The Devil's Waters (19 page)

“You won’t like the answer.”

“Big surprise there.”

Iris Cherlina steepled fingertips under her chin, considering. After moments, she clapped once and decided.

“Did you know Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was once the head of Iran’s electromagnetic research program?” She gazed up at him. “Close your mouth, Sergeant. You’re gaping.”

LB clamped his teeth before speaking. “Iran?”

“Yes. He’s actually an engineer. He wants this machine very badly.”

“You’re not ten years away, are you?”

“No. I am not.”

LB sat back down beside her. “Holy shit.”

Iris laid a hand on his knee while LB came to grips with sending this kind of technology to Iran under the table.

She asked, “You’ve heard of the Stuxnet worm?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Stuxnet was a computer cybermissile developed by Israel and the United States in 2009 that knocked out almost a fifth of the centrifuges, almost a thousand of them, at Iran’s Natanz uranium enrichment facility.

Iris continued. “There have also been assassinations of nuclear physicists in Tehran, and so on. Iran has finally realized they will never be allowed to develop a nuclear device. Israel and the West will prevent it. So Iran has accepted a deal.”

“Whose deal?”

“Who else but your United States could drag along Israel and Russia into such a thing? They have persuaded Iran to trade in their nuclear weapons program for the contents of this ship. Iran has entered the EML sweepstakes to see who can develop and deploy a railgun first.”

“They’re going conventional. That explains the radar and drones.”

“Yes, it would seem. In return, an announcement will be made later this year that the embargoes on Iran have been lifted. It’s bare-knuckle politics at its best, really.”

It all made sense. The whole reason Iran was trying for a nuke was to get a seat at the table, show the world they were someone to be reckoned with. But Iran was never going to be allowed to have a nuclear weapon, period. Letting them in on the race for a railgun in trade for standing down their nuclear research? That was clever. Iran could puff out their chests on the Arab street, and the West and Israel would breathe easier for a while with a non-nuclear Iran. They’d find a way to beat them out of this deal later, when the time came.

Even though it added up, the whole trade was just kicking the can down the road. If somehow Iran actually developed the first deployable railgun, what country in the Middle East could stand up to them? No one. LB bit back his aggravation that, in the revolutionized warfare of the future, America’s warriors would likely be on the front lines again, sorting all this out.

For now, his duty was clear, if unsavory. Protect these machines. The United States was driving this deal, and though it was supposed to be a secret, now that he knew, he had no choice. LB took a long exhale to stay collected.

“So you’re going to Tehran.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We got two problems. One, there’s pirates on board. Two, someone else knows about your toys. Whoever it is slowed the ship on purpose to get it hijacked.”

Iris drew back in surprise. “You’re saying the accident was sabotage?”

“Yep.”

She continued to shake her head, disbelieving. “Impossible. No one in the crew knows what is down here.”

“Yeah, well, obviously you’re wrong. It’s someone who knows how this ship works, and has a stake in the pirates taking it.”

“How do you know this?”

“The chief engineer figured it out. But that’s for later. Right now I gotta go topside.”

“Why?”

“To make a call.”

“I’m coming with you.”

LB shook this off. “Stay. You can hide better down here. I can move faster.”

He struck up the beam to his flashlight.

Iris Cherlina moved into the sallow light around LB. She lapped a hand on his arm.

“I don’t want to be down here in the dark. I need some fresh air. And I’m frightened. I’m safer with you. Please let me come.”

“All right, only up to the deck. But be quiet. Can you do that much?”

“Watch me.”

“I have been. Did you tell me everything?”

“Most of it. Enough for you to make up your mind, yes?”

“Yeah. Maybe later. You’re buying the beers. It’ll be expensive.”

“I can afford it.”

“You’ll need to. Let’s go.”

11 Degrees North
Camp Lemonnier
Djibouti

Wally tossed his second dart, sticking in the triple 17. Dow threw up his hands.

Eleven Degrees North was packed tonight. Any time a northerly breeze slipped across the gulf, the Djiboutian heat and humidity eased, the mosquitoes were blown inland, and Camp Lemonnier’s rec facility got busy. Outside on the wide patio, marines, sailors, airmen, soldiers, and DoD contractors sipped, smoked, chatted, and watched
The Blob
on the big projection screen. On the airstrip just beyond the wire fence, a night-flying HC-130 rumbled in the cool evening, doing a pretakeoff run-up. Inside the former French legion hangar that now held the bar, TVs showed delayed sports and the nonstop military channel. Wally lined up his next toss, aiming for the bull.

