Further below, on the ore-processing deck, Vanni smelled old diesel fuel—the sub tender’s former cargo—and the more than one hundred slaves processing the raw ore. Many had been taken from villages that opposed Vanni’s forces. They lived in filth down here and worked until they died. The ore was initially sent through crushers, where water was added to turn it into slurry. One machine after another played a role in the process: leaching tanks with cyanide, electrowinning cells, and smelting furnaces. A guard had given him earplugs when he entered; the workers were given nothing. They deserved nothing. Their villages had not joined the movement, and now they suffered the consequences.
Vanni and his men struck quickly and in a well-ordered fashion against villages that opposed them. First they detonated a small EMP to cut communications and cause disorder. Then his Tigers rounded up the villagers. Those who resisted were immediately executed. The others were forced at gunpoint to dig mass graves and bury the bodies. Then the survivors were led back and put to work either in the mine or on the ships.
At the end of this deck, guarded by an armed team, was the final product of the mining operation—small plates of pure hafnium. No one else in the world had this material. Few outsiders even knew the lode had been discovered. That had been a serendipitous accident—Gala had been the one who found it on Mount Iranamadu. He had visited the monastery as a boy. A silvery piece of metal sticking out of a rough-hewn column caught his attention, and when no one was looking he had chipped it out and saved it as a good-luck charm. It was unlike any metal he had ever seen. Only years later, after the civil war ended, did he satisfy his curiosity and discover the metal’s value. Then he told his friend and savior Vanni about it. And Vanni, one of the survivors of the original Tamil Tigers, had known how to use it.
Vanni removed the earplugs and went down another deck to the cell where they were holding the American. The stench was even worse on this deck. Two guards stood aside as Vanni walked past them into the cell. He crouched to look at the battered, nearly naked American whimpering in the corner, his face turned away from the doorway.
“Turn around,” Vanni said quietly. The American didn’t respond.
“I said turn around,” he repeated, loudly this time. Again the American did nothing. Most of his clothes were in a bundle in another corner. Some of the pieces had bloodstains on them. Bruises covered the back of the small man’s body.
Vanni said something to the guards in Sinhalese. They rushed over to the American, took him by the arms, and slammed his back up against the bulkhead so that he faced their leader. Before Vanni could say anything further another guard burst into the cell. Vanni turned to chastise him, but the guard insisted on speaking to him. Vanni’s face hardened as the man spoke.
“That is all we know, Vanni,” the messenger insisted when Vanni demanded more information. “There was an explosion in the mine. One of the operators radioed the base camp on the shore, but no one there knows what happened. Also,” he almost whispered, “the reporter may have escaped.”
“Prepare boats and men. We are going to find out.” He jerked his head toward the cell. “And bring him.”
USS LeFon
The destroyer had just completed a high-speed run past a second fleet of fishing boats, giving them a wide berth. The jury-rigged commercial navigational radar was still having glitches despite the furious efforts of the electronics technicians. Jaime Johnson stayed away from their work area. She knew better than to mother-hen them. They knew their jobs, and she trusted them to tweak the radar until it was working perfectly. She was busy enough as it was, shifting between the bridge and the CIC.
Shorter than most of her sailors, she still stood tall on the bridge. They respected this captain who worked beside them rather than standing back and barking orders. She was more likely to be in the engine spaces than in her stateroom in her time off the bridge. She was everywhere on the ship, maintaining situational awareness and knowing what her people were doing, but not interfering. That was a lesson young Lieutenant (jg) Johnson had learned from Connor Stark when she served on his boat in Bahrain. LeFon was exponentially larger than that old PC boat, but the application was the same. The crew needed to know the captain was around. On her next deployment she had served under a captain who rarely left the upper decks and interacted with the sailors under his command only to give orders. Most of them wouldn’t have recognized him if he showed up in their workspaces.
Johnson had just secured the hatch to the CIC behind her and had started toward the ladder to the bridge level when someone called to her.
“Captain, a moment?”
She turned to see the Diplomatic Security agent who had arrived with Fisk. “Agent Golzari, let’s walk and talk.”
“I appreciate your conveying me,” he said politely, “but I still need to make it ashore.”
Two sailors hit the bulkhead at attention as she passed by and recognized them. “Doing my best, Mr. Golzari, but my orders are specific about maintaining neutrality—not to mention the safety of my ship and crew,” she informed him.
“I understand, ma’am, but the—”
She stopped and pivoted toward him. “Mr. Golzari, the safety of my ship comes first, period. Not to mention that we lack diplomatic clearance to put anyone ashore here, in port or anywhere else. Understand that you are a supernumerary, not a special warfare asset assigned to us. That being said, I received an email a few hours ago from an intermediary. I think I’ve found a way to—”
“Captain to the bridge!” the voice crackled on the 1MC.
Jaime raced up the ladder with Golzari following close behind.
“Captain on the bridge,” announced the helm as she looked for her XO in the dim ambient light. She found him at the navigational display.
“Two boats on CBDR, Captain,” said the XO. “We were going around another patch of fishing boats when they broke away and came at us. I think they spotted us in the moonlight.”
