Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

“Like I said, Captain, take it easy.”

  Mullaitivu

  There were no conscripts in the building when Vanni addressed the Tigers at midnight. Those men had only recently been trained in small arms, and Vanni realized that it had been unwise to have them guard the mine and the prisoners. But what choice was there? He had loyal, well-trained Sea Tigers prepared for seaborne operations, but they were all needed for the real attack. The conscripts served him only because he had executed their families or friends. Fear was a good motivator for recruiting, but fear did not guarantee a good, selfless soldier.

  Hundreds of Sea Tigers had come for this last meeting before the operation. Many were from Mullaitivu, where they had slaved in the Breakers. Others had come from the Jaffna Peninsula in the north and the cities of Kilinochchi and Vavuniya. Some had been Sea Tigers in the last war. Many had simply heard of their exploits and been inspired by them. Some had emerged from hiding in southern Sri Lanka or other parts of the world. Vanni had recruited most of the hard-core loyalists at the Breakers. That they had turned that hell-hole of bourgeois oppression into the stronghold from which they would destroy their oppressors made it all the more satisfying and inspiring for them.

  A small stage was hastily arranged with shipping boxes for Vanni to stand on and be seen by the hundreds of men and women who made up the main force of Sea Tigers. Vanni had decided against a formal stage and sound system. Stacked boxes and a bull-horn lent an air of anti-elitism to the proceedings. Vanni wanted to emphasize that he was one of them, born of the Breakers and forged by a war for independence. His eyes met theirs with every word. They had seen what he could accomplish in a short time. The attacks on the Sri Lankan navy had been but the start, he told them. They now had a weapon unknown and unavailable to any nation on earth. They—not the Sri Lankans or the Western nations—were the ones who carried the rockets of victory.

  Some began to chant the name “Gala.” Others joined in, repeating his name in unison until Vanni turned and beckoned to the young man standing in the shadows of the dimly lit building. Gala took Vanni’s outstretched hand and awkwardly climbed up the boxes to stand beside him. The cheering intensified for the man who had created the new weapon that would be their salvation. A minute later, as the cheers waned, Gala stepped down and gave the stage back to Vanni.

  “In the next two days we will gain back our country,” Vanni said to the crowd, his voice building. “And their country will be the one left in ruins. As our armies march to the south, you, my Sea Tigers, will the instruments by which we achieve our victory.” By now he was shouting. “Let no one stand in our way.”

  The Tigers erupted in cheers—yelling, stamping their feet, and cheering for their leader and the arrival of the day that just a few years ago had seemed impossible.

  After a few moments Vanni raised his hands for silence. “Go to your boats and prepare.”

  Vanni’s guards escorted him through the velvet-dark night to his personal boat, with Gala walking two steps behind him. Once the two men were safely on board, the guards cast off and joined the armada of small boats slowly making their way to the Breakers.

  “What happens now?” Gala asked.

  “It’s simple, Gala,” Vanni said, breathing in the cool, salty air. “The ships will take up stations before every coastal town in Sri Lanka and launch the weapons. Every town will be immobilized just as Trincomalee, Galle, and Colombo were when our ships attacked.”

  “But you have been sending the conscripts south in every vehicle we have,” Gala pointed out. “The weapons will render those vehicles useless.”

  Vanni shook his head. “They are simply massing on the border right now. Do you know the story of how the Japanese army took Singapore from the British in World War II?”

  Gala tried to recall something about Singapore’s history, but it was not a subject that had interested him during his studies. Certainly he had had no time to learn about it during his visit there to pick up the extruder.

  Vanni saw him struggling. “Bicycles. They rode bicycles into Singapore. In the past year we have received several shipments of them. Such a simple means of transportation. They have no electronics. They have nothing that can be affected by your weapon. As the Sri Lankan tanks sit silent and helpless, our conscripts will enter the south on bicycles. Others will arrive by ship.”

  “What then, Vanni?”

  “Then it will be over. They will kill everyone, and we will have our nation back.”