Though Wally’d missed by an inch, Dow reacted as if the dart had hit him in the eye. Wally was too far ahead. The lanky staff sergeant had been the last PJ to arrive for this rotation at Lemonnier, showing up at noon today after a TDY climbing Kilimanjaro. Dow was the third youngest in the unit after Robey and Jamie, but looked older than Doc. He claimed he’d gone prematurely gray because he’d had LB at Superman School. Dow was the best Ping-Pong and darts player in the squad, but he’d been on a plane all day and was off his game against Wally.

Before stepping forward to tote his score on the chalkboard, Wally lifted his beer for a swig.

A large hand stopped him. “Captain. How many beers have you had tonight?”

Wally turned to the blocky MP sergeant, who kept a solid grip on his forearm. Another of equal size and bearing stood close behind. Both men’s chests looked wide enough to project the movie on.

Wally lowered the bottle.

“This is my first.” He aimed his chin at Dow. “He’s about to lose and buy me my second. I’m not on alert.”

“Sir, we need you to come with us. Pronto.”

“Time for me to finish beating him?”

“We’ve got a cart outside.”

Dow asked, “What about me?”

The MP said, “You can walk.” He turned, expecting Wally to get moving.

Dow headed to pay the tab. “I’ll see you at the Barn.”

Wally fell in behind the pair of MPs, the crowd making way as the sergeants strode straight for the door. Wally made their manner his own, striding with purpose past a hundred men and women in all the services who gaped at his hurried, escorted exit from 11 Degrees North. Wally slid on his sunglasses.

The MPs drove Wally through the camp at a speed that would have gotten anyone else in trouble. They conducted him to the door of the JOC, held it open, saluted, and stayed behind.

Torres did not greet Wally alone this time. Seated at the table were base commander Colonel McElroy and Air Force CO Colonel Flinger. On the wall, the Falcon View monitors were centered on the same freighter as this morning, the
Valnea.
The ship’s direction was way off, bearing not to Bab-al-Mandeb but southeast for Somalia. An American warship shadowed the freighter.

Wally had a sinking feeling even before McElroy and Flinger rose from their chairs. The two officers stood long enough to shake his hand and say only, “Wally.” Torres motioned him to a seat at the head of the table. A file folder and a cell phone rested in front of his place.

McElroy stabbed a finger at Torres. “Sit rep, Major.”

Torres indicated the Falcon View monitors. “Forty-five minutes ago at twenty-ten hours, the Maritime Op Center and CTF 151 received a distress signal from the freighter
CMA CGN Valnea.
The ship was under attack by pirates. The pirates have since taken control and turned the
Valnea
south for the Somali coast. We believe the destination is Qandala, a pirate stronghold. An American frigate, the
Nicholas
, is in the area. Ship CO Captain Goldberg has had direct contact with the pirates. Thirty minutes ago, the pirate chief Yusuf Raage called for an evac of the two wounded sailors we responded to this morning. Goldberg and a marine arrived on-site in a Zodiac. In front of Goldberg, Raage had one hostage executed. Raage claims the hostage shot one of his men during the hijacking. Goldberg is convinced he’ll shoot more if we move against the ship.”

Wally pushed aside everything Torres had said except for the killing of the hostage.

“LB’s on the
Valnea
.”

Colonel McElroy spoke. “We know. We’ve had no contact from Sergeant DiNardo. We can’t confirm whether he’s still on board.”

Wally would not believe LB was dead. Simple as that. “He is, sir. I’ve known him a long time. He’s still at large.”

“I hope you’re right, but until we hear otherwise, we’re assuming he’s not. We’ll keep our fingers crossed, but we’re on a short leash here. Major, continue.”

Torres touched Wally’s wrist. The gesture was hopeful and fleet, before she became the PRCC again.

“For reasons that will remain classified, the
Valnea
is not a ship the United States government will allow to stay in the pirates’ hands.”

“Who’s going to take it down?”

Colonel Flinger, Wally’s CO, reached across the table to push the cell phone directly in front of Wally. “Pick that up and dial oh-three-one-oh.”

“Sir, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying pick up the phone and dial.”

Together the three officers folded their hands to lean back in their seats.

Wally dialed. The phone did not ring. A voice, deep in timbre, commanding in the first syllables, answered.

“Hello, Captain Bloom.”

“Sir.”

“This is General Madson. You know who I am.”

Wally stiffened his spine. “Yes, sir.” This was the four-star CO of AFRICOM.

“I might have a job for you. I don’t like it. You won’t like it.”

“Hoo-ya, sir.”

Madson made a quiet, approving huff.

“I assume by now you know the raw facts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t tell you what’s on that ship. I will share with you that the president has been very clear with me. He will not allow the
Valnea
to be anchored off the coast of Somalia. Reporters from every Arab news service are not going to crawl over it. There’s secrets on that ship that will stay secret.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. We have limited options here. I can’t find a special-ops unit anywhere in your theater that can spin up in the time frame we’re dealing with. This ship is seven hours from the Somali coast. The president has given me less than that. SEALs, Delta, Special Forces—none of them can do it.”