Jamie had a momentary flashback to the Gulf of Aden when lethal speedboats had sunk Kirkwall. “Flank speed. Left full rudder,” Johnson ordered the helm. The Sri Lankan coast was to starboard and she wanted to keep LeFon in open water.
The small boats continued to close on the ship. Damn, they’re fast. She wished she had the luxury of a helicopter in the air, but an EMP rocket would bring it down. She couldn’t take the risk. She called down to the tactical action officer, “TAO, this is the captain. Are the two boats within range?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Weapons free.”
A moment later the forward 5-inch gun began to lob one shell after another at the oncoming boats. Just forward and below the bridge, the staccato of the Phalanx Close-in Weapon System whined above the 5-inch gun’s methodical bass. Jaime, Golzari, and Bobby Fisk stood on the starboard bridge wing, covering their ears as the gunfire lit the area around them. One of the 5-inch rounds found its target. Soon after that the Phalanx ripped apart the second boat.
“TAO, Captain. Any more targets?”
“Negative.”
“Very well. Cease fire.”
The guns fell silent, and once again only the moon lit up the night. Jaime called her operations officer. “OPS, have the communications officer get a Flash message out. Message to read: ‘USS LeFon approached by two suspected Sea Tiger boats. LeFon opened fire destroying both boats.’ Include our latitude and longitude.”
The OPS officer acknowledged the order, following standard operating procedure. Any incident of an imminent or actual attack had to be reported within ten minutes.
“I think we can expect more of those attacks as long as they have ships and rockets,” Jaime said to Fisk and Golzari. She motioned to them to follow her into the pilothouse. “Let’s get you off this ship, Agent Golzari.” She pointed at an X penciled on the chart marking a spot seventy-five miles off the coast. “That, Mr. Golzari, is where you’re going.”
“There’s nothing there,” he replied.
“On the contrary
. That’s the location of a merchant ship seized by Captain Stark. Ensign, Mr. Golzari is still in a suit. How about you help him find something more appropriate? We should be at the rendezvous point in an hour.”
At the appointed time and place, LeFon pulled near a ship half her size. Jaime Johnson, carrying a Navy-issue nine-millimeter, stood by the small boat davits as Golzari and Fisk prepared to board. Instead of a business suit Golzari wore the black tactical uniform of the ship’s VBSS teams. At his side was his own Glock 19 nine-millimeter handgun. He looked far more dangerous now than he had in the exquisitely tailored suit.
“Thank you again for your assistance, Captain.”
“There’s been a change in plans, actually. Asity doesn’t have a small boat for you, so we’re loaning you one of ours.”
“We’re what, ma’am?” Fisk asked.
“Ensign, Syren is sending their team ashore now. We’re an hour behind and to the north of them,” the CO said.
“Aye, ma’am, we’ll get our team to—”
“Hold on, Bobby,” Jaime broke in. “No one from LeFon is going ashore. Mr. Golzari, how are your nautical skills?”
“Minimal, Captain, but I believe if you point me toward land I can get there on my own,” Golzari replied.
“Good. Just make sure to kick the RHIB into high speed. You need to get there before dawn.” She called to a chief, who arrived with an ammunition box that he handed to Golzari. “Spare circuit cards for the engines in case you’re around one of those EMP rockets. The chief here says he’s modified this box to shield them. We’re not sure it will work, but it’s worth a shot if you get into trouble. You’ll also find flares on the boat.”
“Ma’am, if we’re not allowed to send our crew ashore, how will we justify sending one of our RHIBs?” Fisk asked.
“Mr. Golzari needs to get ashore and find the man who’s building those EMP weapons,” she said, and then turned back to Golzari. “You have enough fuel to get there and return back here. We’ll be here the same time every day until we recover you—unless my chain of command reassigns us away from this area.”
Golzari raised his eyebrows at her caveat but said merely, “Thank you, Captain.”
Golzari and Fisk got into the boat and were lowered into the water. Fisk brought up the RHIB’s engines and handed the helm to Golzari, then made his way back up the ladder to the deck. Deep in thought, he watched the agent steer the RHIB clear of LeFon and toward the shore of Sri Lanka. Then he shook his head and went about his duties.
DAY 13
Mullaitivu District
Stark held tight to the starboard-side lifeline as the RHIB bounced across the water. Warren did the same on the port side. Stark’s hand was shaking again. He tried to convince himself that it was because of the engine’s vibrations. He had almost e-mailed Maggie before he left the ship but decided against it. Then he pushed all thoughts of her to the back of his mind. He was forward deployed at what they used to refer to as the “pointy end of the spear.” His mission and his responsibility to protect his crew were paramount. The more he allowed himself to think about Maggie, the more distracted he became. He hoped that if anything happened to him she would somehow know. But he was determined that nothing would stop him from returning to her.
He looked over at Jay, who was hanging his head over the side. The whine of the motor masked the sound of Jay vomiting, but Stark could see the droplets flying. Fortunately, the boat was going fast enough to outrun the stench. He had known Jay long enough to know it was nerves, not seasickness. And he couldn’t blame him for that. They were going into unfamiliar territory and might find themselves face to face with an unknown number of violent insurgents. Warren had never been in a fight before—excluding the battle of the boats earlier—but he had put aside his fear and volunteered to help Stark negotiate the mine. Stark reached across the boat with his left hand and gave Jay’s shoulder a squeeze. Jay lifted his head for a moment and nodded in grateful acknowledgment.
