The irons hurled by three of the pirates landed perfectly over the rails with a clinking noise, but the fourth one got away, flying up way too high and landing with a thump, clatter, and rumble as it shot back to the rails and smacked into the metal post.
Charlie Wyatt, wide awake and with the air-conditioners cut back, was sitting below an open window on the port side. The clatter caused by grappler four caused him to jump out of his chair.
“What the fucking hell was that?” he shouted. Fred Corcoran, dozing on the whiplash hair trigger of a veteran ocean master, came out of his chair like a bullet. Rick Barnwell had been reading on the far side of the bridge and did not hear the racket. But he heard Charlie Wyatt.
“We’ve fucking hit something!” he shouted. “Either that or the goddamned radar just fell off the roof.”
Charlie craned out of the window and could not believe his eyes. There in the moonlight, illuminated by the light from the upper-works entrance, two figures could be clearly seen clambering aboard the Niagara Falls.
Ismael Wolde and Bouh Adan were up and over. And before Charlie Wyatt had time to collect himself, the rope ladders and their separate grappling hooks were flung over the rail by the dead-eyed Gacal Gueleh, which signalled the moment when everyone, all eight of the remaining men, jumped on to the ladders and climbed up with every ounce of their strength.
“HOLY SHIT!” bawled Charlie. “We’re being boarded. Get the fucking baseball bats, RITCHIE! This is it!”
Captain Corcoran already had the loaded M-4 machine gun in firing position and had joined Charlie at the window. The full crew from the Mombasssa was not yet over the rails, but both Fred and Charlie could see four heads coming up the ropes, with the two lead climbers, Wolde and Bouh, pulling their Kalashnikovs off their shoulders.
Fred opened fire in a reckless and inaccurate volley of flying bullets. More by luck than anything else, he hit and killed young Bouh. Wolde rushed for cover, and Charlie and Rick charged down the stairs wielding the Louisville Sluggers. The fact they were facing gunfire with baseball bats did not faze them since they both believed they may be fighting for their lives.
Fred Corcoran pinned Wolde down behind the portside bulwark. He unleashed another furious volley of fire from the high window but hit nothing. Bullets ricocheted in all directions. The assault troops at the top of the ladders froze since to move forward would be suicide.
By now Charlie and Rick had both reached the bottom of the companionway, and Charlie rushed out onto the deck, where he could see the stalled incoming climbers still on the hull of the ship. Charlie swung hard and caved in the skull of Gacal Gueleh. The former fisherman from Mogadishu, who was trying to fix the rope ladders, toppled backward into the warm waters of the Indian Ocean.
Charlie was just on his backswing to end the life of Elmi Ahmed when Ismael Wolde stepped out of the shadows and gunned him down, four quick-fire bullets straight into his back, instantly killing the first mate from Baltimore.
Up on the bridge, Captain Corcoran’s magazine was empty and he could not locate another. Jimmy Tevez locked them both in, and down below, with Charlie Wyatt dead, the raiders swarmed over the rail. They’d lost Bouh and Gacal, while Hamdan and Abadula were still on the helms. That left eight fully armed pirates against Rick Barnwell and his baseball bat.
Right now, he was tucked behind the deck-level doorway to the upper works, uncertain what to do. Ismael Wolde knew he was there and not carrying a firearm and, very carefully, the Ethiopian-born pirate chief solved the problem.
“Sir,” he said, “I know where you are. And I command you to throw out that baseball bat and then come out yourself with your hands high. I’m giving you five seconds, and then I shall throw a hand grenade through that doorway.”
Somehow Rick understood that his old friend Charlie was dead. And he guessed the captain had run out of ammunition. He tossed out the bat and walked out onto the deck.
“Stand against the wall,” said Wolde icily. “We do not like bloodshed and I regret your colleague opened fire on us from the high window. Two of my men are dead and one of yours. There will be no more killing. Although if there is further resistance from either you or your crew, my warriors are ordered to shoot to kill. Do you understand me?”
“I understand you,” replied Barnwell.
“And now you will lead me and three of my colleagues to your communications center on the bridge, and we will sort out our business together.”
