Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  As the two speedboats raced toward their victim, Shehab could make out someone stepping out of the Moon Flower's pilothouse. The sailor peered at them through his binoculars, then lowered his glasses and gestured wildly. The big ship started to slowly turn away.

  Shehab smiled as he saw the ship's screw furiously churning the sea in a vain attempt to outrun the rapidly approaching speedboats.

  They relentlessly bore down on their prey. The man on the bridge had grabbed a rifle from somewhere and was firing in their direction. Shehad smiled. They were still too far away and the desperate man’s aim was poor.

  Shehab gestured to Tagaytai and pointed at the ship's bridge. The big pirate grinned, nodded, and easily hoisted an RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher to his shoulder. The ship was 500 meters away, just at the edge of the RPG-7's range in the hands of an expert gunner. Tagaytai was an expert.

  The pirate steadied himself in the rocking boat, aimed at the ship’s bridge, and then compensated for the range and the crosswind. He pulled the trigger that ignited the rocket motor. The PG-7 anti-armor warhead roared out of the short tube. A long tongue of orange-white flame shot out the back. As the rocket leaped out of the launch tube, small fins sprang out to stabilize its flight. It slowly, gracefully arced across the water, seemingly in an instant, and crashed through the thin metal bulkhead just behind the tramp steamer’s bridge hatch.

  The plexiglass bridge windows blew out with a smoky roar and a shower of shards. The heavy side hatch was flung off its hinges. It smashed into the rifleman and crushed him against the metal bridge wing. The man’s battered body was left hanging over the rail, his blood painting the superstructure with a wide trail of red. Thick, black smoke roiled out of the shattered pilothouse.

  Shehab steered the speedboat toward the Moon Flower, bringing it close alongside and matching the lumbering freighter's slow pace. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see three lines with wicked looking grappling hooks arc high up in the air and disappear over the ship's high main deck. His men scurried up the lines and dropped out of sight.

  The second boat pulled in behind. More men climbed the lines to the deck above. The six men on deck were probably more than adequate to overcome the surprised crew. After all, these were nothing more than common sailors, not trained fighting men. That is, if Nurizam's intelligence was correct and Sui Kia Shun had not yet begun to protect his cargoes with skilled mercenaries. If he had, then all the men and weapons he carried on the two speedboats would not be enough, and they would likely know it by now. They would all be sleeping in Paradise tonight.

  As the accommodation ladder slowly rumbled down to the water, Shehab heard the deep rolling rumble of an AK-47 somewhere inside the ship. It sounded as if his men had met some resistance. There was no answering fire. He smiled as he tied the boat to the ladder and ran up to the deck. This would be quick. Maybe Allah was smiling on them and they could be away before anyone discovered their little party.

  Shehab stepped onto the broad steel main deck. It was empty except for two large red containers lashed down next to the forecastle. The main cargo was most likely below, in the cargo holds.

  Tagaytai was just emerging from a hatch on the port side of the superstructure. The big terrorist was herding four terrified sailors, prodding the slowest with the barrel of his AK-47.

  "We have control of the ship,” he shouted. “Some fool down in engineering tried to fight. He is no longer with us."

  Shehab nodded and shouted back, "Where is the rest of the crew?"

  "Wahab has them on the mess decks. We caught them eating lunch. It seems the explosion scared them so much, they were in a complete panic," Tagaytai shouted back. "Like a bunch of frightened children."

  "Well, get them up here," Shehab ordered impatiently. "We have work for them to do and we need to be quick about it."

  Shehab hurried over to the nearest red container. Its hatch was secured with a large padlock and wired with a Malaysian customs inspection seal. He pulled his favorite Browning Hi-Power from under his tunic and aimed. The big .357 blew the lock open, leaving its shattered remains dangling uselessly from the hasp. Shehab flung the hatch open. Inside, just as Nurizam had said, were neatly piled stacks of bags of rice flour. At least the bags were labeled “rice flour” on their outsides.

  Shehab pulled out his fighting knife and slit open one of the bags. He reached into the opening and felt around in the dusty white powder. His fingers soon found what he was searching for. He pulled out a tightly wrapped brick of pure heroin. It felt to be about two kilos worth.

