Syren's Song (9 page)

Vanni gave Gala's shoulders a quick squeeze. “Do not think that way, Gala. You will be a hero of our liberation with your weapon, and you will make us rich when we sell it to the Chinese. We will have everything we need—security, friends, and money.”

Gala merely nodded and went back to gazing at the stars while the sky was still clear.

DAY 7
DAY 7

Trincomalee

S
yren
held off three miles from the port of Trincomalee. It wasn't safe to come much closer. Just as it had been in Colombo, boats that had been under way during the EMP attack were now grounded on sandbars or hugging the shore. Four teams manned the topside guns while Stark ordered the aviation component to launch the unmanned aerial vehicles that would provide a bird's-eye view of the area. Specialists in the CIC would monitor the cameras, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

“Olivia, you have the conn. Standard operating procedure—keep the engines warm, warn off any ship, and if anything comes within a mile make best speed in the opposite direction.”

“Lovely, Captain. Full retreat, then, is it?” she said with a wink.

“Best to live to fight another day until we can figure out this EMP thing,” he retorted. “The executive officer has the conn,” he said over the shipwide speakers.

Gunny Willis and another security guard joined Stark, Ranasinghe, and Warren on
Syren
's RHIB
Somers
. Warren was still tightening the straps to secure his equipment when Stark gave the command to the boatswain's mate to lower the boat astern. He quickly found a seat. Each member of the team wore body armor and, except for Warren, held an FN FAL-308 select-fire rifle. The second security officer held onto the pedestal-mounted FN MAG-58.

The boat was halfway down the ramp when it jerked to a stop, almost throwing Warren into the water. The boatswain's mate gestured to two of the crew, who manually released the boat. “Don't worry, Captain, we'll fix it eventually.”

Stark and the rest put on their sunglasses to block the midday sun as they sped into Trincomalee harbor. Stark surreptitiously slid his hand down his
right pant leg to the spot where it was tucked neatly into his boot. Once he felt the bejeweled hilt of the
sgian dubh
, something he had done often since Maggie had given him the good luck charm, he was comforted. He removed the knife and took a closer look at the family crest on the hilt. When Warren noticed the weapon, Stark handed it to him and explained its significance in Scottish history.

Warren looked at it appreciatively. “Nice piece. Well balanced. I like the quartz on the hilt. Cairngorm, isn't it? And I like how they worked the iron into a crest. Great craftsmanship,” he said as he carefully returned it to Stark.

Ranasinghe seemed to have no good luck charm to bring him comfort. He was visibly distraught, particularly when they reached the entrance of the harbor. Wrecks and flotsam still littered the water and shoreline because the local port authorities were skittish about proceeding with salvage efforts. The Sri Lankan commander pointed to the mast and partially submerged superstructure of one ship. “That, Captain, is—or rather was—
Sayura
. I had orders to report to her as my next ship. I knew her and her officers well.”

There was little Stark could say. He too had experienced the loss of a ship and crew. A simple knowing nod was more meaningful than any words.

The fishing boats that had not been in port during the attack were now going about their normal business, casually laying lines miles outside the harbor. One sailboat—a catamaran—was slowly making its way to the port under power.

Stark missed his own sailing days. A cutter-rigged sloop berthed on the Potomac River had been his home during the year he spent as an aide on Capitol Hill. On long weekends he would sail down the river and out into the Chesapeake, especially on sun-filled, windy days like this. He smiled remembering full-bellied sails and a fifteen-degree heel as the boat dug steadily into the water. Something about the catamaran didn't seem quite right to him, though. On its current course the boat should be sailing close-hauled to wind-ward, not putt-putting along under power. He couldn't imagine a sailor not taking advantage of prime sailing conditions like these.

He carefully set his rifle down and pulled binoculars out of the equipment case. The catamaran was an older design without the roller-furling jib, but it carried no headsail at all. The mainsail hung loosely from the boom, though he couldn't see a halyard attached to it. Stark's RHIB was nearly fifteen hundred yards from the sailboat, and even with the best binoculars he couldn't see every detail. He could see three men in the cockpit. One was standing and steering the boat. The other two were looking in Stark's direction.