  “Kill everyone? Millions cannot be killed by tens of thousands,” Gala said, shocked.

  “Gala, we have the guns and the ammunition and the people. We will not stop until the enemy has been broken—and broken forever. Look what a few men with guns have done in Mumbai, Paris, and America,” Vanni said, referencing past terrorist attacks. He turned back to face the bow and his ships that lay beyond it.

  Gala thought about what Vanni had told him. Gala had never intended the weapon to be used for such destruction. Vanni had told him it would be used to disrupt enemy forces and secure a new land for the Tamils. There was never any talk of genocide. “We . . . we don’t need to do this,” he said meekly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the engines.

  “What?” Vanni asked turning back to him.

  “We don’t need to go to their cities and kill them. They would be fools to enter our territory. Any nation would. Even the Americans,” Gala said.

  “The Americans came.”

  “But only to get their people. How do we know they will attempt anything more? Vanni, we sank two of their warships and they did nothing!”

  “You never learned how to swim, did you?” Vanni said coldly, and then ordered his guards to hold Gala.

  “No, Vanni. Please don’t,” he pleaded. “I was just . . .”

  “You were questioning my plans for our permanent security. You have served me well, Gala. But we have our weapons. Do we need you now?”

  “Vanni! I have been loyal. We still have work to do. And the Chinese are still on the ship in the lab!”

  “I am not concerned about them. They will all be killed. They must not be allowed to tell Hu and the others anything,” Vanni said.

  “Then who will be left to make your weapons, my leader? After the battle, we will still have the equipment and the ore. I am the only one who can build more, is that not true?”

  Vanni was silent for several minutes as Gala feared every second for his life.

  “Very well, Gala. You see how they cheered earlier for you? Remember that. But remember too that your life is mine.”

  DAY 16

  Sea Tiger Command Ship Amba

  The Soviet Ugra-class submarine tender that had served as the laboratory and manufacturing facility for their rockets, mine buoys, and suicide boats was nearly deserted when Vanni and Gala returned. The small boats were gone too, distributed to other ships, as were some of the rockets—three for each of the boats deploying.

  Vanni had gone to sleep with two guards posted outside his stateroom. Before going inside he had instructed the guards to wake him if any of the patrol boats spotted the American ships. Gala wished him a good sleep and then went below, telling the guards that he needed to check on the laboratory before going to bed. No one was there, and the lights were out. He sat down at his cheap metal desk, made by Soviet laborers forty years before, and pulled a thumb drive from a drawer. He turned on his computer, inserted the thumb drive, and began to download all of his files. It took only a few seconds.

  Then he pulled out the drive, slipped it into his pocket, and left the lab for the last time. He walked down the silent passageway, encountering only a couple of the crew on their way to the next shift. He went up two flights to the deck and came face to face with three people just coming on board. He recognized only one, a Chinese gunman named Qin from Singapore. Tied up along the starboard side was a ship familiar to him—Nanjing Mazu—the ship that had spirited him and the stolen laboratory equipment out of Singapore.

  “G
ala,” the Chinese gunman said as he caught his eye.

  Gala nodded in return. “Hello, Qin.” He was certain he had never seen the two people with Qin, but the beautiful blonde woman seemed to recognize him. She said something to the burly man beside her, who nodded as if in approval.

  “Did . . . did anything happen after I left Singapore?” Gala asked.

  “Very little. The police were well paid. There was no evidence. A man attempted to gain a reward by informing the U.S. government. My agents killed him before he could say anything,” the gunman said. “The Americans sent another agent to investigate the death of the one I killed for you.”

  “And what of him?” Gala asked fearfully.

  “There is nothing to worry about, little man. My people were unable to kill him, but the police forced him to leave Singapore and to retreat to the United States. He has been rendered irrelevant.”

  “Good. That is very good. Then what are you doing here?”

  “We are here to ensure that our scientists are working out well for you,” said the burly man, who spoke with a heavy Russian accent.