  When Shehab turned, he saw Tagaytai and the other men herding half a dozen scared and dazed sailors across the deck.

  "It is in here,” he said, pointing toward the containers. “Load ten sacks in each boat. Have the crew help you and dump the rest in the ocean."

  The big pirate looked puzzled.

  "But, Shehab, Mullah Nurizam has instructed us to always…"

  Shehab stopped the pirate in mid-sentence with a stony scowl.

  "Do not try to tell me what the Mullah ordered. We are changing things this time. There are expenses that must be met. You will do as I order, and quickly, or you will be food for the sharks."

  Tagaytai did not hesitate. He turned and put the captives and the rest of the pirates to work.

  Commander Paul Wilson rushed into the Combat Information Center aboard the USS Higgins. He had been up on the bridge enjoying the afternoon sunshine and the gentle sea breeze when Brian Simonson, his Tactical Action Officer, called him down into the warship's command center. The skipper blinked several times as he tried to adjust his eyes to the perpetual gloom and low blue lights in the dark room.

  "What do you have, Brian?" Wilson asked. "And it better be good. I was enjoying working on my tan and watching those flyboys play."

  The first group of Aegis-class destroyers, like the Higgins, had not been fitted with a hangar deck. It was a cost cutting measure. It made the destroyers incapable of housing their own helicopter, even though the broad clear flight deck was fully equipped to land, refuel, and re-arm an SH-60 helicopter. However, Higgins had borrowed one from a cruiser that was in port at Singapore for a few days of repairs. The bird greatly extended the destroyer's "eyes" and reach. The only problem was that it had to return to Singapore at the end of each flying day.

  Simonson pointed at the large flat panel display that hung directly in front of the command chair. He rolled the track ball so that an arrow appeared next to one of the symbols, labeled "207."

  "It's surface track two-zero-seven, sir," the young lieutenant explained. "We’ve been tracking it straight across from Cambodia. It passed just south of Rifleman's Bank and Queen Charlotte's Reef. Looked to be heading for Borneo. Probably Kudat or Kota Kinabula. Anyway, it ran straight and normal until a few minutes ago. It made a quick circle, almost three hundred and sixty degrees, then went dead in the water."

  The destroyer's AN/SPY-1D Aegis radar was detecting and tracking everything that moved on or above a 200 mile diameter circle around the ship as she steamed a hundred miles south of Rifleman's Bank. The myriad of rocks and reefs hidden just beneath the waves in this stretch of water had been the downfall of sailors since the first junks ventured beyond the sight of land. Now it served as a prime location for pirates to lurk, waiting for the unsuspecting merchant ship to wander by. The Higgins was out here to try to stop some of their plunder.

  Wilson studied at the track history displayed on the large screen.

  "Doesn't look that unusual. And I’d be surprised to see any pirates striking in broad daylight like this. The rust buckets that steam out here are breaking down all the time. She probably had a rudder casualty. Just stopped to fix it."

  "That's what I thought," Simonson answered. "But EW picked up just a bit of what sounded like a distress call. Sounded like something about a 'pirate' then the circuit went dead. Bearing line was straight at track two-zero-seven."

  The AN/SLQ-32(V)3 Electronic Warfa
re system was a high-tech piece of computer-based magic that allowed the operators on Higgins to strain the electronic spectrum and to listen in on whatever was happening.

  Wilson nodded as he took the new information aboard.

  "OK, it won't hurt to take a look." He looked again at the display. It was just over 180 nautical miles from the Higgins to where track 207’s blip now sat, DIW, “dead in the water.” Even at a flank bell, the destroyer couldn't get there for almost six hours. If there were a problem with pirates, it would be long over by the time the gray warship could arrive. They did have someone much faster they could send in that direction, though.

  "Mr. Simonson, have our guests land and refuel. We have a mission for them. Better arm them with a couple of Hellfires, too, just in case."

  Shehab watched as the last bag of rice flour and high-grade narcotic was cut open and the contents scattered on the sea. Both cargo containers were now empty. The water surrounding Moon Flower was a pasty white color as the rice flour and heroin mixed with the waves. There had been nearly a ton of pure heroin aboard this old steamer. Shehab could only imagine how much money that would be worth in America or Europe or wherever it was originally bound. Regardless, it would be a sizable dent in Sui Kia Shun's supply. The old Chinaman would be furious when he got word.

