The Aden Effect (41 page)

“No, Faisal,” Stark said steadily. “I am going to return you to your family. Your father will know what you have done and will decide your fate.” Out of the corner of his eye, Stark saw Bobby Fisk enter the bridge, pistol ready, his arm close to his body and arm bent at a forty-five-degree angle.

“No!” Faisal said, showing the first sign of fear. “You cannot do that. Give me my gun, let me . . .” he tried to reach for a nearby AK-47, but Stark shifted the weapon beyond his reach.

“We are not finished yet. Who were you working with? Tell me.”

Faisal refused to answer.

Stark shrugged. “You
will
tell me—now or later.” As Stark began to rise, Faisal's right arm swung upward. Stark saw a glint of metal. Just before the knife plunged into his abdomen, a shot rang out. Faisal's hand was blown backward as the knife flew across the bridge and fell harmlessly in a corner.

Stark turned to find Bobby Fisk in the classic pose of a marksman, left arm extended, his right hand wrapped around and supporting his left. The pistol was still pointing at Faisal.

“Pistol team at the Academy, huh?” Stark asked with a sigh of relief. “Just how good were you?”

Bobby didn't take his eyes off Faisal. “I was okay, sir.”

“How okay?”

His eyes still on Faisal and his pistol unwavering, Bobby answered, “Standard Pistol intercollegiate champion two years in a row.”

“Nice shot. Thanks,” Stark said. “Tie him up,” he said to another VBSS member, who pulled plastic cuffs from his belt.

Faisal propped himself up on one elbow. “I have failed. But they will not,” he taunted.

“What do you mean? Who?” Stark shook him roughly. “What do you have planned?”

Faisal said only, “My family will not succeed,” before closing his eyes and sinking back on the floor.

“Faisal,” Stark came close enough to whisper in his ear, still wary that the handcuffed Yemeni might try something. “What your family will do to you is far worse than anything I could do.”

“No. They are weak, like their American friends.”

“You're wrong.” Stark turned to Ali, still tied up in the corner and trying manfully to control his shaking. “It's okay now, son,” he said as he untied the boy's bonds. “Your father will be overjoyed to see you.” He helped Ali to stand and turned back toward his team. “Invite the Yemeni admiral to come aboard. Both will go back with him.”

With one arm still around Ali, Stark made his way to the deck to greet the admiral, who returned his salute with respectful gravity. When he had finished telling the Yemeni the details of the last half hour, he motioned toward Faisal and Ali. “Please take them both to their father, Admiral. I'll follow later. Bobby,” he said to the young ensign, who had holstered his weapon, “have you ever scuttled a ship before?”

“Intentionally, sir?” he asked with a grin.

“Once everyone is safely off the ship, scuttle her.”

“Aye, sir.”

Stark looked back from the RHIB returning him and his team to the
Bennington
in time to see the admiral leaving the ship with Faisal, Ali, and the surviving Somali pirates. A strip of duct tape blocked Faisal's mouth; another strip covered his eyes.

Once back aboard the
Bennington
, Stark went immediately to the bridge to meet with what remained of the senior personnel—Fisk, WEPS, six pilots
from the Lost Boys detachment, and the first-class petty officers who were now the senior officers in their respective divisions.

“Welcome back, sir!” WEPS said.

Stark nodded. “Thanks. Conn, make a course for Hadiboh, and please don't put us on a sandbar.”

“Aye, sir!”

Then he looked around the bridge. “Congratulations, everyone. You all did a first-rate job. Please extend my appreciation to your divisions. It was their professionalism that allowed us to get the pirates responsible for this attack. Ladies and gentlemen, I need a status. WEPS, damage report?”

“Most of the damage was contained in officers' country. Thirty-two officers and chiefs are dead, including the two culinary specialists who were in the galley. We have thirteen wounded, including the CO. The civilian doctors have stabilized most of them, but two have more serious injuries. The docs said we should at least get those two off the ship to Hadiboh. Power and water are out in that section. We've secured officers' country.”

“Did we get a response from Fifth Fleet?”

“They acknowledged our initial message about the attack, sir. We're standing by.”

“All right. I'll draft the after action report. Air Boss?”

“Both helos are on the deck. Some damage to the hangar from the explosion, but the fuel lines are secure. We should have both fueled up and ready to go in about six hours. Five-Eight did see something to the west they need to report.”

One of the pilots stepped forward with a photograph. “It's a supertanker, sir. We've confirmed that it's the
Katya P.
, the one taken by pirates several weeks ago. According to our intelligence specialist the ship never made contact with its owners.”

