The radar showed two long lines of blips. Connor fine-tuned the resolution. “Hell, there must be more than twenty ships there. Convoy?”
“Give the man a cigar. They started running them a few months ago with some escort ships. In a minute you should see something else. Get a pair of binoculars out of that pocket there,” Jaime suggested.
“Ready, Captain.”
“Hold it. Hold it,” she said scanning the horizon. “There they are: twenty degrees off our starboard bow, just to the left of the Ismael.
Stark saw them immediately. Two warships. They were too distant for him to determine their markings, but he had never seen anything like them. “Those are not U.S. destroyers.”
“What you’re seeing are two of China’s latest and greatest destroyers.”
“Chinese? The last I knew they were buying old Soviet Sovremenny-class ships. When did they start building their own? And are they really escorting convoys here?”
“It’s a strange new world when the USA isn’t the protector anymore. We’re stretched too thin, and the Chinese are exploiting it. The Indians are desperate to catch up,” Jaime said, returning her attention to her notepad.
“When a maritime power no longer has fleets of commercial ships or a naval force to protect the few it does have, it is no longer a maritime power,” he lamented.
“It’s just a matter of time, Connor. The Navy you and I grew up with
is starting to fade away. There’s a new kid on the block.”
“China’s no kid. Hell, Jaime, what are those idiots in Washington thinking?”
“That’s a lot higher than my pay grade,” she said. “But at least Highland Maritime is here to help out. Helm, you’ve got it from here. We should be clear for the next couple of hours while we pass aft of the convoy. I’m going to email my kids and then take a swing around the ship to see how everyone’s doing.”
The three ships—Kirkwall and the two ships it guarded like a mother bear protecting her cubs—moved along at a steady fifteen knots, barely sufficient speed to evade the pirates who were sure to be waiting.
When dusk approached ten hours later, Jaime had been back in the pilothouse for hours, double-checking equipment, keeping her eye on the radar, and paying particular attention to any commercial traffic that might interfere with the job. All of her attention was drawn suddenly to one blip on the radar— judging from its size and speed, a small boat with a single engine. The radar had difficulty picking up small craft at longer ranges, particularly between wave crests. Simultaneously a watch-stander shouted a warning. Jaime picked up the ship-to-ship mike.
“Endurance, Endurance, this is Kirkwall. There is a small boat approaching you at high speed from three-four-zero degrees of our position, approximately five nautical miles.” She then grabbed the ship-wide mike: “All hands to stations. One high-speed craft approaching CBDR,” she said loudly, emphasizing those four letters and the danger they spelled. CBDR—Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range—meant an eventual collision if neither of the two factors changed.
“Wait a minute. That boat’s on a CBDR with us, not with one of the supply ships,” Stark noticed from the radar.
Jaime Johnson had just come to the same conclusion when the ship-to-ship blared out.
“Kirkwall, Kirkwall. This is Endurance. We see the small craft now. It is going to pass astern of us.”
That confirmed it. The private security boat was the target, not the unarmed supply ships.
Stark noted another change on the radar screen. “Captain, two more approaching craft, both CBDR. Wait, one is breaking off going afore Endurance. Dammit, there’s another one coming from the same direction. Jaime, they’re all targeting us.”
“All hands, Alpha fire team prepare for direct attack from the port side. Bravo fire team to the bow,” the Kirkwall’s captain ordered.
On the ship all around him Stark heard the methodical movements of professional soldiers preparing for battle. He also heard something else and stepped outside the pilothouse to check—the distinct sound of a helicopter.
The captain returned to the ship-to-ship comms: “Unidentified craft approaching three peacefully transiting ships. You are on a collision course with us. Veer off or we will defend ourselves. Oh, screw them,” she said as she set the mike back into its cradle.
The craft were converging on the Kirkwall. The first one, only ten meters long and now less than one thousand yards away, was heading directly toward them.
“Alpha fire team, weapons free. I repeat, weapons free.” The port side of the boat erupted with multiple flashes of gunfire trained on the incoming craft. Stark took his binoculars and focused on the craft, and then tried to shout a warning. “Captain, the . . .”
The boat exploded four hundred yards away with more force than a fuel tank alone could have generated.
“Jaime, that boat was unmanned,” Stark called to her, “and probably loaded with explosives.”
“What? Helm, all engines ahead full, right full rudder. Come to course zero nine zero.” The helmsman dutifully repeated the command as he carried it out.
Bravo team was now firing from the bow.
“Get a weapon, Connor, and help Bravo team.” Stark grabbed one of the guns from the rack in the pilothouse and had just leapt down the starboard ladder when the small boat shook from above. Had he not had one hand on the railing, the explosion would have blown him overboard. He raced back to the bridge to find smoke, shattered glass, and open air. Half of the port bulkhead and hatch had been shorn away.