“Commander,” Stark said to Ranasinghe, “you wanted us to investigate ships. How about we get in a little practice here?”

“That sailboat?” the Sri Lankan officer asked.

Stark nodded and said, “Something's not right. Might be nothing. Coxswain, make for that sailboat. Gunny, stand by to cover.” Willis motioned for the guard standing with the MAG-58 to focus on the sailboat while Stark kept the binoculars trained on it. He couldn't make out a name.

“Jay,” he said to the scientist, “what's the distance between that sailboat and
Syren
?”

Warren redirected his attention from his instruments to take a look. “I'd guess about three thousand yards.”

Stark did some math in his head. The men in the boat scrambled as the RHIB closed to two thousand yards from a different vector than
Syren
. Stark was about to hail them on ship-to-ship when he saw them scurrying around. The question remained: was something wrong, or was this merely a damaged sailboat seeking safe harbor whose crew took alarm at seeing an armed RHIB heading toward them?

“Hey, boss,” Warren shouted. “More ships over there.”

Warren was right. There
were
more ships—the two littoral combat ships and the
Arleigh Burke
–class destroyer
Syren
had passed earlier. Stark grabbed the radio and handed it to Ranasinghe with some directions.

“Catamaran, catamaran,” the Sri Lankan commander said in Sinhalese, “this is the government boat approaching you. Do you require assistance?”

There was no response from the other boat.

“They just went below,” Stark said.

Ranasinghe repeated his message, then said it in English in case the men were not locals. Still nothing.

The three Navy ships continued to approach, and Stark hailed them.

“This is Coalition Warship Twelve,” came the reply, obviously from one of the littoral combat ships. “We are passing astern of you.”

The high-pitched voice sounded familiar to Stark. “Coalition warship, this is
Syren
Actual. Recommend you stand off at least three nautical miles, over.”

“This is a U.S. Navy warship! We do not take orders from you. We are coming through.”

“Coalition warship, we are about to conduct a VBSS,” Stark countered as Warren explained the acronym for visit, board, search, and seizure to a
confused-looking Ranasinghe. Stark continued, “On behalf of the Sri Lankan government. I repeat: request you stand off at least three nautical miles, over.”

“Captain,” Gunny said calmly, “the catamaran's turning.”

The catamaran had picked up speed and turned 180 degrees—right toward the two LCSs and destroyer. Stark saw two fishing boats in the distance also change course. He suspected that they would cut across the bows of the warships, although well ahead of them. But they were too far away for him to see what was happening.

“Coxswain, get us on the other side of the sailboat toward those two fishing boats. And crank it.” The crewman complied, and in a few seconds the RHIB was bumping over the water at sixty knots. The passengers ducked down and held on. The RHIB was between the sailboat and the fishing boats when Stark motioned the coxswain to slow down.

When the boat eased to ten knots, he looked through the binoculars again. The two fishing boats were still on a line to cross ahead of the warships, and they were both towing long fishing lines. He couldn't actually see the lines, but he could make out translucent buoys, about the size of the lobster buoys he remembered as a kid in New England, spaced about twenty feet apart. The warships were still bearing down. They hadn't listened to him.

It suddenly occurred to Stark that no fisherman or lobsterman in his right mind would use translucent buoys. They should have been colored, identifiable to the waterman who owned them.

The catamaran was clearly not in distress, because it had turned away from the harbor and directly toward the warships, still refusing to respond to the continuing hails from Ranasinghe.

Stark looked back in time to see the sailboat raise a flag on one of the halyards—lions on an aquamarine background. Peering back at the two fishing boats he saw the same flag. “Do you recognize those signals?” he asked Ranasinghe.

The Sri Lankan didn't hesitate to respond. “Those are banned in my country. They are the flags of the Sea Tigers.”

“Son of a . . . that's it.” Stark grabbed the mike. “Coalition warships, these are Sea Tiger boats. Recommend you veer to port at best speed to avoid them.”

USS
LeFon
, off Trincomalee

Cdr. Jaime Johnson was on the starboard bridge wing looking through the Big Eyes—the powerful, pedestal-mounted ship's binoculars—observing the movements of the boats ahead and off their starboard bow.