  Not all the cargo had been dumped overboard. Twenty bags of “rice flour” rested safely on the decks of the two speedboats. Now, it was almost time to leave, but there was one last chore.

  Tagaytai and Wahab each carried a satchel from the boats up to the main deck and then disappeared down into the bowels of the old freighter. Five minutes later they re-appeared, but without the satchels.

  "It's done. The charges are set for ten minutes," Tagaytai gleefully reported. "Enough time to get off and watch this old tub disappear."

  The remnants of the Moon Flower's crew, tired from dumping all the drugs and still dazed from the violence of the attack, overheard the big pirate's words. They began to once again plead for mercy. They were still far from land and with little hope for rescue. The leader asked that they at least be allowed to escape in a life raft.

  Shehab listened to the pleading for a bit and then waved them toward the small orange raft lashed to the starboard side of the superstructure. The grateful crew rushed to untie it and then flung the little raft into the sea. Without being told to, they dove over the side and scurried into the bobbing orange raft.

  As the last sailor disappeared over the rail, Wahab pointed toward the western horizon and yelled, "Helicopter, inbound!"

  A black speck had appeared just above the horizon and was rapidly growing in size as it sped toward the stricken freighter. It would be a very few minutes before the bird was directly overhead. The pirates had to act fast.

  Shehab grabbed an AK-47 from Tagaytai. He aimed down at the raft and opened fire. The 7.62-mm slugs tore through the floating raft, ripping it to shreds. The sailors fared no better. The bullets shredded their flesh, kicking them about as they vainly tried to find cover from the hail of bullets.

  It was all over in less than five seconds.

  Shehab turned without a second glance and marched to the accommodation ladder that reached down to the waiting speedboats.

  "Hurry up," he shouted over his shoulder as he stepped onto the ladder. "Not much time until the charges go off. We need to be away."

  The boats left the scene at full throttle, heading north toward the Ardasier Reefs. There they could hide from the helicopter among the low islets and rocky hummocks.

  Shehab hunkered down in the stern of the boat and watched the dot of the helicopter get ever larger. Was Allah about to punish him for taking the few bags of heroin? He said a silent prayer and continued to watch as the chopper approached the stricken vessel.

  "Hotel India control, this is Delta Nine Foxtrot,” the Seahawk pilot radioed back to the Higgins. “We have track two-zero-nine in sight. Looks like a small coastal freighter. DIW. Activity on the main deck. Going in to take a look."

  "Roger, Delta Nine. Be alert for pirate activity," Brian Simonson radioed back. He watched the green symbol for their helicopter draw closer and merge with track 209 on the large-screen display. At the same time, the symbol for the Higgins moved slowly toward the spot, even as the destroyer raced at flank speed toward the wounded freighter. That didn't matter. The warship wouldn't arrive until it was far too late.

  "Hotel India, two small boys departing two-zero-nine at high speed, heading north,” the chopper pilot reported. “Coming overhead of two-zero-nine now."

  The pilot could easily see the boats heading away, quickly growing smaller. No problem. At 180 knots, he could catch up in a hurry. The rusty freighter was coming up below him now. He pulled back on the collector and brought the bird to a hover over the ship.

  "Bridge has been blasted. Probably a rocket. One corpse on the starboard wing," he sent back to Simonson. "Confirms an attack. Can't find a flag. Vessel’s name is Moon Flower."

  "Roger, we'll check registry. Any sign of survivors?"

  "Negative, Hotel India. I say again, no survivors. Life raft in the water. Bodies floating. Looks like the crew was gunned down."

  There was clearly nothing he could there for the moment. The pilot yanked back on the collector and pointed the bird's nose toward the escaping boats. Those heartless bastards had obviously gunned down innocent sailors without reason. Someone should make them pay. And that was his job.

  "Hotel India, am in pursuit of escaping pirates. Request weapons free."

  Simonson turned to Commander Wilson, sitting next to him in the command chair. Wilson shook his head.

  "Delta Nine, you are weapons tight. Confirm, you are weapons tight."

  The pilot gritted his teeth and almost snarled when he answered.

