The Malacca Conspiracy (10 page)

“I thought I saw you tiptoeing onto my bridge with steaming contraband in hand,” Hardison joked.

“Guilty as charged, Captain.” The COB twisted the plastic top off the insulated thermos. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the control room, and Commander Hardison felt a jolt to his senses just from the scent of it. “Your mug, sir?”

Hardison held his white, porcelain coffee mug, with coffee acid rings circling the bottom—a badge of honor among submariners—out to the chief. “Mug looks a little clean, sir.” The COB grinned as steaming, black, battery-acid strength coffee oozed into the skipper’s mug.

“Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a navy chief, Mr. COB,” Hardison joked. “That way, I’ll always make sure there’s something growing in the bottom of my mug.”

“Trust me, Skipper, the pay’s better in your seat,” the COB chuckled.

Hardison laughed. “Thanks for reminding me, Chief.” He took a refreshing sip of the strong stuff. The kick was immediate. “Ahh. Good stuff.”

Hardison returned to the captain’s chair. “XO, report our updated position, please.”

“Aye, Captain,” the executive officer said. “Currently eighty-three miles east of Nicobar Island. Speed ten knots,” the XO said. “Course zero-nine-zero degrees.”

“Very well,” Hardison said. “Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”

“Conn. Radio.” The radio officer’s voice blared over the intercom.

“Radio. Conn. Whatcha got?”

“Sir, we’ve got an all-frequency distress call from USS
Ingraham.”

“The
Ingraham?”
Dear Lord. The
Ingraham
was one of the US Navy frigates assigned to tanker escort duty in the Malaccan Strait. “Don’t tell me another terrorist attack.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Hardison sloshed his coffee. “What is the position of the
Ingraham?”

“The
Ingraham
is not under attack. She’s relaying a distress call for the tanker
Altair Voyager.
The tanker’s on fire in the Andaman Sea, near the western entrance to the Strait of Malacca. She’s taking on water. They’ve abandoned ship. Two choppers from the
Ingraham
are in the area, but rescue efforts are being hampered by a smoke cloud. They need assistance on the surface, sir.”

Hardison stood. Adrenaline was starting to kick in.

“Navigator. Plot a course to
Altair Voyager.
Advise on ETA at full power.”

“Aye, Captain.” The navigator punched the coordinates into the sub’s navigational computer. “Estimated time of arrival at full power…twenty-two minutes, Captain.”

“Very well. Radio. Contact Seventh Fleet. Mark it. USS
Boise
requests permission to surface to assist USS
Ingraham
in rescue efforts of
tanker Altair Voyager.”

The Andaman Sea

3:14 p.m.

C
aptain Eichenbrenner lay back in the warm sea water, trying to stay afloat.

Where was his crew? Perhaps they were swimming aft, trying to get out from under the thickening black smoke.

“Skipper! Over here!”

Eichenbrenner pulled his arms through the salt water and saw two of his men clinging to a single donut flotation device.

The flotation rings were designed to hold one man, not two. “I’m okay!” he shouted. “You men keep that ring. I’ll be fine.”

“Skipper. You better get over here!”

The men kept motioning for him to swim in their direction. “Hurry, Skipper!”

Instinct took over. If he didn’t get away from the ship, he’d be sucked under when it went down. He started swimming in the direction of their voices.

“Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the United States Navy!”

He pushed his arms through water and pulled down, beginning a backstroke. The sky blackened by the minute. If the cloud came much lower, it would cut off their oxygen.

“Hurry, Skipper!”

He pulled his hands through the water, then pushed water down from over his head to his sides.

“Over here, Skipper!”

A hand snatched his forearm, pulling him under. He popped up and found himself with two of his crew members, Seamen Tommy Grimes and Dennis Basnight. Each hung on the life ring.

“It won’t hold us all, Skipper,” Basnight said, blowing sea water from his nose, “but it helps. Just kick a little. Maybe we can hang on long enough to get out from under this smoke so the chopper can throw us a line.”

Eichenbrenner looked around. They were about fifty yards from the burning, smoking relic of the
Altair Voyager.
“Forget the smoke!” he said. “We’ve got to get away from the ship or we’ll get sucked down with it. Where are the men? Did they swim aft?”

Basnight bobbed under the water, then bobbed back up. “The situation isn’t good, Skipper.”

“No kidding!”

“No, Skipper. I mean with the men. It’s not good.”

“Skipper! Behind you! Watch out!” Grimes said.

Eichenbrenner looked over his left shoulder.

A dark gray triangular fin cut through the water in a flash. It disappeared. Eichenbrenner groaned.

“Another one!” Basnight said. “Opposite direction! Get your legs up!”

This one was swimming from their right. Eichenbrenner pulled his knees to his chest as the shark bore down on them.

Twenty feet…

Fifteen feet…

Ten feet…

The fin vanished.

“Where’d it go?” blurted Basnight.

“Maybe it’s gone,” Grimes said.

A moment passed.

Something slammed their legs. The jolt knocked the three men away from the life ring.

Eichenbrenner went under and came back up splashing, gasping for air. Grimes and Basnight flailed in the water nearby.

The life ring drifted off to the left, maybe ten feet away. Eichenbrenner started a breast stroke toward it.

“Watch out!”

The fin surfaced again, about fifteen feet to his right. It made quick, violent circles in the water, then disappeared.

Eichenbrenner swam and instinctively prayed that he would reach the ring without being bitten in half.

A few seconds later, his hand reached the flotation device.

The shark resurfaced, maybe twenty-five feet away. It set a course directly for him. Angry white teeth like glistening sharp razors bore straight at him. Its black eyes blazed fury. It swirled in the water, then slowly started a death swim in his direction.

