Syren's Song (2 page)

ACRONYMS
ACRONYMS

PART
I
PART
I

DAY 1
DAY 1

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka

“T
he sun is setting. Maybe they won't come. Maybe they lied,” the younger naval officer said to his admiral.

“No. They have never lied before,” the admiral said wearily.

“They will attack.” He turned his pipe upside down and tapped out the ashes against the steel railing of the bridge wing. The embers fizzled into the calm water below. The Sri Lankan admiral had taken every precaution possible in the eighteen hours since the warning had been issued. The notice had been short, clear, and concise: “Our fleet will attack your ports tomorrow.”

Like his counterparts to the south in Galle and in the west coast port of Colombo, he took immediate action, closing the harbor of Trincomalee, Sri Lanka's northeasternmost naval port. Safely sealed inside were scores of small boats, several fishing vessels undergoing repair, and a few sailboats fitted out for global cruising with navigational radar and small, wind-powered generators attached to the stern. These were likely Western retirees fulfilling a life dream to sail the world. He had often seen their like sailing around the Bay of Bengal, intent on their pleasure and oblivious to danger. Some had even defied warnings in the western Indian Ocean during the height of the Somali piracy attacks and had been captured and ransomed; a few were killed. The admiral viewed their irresponsibility as the arrogance of a fading Western culture. They expected the world to be theirs—free of the dangers others had to face daily. The Westerners' elegant sailboats were easy to distinguish from the local sailboats that dotted the second largest natural harbor in the world.

The harbor—and northeastern Sri Lanka in general—had long been under the influence of Europeans, but the region was on the cusp of a major change. It was the admiral's job to prepare Trincomalee for that change as Chinese
workers cleared hundreds of acres for a major new shipping terminal. His staff had only two days before given him the itinerary for a series of meetings between representatives of Sri Lanka and China to determine how security would be established and maintained. They had not even had the first introductory meeting.

He looked around the vast harbor, focusing on the piers where several merchant ships remained, denied departure from the harbor. The shipping companies were outraged about his decision; every unnecessary day in port meant a loss in profits. A dozen more inbound merchant ships, mostly freighters, had chosen to wait out the threat by anchoring outside the harbor. The Sri Lankan government had issued an advisory to all vessels approaching the nation's ports of the threat, but many fishing boats, trawlers, and merchant ships had continued on course for Trincomalee. Each would have to be inspected before they were allowed to enter the harbor, but he had too few ships and men to adequately search them. They would simply have to wait outside until the threat ended.

Three of the smaller patrol craft in his squadron maneuvered back and forth along the five-hundred-yard-wide harbor opening. The admiral had ordered one of his Sa'ar 4–class boats to remain on station half a mile outside the harbor entrance while his own ship, SLNS
Sayura
, operated with the patrol craft. His helicopters remained on standby. He knew this enemy and the type of ships they had used in the past, and he had defeated them then. No invaders would enter Trincomalee on his watch.

The cloudbank behind him blazed orange and then faded to pink as the sun sank behind the hillside. His tension grew. Without the defensive advantage of daylight, his men would have to be extra vigilant for craft approaching the harbor. But the admiral still had four technological advantages: the surface ship radar on each of his squadron's vessels, the patrol planes circling above, the new networked communications that had been installed on each of his ships, and advanced onboard computers. A small guerilla force seeking to enter and destroy the harbor simply could not overcome those modern advantages.

The admiral walked inside the pilothouse and checked the radar screen. The surface contacts outside the harbor continued to approach Trincomalee. Probably fishing boats and freighters expecting to unload and pick up cargo. A pattern emerged on the screen—two distinct lines of contacts, one ship behind the other, following the traditional shipping lanes and anticipating the course
corrections at the first markers for the channel. On the bridge-to-bridge radio he heard the captain of his outermost ship calling to the merchant captains and advising them where to anchor. The dots that were the freighters separated and slowed. Other contacts approached the harbor more chaotically—fishermen avoiding the larger freighters as they returned home, as they and their fathers and their fathers' fathers had done for hundreds of years. Somewhere out there or beyond, the insurgents were preparing their attack.