“I'm listening.”

The intelligence specialist stepped forward. “Sir, the photo shows six dhows accompanying the tanker, three on each side, in a clear formation.”

“Where? Show me.” Stark took him by the arm to the chart table.

“Right here, sir.” The specialist pointed to a spot just west of Socotra. “They were headed at eleven knots on a course east by southeast.”

Stark didn't need someone to explain the implications of that course and the unusual formation.

“I need a navigator.” A quartermaster first class cautiously stepped forward.

“No need to hesitate, QM1. The job's yours.” She turned immediately to the charts. “Sir, are we going back to Hadiboh?”

“Not yet.” He looked around the bridge. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have another unexpected task ahead of us. Conn, make course zero-nine-zero. The new NAV here and I will provide a longer-term track later. For now I want the crew to take some time to themselves. Was the chaplain among those killed?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Bobby.

“Tell your men and women we'll grieve later, but we will honor our casualties by the actions we take now. By my estimate, we'll be in action again tomorrow morning. Air Boss, I need you to deliver a couple of messages when you evacuate the two seriously wounded crewmembers to Hadiboh. Then I want you to rejoin us east of the island.”

Golzari read the message from the
Bennington
's new commander aloud, finishing with: “ . . . therefore, I am taking the ship to protect U.S. assets and lives. XOXOXO, Stark.”

“Is that last bit code, ma'am?” the British-educated Golzari asked the ambassador innocently.

She snorted. “Yes, it means that despite what's happened he's still maintaining his sense of humor—and still being a pain in the ass.”

A
s the sun rose behind the ship, Stark sipped at a fresh cup of coffee and decided he ought to nominate the new NAV for a commendation. The timing was exactly as he had hoped. The ship was proceeding at full speed and the second helicopter was just lifting off the deck. The ship had slowed just long enough to launch the helicopters and the two RHIBs, which were now well ahead of them. The oil platforms were within sight. Twenty nautical miles astern of the
Bennington
was a new friend.

He reread the note from C. J. that had come back on the helo. Golzari had stopped the attack and taken Asha, but a Chinese marksman had assassinated the Somali pirate before Golzari had finished questioning him. So it was indeed the Chinese who were behind this.

The radio suddenly crackled with a desperate voice. “This is Maddox Oil Platform 3 to anyone. We are being approached by seven ships approximately twenty nautical miles from our position, heading two-six-five degrees. Is anyone out there, over?”

“Sir, do we respond?” asked Fisk.

“No.”

Bobby was confused by Stark's terse—and callous—response. Someone calling in with an emergency should at least know that help was on the way, shouldn't they?

A minute later the platform called for help again. Still no response from the captain. Several more calls, increasingly plaintive, came in over the next ten minutes.

“Sir?” Bobby couldn't stand it anymore.

“It's okay, Bobby. This is all a ruse. I sent a message yesterday to Mr. Maddox, and he spoke to his people on the platforms. They're following our instructions right now.”

“Ambush, sir?” Bobby said hopefully.

“Just a little payback. No need for the pirates to know that help is nearby. They think they took out the ship's command yesterday and that we can't respond. Let's prove them wrong, okay? Maybe it'll be one for the Academy's history books.”

“If that happens, I hope they spell our names right.”

“I don't think Bobby Fisk will be a problem. But everyone misspells Connor.”

Bobby grinned and relaxed a bit. “I'm glad you're on our side, sir.”

When the
Bennington
negotiated the waters between the platforms and Socotra twenty minutes later, the massive ship was clearly visible on the horizon. Its dhow escorts were still too distant to be seen by the naked eye.

Stark squared his shoulders. “It's showtime, folks. Bobby, order the RHIBs to proceed and execute Foxtrot Tango. TAO, CO. Advise Batwing 58 to move to Battle Position One. Advise Batwing 57 to move to Battle Position Two.”

At his order Batwing 58 descended from nine thousand feet to five hundred in a dizzying spiral, fired a Hellfire at each of the first four dhows, and raked the other two with its machine-guns.

Batwing 57, half a nautical mile ahead of the
Katya P.
, likewise descended and hovered above the ship, facing the superstructure while flying in reverse, a testament to Air Boss's flying skills.

Saddiq and the pirates looking out the bridge windows at the helicopter had taken the
Katya P
. as a trophy. It was about to become their grave.

“Say hello to the night,” Air Boss said, quoting from the 1980s movie
Lost Boys
, the namesake of the
Bennington
's helicopter detachment. He fired one Hellfire directly into the pilothouse, then rejoined Batwing 58 to help reduce the remaining dhows to splinters.