As soon as the trucks were well to the southwest, Golzari led the band on a direct path to the other side of the road. There were no other soldiers in the vicinity. They continued to hear gunfire. When they reached the cover that would shelter them on the final mile of their journey, Warren turned back one final time as he realized the gunfire had stopped.
LeFon’s RHIB
Golzari had come ashore in search of Gala and instead found himself playing nursemaid to a different scientist, nine children, and his ex-wife. Stark had left him with this mess, and he intended to have the American mercenary make amends—if he ever saw him again alive. He recalled the route he had taken after landing on shore, and thirty minutes later the group reached the water.
The RHIB was exactly where Golzari had left it. He cleared away the brush and then began inspecting the boat from stem to stern, from top to bottom.
“What the hell are you doing, Damien?” Melanie asked. “We can’t waste time.”
“Patience, my love,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.
“I know what you’re doing,” Warren said, sticking his hand into his bag of magic tricks. “Let me help.” He inserted a wand into his smart phone and began the same process he had used to find Melanie’s equipment. Within five seconds he found what he was looking for inside the engine. He removed it, remarking on the simplicity of the homing device.
“So they’ve been here.” Golzari checked the fuel. “Still half a tank left. If you hadn’t found that thing they would have tracked us right back to LeFon or Syren.”
“Want me to break it?” Warren asked, still admiring the craftsmanship, elegant in its simplicity.
“No, no. Hang onto it and don’t lose it. I have an idea.” Golzari walked toward the muddy shoreline and saw a trio of deserted fishing boats anchored just offshore a few hundred yards to the south. He double-checked with his binoculars, but there was no sign of people on the boats, nor did there appear to be anyone on the shore.
Warren continued trying to reach Syren on the satellite phone but finally gave up in frustration. “Hey, man, I can’t reach the ship. My satellite phone is working just fine. Either the ship is gone, or they got hit with an EMP,” he said to no one in particular. Without Stark, Warren wasn’t sure whom to report to.
“If we don’t know where the ship is, then how do we find it?” Melanie asked as she distributed the last of the water to the children. “We can’t take these children out in that boat without food or water. Have you ever seen the effects of dehydration?”
“Actually, Melanie, I have, and I’m quite aware of our predicament,” Golzari snapped. “Mr. Warren, would you kindly assist me in getting this boat in the water?” He added somewhat sheepishly, “I would be willing to entertain ideas on how to find the ships.”
“What if we don’t look for Syren or LeFon?” suggested Warren.
“What do you mean?”
“I have the coordinates for Asity’s position. Captain Stark told Commander Ranasinghe to hold that position.”
“How far?” Golzari asked.
“About forty nautical miles. Half a tank will give us fuel enough for that. If they’re still at those coordinates, we should be fine.”
“Do we have any other option, Damien?” Melanie asked.
“None that I can think of,” he admitted. Stark had just sacrificed himself to give them this opportunity, and he was determined to take advantage of it. “Just point me in the right direction, Mr. Warren. Or do I call you Dr. Warren?”
“How about Jay?”
“Fine. Let’s get going.” The boat had been too heavy for Golzari to bring all the way ashore, so he had fashioned a crude pulley system on one of the trees to get it part of the way out of the water before securing it and hiding it. Golzari released the line from the pulley, and the boat slipped down until it was floating freely. Warren held the boat still as Melanie lifted up the smaller children and gave the larger ones a hand into the boat. Once all nine were safely in, Melanie joined them and got them to lie down. Warren hoisted himself over the side, and Golzari followed quickly.
“See if the motor will start, Jay.” To the relief of everyone on board, it did. The Tamils apparently hadn’t tampered with it, probably hoping for bigger game in the form of the large ships. Golzari eased the throttle forward, trying to ignore the people jammed into the bottom of the boat like logs. The sea was calm, and as the boat slowly accelerated to ten knots the group barely felt the motion.
“Hey, why are we going toward those fishing boats?” Warren asked Golzari, keeping his rifle trained on the coast.