  “They have been very helpful,” Gala said, though he doubted the strangers really cared about his Chinese assistants. Hu and Zheng R&D wanted the hafnium. That had been the deal Vanni had made with them in return for all the guns, bicycles, laboratory equipment, and other supplies.

  “Where is Vanni?” the Russian asked.

  “Sleeping. I’m sure he will see you first thing in the morning.”

  “We are not here to wait,” Makarov said emphatically.

  “Vanni . . . Vanni gives the orders here,” Gala replied meekly.

  “Very well. Then we will return at first light. No later. And I want to see the modified suicide boats I designed for the Tigers.”

  “Yes, of course,” Gala said quickly. “Tomorrow. When it is light.” He held his breath, hoping desperately that they would return to their own ship so he could enact his plan.

  M/V Syren

  Stark was gingerly pouring a cup of coffee when Bobby Fisk entered the wardroom and stepped up behind Golzari in the coffee line. Golzari courteously stepped aside to allow him to go ahead. They were the first to arrive for the latest war council. Some were still asleep or on their way. Bobby had been sent ahead with additional charts of the area.

  “I hope that’s the high-grade stuff, Captain Stark,” the young officer said.

  “Only the best on this ship, Bobby. You look tired,” Stark said.

  “Long night on the bridge dealing with our helmsman’s personal issues.”

  “There are no personal issues when you’re in the middle of the shit, Bobby,” Stark said.

  “This one’s a classic, sir,” he said as he added sugar to his coffee. “The night before we pulled into Chennai, the chiefs gave the crew the standard spiel about liberty, including a talk about the strip clubs.”

  “These stories never end well,” Golzari said, taking a seat and beginning to butter a toasted English muffin.

  “Yeah, well, the sailor tells me he fell in love in port and got married.”

  “Idiot!” Golzari exclaimed.

  “It gets better. The kid says the worst part is that now he has to tell his fiancée back home.”

  “I had a chief petty officer who had a saying: ‘Never fall in love with a stripper or a hooker,’” Stark said.

  “And why is that?” the Diplomatic Security agent asked.

  “Because, according to him, strippers and hookers are attractive, trained to manipulate people, disingenuous, and incapable of having a stable relationship,” Stark said.

  “Ah, we have a similar saying at the State Department,” Golzari observed. “Never fall in love with a CIA case officer.”

  “Why is that?” Bobby asked.

  “Same reasons,” Golzari laughed.

  “True,” Stark said, “but at least some strippers and hookers have a moral compass that isn’t frozen on the direction of Langley.”

  The door swung open and the rest of the council began to arrive: Harrison, Johnson, Johnson’s XO, Ranasinghe, and Warren. Melanie Arden had gone to Asity to spend time with the rescued children.

  “Where’s Rossberg?” Stark asked.

  “He was still asleep in sick bay when we left,” Johnson said.

  Stark snorted. “Small gifts. Okay, folks. All signs point to the Mullaitivu Breakers as the Sea Tigers’ base. I’ve asked Jay to show us imagery from a couple of passes our first UAV made a few days ago and tell us the results of his analyses.” Stark pointed to Jay, who brought up a video on the wide-screen television.

  The video began with a grainy, high-altitude image of the coastline north of Mullaitivu as the UAV flew in a northerly direction. The hulks of scores of old freighters and passenger ships were either anchored off the coast or beached. Since they had not tasked the bird to zoom in live during its flight, they had to rely on the high-altitude imagery. Still, it told its own story.

  “Take a look at how the ships are laid out,” Stark said as he stood. Wincing in pain he pointed as Warren put the imagery into slow motion. A dozen ships were lined up on the beach, most of them in various stages of demolition. Approximately one hundred more were anchored just offshore. Most were by themselves, but at least three groups of five passenger ships were tied together, and there were six trios of freighters.

  “Now look at the wakes in the area,” Stark noted. “Those are all from small boats. Why all that offshore activity if the breakup work is done on the beach? Also, look carefully at the directions of those wakes.”

