The Aden Effect (19 page)

“Hu called me yesterday to say that there is a new American military adviser in Sana'a. He is out on a boat today. He will be an easy target.” He tossed his still-burning cigarette into the water, switched on the satellite phone, and impatiently pecked at the numbers.

Ahmed was slow to answer. Finally, “Yes?”

“Ahmed? It's me.”

“Yes?”

Damn that idiot
, Faisal thought.
His speech is too slow. He probably has another wad of khat in his stupid mouth
. “Give me the information, Ahmed.”

“The ships are leaving now for the Socotran platforms.”

“How many?”

“Two. One offshore supply vessel. Name is, uh, name is, ah,
Endurance
. One freighter.
Mukalla Ismael
. Five thousand tons. They will arrive in twenty-four hours. They are being escorted by the Highland Maritime Defense ship
Kirkwall
.”

“The one without a helicopter. Have the security ship sunk.”

“What? Why does this matter? What has changed? It will cost a lot of money to make such arrangements so quickly,” Ahmed whined.

“It matters because I say it matters.” Faisal turned off the phone. “Stupid fool,” he muttered as he walked over to one of the AK-47s and inspected it, making sure it was clean and loaded. “Come, have something to eat,” Saddiq said, hoping to calm his captain's anger.

“Tell me, Saddiq, have you heard from your cousin in England?” Faisal demanded, still holding the AK-47.

“No, Faisal.”

“Then Stark is not dead.”

“I fear not. I would have heard by now. I am sorry, Faisal.”

Faisal raised the weapon and pointed it at Saddiq's chest. “You will go back to the
Katya P
. and wait for my orders there. Do you understand?”

Saddiq stepped back and nodded in fearful compliance.

Connor was back in the pilothouse in time to watch Jaime Johnson brief the two helmsmen, who would each stand four-hour watches.

“The two supply boats will track to us.
Endurance
has been directed to be on station eight hundred yards to our port bow, and
Mukalla Ismael
will be on station eight hundred yards to our starboard bow. This will be a very tight formation, so make sure you keep a close eye on the radar as well as using the Mark I Mod I Eyeball.”

The helmsmen grinned at the Navy-ized term for a simple sensory organ. Most of the
Kirkwall
's crew were former Navy or Coast Guarders who appreciated the old joke. The operators—the shooters—however, were a mix of former special forces both American and foreign, with a few tough Nepalese Gurkhas thrown into the mix.

“We will remain on heading one-zero-eight at one-five knots for approximately twenty hours until we hit the only waypoint here”—they watched over
the captain's shoulder as she pointed on the map to a spot just east of Socotra Island—”at 12° 34' 11" N and 54° 38' 37" E. At that waypoint we will then turn on a heading of two-one-nine for two hours until we reach the primary oil platform. Let's go.”

Stark leaned against the aft bulkhead in the pilothouse. The sea was calm, and only minimal haze obscured the horizon. Absent any breeze he smelled the diesel fuel that hung heavily in the air. The pilothouse was largely silent except for the occasional commercial radio traffic.

“Over here, Commander,” Jaime said quietly. “What do you see on the radar?” In calm seas, a person didn't have to speak loudly to be heard.

Stark concentrated on the green luminescent screen as the radial arm swung around the circle clockwise in synchrony with the navigational radar above the pilothouse, painting a new picture of the environment within their line of sight every few seconds. At sea level, line of sight was about three miles; after that the earth's curvature prevented a person—or radar—from seeing farther. But the ship's radar was mounted high enough to give them a forty-mile picture. Navigational data such as their ship's longitude and latitude appeared at the edge of the screen.

The radar showed two long lines of blips. Connor fine-tuned the resolution. “Hell, there must be more than twenty ships there. Convoy?”

“Give the man a cigar. They started running them a few months ago with some escort ships. In a minute you should see something else. Get a pair of binoculars out of that pocket there,” Jaime suggested.

“Ready, Captain.”

“Hold it. Hold it,” she said scanning the horizon. “There they are: twenty degrees off our starboard bow, just to the left of the
Ismael
.

Stark saw them immediately. Two warships. They were too distant for him to determine their markings, but he had never seen anything like them. “Those are not U.S. destroyers.”

“What you're seeing are two of China's latest and greatest destroyers.”

“Chinese? The last I knew they were buying old Soviet
Sovremenny
-class ships. When did they start building their own? And are they really escorting convoys here?”

“It's a strange new world when the USA isn't the protector anymore. We're stretched too thin, and the Chinese are exploiting it. The Indians are desperate to catch up,” Jaime said, returning her attention to her notepad.

“When a maritime power no longer has fleets of commercial ships or a naval force to protect the few it does have, it is no longer a maritime power,” he lamented.

“It's just a matter of time, Connor. The Navy you and I grew up with is starting to fade away. There's a new kid on the block.”

“China's no kid. Hell, Jaime, what are those idiots in Washington thinking?”

“That's a lot higher than my pay grade,” she said. “But at least Highland Maritime is here to help out. Helm, you've got it from here. We should be clear for the next couple of hours while we pass aft of the convoy. I'm going to email my kids and then take a swing around the ship to see how everyone's doing.”

The three ships—
Kirkwall
and the two ships it guarded like a mother bear protecting her cubs—moved along at a steady fifteen knots, barely sufficient speed to evade the pirates who were sure to be waiting.

When dusk approached ten hours later, Jaime had been back in the pilothouse for hours, double-checking equipment, keeping her eye on the radar, and paying particular attention to any commercial traffic that might interfere with the job. All of her attention was drawn suddenly to one blip on the radar— judging from its size and speed, a small boat with a single engine. The radar had difficulty picking up small craft at longer ranges, particularly between wave crests. Simultaneously a watch-stander shouted a warning. Jaime picked up the ship-to-ship mike.