“Because you’re going to start the engine on one of them.”
“What?”
As the RHIB closed on the fishing boats, Golzari pulled back the throttle and pulled alongside one of them. From this angle he could see shacks on the shore that likely belonged to the boats’ owners. The shacks looked deserted too. Golzari was betting that these three boats had been abandoned when their owners were either killed or drafted by the Tigers.
Warren got onto the boat and effortlessly started the engine, though he noticed it only had a third of a tank of fuel.
“That doesn’t matter. Does it have an autopilot?”
Warren went back into the pilothouse and gave a thumbs-up to Golzari. Melanie stood watch for any sign of Sea Tigers or the soldiers whom they had escaped.
“Put the homing device on board and set the autopilot for due south.”
The scientist smiled and quickly complied. Golzari kept the RHIB alongside until Warren accomplished his task and returned. When they separated from the fishing vessel, Golzari pushed the throttle forward and the RHIB pulled away. Warren gave him the heading, and Golzari steered course zero-eight-seven, looking back at the fishing boat now and then to ensure it was on course away from them. When he was certain that it was, he accelerated the RHIB to thirty knots.
They saw a few fishing boats on the horizon but managed to avoid encountering more Tigers for the seventy-five minutes it took to reach a worn-looking old freighter that was barely under way.
“Are you sure that’s Asity? It would be a shame to board a Sea Tiger ship after coming all this way, Mr. Warren.”
Jay peered through the binoculars and confirmed that the ship was indeed Asity. Far better, though, was what he saw beyond her: two more ships, a smaller boxy one and the distinguished profile of an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer. “Whoo-wee,” he yelled. “Salvation!”
“Thank God,” Melanie said, relaxing against the gunwale.
Privately, Golzari doubted God had anything to do with it. They had been saved by Warren’s equipment and by Connor Stark, who had given his life for twelve others.
Mullaitivu District
Stark made it another fifty yards through the paddy before his boot slipped and he went down. The old knee injury from the terrorist attack in Italy tripped him up, and he fell face-first into the dirt. The gunfire continued to erupt behind him as twenty men raced across the paddy toward him. They were three hundred yards away now, there was nowhere to hide, and he had long since exhausted his ammunition, save for one bullet he had been saving just in case. At least he thought he had one left. It was hard to keep track while running and firing.
I will lie me down and bleed awhile, then I’ll rise to fight again. He forced himself to kneel and face the line of insurgents coming toward him. Although they vastly outnumbered him, their approach suggested caution. These weren’t professional soldiers. The Tigers’ organization may have been planning this war for some time, but they hadn’t had the opportunity to recruit and train soldiers en masse. Of course, with the EMP weapons the Tigers didn’t need highly trained ground or maritime forces.
These would be the last insurgents he faced—the last of many during his life. There had been the terrorist attack in Italy when he was a junior officer who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. He’ d played cat and mouse with Iranian Revolutionary Guards when he commanded a PC boat in
the Persian Gulf. There was his final act as a naval officer, challenging a terrorist group in Canada, where his career and the lives of allies and enemies had ended on a tarmac. The list scrolled through his mind as he waited. His time with Highland Maritime dealing with Somali pirates, and the Yemeni coup attempt, when he had condoned the vicious torture of a young terrorist who had been part of his extended family and the near-execution of a senior administration official. All along the way there had been dead bodies. His would be the last.
If helping his friends escape was the last thing he ever did, it was a good end. How would Maggie hear? Would Golzari tell her? Or Warren? Would she forgive him? Would she put his picture up on the wall of heroes alongside those of her other family members and friends who had been killed in military operations?
