by David Poyer
More help was en route. PaCom advised that a French amphibious task group, and also several Indian ships, were on their way. In the longer term, six ships from Maritime Prepositioning Squadron 3 had gotten under way. They carried equipment and supplies for fifteen thousand marines for thirty days, including road-building materials, generators, and other emergency gear. They could purify a hundred thousand gallons of potable water a day and pump it inshore from miles away. By then Dan could expect to be relieved by a joint task force commander, someone with stars on his shoulders, to be the face of U.S. aid.
For the moment, though, he and “Stony” Stonecipher were on their own. He still felt nauseated, and had to force one boot in front of the other as he pushed toward the tents pitched on the far side of the field. But he had to set weakness aside. Stonecipher, in BDUs, and Grissett, in ship’s coveralls and an armband with a red cross, paced him to the left. Benyamin, in boarding gear and armed with an M4, brought up the rear, just in case.
* * *
THE folding chairs and tables looked as if they’d been dragged out of the school next to the field. Tent fabric billowed in a steady wind. Maps were taped on the tabletops. He was ushered toward three men in camo uniforms and a woman in a bright red sari trimmed with gold. Stonecipher eased a case of MREs off one shoulder; Grissett, a box of medical supplies. Dan shook hands and introduced himself. “So, does anyone here speak English?”
“We all speak English, sir. We were a British colony until 1965.”
He sank into one of the offered chairs. “Um … right. Well, we can provide helo transport, boats, water, and limited food and medical care. The other ship coming in, Tippecanoe, has more. And many more ships and planes are on the way. Tell me how we can help, and who we should take orders from.”
The military guys looked to the woman. She said, in flawless Oxbridge, “Yes, sir. I am Mariya Farih, mayor of Male. Colonel Jaleel here, of the Maldives National Defence Force, is in charge of our disaster response.” Jaleel came forward, hand extended. Stocky, with a clipped black beard, he looked sleep-deprived already. “Very glad to see you.” He shook Dan’s hand as if he were never going to let go.
“Just sorry we had to meet like this. Is something wrong? That crowd seemed less than welcoming.”
The mayor said, “We’ve had some internal problems, Captain. Rioting. Unrest. We actually had declared a state of emergency even before the sea rose against us. And, yes, there is resentment against the United States. Over your stance on the Kyoto Protocols.” She forced a smile. “But you are not responsible for that. We welcome any assistance.”
“I see. Is this going to be your emergency headquarters, Madam Mayor? Colonel?”
“Perhaps. At least temporarily,” Jaleel said.
They went over a map of the island, to orient him; the ferry terminal, the airport, the local hospital, the petroleum storage facility on another, smaller island to the north. Dan guessed that was where the columns of smoke were coming from.
Shouting outside. He glanced through the tent flaps to see Benyamin fending off a large islander with his carbine at port arms. Dan had set up facilities at Bagram airport, at the beginning of the allied buildup in Afghanistan. Between that and a review of the humanitarian-assistance documentation, he had a fairly clear idea what would be needed. Security first, if the locals were unable to maintain order. Then emergency medical care and water distribution. After that shelter, generators, radios, reuniting families, burying bodies, food service, and water purification. “Well, if you don’t mind some advice—”
”We would be happy to hear whatever you suggest,” the mayor said. “Though of course we must make the final decisions. I will be talking to the president shortly, by the way.”
“Absolutely. Well, to address your location first. It might be desirable to place your headquarters somewhere with better transport, better communications, and isolated to some extent from crowds … to prevent incidents. That would make your choice the ferry terminal, the container port, or the airport.”
“On Hulhule Island,” Jaleel said, placing a finger on the map. The Male International strip was across a narrow strait to the north.
“Um, might be wise. More room to stock supplies. Better security. Better communications. Most of your early relief shipments will come in by air anyway. I can arrange helicopter transport if you like. Shuttle you over, help set up a command post, and let you get a look at the damage.”
