The Devil's Waters (8 page)

In twenty days, the ship would sail through Somali waters. Yusuf, to protect his village, would hijack it.

Suleiman asked, “This doesn’t worry you?”

“I save my worries for when I have choice. I have neither in this case. Whatever’s on the ship, we’ll take it and we’ll ransom it along with the crew. Then we retire. You have my word.”

“Tell me what little you do know about the ship.”

Yusuf related
Sheikh Robow’s information. The freighter was French-owned and flagged, built in 2003. Fully loaded, she could handle 2,200 containers, with a crew of twenty-six. Two hundred twenty meters long, thirty meters wide. She had three cranes on deck that allowed her to load and unload herself.

“This won’t be an easy one to take,” Suleiman said, glum again. “Aside from the guards, she’ll be fast and riding high if she’s really empty. The bulbous bow will be above the surface. The prop will be out of the water at the stern. Her wake will be rough. The captain will be good. They’ll be on the lookout.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Yusuf smoothed his robe.

Suleiman tapped the map on the table, already planning. “I know a trick the Malaccan pirates use when there are guards on board. One of the Indians on the
Bannon
told me he’d seen it. I don’t know how well it will work if the ship’s running empty.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“We’ll fight our way on. Like always.”

“That’s for later. Let’s go back to the party. I don’t want a knife fight with Aziza this time.”

Suleiman kept his seat. “One last question.”

“Yes.”

“Why does an al-Shabaab sheikh come ask you to hijack it? There are other pirates. Other villages they can threaten. Why visit Yusuf Raage?”

Yusuf held his hands out from his sides to put himself on display. “He says I am known to be a bloody man.”

Nothing Yusuf had said caused Suleiman to laugh, but this.

Camp Lemonnier

Djibouti

Jamie cradled the phone in both hands, one palm flattened
over the receiver to mute it.

“Hey, hey, hey!” He waved the phone over his head. “Everybody, quiet! It’s the PRCC!”

LB set down his Ping-Pong paddle. He was winning 10–3 over Mouse, the smallest PJ in the unit, who claimed that back home he had an Oakland Raiders cheerleader for a girlfriend. After four years of playing, Mouse could not say the last time he’d beaten LB.

“Dude,” Mouse called after him. “You quit, I win.”

“I don’t quit. We start over later. There’s a mission.”

Mouse clapped down his paddle.

Everyone around the big table and on bar stools watched Wally Bloom stride to the phone. Jamie held it out with excitement for this first call from the Personnel Recovery Coordination Cell since they’d arrived in Lemonnier three weeks ago.

Wally took the receiver. Jamie backed away, but not enough. Wally shooed him off a few more steps before answering.

“Bloom here.” Wally listened
only for a moment before responding, “On our way, ma’am,” then returning the receiver to the eager Jamie.

“LB,” Wally called, “Major Torres wants me and you at the JOC, stat. Let’s roll.”

“What’ve we got?”

Wally headed for the Barn’s door with LB trailing. He used his length to take long strides and put LB in a semi-jog.

“Dunno yet.”

This first mission had come two weeks into their deployment in Horn of Africa. The unit from Long Island they’d replaced had waited two months for their first call. In combat theaters, the action ran in a more steady current, sometimes a mission a week. For years in Iraq and Afghanistan, the United States had kept plenty of aircraft going, plus long-range patrols in remote, inhospitable, and denied terrain, tangling with an insurgent enemy, advising and supporting the local militaries in remote locations. Isolated personnel included downed air crews, troops cut off by severe weather, and small covert actions behind enemy lines; all these kept the phones ringing.

Here in HOA, the IPs were very different, the rescues quieter and more infrequent. The American military presence in Africa was primarily threat assessment. The United States needed to catch the next hot spots in the world while they were just sparks, and chances were good they were smoldering somewhere in Africa. Yemen, Somalia, Eritrea, Libya, Egypt, down to Uganda—LB could throw a dart at a map of the eastern half of the giant continent and hit something or someone America was keeping an eye on. The PJs’ rescue missions were most often ODA teams, CIA, Special Forces, SEALs, direct action commandos, or any covert operative engaged in recon and intel, counterterrorism, or unconventional warfare. When these black operatives found themselves in sudden need of rescue from a blown cover, unexpected resistance, wounds, dangerous weather, even fatigue, they called for the PJs.