As the insurgents drew nearer he recalled the first time he met her. He had left Yemen and was traveling through his mother’s native Scotland, wandering the Highlands before coming to the small coastal town of Ullapool to catch the ferry to the outer islands. The rain had stopped and he had time for just one drink when he sat at an empty table at the side of the room. Tourists wandered in and out while the regulars enjoyed their drinks and watched a football match on the television above the bar. She came out of the kitchen, her arms full of plates for a table of tourists on the far side of the bar. Her long red ponytail swayed as she twisted and turned, effortlessly distributing the plates. As she finished she turned and caught him staring. She lifted her chin and smiled at the burly, bearded American who had found his way into her pub. That was when he knew he would miss the ferry. He stayed for one more drink, and then another, and after the other tourists left and the football match was over, they talked long into the night.
The gunfire slowed, and he could hear footsteps nearby. It was time. He looked to the azure sky, took two quick deep breaths, and said aloud “Maggie,” then pointed the gun at his right temple. Before he pulled the trigger he saw her face before him. If I do this I’ll never see her again. He lowered the pistol. There was little chance they would let him live—but if there was any chance at all, he’d take it. He threw the pistol away and waited for whatever fate had in store for him.
USS LeFon
One of the watch standers on Asity was the first to spot the small boat. She raised a red flag and waved it at the watch standers on LeFon and Syren, who acknowledged it. Signaling was a primitive form of ship-to-ship communication, but since the last EMP strikes had effectively wiped out their bridge-to-bridge radios and other systems, they had no other. Commander Johnson, Olivia Harrison, and Commander Ranasinghe had worked out some basic but effective signals because neither Asity nor Syren had Navy signal flags like LeFon’s.
Fortunately, LeFon’s general announcing and alarm circuits had already been EMP-protected before the attack. Johnson called for all hands to battle stations. As LeFon pulled from the lee of Asity, Johnson went to the port bridge wing and peered through the lenses of the hull-mounted binoculars. Bobbing in the water was a U.S. Navy RHIB. “I’ll be damned,” she said. “Prepare for recovery of the boat, officer of the deck.”
Ten minutes later the RHIB pulled alongside the warship and boatswains guided its recovery on the crane. Johnson awaited the passengers on the deck. When the boat was flush with the deck, Johnson watched in astonishment as Jay Warren handed nine children across to the waiting sailors. Then he, a woman, and Agent Golzari made their way on deck.
Golzari offered a brief explanation of the boat’s passengers and suggested that the children would be better off with Ranasinghe on board Asity—as, he pointed out, would Melanie.
“No way,” she objected. “The kids are safe now. I’m following this story to the end.”
“Whoa,” said Jaime. “Slow down, everyone. We need a command conference to sort all this out. Let’s get these children cleaned up and fed while I get Commander Ranasinghe and Commander Harrison over here. We’ll reassemble in the wardroom in two hours.”
Vadduvakal, Mullaitivu District
Stark remained on his knees and put his hands behind his head as the armed soldiers neared. It was up to them now: execution or capture. The Tigers kept their guns trained on him as their leader approached. He shouted an unintelligible command at Stark, who found himself wishing he had access to Warren’s translation app. The leader motioned for Stark to get up, then drove the butt of his rifle into Stark’s stomach. Stark doubled over in pain.
Other soldiers surrounded Stark, grabbed his arms, and marched him back to one of the trucks. They threw him in the truck bed and piled in on top of him, kicking him and laughing as he lay helpless at their feet. The younger ones—conscripts, clearly—seemed energized by their first military action. Stark looked past their faces at the sky and tried to ignore them. The truck made four turns in its twenty-minute journey, passing through a small town just before the end. When the engine stopped, the men threw him out of the truck. He landed in soft, white sand. He was only thirty yards from the water, although a four-foot-high dune obstructed his view.
To his left in the distance—toward the north—he could see dozens of rusty, dilapidated freighters and containerships anchored offshore. He surmised that this was the famed Mullaitivu Breakers, where old ships went to die. They rode passively at permanent anchor, waiting to be picked apart like a Thanksgiving turkey. More were beached in various stages of disassembly. Behind him was a causeway that connected the small town with this isolated spot. To the south he saw anchored fishing boats as well as some commercial speedboats probably used for patrolling the waters. There were two bunches of soldiers on the beach, each of about a dozen men. He had found the Sea Tigers’ headquarters.