In his own head, Wally sped through the inventory of options. SEAL teams were based in Norfolk and San Diego, both on the other side of the world. An SF group sat on alert in Stuttgart, an eight-hour flight away. Some SEAL, Delta, and SF teams might be close enough in Afghanistan or Iraq, but they were all deployed and engaged. No way they could be pulled off the line, briefed, and transported in time to take down a moving, hijacked freighter in the Gulf of Aden before dawn.

“Sir, what about Mossad? Spetsnaz?”

“Same problem. No one’s close enough.”

“You’ve got the
Nicholas
on-site. Why not send in a marine team?”

“I’ve thought about that. They’re my second choice for two reasons. First, I can’t come up with a way to maintain surprise. These pirates know they’re being watched. They’ll see a Zodiac or a chopper coming. I don’t want a big shootout. I want a surgical strike. A black op. Second, the fewer people who know about what we’re doing, the better.
Nicholas
has a couple hundred crewmen on board. That’s too many eyes on. I want no press, no medals, no letters to Mom and sweethearts. So I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your unit is sitting alert with planes and choppers on the tarmac two hours from the target. I know you PJs can move fast. I need you to convince me I can send a Guardian Angel unit to capture that freighter back from the pirates. So sell me.”

Madson wanted to send the Eighty-Second ERQS on a combat mission! To recapture a mammoth moving freighter in the dark, four hundred miles away, hijacked by an unknown number of Somalis holding thirty hostages, in under seven hours.

Torres and the two colonels gazed at Wally with a mix of admiration and sympathy, as if he were unfortunate somehow. They’d given up on LB. They seemed about to do the same to him.

Wally opened the file folder. The first pages were a series of satellite infrared close-ups of the ship under way, taken eleven minutes ago. The first showed the green signatures of reflected light off four pirates staked openly on the bow, and at least ten more along the port and starboard rails, partially hidden. In the next, one man each guarded the port and starboard wings beside the pilothouse, looking over the vast cargo deck. The next image displayed one pirate and possibly another at the stern. The last page was a detailed schematic of the
Valnea
with all her dimensions.

On the Falcon View, the freighter steamed toward land with
Nicholas
riding five miles off her beam. What did she carry that was so important? Wally attended the question only a moment, then set it aside for the mission. The brass wanted to send PJs on a strictly combat op. They weren’t designed for that.

Wally knew his men, knew himself. He imagined the jump, the assault, planned it in his head before speaking.

“General, we can do this.”

“Go on.”

“We save lives, yes sir. But every man on my team is a highly trained combatant. Sergeant Quincy was a SEAL, Doc Holliday came over from the marines. Sergeant Dow’s a weapons specialist. Mouse Turner’s done two tours in Iraq with LRP squads.” Wally almost mentioned LB’s formidable background but stopped. “We’ve got every skill this job needs, sir. And we can fight.”

Madson listened, mumbling, “Mmm-hmm.” When Wally finished, the general said, “You left yourself out. A pretty good Ranger officer. A good man to follow out of an airplane, I hear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the rest of your team?”

“Everyone in my unit will do whatever you order. We’ll do it to the best of our abilities, and we won’t fail. Breaking it down one man at a time is not what we’re about, sir. No disrespect.”

“None taken. Good answer. Still not enough. Tell me why you won’t fail, Captain Bloom.”

“Because one of my men is on board the
Valnea.
Sir.”

“I know. First Sergeant Gus DiNardo.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He still alive? Your folks haven’t heard from him.”

“No doubt, sir.”

“He’s that good?”

“Better, sir.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

Silence dangled while Madson considered Wally’s answers. Electronic warbles in the background marked the line as scrambled and secure.

“All right, Captain. You’ve got the job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You got four hours.”

“Sir?”

“The leaders of four countries do not want that ship anywhere near the Somali coast, under any circumstances. It will not be allowed to get within thirty miles. The Russians and the Israelis in particular have been exceedingly clear in expressing this to the president. That means in four hours and one minute, I am going to order the
Valnea
destroyed unless you have control of her. We won’t be delegating this to the Israelis or anyone. This is our operation. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have a Reaper locked and loaded en route. The drone will be over the target by oh–two hundred hours. The president and I are well aware of the consequences. There are twenty-seven civilians on board. You and your team may be, also. If it has to be done, we’ll do it while she’s still in deep water and out of sight of land. We will clear the area of the USS
Nicholas
and simply blame the pirates for the sinking.”

Wally almost lowered the phone from his ear.

Madson prodded. “Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will share this information only with your team. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suggest you come up with an exit strategy. In case. Have a way off that ship.”