Jaleel agreed quietly, saying he’d planned to go there himself, but the island government hadn’t fully executed their disaster plan yet. A policeman in British-style khaki came in and handed the colonel a message. Jaleel sighed, scratching his beard. “We can’t forget the other islands. This is from Kandolhudoo. Apparently it was hit hard, just about destroyed … the plantations, the tourist hotels, fishing villages … we are getting reports in by radio. Would it be possible to assist them as well?”
Dan said they’d do what they could, and repeated that more help was on its way. He laid out what he could do today: send a firefighting team to the oil terminal, supply antibiotics and plasma substitute to the hospital, and send rations and water to a distribution point at the ferry terminal via the ships’ boats. Red Hawk could help the islands’ own aircraft start transferring medical, sanitary, and security personnel. The water depth at the ferry terminal, unfortunately, wasn’t enough for a ship to come alongside, but there was a berth at a small freight-handling facility on the other side of the island that Stonecipher thought they might get Tippecanoe alongside.
Dan sipped bottled water, feeling overwhelmed. Outside, the shouting was growing louder, merging with an ominous-sounding chant. “Okay, we’ll head back now. I’m going to leave you this radio, all right? Or you can contact us on—what are you using for your emergency comms?”
“HF only. Everything else has gone down. That is all we have with the mainland and with the southern islands.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, we’ll get to them, but it looks like your main population center here is where we need to do the most work, plus getting things set up over at the airport.”
Jaleel nodded, as did the mayor, and Dan added, “One other thing: we’ve got the Indians en route, the French—but someone’s going to have to be in charge, or we’ll be fighting each other for pier space and use of the landings. I suggest you pick someone to coordinate the naval relief effort.”
They conferred briefly, the woman in the bright red sari dominating the discussion. She ended it by turning to him. “I think you have nominated yourself for that position, Captain. If you will accept it.”
* * *
HE invited Jaleel and the mayor to go up in Red Hawk for a quick look-see. Strafer flew them south first, following the chain of reefs and islands. From on high, they were pearls in a cobalt sea. From lower, the level of destruction, in villages dotted hop-skip-jump wherever a coral outcrop rose a foot or two above high tide, was sobering. People waved desperately as they flew over, but all he could do was circle, to show at least that he’d noticed them, then fly on.
As they headed back, Staurulakis reported two Indian coast guard ships had arrived and were proceeding to the container terminal. Dan asked her to warn them that he intended to put Tippecanoe there, as she had frozen stores and other food. The exec said she’d pass that word, but that the Indians didn’t seem inclined to listen.
Male receded down the port side, and they landed at the international airport. The end of the single strip had been overwashed, but the terminal and hangar/repair buildings looked undamaged. Strafer went to check out the fuel situation as Dan, Stonecipher, and Jaleel went into the terminal. It was thronged with strandees, German, Dutch, Indian; all flights had been diverted or canceled. Fortunately they had water, food, emergency generators, and toilets, so aside from temporary inconvenience they’d be all right. Dan reassured them help was on the way, and asked for doctors or nurses. He got three volunteers. He dropped them and Jaleel back at the soccer field, then sent Red Ha
wk back to the airport, to transport medical personnel and supplies to the outlying islands as soon as the teams were ready.
* * *
THE messages were piling up back in CIC. He waded in with a tray and a Diet Pepsi beside him. Pulling a sample ROE for humanitarian assistance off the net, he modified it and put it out, authorizing use of force only for self-protection and reminding all hands that they had to respect local customs, and could not seize personal property for redistribution. He included this as an attachment to an update message to PaCom, along with the titles and names of everyone he’d dealt with, to give whoever took over from him a head start. Then he went to the map again. Supplies would come in at two locations, the container terminal and the airfield. They’d have to be distributed by helo and boat, and the airfield won on both counts.
Dave Branscombe came down to discuss comms with the airfield and the shortwave links with the outlying islands. They settled on a coordination net for the seaborne relief efforts. Dan said to clear it with the Maldivians, then set a watch on that frequency and on the harbor net as well.