His captors pushed Stark toward a square wooden building with a tin roof and shoved him inside. The building had no windows, but dusty sunlight peeked in through cracks between the wooden planks and the corrugated tin roof. A few large boxes, one of which was open and empty, were scattered about the floor. Above were wooden beams with pulleys. The building had probably been used to store supplies for the local fishermen until the Tigers had reignited the war.
The soldiers pulled Stark’s coveralls down to his waist and ripped off his black T-shirt. They bound his hands tightly together. He didn’t try to fight them. There were too many here and outside, and he had to conserve his energy. They secured the rope that bound his hands to one of the pulleys and raised him so that his feet were off the ground. It took four of them to hoist him to that height. He heard another vehicle stop outside. He took long, deep breaths and waited.
A small, thin Tamil in khaki trousers and a white shirt entered with two soldiers ahead of him and two behind. These men weren’t like the conscripts who had captured him. These men were older, and they had the severe and determined look of men who had seen battle. These were veterans of the first Sri Lankan civil war.
“I grow weary of foreign visitors,” the man said curtly as he nodded to one of the other soldiers behind Stark. Stark heard the unmistakable whoosh of a whip just before it snapped on his back. He cried out with the first stroke, then regained his composure and clenched his jaw during the subsequent four strikes. He was able to bury the pain deep within himself but lost the ability to control his breath.
“Shall we talk now?” the man said, pacing in front of him. “You are in Tamil territory and you were armed. You killed many of my men. I may kill you now.” He nodded, and the soldier whipped Stark twice more. Stark grunted and snapped his head back toward the pain at each blow.
“Why are you here?” Another nod. Another slash. “Have you come to rescue someone?” Another nod. Another blow. Stark tried to ignore the sonic booms caused by the crack of the instrument of pain.
Rescue someone? Stark thought. Who needs to be rescued? Melanie? The children? Surely they’re safely away by now. Someone else? By now Stark was having difficulty getting enough air.
“Talk.”
“Go to hell,” Stark whispered. The man punched Stark in the groin. Stark�
�s eyes watered with the pain, but even with blurred vision he was able to see soldiers drag a man into the room and drop him on the ground near the leader’s feet. The man’s face was obscured, but he was obviously in pain, and his bound hands revealed that he hadn’t come with the Tamils willingly.
“What is his name?” the Tiger leader asked the man on the ground.
“His name is Stark,” the man answered dully. “He has a ship.” Even through his agony Stark was shocked to recognize the whiny voice of Rear Adm. Daniel Rossberg.
“Thank you, Admiral. Tell me about your ship, Captain Stark.”
“Are you Vanni?” Stark shot back, regaining his composure. Rather than answering, the man grabbed a tire iron from atop a box and struck Stark’s left ankle. Stark still had his boots on, but they did little to dull the sharp pain. He wondered if something had just been broken.
“Better answer him, Stark,” Rossberg said. “He’ll just keep hurting you until you do.”
“Yes. The admiral has been very cooperative,” Vanni said, guessing the thoughts running through Stark’s mind.
When Stark was silent for a moment longer, Rossberg ventured, “His ship is—”
“Shut your fucking pie-hole, Rossberg,” Stark yelled just before Vanni took the tire iron to his thigh. He stiffened in agony, unable to stifle a scream.
“Tell me more about him, Admiral.”
“His name is Connor Stark. He was a Navy commander once, but now he is a mercenary. He stole my ship, my command,” Rossberg said as he cowered on the dirt floor.
“Very good, Admiral. Are you a mercenary or a Navy commander now, Mr. Stark?” Vanni asked.
“I’m a man on a pulley,” Stark said defiantly.
“Were you here to rescue Admiral Rossberg?” he asked.
Stark closed his eyes and focused on the pain and his breathing.
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