He then ordered four of his team to secure the ship and assemble everyone on deck. Wolde was counting on there being no armed personnel on board except for his own men. He and Elmi Ahmed, in company with Omar Ali Farah, the pirate with the big machine gun, made their way up the companionway to the bridge, the door to which was locked and clipped.
“Tell them to open it,” he commanded.
Rick Barnwell shouted, “May as well open it, sir. They killed Charlie, and there are eight of them, all heavily armed. If you don’t open the door, they’ll blow it open. They have hand grenades. Their CO has ordered no more killing.”
Captain Corcoran understood he was beaten. He unlocked the door. His second mate walked through with his hands still raised. Wolde came next, his Kalashnikov levelled. Omar made a formidable sight holding the big machine gun. Elmi Ahmed moved to the front of the bridge and stood with his gun levelled, like his boss.
“I want all three of you to walk over there and stand with your backs to the wall,” said Wolde. “And listen to my instructions very carefully. First of all, you will cut the ship’s speed back until she is idle in the water, resting on the tide. Then you will call your owners, I think the time is five in the afternoon in Washington.
“You will tell them the Niagara Falls has been captured by the Somali Marines. And that you are powerless to fight back. You will tell them I will be in touch personally in the next thirty minutes to inform them of the ransom money—and that twenty-four hours from now, the crew will be taken into captivity on the mainland.
“For the moment that is all. Except of course to mention that if my demands are not met, you will all be shot and the ship and its considerable cargo confiscated permanently.”
Fred Corcoran ordered Rick Barnwell to cut the engines back and open up communications to the maritime section of USAID in Washington. “It’s Section 418,” he said. “I deal with Frank Allard, but this may require the head of section, Eugene Marinello. Tell whoever answers that no one less will do.”
Ismael Wolde walked across the room and picked up Fred’s empty M-4 machine gun. “I shall confiscate this,” he said, admiring the former US military weapon. “And of course any other firearms we discover on board.”
“You won’t find anything,” said Captain Corcoran. “This is a ship on a mission of mercy, carrying aid to your half-assed country. Except for my personal gun, we are completely unarmed.”
“Then I have been very unlucky to lose two of my best men,” replied Wolde. “Very unlucky. I don’t like dead bodies on my ships, so we will take Bouh Adan home with us and place his body in our skiff. My crew will throw your dead man over the side. My other casualty is already in the water.”
“It is traditional in my country that we too would wish to take our dead home, and for that reason I would ask that Charles Wyatt be placed in a body bag and . . .”
“Permission denied,” snapped Wolde, pointing at both Tevez and Barnwell. “You’re lucky I did not shoot you all, after your stupid reaction when we came aboard. You started the killing; don’t make us finish it.”
At this point, the line was opened to Washington and Eugene Marinello was located. Captain Corcoran took the receiver and said, very deliberately, “Eugene, the Niagara Falls has been boarded and captured by heavily armed Somali pirates. My first mate is dead, and we are, as you know, unarmed and without escort.”
He looked across to Wolde and requested, “May I tell them our GPS position?”
“Certainly,” he replied. “This is where they are go
ing to deliver the ransom money.”
Captain Corcoran relayed his precise position on the water and then informed the stunned section chief that the commanding officer of the Somali Marines would be in contact in the next half hour.
He did not, of course, know that the Somali mole Yusuf, currently on duty in the Ronald Reagan Building in Washington, had furnished Mohammed Salat with the phone number of the senior US naval officer under whose command the Niagara Falls and all USAID ships were designated.
Wolde now ordered Omar Ali and Elmi Ahmed to guard the three Americans while he returned downstairs to the deck. And once there, he walked forward and telephoned Captain Hassan on board the Mombassa one mile astern.
“This is Ismael,” he said. “We have captured the Niagara Falls. Bouh and Gacal have been killed, but we have complete control of the ship. I am calling Washington in a few moments with our ransom demands. I expect a favorable outcome. Please inform Mr. Salat.”