In their two previous tours
in HOA, LB and Wally had effected rescues in deserts, mountains, plains, and jungles. They’d dropped in fast and silent, bringing teams with enough muscle to fend off an enemy and extract their isolated personnel. If the IPs were hurt, the PJs stabilized them. If they couldn’t run anymore, the PJs carried them. They’d exfilled wounded enemies, recovered the bodies of American battle dead, plucked natives off hills ahead of floodwaters and contractors off roofs ahead of mobs.

When the phone rang in HOA, the mission could be anything.

LB hadn’t been inside the Joint Operations Center since his last stint at Lemonnier three years ago. Outwardly, little had changed. A wall of video screens, banks of computers, a windowless intensity, and icebox air conditioning greeted him and Wally. Across wall monitors, the Falcon View program displayed a rolling map pinpointing the target’s location, distance, and weather.

Major Torres stepped forward with hand outstretched. Black hair in a bun, dark eyes over a smile, she was the warmest thing in the JOC. LB had sat with her and Wally at a few meals in the Bob Hope mess. He found the PRCC smart and focused. Here, in her electronic element, she looked even crisper, prettier. She shook Wally’s hand first.

“That was fast.”

Wally grinned. “You’re my reason for living, Major.”

Torres shook LB’s hand next. “This one’s a milk run.”

Deadpan, LB said, “Milk gives me gas, Major.”

She nodded with her smile intact, still shaking hands, but blinked.

Wally stepped in. “Okay. Let’s brief.”

LB let go of her hand. Torres turned to the Falcon View. Behind her, LB nudged Wally. He mouthed,
She likes you
. Wally did the same.
She hates you
.

“Gentlemen.” Torres moved
close to the wall display. Using a finger as a pointer, she indicated the target, a ship entering the mouth of the Gulf of Aden from the east.

“The captain of the
CMA CGM
Valnea
has put out a distress call. It was received by a Canadian warship who forwarded it to us. The Joint Force COs have discussed it. We’ve decided to respond as a humanitarian mission. We’re not busy with anything else right now, and nothing’s on the horizon. Early this morning the vessel had an accident on board. They require medical assistance. We’re sending it.”

Wally asked, “This got anything to do with a hijacking? That ship’s smack in the middle of pirate waters.”

“No pirates. There was a mechanical explosion belowdecks in the engine room. Before dawn, the second engineer and a cadet were inspecting the ship’s pistons. Something big blew. A blast of steam out of the gasket knocked the engineer into a rail, breaking his back. He’s got paralysis below the waist. The cadet took second-degree burns over half his body and face. The captain reports that the injuries are more than they can care for. The medical officer on the ship is also the first mate. He’s handy with first aid. Nothing more. They need medication and advice.”

“How urgent?”

“The burn case is bad. The back patient is stable but in a lot of discomfort. Don’t know if the paralysis is permanent or temporary.”

LB said, “Sounds like pain management, mostly. Infection control for the burns. Anti-inflams for the spinal. They asking for a medevac?”

“Yes.”

“Can we land on deck?”

“No.”

Torres motioned to the conference table. Waiting for them were bottled water and stapled reports. Torres handed out the pages.

LB and Wally flipped
quickly through the sheets. On top lay company photos of the
Valnea
, a stock-looking container vessel. Three high cranes, aft, mid, and fore, gave the
Valnea
the ability to load and offload herself. The cranes presided over an empty white cargo deck, spiked with tall metal lashing bridges where the containers would slide in to be secured, so that it resembled a vast field of barbed wire fences. The big ship was clearly designed to run empty only on rare occasions; everything about her said beast of burden. She rode high; her dull red hull paint rose a good fifteen feet above the water. The gigantic bow bulb, used to break through the water, was also halfway exposed.
Valnea
didn’t look comfortable without a couple thousand containers strapped to her back.

Below the company photos lay several black-and-white satellite pictures taken hours ago in the Gulf of Aden. As in the brochure beauty shots of the
Valnea
, the ship ran empty, not one container visible anywhere. The lashing bridges would prevent a chopper from landing.

LB flipped to peruse the rest of the collected info—a schematic of the freighter, its dimensions, capacities, power supply, architecture.