“
Endurance, Endurance
, this is
Kirkwall
. There is a small boat approaching you at high speed from three-four-zero degrees of our position, approximately five nautical miles.” She then grabbed the ship-wide mike: “All hands to stations. One high-speed craft approaching CBDR,” she said loudly, emphasizing those four letters and the danger they spelled. CBDR—Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range—meant an eventual collision if neither of the two factors changed.

“Wait a minute. That boat's on a CBDR with us, not with one of the supply ships,” Stark noticed from the radar.

Jaime Johnson had just come to the same conclusion when the ship-to-ship blared out.

“
Kirkwall, Kirkwall
. This is
Endurance
. We see the small craft now. It is going to pass astern of us.”

That confirmed it. The private security boat was the target, not the unarmed supply ships.

Stark noted another change on the radar screen. “Captain, two more approaching craft, both CBDR. Wait, one is breaking off going afore
Endurance
.
Dammit, there's another one coming from the same direction. Jaime, they're all targeting us.”

“All hands, Alpha fire team prepare for direct attack from the port side. Bravo fire team to the bow,” the
Kirkwall
's captain ordered.

On the ship all around him Stark heard the methodical movements of professional soldiers preparing for battle. He also heard something else and stepped outside the pilothouse to check—the distinct sound of a helicopter.

The captain returned to the ship-to-ship comms: “Unidentified craft approaching three peacefully transiting ships. You are on a collision course with us. Veer off or we will defend ourselves. Oh, screw them,” she said as she set the mike back into its cradle.

The craft were converging on the
Kirkwall
. The first one, only ten meters long and now less than one thousand yards away, was heading directly toward them.

“Alpha fire team, weapons free. I repeat, weapons free.” The port side of the boat erupted with multiple flashes of gunfire trained on the incoming craft. Stark took his binoculars and focused on the craft, and then tried to shout a warning. “Captain, the . . .”

The boat exploded four hundred yards away with more force than a fuel tank alone could have generated.

“Jaime, that boat was unmanned,” Stark called to her, “and probably loaded with explosives.”

“What? Helm, all engines ahead full, right full rudder. Come to course zero nine zero.” The helmsman dutifully repeated the command as he carried it out.

Bravo team was now firing from the bow.

“Get a weapon, Connor, and help Bravo team.” Stark grabbed one of the guns from the rack in the pilothouse and had just leapt down the starboard ladder when the small boat shook from above. Had he not had one hand on the railing, the explosion would have blown him overboard. He raced back to the bridge to find smoke, shattered glass, and open air. Half of the port bulkhead and hatch had been shorn away.

“Jaime!” The captain lay facedown on the deck. He turned her over and cradled her in his arms, brushing away the hair and blood on her face. One of her arms fell limply, bonelessly back to the deck. He checked for signs of life; she still had a pulse. He didn't have to check the helmsman's pulse—his brain matter was all over the deck and a piece of jagged metal protruded from his chest. Connor gently laid Jaime down and picked up his weapon in time to see
two RPGs on one of the manned boats pointing toward the
Kirkwall
's stern. They attackers fired just before Alpha team's sharpshooting Gurkhas gunned them down. The Gurkhas were themselves quickly felled by the grenades, their limbs torn away by the blasts as their torsos were strewn about the deck or blown overboard.

Stark picked up the mike, relieved to find that the radio still worked, and issued a mayday with the ship's coordinates, hoping someone else was out there to hear it besides the pirates.

The second small boat made its run and a grenade arced toward the stern. Stark swore and braced himself for the impact.

“
Request immediate assistance
. . .”

The OOD called the captain and explained what the bridge had just heard. “Sir, Batwing 58 is up and to the east with thirty minutes of fuel. I spoke with the tactical action officer and Air Boss, and I recommend closing the datum at flank speed. The winds are favorable to recover Five-Eight while we close, refuel her, and buster”—the brevity codeword for ‘proceed at maximum speed'—“her up to the area of the distress call . . . yes, sir, but best speed should be . . . sir, best speed is . . . aye, sir.” The officer of the deck gently replaced the phone, but he was clearly livid. Bobby knew the conversation hadn't gone well.

“Conn, come around, course two-seven-zero. Stand by for flight quarters.” The OOD stared out the window, his fists clenched behind him and jaw muscles jumping.

“Helm, right standard rudder, come to course two-seven-zero. Speed, OOD?”

“Trail shaft.” The OOD left the bridge for the port bridge wing and slammed his fist down on the railing. Bobby followed him out.

“OOD, that'll take twice as much time for us to get there.”

“I know that, Bobby. Hell, we probably couldn't get there in time anyway. But instead of two hours we'll be there in four. Maybe the Lost Boys can do something from the air.”

The shock of the explosion briefly knocked Connor unconscious. The ship was listing badly when he awoke.

“She's sinking,” he heard a distant voice yell out.

Dragging himself to the bridge wing, Stark saw water flooding over the
Kirkwall's
transom. Daylight was fading fast to the west, but the silhouettes of the two supply ships heading southwest to Somalia were still visible. They had been taken.

He took stock of the situation, frantically considering options. Alpha team was gone, dead to a man. A few crewmen from Bravo team had been blown overboard, but several remained. Stark reentered the pilothouse and checked the radio, hoping to get out one last mayday; the cordless mike led to a shattered box. He picked up two life preservers and hoisted Jaime over one shoulder.

Again he heard a helicopter, but it was moving away. As the sound of the rotors faded he heard shouts in the water. He looked toward the lifeboats, still in their davits, in time to see the funnel collapse on top of them.