It wasn’t yet the blue hour—the time before dawn when the sky gently fades from onyx to turquoise. They still had enough time before daylight to make it ashore and get the coxswain and security team back to Syren. When the boat slowed a few hundred yards from shore, Stark grabbed his backpack; Jay did the same.
“You sure about this?” Stark said.
“I got it out of my system,” he said calmly. “We’re doing this.”
The boat slowed again as it slid up the beach. Stark looked at his watch and donned his NVGs. “See you in forty-eight hours,” he said to the crew. Then he and Jay made their way across the sand and over a palm tree–lined berm.
“Which way, Jay?”
Warren looked at his GPS and shook it. “It’s acting funky, boss.”
“What do you mean?”
“Numbers aren’t aligning, and I can’t get a read on enough satellites.”
“Then we go old school,” Stark said and pulled out a map and compass. After a moment he pointed in the direction of the mountain. “This way. That should give us a good enough landmark for now.”
Ten minutes later they came to a two-lane paved road. The map showed it to be the B297 highway, which paralleled the coastline. A series of lights appeared in the distance in the southbound lane. Stark pulled Warren into a thicket of trees and both men went down to the ground.
The first truck in what turned out to be a large convoy passed by at high speed. Most of the vehicles were white Toyota pickups, the transportation of choice for insurgents worldwide. Stark and Warren might have been in Iraq or Afghanistan. Armed soldiers packed the bed of each truck. The soldiers’ heads hung low, a sign they were asleep. They had probably been on the road for at least an hour or two, cheap guns at their sides. Insurgents almost always used cheap guns. In Connor’s experience people’s lives in these affairs were cheap too.
It took twenty minutes for the convoy to pass.
“Lotta soldiers,” Warren observed.
“I counted about 240 trucks. Only a few looked like they were carrying supplies, so they’re going light. The pickups had about ten men each, including two in the cab. Figure about two thousand. That’s a regiment—a lot for a small terrorist group. If that’s what they have in one convoy, they must have a lot more people to the north.” Stark immediately regretted saying that out loud. Jay was already aware of the odds.
“How many do you think are at the mine?” Warren asked.
“More than two,” Stark said sarcastically. “Come on, we need to make time. The sun will be up soon.”
They were four more miles inland when dawn broke over the sea. Twice they spotted foot patrols in the distance, both times squads of five men, weapons drawn. Each time, Warren and Stark crouched low until the squad was out of sight. Each time, Stark instinctively reached into his boot and stroked the jeweled pommel of the sgian dubh. He pushed its sheath deeper into his boot. He didn’t want to lose his lucky charm.
The pair hiked up a hill and down again into a valley with a single road that took them into a small village. It took Stark only a moment in the brightening light to see that the village was abandoned. Nevertheless, he guided Warren along the tree line and kept his FAL-308 at the ready, though hoping not to get into a firefight.
Stark slipped quietly into the thick forest on the other side of the village. The big redheaded scientist crashed along beside him, oblivious to the racket he was making, so Stark was the first to hear intermittent gunfire ahead of them. Motioning Warren to stop, Stark listened intently. Based on his experience, the distinctive rattle of AK-47s on full auto sounded more than a mile away.
“What now, boss?” Warren asked quietly.
“Sounds like two or three guns, no more. Let’s keep moving forward, but slowly.”
When they came to a small clearing about twenty feet in diameter Stark motioned Warren to stop. The gunfire had ceased. He kept his rifle at the ready as he extended the mouthpiece of his CamelBak and took a long drink. Jay did the same. The rising sun l
it the clearing and gave them their first good look at the vegetation. Stark immediately thought of snakes.
“Ready to move again, Jay?”
“I’m good. I’m the one who does hot yoga, remember?”
“Trying to forget that, thanks.”
The going was slower on the other side of the clearing until they found a small footpath that led them in the direction of the mountain. A troop of macaques eyed the two men cautiously as they passed beneath. The monkeys suddenly began darting about and jumping from tree to tree, then raced away. Warren’s gaze instinctively followed them through the treetops, but Stark kept his eyes trained on the direction from which the monkeys ran. Something had disturbed them. Over the sound of their shrieks he heard someone running toward them at full speed, crashing through the shrubs and oversized ferns. Stark was raising his weapon when he realized that he was facing not a Tamil soldier but a broad-shouldered woman nearly his own height. She was looking back over her shoulder.
Stark called out, “Hey!” just as she turned around and broke through to the path a few feet away from him. Quicker than Gunny Willis in a training match, she hit him in the solar plexus, kicked him in the groin, and clubbed him with a branch as he went down. As he was hitting the ground he watched her do the same to Warren, a man half a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. Then she took his gun.
“You’re not Tamils,” the woman said. She towered over the men lying helpless on the ground, holding tightly to the rifle and aiming it at Stark.
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