“Standing by, ma'am,” Ensign Fisk said as he handed the ship-to-ship mike to her.

“Admiral, we need to do as
Syren
's captain suggests,” she said to Rossberg on the ship-to-ship radio. “Something's not right and he has better situational awareness where he is.”

“Commander, you will remain in formation. These boats will make way for us. We need to transfer these ships in Trincomalee, and I'm not going to let a bunch of fishermen delay us.”

“Sir, we are being placed at risk.”

“I am ordering you to remain in formation,” the admiral barked.

Jaime took a deep breath and bowed her head for a moment of reflection, thinking of
Kirkwall
when she was attacked. If she had responded more quickly then . . . She looked through the Big Eyes again and saw the fishing boats trailing what appeared to be fishing nets. Clearly they would be towing the nets across the bows of the three American ships. And she still didn't understand why that catamaran had turned toward them. Was it carrying explosives? If she trained the 5-inch guns on the small boats, though, she would endanger Stark's RHIB.
I have to do something now!
“Admiral,” she radioed, “nets. They've got nets. Recommend we change course to avoid entanglement.”

“Don't be ridiculous. We'll cut right through them. Really, those stupid fishermen should know better.”

Damn it
, she thought, then made her decision. “Bobby, all ahead full, left full rudder,” she said as she opened up the distance to the LCSs.

“What are you doing? Get back here now, you,” the admiral shouted into the radio.

“This is USS
LeFon
to littoral combat ships. There is something wrong. Turn away from those small boats immediately.”
LeFon
's powerful engines took her past the fishing boats before they could cross her bow as she distanced herself nearly two nautical miles from the catamaran.

RHIB
Somers

“Good job,
LeFon
, but why the hell are those two other ships still on course?” Connor demanded.

“Captain, what do we do?” Gunny Willis asked.

“Fire shots across the sailboat's bow,” Stark said to the guard at the pedestal gun. Immediately the MAG-58 let loose a short, staccato burst of fire. The catamaran continued toward the ships undeterred.

“Commander,” Stark said turning to Ranasinghe. “You said the Sri Lankan navy didn't know how the EMP hit the harbors and you never caught the Tigers who did it.”

“Correct.”

“Jay, that catamaran isn't making use of its sails. Do you remember when we were building
Syren
and we got that brief on those Hamas rockets?”

“Yeah, boss,” Warren nodded. “The Qassams they were using against Israel.”

“Remember their diameter?”

“About five inches.”

“Small enough to use a mast as the launcher?” Stark asked, already knowing the answer. “Gunny, open up on that catamaran now.”

Stark got back on the radio and warned the LCSs again but in response only got an admonition from their commander to stand down from firing on an unarmed vessel. The fishing boats with their long lines had already crossed the bows of both LCSs.

Hundreds of bullets from the RHIB peppered the composite hull of the catamaran, and smoke emerged from its engines. The man in the cockpit was down, but there was no sign of the two men who had gone below. Suddenly, fiery smoke blew out of the top of the mast like dragon's breath. And then a small rocket emerged.

Singapore

All Special Agent Damien Golzari knew for certain was that lab equipment from the United States had been passed to a nonexistent company in Singapore, a dead informant knew of a shipment to Sri Lanka, that shipment had ties to a Chinese firm called Zheng Research & Development, and Bill Blake had been killed because he was asking questions. Nothing else he found in Blake's office had proved to be of any use in the investigation, and there was no other source of information in Singapore. He looked at the files spread out on Blake's desk.

The file from Homeland Security Investigations had been faxed to him a few hours earlier. The agent he spoke to was correct about Academy Solutions. A modern hydrostatic extrusion press had been sent to the ghost firm from the Argonne National Laboratory in Illinois. A quick search on the Internet told Golzari that an extrusion press was used to shape metal into tubes, rods, and wires. The HSI file also showed another shipment from
a company in the United States two months before to Academic Solutions—four large 3D printers.

After Golzari completed the paperwork for the State Department on the deaths at Raffles, he made two calls. The first was to Argonne National Laboratory to find the person involved with the extrusion press. After being transferred several times, he reached someone familiar with it.