Torres tapped the satellite shots on her report. “As you can tell, we won’t be landing on the ship. And we can’t hoist the injured up to the choppers.”

LB shrugged, frustrated not for the first time with the inability of the MH-53 copters to recover personnel from a hover. In other theaters, the MH-53 was a combat platform loaded to the teeth with rockets and guns. The ones at Lemonnier were cargo choppers, used to lift and carry immense weights, deliver and pick up soldiers and vehicles. On all of the MH-53s, even in combat theaters, the feeble door hoist wouldn’t support the weight of a full Stokes litter. The starboard door wouldn’t even open far enough to haul the basket in. In HOA, the PJs didn’t have their own air force helicopters, the HH-60 Pave Hawks built for CSAR. The Guardian
Angels of Djibouti were stuck using the marines’ machines and pilots.

LB raised a hand, a schoolboy gesture. Torres didn’t call on him, expecting him to speak without the formality. LB didn’t budge.

Wally made a sucking sound, then said, “Just ask.”

LB lowered the hand. He could tell Wally wanted to kick him under the table.

“We can fast-rope in.”

“That is what I’d intended to suggest, yes.”

“Okay.”

Torres continued. “You take two PJ teams, drop in one. Carry enough meds for forty-eight hours, to get them to shore. Give the medical officer all the guidance you can in forty minutes. Then you head back here.”

“Roger.” LB checked the Falcon View for an update. The
Valnea
was located 20 miles northwest of Cape Guardafui, 510 miles away.

“Speed and heading?”

Torres answered. “Twelve knots. Bearing two sixty. En route to the French hospital here in Djibouti.”

Wally screwed up his face at this. “Twelve knots? That’s a big, modern freighter running empty. It should be doing over twenty coming into the gulf. Why’s it going so slow?”

“The skipper reports he’s got seven pistons working, not eight. He can’t keep the speed up, not with his engine out of balance. The vibration would wreck the rest of the engine. Twelve knots is all he can do.”

LB snorted. “Does the guy have a map?” He aimed his chin at the Falcon View and the icon for the ship limping into the Gulf of Aden, into the thick of Somali pirate waters.

Torres said, “The ship’s well protected. Three armed guards are on board, and the captain’s experienced in the route. They set out two and a half
weeks ago from Vladivostok. Port of call Beirut.”

Wally asked, “What about the crew? Who are they?”

“Russian skipper and officers, except for a Romanian chief engineer. The ratings are all Filipino. The engineer with the busted back is Russian. The burned cadet is Ukrainian. The three guards are Serbian. They all speak English.”

Wally said, “Sounds like a floating UN.”

LB held up a satellite photo. “Excuse me. Why are there guards on an empty ship?”

Torres considered LB’s question. She addressed her answer to Wally.

“The CO left here just before I called you. The word’s come down to him, and now I’m giving it to you. This is a high-value shipment.”

LB’s eyebrows went up, piqued. “So it’s not empty?”

The major continued speaking to Wally, as if to say,
I’m expecting you to curb your dog.

“We don’t know, and we don’t ask.” Now Torres looked at LB. She was no-nonsense, all officer. “Understand something. Your stay on this ship will be short. While you’re on board, you limit your attention to the injured. Let me repeat myself. Regarding any cargo, you show no interest.”

“Understood.”

For the next five minutes, LB and Wally took notes on sea, wind, and air conditions, current and approaching weather, water temperature, all in case one or both of the mission choppers had to ditch along the way. They calculated where the
Valnea
, headed their way at twelve knots, would be after three hours of chopper flight time at 150 miles per hour. LB allowed for forty minutes of hover over the ship to assess the situation, then rope-ladder up to the choppers for the return trip.

Wally closed his notebook first.

“LB, go on back
to the Barn. Spin up two teams—you choose. Two PJs each. No need for me or Robey on this one. You’ll take two copters and a refuel. Wheels up in thirty. The major and I will brief the pilots.”

LB stood, so stocky he hardly seemed to rise out of his chair.

Wally kept his seat. Torres got to her feet to extend her hand and send LB on his way. She didn’t need to, but she was trying to be polite. The instinct lasted only a moment. With LB’s mitt in hers, eye to eye, the major shook her head, chuckling.