The harbormaster; that’s who he’d forgotten. He got him on the radio for a discussion about water depths, the ferry terminal, connections with the airport. The man warned him about bringing weapons ashore, and mentioned pigs as well. Dan said he didn’t have any pigs aboard, and that his crews would wear sidearms for self-protection. If he didn’t like that, he could take it up with Colonel Jaleel.
In the middle of this Mills came in with the news that the Indians were on Rescue and Coordination asking to talk. After some back and forth with their senior skipper, Dan convinced the guy to accept him as the on-scene commander, subject to Jaleel’s direction as host country representative. The Indians had loaded basic food and medical supplies at Goa and gotten under way hours after the first notice of the tsunami. He asked them to finish unloading and clear the pier as quickly as possible; Tippecanoe would come alongside as soon as they cast off.
He stayed in his seat to check in on a satellite chat room set up to coordinate relief efforts, not just for his area, but for everywhere the tsunami had hit—Sumatra, Sri Lanka, the Nicobars, even Madagascar, far, far to the west. The damage stretched a quarter of the way around the globe. The first C-130s were en route, scheduled just after dusk. He confirmed runway lights and radio beacons were operational, and that fuel service would be available.
The French reported in that afternoon. Two ships, FS Mistral and FS Henaff. A check of Jane’s and the intel database told him one was an antisubmarine corvette, which wouldn’t be of much use in this situation, but the other was a dock landing ship with a heavy helo detachment—ideal for getting aid ashore quickly. After a call to Jaleel, who sounded exhausted, Dan phoned the French commander back, gave him the coordination net frequency, and asked him to take charge of relief to the atolls to the north, Faadhippolhu, Miladhunmadulu, and Thiladhunmathee, with a zone of responsibility from 4°45' north to 7° north.
* * *
CHERYL cleared her throat, to wake him. “Captain.”
He yawned and stretched. “Yeah, Cher. What’cha got?”
“202’s back aboard. Both RHIBs are back for crew change and maintenance. Commander Danenhower reports the DC crew has the petrochem fire under control.”
“This is the fire—”
“On the tank farm island.”
“Okay. Good. What else?”
“You’re due at the airfield at 2000 local. Conference of relief providers. They want you to brief on the coordination of seaborne relief. And some interesting news. The Chinese reported in.”
He sat up, boots slamming to the deck, as the whole depressing, enraging business flooded back. “Fuck. The Chinese … Wuhan?”
“No, she and the other destroyer are still up north. This is the other unit in their task group. The support ship.”
He leaned to the keyboard. Weishanhu, hull 887, was a Qiandaohu-class replenishment ship. It displaced thirty thousand tons and carried two helos, but her complement was only a hundred men, which would limit flexibility. Still, she would supply fuel, water, and enormous quantities of food and other supplies, and her onboard cranes would get them ashore quickly. He said reluctantly, “Holy smoke, this thing’s enormous. How’d they get in touch?”
“HF to Male.”
“Not to us? On the coordination net?”
“I tried to call them on that freq, but there was no response.”
Which might mean they were declining to acknowledge him as on-scene commander. Did he need to worry about that? He decided not to, for now. “We’ll need a list of—no, never mind, the colonel can ask them that.” Dan ran his hands through his hair, noting that it was getting past time for a visit to the barbershop. “They could go outboard of Tippecanoe at the terminal. That should give even this mother enough keel depth. Pass that suggestion to the harbormaster. I don’t think we need to get involved. And let Captain Hunteman know they might be mooring alongside, so he can get his fenders over and lock down his topside accesses. We don’t want them wandering around. Frankly, I’d just as soon not have them moored alongside him … but I guess it’s the most logical place to put her.”
The exec put a hand on his shoulder. “Understand, Skipper. You can’t have felt too great about how that all turned out.”
This was the first time they’d discussed it aloud. And it still hurt. Forever after, his name would be associated with it. The Navy had a long memory for any shortcoming or error, and he had a feeling this one would turn out to be epic. He shook his head. “It’s not the message we should’ve sent, Cheryl.”