Dozens of voices began crowding the radio waves. One belonged to the captain of SLNS
Nandimithra
. Freighter captains began to chatter. Then the fishermen chimed in. Too many voices. Music began to play over someone's open microphone. The cacophony continued to rise until individual voices were no longer recognizable. The admiral lifted the binoculars hanging around his neck and focused on the three smaller patrol craft to ensure their guns were manned, then turned to the sailor manning the onboard communications terminal. “Are we up on chat with the squadron?” he asked, referring to the instant messaging system in the combat information center.

“Yes, Admiral,” the sailor quickly replied.

“Pull
Nandimithra
back to the harbor entrance and have her take up station one hundred yards to our starboard.”

“Aye, sir.” The sailor quickly typed the command.

The admiral turned down the volume on the radio. In the sudden quiet he heard a sound through the open hatch. He stepped onto the bridge wing to listen, his aide dutifully following. The harbor around him was as eerily silent as the radio channel was disturbingly dissonant. On land, he knew, the army was patrolling the streets and the citizens had been directed to remain in their homes. Then he heard it again. A bell tolled slowly into the silence, the sound echoing across the calm water of the harbor. The bell became louder, calling out a warning in the waning light. He lifted his binoculars again and scanned the shoreline, stopping at Konesar Malai, a hill overlooking the harbor. He knew only one structure with a bell in that vicinity—the Koneswaram Kovil Hindu temple, a two-thousand-year-old landmark dating back to the Pandyan Kingdom. A faint light appeared in the bell tower. He needed to contact his army counterpart now to tell him to investigate the tower, but as he was about to reenter the bridge his aide grabbed him by the arm, normally an inexcusable offense.

“Admiral, what is that?” the aide asked, pointing toward the moored sailboats.

The admiral let his binoculars fall as he squinted toward one of the boats. A tiny star appeared atop the mainmast of one of the sailboats and then shot up into the sky, followed by a thin plume of smoke. Seven more stars appeared on seven more masts. One after the other they exploded into blue-green fireworks that blinded the crew manning the .50-caliber weapons and sparkled as they drifted down toward the water. And then again silence. He raced back into the bridge towing his aide, who was still clinging to his arm in shock.

“Sailor,” he said, approaching the communications terminal, “tell the squadron—” He stopped as he noticed the sailor furiously pounding keys, yelling something into his mike. “What is it?”

“Sir, I am sorry, but we're having difficulty. The chat room just went dead. I'm trying to reestablish contact, but nothing is working.”

The admiral noticed something else. The radio was now silent as well. “Who turned off the radio?” he barked. No one responded. He turned up the volume, but there was nothing. He picked up the mike himself and called to one of his ships. Nothing.

Another sailor slammed his fist on the radar console.

“What now?” the admiral asked.

“Sir, it's not working. I can't see anything on the radar. We've lost all contacts.”

And then the admiral realized that every technological advantage he had relied on to defend the harbor was gone and there was little he could do. The Sea Tigers were coming, just as they said they would.

Highland Maritime Defense Training Facility, Scotland

Connor Stark sucked air into his lungs, recognizing that he was at the point of exhaustion and unable to react in time to deflect the next blow. He had held off his opponent for nearly four minutes, an unheard of feat. Martial arts battles were usually over in less than a minute. The blows had to be quick, the counterblows even quicker. The slightest mistake could mean death. Stark had an inch in height over his opponent and a longer reach, but he was a few years older and an eternity slower. The man he faced had spent most of his life honing his skills as a fighter. Beads of sweat glistened on the man's dark, bald head as he himself began to strain from the effort. Onlookers formed a ring around them. Stark heard a few taking bets; most of the money was on his opponent.

Both men took a step backward to rest a moment and gain enough strength for one last melee that would determine the victor. Neither took his eyes off the other. A glance down or away or even an eye blink could determine who won. But Stark was tired, and his head drooped just long enough for the other man to seize the advantage.