  "Confirm, weapons tight. Come on, guys. I can get these bastards. I've got them in my sights. Just give me a chance."

  A roar erupted from the Moon Flower as smoke and flame poured out from the ship. A huge hole, large enough to drive a truck through, had appeared just at the waterline. The doomed freighter immediately started to list and sink.

  "Hotel India, they planted charges on the ship. It blew up and is sinking. Please let me smoke these bastards!"

  Commander Wilson put his lips to the microphone.

  "Delta Nine, you know the rules of engagement. You are to maintain contact with the small boys. You can only engage for self-defense. Is that understood?"

  "Roger. Message understood. I'm tracking the small boys. They are heading toward Chinese-claimed waters. Am I authorized to pursue?" the pilot asked. His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  Paul Wilson knew the frustration the pilot was feeling. After all, he had just seen bodies floating in the water, the innocent vessel blown up, and the boats with the guys who caused it all getting away. It would be so easy just to squeeze off a couple of Hellfires. The problem would be over, all neat and tidy. But that wasn't the way the rules were written. They had to play by the rules.

  "We recognize that water as international,” the captain responded calmly. “You are authorized to pursue."

  The pilot didn’t hesitate. He dropped the Seahawk down to the deck and headed toward the fleeing boats at wave top height. If he couldn't shoot, he'd sure as hell scare the bastards.

  Then he could see that someone on the lead boat had stood and turned to look back at him. It looked like he was aiming something in the direction of the chopper. Almost too late, the pilot recognized a Stinger missile launcher.

  He yanked the collector hard and wheeled the helicopter around, dumping flares as fast as he could punch the button.

  "Stinger launch!" he shouted into the microphone, not even trying to keep the near panic out of his voice. This was no drill. For the first time in his Navy career, somebody was firing at him in anger.

  Still, he was able to lock the laser sight on the boat and jammed his thumb down on the launch button. The AGM-114B Hellfire missile's solid fuel rocket ignited
. At 600 pounds thrust, it leaped off the rail and accelerated away from the helicopter. Within 300 meters of travel, the warhead had armed and the missile was headed toward its target. The laser seeker detected the coded laser pulse reflected off the speeding boat and locked on. The missile guidance system steered it unerringly toward a tiny red dot right in the middle of Erinque Tagaytai's barrel chest.

  Zooming along at 800 knots, the missile took only a little over a second to travel the distance. The copper-lined, conical-shaped charge, designed to blast through eleven inches of armor plate, flashed through the pirate’s body and instantly obliterated the speedboat.

  Meanwhile, the Stinger's 1.5-pound warhead had reached the vicinity of the helicopter and exploded just aft of the Seahawk's port engine exhaust. Shrapnel blew through the port turbine, destroying the spinning rotor and tearing the gear train apart. Pieces of the port rotor, flung by a combination of the explosion and centrifugal force, immediately destroyed the starboard engine. Without the spinning blades and rotor, the helicopter was doomed.

  "India Hotel, this is Delta Nine. We are auto-rotating in. Both engines out.” Now the pilot’s voice was surprisingly calm. “Oh, and scratch one pirate."

  12

  Bill Beaman slowly uncoiled, stood, and stretched his long, lanky frame, trying to ease the gnawing ache from his muscles. He was getting too old to be forced to sit in some uncomfortable airplane seat for such a long time. The flight from Travis Air Force Base in California across the Pacific to Yokota Air Force Base, just outside Tokyo, seemed to take forever. But it was finally almost over and he would soon be free to begin the job that he came here to do.

  The call from Admiral Donnegan had been a bolt from the blue. Beaman had been focused on something else entirely, working a team up to deploy into Afghanistan. And he had been preparing himself for a far more difficult task, leaving Seal Team Three after more than four years. It was time for him to move on, to climb on up the ladder and make room for the next guy. Intellectually he knew that. But that had not lessened the shock when his detailer back at BUPERS told him that his relief was named and already in the pipeline, that it was time to start thinking about his assignment in Washington. Beaman was still trying to come to grips with leaving his boys behind, with spending the rest of his Navy days working in the "five-sided puzzle palace." That’s what he was doing when the phone rang and the admiral’s words knocked all that sideways.