Captain Hassan was saddened at the loss of his young Somali lookout but extremely pleased the mission was a success so far. “Well done,” he said quietly.
While Wolde returned to the bridge, the Mombassa’s master called the private line of Mohammed Salat and relayed the news to him. The stock exchange boss was ever vigilant and summoned his driver to take him immediately to the office, one hundred yards away.
The place was open and doing business. The 20,000 remaining shares in the Somali Marines operation were trading at $20 each, having doubled the moment the Mombassa made contact with the target far out to sea. Salat himself had retained 15,000 shares.
Salat wrote down the stock bulletin and ordered a clerk to punch the sentence into the flashing electronic notice board. The crowd of perhaps thirty or forty local “investors,” sensing an important update, surged forward.
They could see Mohammed Salat was there in person, and the Somali Marines’ operation was very topical. In general terms they were aware the Mombassa must be within striking range of their target, but they knew no more.
The notice board went dark as earlier bulletins were removed. You could have heard a spear drop as everyone waited. Then the board flashed . . . SOMALI MARINES CAPTURED THE 18,000-TON UNITED STATES FREIGHTER NIAGARA FALLS 45 MINUTES AGO. ESTIMATED $100 MILLION DOLLAR CARGO. TEN MILLION DOLLARS DEMANDED FOR HER RETURN. ENDS BULLETIN.
The roar from the crowd split the hot night air. Trading in the shares caused pandemonium. Salat’s brokers opened at $35–$38: buy at $35, sell at $38. Traders were almost crushed by the stampede to buy. Everyone in the entire country knew the Somali Marines had collected four ransoms in succession—the big one from the Greeks just one month previous.
There was a risk and everyone knew it. Maybe the United States would refuse to pay. But the cargo had a value, so did the huge ship. And the stock market was reflecting pure optimism. The crowd could not possibly hide its elation.
The 20,000 remaining shares were snapped up in thirty minutes. No one was remotely interested in cashing out. Even the tribal elders at the back of the room wore wide smiles, as they contemplated building the new Haradheere School library with their share of the prize money.
All the modern muses of profits, gambling, risk, nerve, and greed, the driving forces that took down Wall Street in the autumn of 2008, were present in this economic outpost on the shores of the Indian Ocean.
But when the rhythmic throb of the chanting began, the sound rose up through the hot, still night air. It sounded like a thousand hours of practice, but it wasn’t. It was spontaneous, and the people slipped into its lilting repetitive beat, stamping their feet, clapping, and smiling.
CHAPTER 2
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER JAY SOUCHAK’S LISSOME SECRETARY, Mary-Ann McCormac, had a rising edge of incredulity to her voice. “Sir, he says he’s taken command of a US warship and kidnapped the captain at gunpoint and will very probably shoot him sometime in the next twenty minutes. He wants to speak to the boss—and he’s on the private line so I guess he knows something.”
Not many outside callers manage to connect with the office of the chief of United States Naval Operations up on Corridor Seven, right off E-Ring on the fourth floor of the Pentagon. But someone had done so, and with a message so utterly bizarre, it might just be true.
Souchak picked up the telephone. “I am Lieutenant Commander Souchak, executive officer to the CNO of the US Navy. State your name and business real quick.”
The reply came quickly. “I am the senior commanding officer of the Somali Marines Assault Force. One hour ago my troops boarded and captured the USS Niagara Falls, five hundred miles off the Somali coast in the Indian Ocean. I am on this telephone for you to inform Admiral Mark Bradfield of the terms I have decided for the return of the ship.”
Jay Souchak’s mind spun. He rammed his hand on the receiver and snapped, “Mary-Ann, hit that computer and pull up the Niagara Falls in the Indian Ocean—she’s a fleet auxiliary under civilian command—and get me the name of the captain. And get a trace on this call right now.”
Mary-Ann, sensing real urgency when she heard it, dropped everything and asked the main Pentagon comms center to get a handle on the phone call currently connected to the office of the CNO.
Jay Souchak asked the caller, “Where exactly are you personally?”