The man rapidly took two steps forward and hit Stark with a left uppercut and a quick right jab. Blood poured from Stark's nose and a cut near his right eye. The man followed up by tackling Stark and taking him to the ground. He kneeled on Stark's chest, grabbed the neck of Stark's t-shirt with his left hand, and cocked his right arm for the final blow. He paused when Stark managed to open his left eye.

Stark summoned the strength to whisper up to his victorious opponent: “Had enough, Gunny?”

“Nah. I have a couple rounds left in me, Skipper,” responded the recently retired Marine before releasing Stark's shirt and letting him slump back to the mat. “Four minutes, seventeen seconds,” Gunny Willis said, looking at the clock in the training room. “Way too long. We'll work on your stamina more, but you have got to finish a fight a lot quicker than that, especially if you're fighting a young'un. I know you've been in a few scraps, but you've been lucky.”

At this moment Stark didn't feel lucky. “So what's your recommendation of the day?” he asked.

“Get help.”

“Thanks a lot, Gunny.”

“I'm serious, Skipper. Nothing wrong with bringing a knife or a few other aids to a fight.”

The team's medic approached Stark with a towel to wipe away the blood and then helped him stagger over to a chair so he could repair the damage to Stark's face. When he had finished, Stark slumped over, still breathing heavily, and waited for his heart rate to slow. The employees of Highland Maritime Defense who had watched the session exchanged a few pounds or euros to settle their bets and returned to their own workouts. The old man had heart, they knew, but heart alone wouldn't necessarily win a fight—especially against the gunny.

When Stark rose to leave, the men stopped what they were doing and in one voice began to recite Saint Barton's Ode. Stark had said it once after a particularly grueling training session, and Willis, the firm's training officer, had instituted it as their mantra. “I am hurt,” they all said in unison, “but I am not slain. I will lay me down and bleed awhile, then I'll rise to fight again.”

The medic checked Stark's eyes with a flashlight, found nothing alarming, and released him to return to town. A couple of the firm's employees—a former SEAL and a former Royal Marine—accepted Stark's invitation for a ride back from the island, which served as both Highland Maritime's headquarters and its training site. The only signs of habitation visible as they walked across the small, windswept island were the five piers and a shooting range, gymnasium, classroom, office, and dormitory compound. The three boarded Stark's 345 Conquest Whaler, and Stark took the helm as the others cast off.

Stark had founded Highland Maritime Defense a few years before as an arm of his friend Bill Maddox's firm to provide security for its construction teams in high-threat regions. Highland Maritime had since grown into one of the world's premier private security firms. Stark had modeled its operations on the French Foreign Legion, a multinational group with a rigid code of conduct, rather than the fly-by-night private security companies that had emerged from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. The world was becoming a far more dangerous place as Western navies ceded their traditional roles on the high seas. Highland Maritime was there to stabilize situations where it could.

The three Mercury outboards roared as the Whaler passed two of Highland's training craft. His passengers took seats in the cabin and settled in with a deck of cards to pass the time. As the boat reached the last channel marker, Stark eased the throttles forward, keeping an eye out for other boats and bad weather, always a possibility in this part of the world despite the clear late-afternoon sky. Stark looked at his watch as the boat slowly gained speed through the calm seas. He had made this run enough times in various weather conditions to know that if boat traffic remained light he could cross the ten miles of ocean and be tied up in Ullapool within thirty minutes.

Stark squinted as he searched for potential hazards in the water, relying on his left eye because Doc had put a couple of stitches above his right eyebrow after the training session. Maggie was certain to notice, and he began to wish he had remained in the Highland dormitory for the next couple of nights.

Stark throttled back as the Whaler approached several sailboats moored in the harbor; the engines eased from a roar to a gentle hum. The men on the decks of the fishing boats stopped their work and waved as he passed. He made the final turn into the line of slips, reversing the engines as he passed his own slip and spinning the wheel just enough to get the boat lined up. His passengers came out of the cabin and positioned themselves on each side as Stark edged the boat forward and let momentum bring it in. The men grabbed the
lines and tied them to the appropriate cleats, then took their overnight bags, thanked Stark, and made their way into town.