  It didn’t take long for the others to see it. The boat wakes were like highways and off-ramps. Some were coming from the beach, but the main highway was between Mullaitivu and along the coastline between the beach and the anchorage. Some wakes showed boats turning into the lanes between the various ships. Most were heading for one of the groups of passenger ships. What better way to hide thousands of Sea Tigers than on board passenger ships?

  “They’re floating barracks,” Golzari remarked.

  “Right,” Stark answered. “And if that’s the case, there must be power on each of those ships to provide basics such as plumbing and cooking.”

  As they watched the images a few other speedboats made their way to various ships. Several, including a barge, went to a ship in the center of the anchorage.

  “Any idea what’s on that barge?” Johnson asked.

  “Great question, Jaime. Jay ran a spectral analysis. It’s earth with traces of hafnium. That’s how they’re transporting the ore from the mine to the processing facility. That ship has the most activity on deck of all the ships at anchorage. It’s an old gray hull, so we went to the ship’s copy of Combat Fleets of the World. That’s an Ugra-class submarine tender from the old Soviet fleet. Admiral Rossberg apparently was held on a ship with Russian lettering. There are several other Russian freighters there, but even if we expand the search to every ship with Cyrillic lettering, this one is the most likely ship where they’re processing the ore into weapons.”

  The others sat in silence for a moment, pondering the challenge of attacking a ship in the center of the anchorage with at least five ships on each of its four sides.

  “That, ladies and gentlemen, has to be our primary target,” Stark said. “The question is—how do we get at it?”

  “Connor, I want to be perfectly clear at the outset,” Johnson said. “We supported the rescue because we were under the impression two Americans were being held hostage. We got them out. Under the rules of engagement Seventh Fleet provided, I have no justification to participate in an attack on the Sea Tigers.”

  “Perhaps there is one, Commander,” Golzari answered. “As you know, I was assigned to find the killer of Diplomatic Security Agent William Blake. The Tamil scientist Gala was the only lead, and I followed his trail here, to Sri Lanka. It would make sense that he is with the Sea Tigers. Since he took lab equipment from Singapore, it’s highly probable that he is on that ship as well.
”

  “That’s a reasonable deduction, Agent Golzari,” Jaime said, “but it doesn’t fall within my ROE. I have a chain of command. And I’m outranked by an admiral on my ship who is most unlikely to help you when he wakes up.” She paused for a moment contemplating her choices. “I’ve brought charts for you and we’re ready to refuel you. But it doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you—as Americans—out there alone. We can’t take the lead, Connor, but I will support the mission.”

  “Jaime, LeFon has served honorably here,” Connor said. “You saved lives. You’ve done all you can do. I understand your restrictions. We’ll accept a refuel. While we’re at it, can we transfer the orphans to your ship where they’ll be safe?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll take good care of them.”

  “Thanks. I suggest you get your crew and ship to Chennai. Captain Dasgupta will be able to help with the orphans. I’ll have a letter to him ready for you before you get under way. Make repairs and we’ll see you on the other side.”

  The two longtime shipmates, colleagues, and friends shook hands across the table before Johnson left with her team. Bobby Fisk turned back at the door to wish them luck.

  Sea Tiger Command Ship Amba

  Vanni sat cross-legged on the deck watching the sun rise on the day before their final glorious victory over the Sri Lankan government. His eyes were closed in meditation, and his nostrils flared each time he inhaled deeply the fresh sea air. This was his morning regimen regardless of what events he would face that day. Ten minutes was all he needed to clear his mind and sharpen his focus. When he finally opened his eyes, his personal guards allowed the three visitors to cross from Nanjing Mazu to the forward deck of Amba, the site of her forward 76-mm guns before she was decommissioned.

  Vanni restrained a sigh and kept his face expressionless. These were the last people he wanted to deal with right now. They were minions of Hu and his firm. Had they arrived a few days later, everything would be done and Zheng Research & Development would no longer have the ability to interfere. He had given Hu one of the first pieces of hafnium, only raisin sized but less capable of producing a weapon with an effective range more than a mile in diameter. He had not given Hu the results of all the research Gala had conducted, although Hu had tried to get that from him.