Ismael Wolde spoke very slowly. “Sir, I am on the bridge of the Niagara Falls. Captain Frederick Corcoran is unharmed, but he is my prisoner with everyone else. We are stationary in the water.”
“Give me your GPS numbers.”
“We are zero point seven-five south, five-two point three-six east.”
“Hurry, Mary-Ann, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m getting it, sir . . . right now . . . Niagara Falls is under the command of Captain Fred Corcoran, Irish-born US citizen. The ship sails under an American flag. “She’s in the Indian Ocean . . . Gimme her GPS numbers.”
“This computer is fifteen minutes out of date: Last reading was zero point seven-five south. Five-two point three-six.”
Given that the ship was apparently dead in the water, Jay Souchak knew instantly this was real, so long as the call was not incoming from anywhere in the US.
“MARY-ANN!” he yelled, “Find the boss right away and patch him through to my private line.”
“Sir, the call is coming from outside the US—wait! They’re saying India, no—WAIT—they changed that to East Africa—it’s a cell—they have a frequency line—satellite—they just asked the Brits to help via Cyprus.”
“Where’s the boss?”
“He’s in with the chairman. He’ll be on the line right away.”
Jay Souchak knew he needed to keep the caller on the line. “Do you have specific terms for the release of the ship?”
“Very definitely,” replied Wolde. “But I am instructed to use this phone number and to speak to Admiral Mark Bradfield in person.”
Lieutenant Commander Souchak, a former XO in an Arleigh Burke Class guided missile destroyer in Gulf War II, tried to imagine the scene on the bridge of the Niagara Falls. Questions ranged through his mind: Had there been a firefight? Was anyone injured? Or worse, dead? Would the ship still run?
Mary-Ann called from the next room: “Sir, they’re saying definitely East Africa on that call, but the satellite connection is not good. Also, did you know the Niagara was an ex–combat support ship, and it’s on an aid mission to Somalia?”
“Why would you seize an aid ship heading for your own country?” Jay Souchak asked Wolde.
“Sir, that is my business. Please put Admiral Bradfield on this line.”
“Admiral,” snapped Souchak, “it is after 6:00 p.m. here in Washington, and the admiral attends a conference every evening at this time. I have located him and we will not keep you long.”
“Then tell him to move fast,” replied Wolde. “Because you may force me to shoot someone else.”
“What do you mean someone else?” demanded Souchak. “Who have you already shot?”
“I believe you call it the fortunes of war,” said Wolde. “Please put Admiral Bradfield on the line.”
At which point the CNO came on the private line in the outer office and said crisply, “Okay, Jay, what’s happening?”
“Sir, I have a fucking Somali pirate on the other line, and he says he’s boarded and captured a United States aid ship, the Niagara Falls, under civilian command and would like to discuss terms for her release with you personally.”
“How the hell did he get this number?”
“Darned good question, sir. I’ve checked him out. He’s not only waiting, he’s genuine. There’s no point in my talking to him further. He has terms to offer but only to you. You want the call patched through to the conference room on the second floor?”
“Good idea, Jay. Then get down here and bring Mary-Ann. This might get very complicated. Gimme half a minute.”
Ismael Wolde connected with the head of the United States Navy exactly five minutes after he dialled the number Yusuf had provided.
“Sir,” he said, “my assault troops have taken command of the Niagara Falls. Captain Corcoran and his crew are my prisoners. And so is the ship, which I understand contains many millions of dollars in cargo, such as food, medication, and shelters.
“My price for the return of all this is 10 million US dollars. Payable in cash, at sea, delivered by air. At that point my troops and I will evacuate the Niagara Falls, and she will be free to continue her voyage with little harm done.”
“You sound like an experienced man,” replied Admiral Bradfield. “And thus you must be aware that the United States Navy does not, will not, under any circumstances, negotiate with pirates.”
“Of course, that is a matter for you to decide,” said Wolde. “However, there are just a few points I should make. I have already negotiated a very good price for half the cargo to my own government. I am proposing to sell the other half to the Ethiopian government. And because there is some urgency with refrigeration, I will need to move swiftly.”
The Delta Solution Page 4