“Jaime!” The captain lay facedown on the deck. He turned her over and cradled her in his arms, brushing away the hair and blood on her face. One of her arms fell limply, bonelessly back to the deck. He checked for signs of life; she still had a pulse. He didn’t have to check the helmsman’s pulse—his brain matter was all over the deck and a piece of jagged metal protruded from his chest. Connor gently laid Jaime down and picked up his weapon in time to see two RPGs on one of the manned boats pointing toward the Kirkwall’s stern. They attackers fired just before Alpha team’s sharpshooting Gurkhas gunned them down. The Gurkhas were themselves quickly felled by the grenades, their limbs torn away by the blasts as their torsos were strewn about the deck or blown overboard.
Stark picked up the mike, relieved to find that the radio still worked, and issued a mayday with the ship’s coordinates, hoping someone else was out there to hear it besides the pirates.
The second small boat made its run and a grenade arced toward the stern. Stark swore and braced himself for the impact.
USS Bennington, North of Socotra, 1732 (GMT)
“Request immediate assistance . . .”
The OOD called the captain and explained what the bridge had just heard. “Sir, Batwing 58 is up and to the east with thirty minutes of fuel. I spoke with the tactical action officer and Air Boss, and I recommend closing the datum at flank speed. The winds are favorable to recover Five-Eight while we close, refuel her, and buster”—the brevity codeword for ‘proceed at maximum speed’—“her up to the area of the distress call . . . yes, sir, but best speed should be . . . sir, best speed is . . . aye, sir.” The officer of the deck gently replaced the phone, but he was clearly livid. Bobby knew the conversation hadn’t gone well.
“Conn, come around, course two-seven-zero. Stand by for flight quarters.” The OOD stared out the window, his fists clenched behind him and jaw muscles jumping.
“Helm, right standard rudder, come to course two-seven-zero. Speed, OOD?”
“Trail shaft.” The OOD left the bridge for the port bridge wing and slammed his fist down on the railing. Bobby followed him out.
“OOD, that’ll take twice as much time for us to get there.”
“I know that, Bobby. Hell, we probably couldn’t get there in time anyway. But instead of two hours we’ll be there in four. Maybe the Lost Boys can do something from the air.”
Northwest of Socotra, Gulf of Aden, 1755 (GMT)
The shock of the explosion briefly knocked Connor unconscious. The ship was listing badly when he awoke.
“She’s sinking,” he heard a distant voice yell out.
Dragging himself to the bridge wing, Stark saw water flooding over the Kirkwall’s transom. Daylight was fading fast to the west, but the silhouettes of the two supply ships heading southwest to Somalia were still visible. They had been taken.
He took stock of the situation, frantically considering options. Alpha team was gone, dead to a man. A few crewmen from Bravo team had been blown overboard, but several remained. Stark reentered the pilothouse and checked the radio, hoping to get out one last mayday; the cordless mike led to a shattered box. He picked up two life preservers and hoisted Jaime over one shoulder.
Again he heard a helicopter, but it was moving away. As the sound of the rotors faded he heard shouts in the water. He looked toward the lifeboats, still in their davits, in time to see the funnel collapse on top of them.
He shouted as loudly as he could: “Kirkwalls! This is Connor Stark. I have the captain with me. I’m on the port side midships. Follow my voice.” The last vestige of daylight faded from lavender to black. The stars shone brilliantly in the cloudless, moonless sky, their reflections in the water the only light.
“Here!” he shouted again. “Follow my voice.” He was encouraged to hear multiple splashes coming around the bow. The calm water amplified sounds in the still air. He heard water lapp
ing against the aft topside compartment and even closer over the side. There was no time to work the lifeboats loose. Securing life preservers on himself and Jaime, he slipped her over the side and then lowered himself down. He pulled her limp body close with one arm and kicked away from the sinking ship before it could drag them under with it.
His body remembered his years of swimming laps in Olympic-sized pools training for Seoul, but his heavy, wet coveralls and steel-toed boots made maneuvering difficult. He moved doggedly on, dragging Jaime, keeping her face above the water, farther and farther away from the boat.
Every few strokes he yelled out, “Kirkwalls, follow my voice!” He swallowed water and gasped for air. He felt the sea trying to pull Jaime away from him, but he never let go of her. The survivors, almost all younger than he, were finally approaching. Four crewmen made it to him before, in the otherwise silent sea, they heard the Kirkwall slip beneath the water.
“Everyone, stay close.” Only then did Connor Stark realize how cold nighttime water could be even in the Gulf of Aden. He experienced his first shiver and rubbed Jaime’s unbroken arm, hoping to warm her.
His water survival training kicked in, and he directed the crew to huddle to limit the loss of body heat. They kept their injured captain in the middle of the pack to reduce the shock sure to follow her injuries. The crew took turns speaking to keep their minds alert and prevent the delirium and numbness that would eventually overcome all of them if they were not rescued.
“Stay close,” he told them above the silent waters. “We’re all going to make it. Do you hear that Jaime? All of us.”
The Aden Effect Page 13