“The fleet commander had to know what he was doing. Maybe whatever they were hiding, we already knew about. And airing it in public would just put Beijing on the spot.”
Dan wished he could believe that. He said irritably, “They need to be put on the spot. They’ve been proliferating missiles all over the map. Along with Pakistan, North Korea … but don’t get me started.” He coughed long and hard, doubled over the command desk. When he looked up, she was gone.
* * *
HE took the RHIB in to that night’s meeting, along with Amy Singhe and Max Mytsalo, just to give them a look.
They cast off after dark. The bowhook cradled a portable searchlight, scanning the water just ahead. Twice they had to detour around floating logs, and other, less identifiable debris. A small plane droned above, lights flashing, and banked away toward the field. Where, as they passed, heavier engines thundered: a four-engine transport. They motored past the riprap at the end of the runway and made for the inlet beyond. Lights glittered here and there on Male; some parts of the island had power, while others, closer to the water, were dark. They passed close to the tank farm. The fire-glow no longer flickered, but the stink of burning petroleum, dank and heavy, lay over the water, mixed with the smells of rot and decay from all the organic material that had been sucked back into the estuary.
“D’you know the route in to the ferry landing?” Dan asked the coxswain. The boatswain said he did, and pointed to brilliant orange apron lights ahead.
They ran in at dead slow, heading for two jetties. Beyond them lay the sloped roof of the terminal and a concrete pier where palms swayed and clashed beneath tangerine lights.
The bowhook raised his arm suddenly, pointing off to port. The coxswain pulled back the throttles and they drifted in, turning slightly, toward where the bowhook focused his beam.
Something floated there. Dan stood, hoping it wasn’t what it looked like, right up until the smell reached him.
“Pick it up, Skipper?”
“Can’t leave it out here, BM2.” He cleared his throat, leaning out as the boat drifted the last few feet and the thing bumped into the rigidly swollen rubber with a faint thud. The details came through one at a time, each reluctantly acknowledged, as if his brain resisted assembling sensory inputs into recognition. Small. Facedown. Dark hair.
A child, back humped beneath thin cotton as arms and legs dang
led. It had only begun to swell. He knew that from other bodies he’d picked up at sea, on other cruises. But this was smaller than any he’d encountered before. It belched gas as they got a line around it. “Careful,” he muttered to Singhe. “The limbs can separate very easily.”
A heave, and they had it over the gunwale. The bowhook threw an oil-stained tarp over the slack face, but not before Dan had looked into the fish-eaten sockets of a young boy, ten or eleven at a guess. He looked away, sighing, toward the orange lights. They glimmered cheerfully on the water, as if this didn’t matter. As if someone’s whole world had not just died.
No one said anything else the rest of the way in.
* * *
THE passenger area had been cleared of the strandees. Tables had been pushed together, and a vertical whiteboard held the by now familiar outline of the island. Another showed the northern and southern atolls, populations called out in grease pencil. A steady chain of Maldivians trudged past, each lugging a box or crate. Forklifts and trucks shuttled outside the huge windows, under the saffron light. A Fokker transport, gunning its propellers, nosed in to where white Nissan pickups waited with men standing in their beds. Dan joined a group of about thirty men and a few women, among whom he recognized the mayor, this time in a severe dark blue pantsuit. Lieutenant Singhe headed straight for her, and soon they had their heads together. He wondered what they were comparing notes on.
Colonel Jaleel, looking as if he hadn’t changed his camos, welcomed them in English. “This meeting is so everyone can see who they’ve been talking to on the radio. So far we have representatives from India, the United States, Singapore, and Japan. French forces are providing assistance to the northern islands. And let me now also welcome China, in the person of Captain Han.” He nodded to where a small man in the same white uniform Dan had seen aboard Wuhan stood, cupping his elbows. “We are grateful for your help. If all will take seats please … I will now introduce our secretary of human welfare, who is in charge of the relief effort.”