“Dear Jesus!”

Suddenly, the shark jumped. It splashed down to his right, spraying sea water in his face. Eichenbrenner grasped the life ring and looked around.

Gone again. The shark was toying with him before the kill.

“Skipper!” Basnight yelled from about twenty feet away. He and Grimes were floating close to each other. Hooking the raft in one arm, the captain paddled toward them.

“You okay, Skipper?” Grimes asked.

“Fine,” Eichenbrenner lied. Panting and breathless, he pushed the donut toward the men.

“Sir, they got several of our crew members already,” Grimes said.

“They?”

“Skipper, four of our guys tried to swim aft. We saw the fins surface, and they disappeared under the water.”

“Who disappeared?”

“The men, Captain,” Basnight said. “The sharks got ’em!” Terror crossed the man’s face. Almost a delayed reaction.

The shark surfaced again.

This time, fifteen feet to their right.

Making a wide loop, the fin orbited their position in the water, its wet skin reflecting the leaping flames from the ship in the background.

“There’s another one!” Grimes shouted.

Eichenbrenner looked over his left shoulder. A second shark had joined the first.

Basnight swore and pointed. “Another.”

Over his right shoulder, a third fin cut through the water in the circle.

Like bloodthirsty savages circling a defenseless wagon train, the sharks circled their prey slowly, in an inexplicable ritual of cruel, psychological torture.

“I wish they’d get it over with,” Basnight groaned.

“You boys believe in prayer?” Eichenbrenner asked.

“Never believed in it. Not gonna start now,” Basnight said. Cold fear filled his voice.

“If there was a God, why would he put us on a burning ship and then throw us out to the sharks?” Grimes muttered.

“There may or may not be a God,” Eichenbrenner said, “but I’m going to try it.”

“Try what?”

“Prayer. I suggest you do the same.”

USS
Boise
The Andaman Sea

3:25 p.m.

R
ange to target one thousand yards,” the chief of the watch said. “All ahead one-third,” Captain Hardison said.

“All ahead one-third,” came the reply.

“Very well. Up scope!”

“Up scope. Aye, sir!”

The commanding officer moved over to the periscope station as mechanical motors inside the stainless-steel cylinder whined and clanked, raising the top of the scope to a position just a few feet above the level of the surface.

“Scope’s up, Captain,” the chief of the watch announced.

“Very well.” Captain Hardison stepped up to the eyepiece, grabbed the handle bars, and peered through the scope. Nothing but open water and late-afternoon horizon.

Rotating clockwise, he turned slightly to his right.

Still nothing.

He turned a bit more. Orange smoke and black flames billowed into the sky. Below the smoke, the silhouette of a ship lay low in the water. He hit the magnification button, bringing the ship in full view in the viewfinder.

Hardison squinted, meticulously searching for any signs of life still aboard the ship. His eyes quickly swept twice from the smoking bow to the stern area.

Nothing.

He’d seen enough.

“Down scope. Prepare to surface.”

The Andaman Sea

4:05 p.m.

T
hey had drifted another fifty yards away from the burning ship, perhaps just far enough to avoid getting sucked down when the
Altair Voyager
went under.

But getting sucked down was the least of their worries at the moment.

Like a hangman tightening a noose, the gray fins continued to swirl angrily in a concentric ring about ten yards from the tiny flotation device. They were so close now that the men could see the shadows of the sharks’ bodies swimming by.

Against the chopping roar of helicopter motors, which remained invisible above the black smoke, Eichenbrenner silently prayed.

Basnight and Grimes cursed that they had no effective means of committing suicide.

“Look!” Basnight suddenly pointed outward. “One of them is leaving.”

One of the sharks had left the circle and seemed to be swimming away, toward the direction of the burning ship.

“It’s turning around!” Eichenbrenner warned.

“It’s headed back!” Basnight unleashed a string of profanities.

“It’s coming fast!” Grimes yelled.

“Lord, help us,” Eichenbrenner blurted. The shark slid through the circling perimeter of fins, then disappeared.

A moment passed.

“Aaahhhhh!” Basnight screamed. “My leg!
Aaaaahhh!”
Basnight’s face contorted. Blood bubbled and gushed up around his neck. He cocked his head to the heavens and released the raft, drifting in his own blood.

The shark surfaced a few feet to Grimes’ left, then submerged again.

A second later, with a violent jerk, Basnight was snatched under the water. More blood pooled on the surface.

Grimes swore. “We’re dead, Captain.”

“Pray.”

Basnight’s blood excited the circle of sharks. They swam faster now, splashing at the surface violently, as if in a war dance.

A second shark broke away and swam toward the burning ship. Like the one that got Basnight, he turned and started swimming toward Eichenbrenner and Grimes.

The fin disappeared. “God have mercy!” Eichenbrenner said.

A second passed.

Then another.

Nothing.

Five seconds.

Still nothing.

Maybe God had heard his prayer.

“No!”

The shark’s powerful jaws clamped around Grimes’ arm. Grimes screamed, flailed, splashed in the water, and tried punching the creature on the nose with his fist. The shark dragged him across the surface of the water, away from the life ring. “Help me! Help!” Grimes’ screams even drowned out the sound of the helicopters.

With a jerk and a splash, Grimes vanished with the shark under the surface. Blood bubbled up from the spot where he had disappeared.

Eichenbrenner grasped the life ring hard. Coiling into a human ball, he tucked his knees tightly against his chest, as if that would somehow give the monsters less of a target to sniff.

Two fins circled his position now, in equidistant spots, each about ten yards from the life ring.

“If anyone is in the water, please swim aft of the ship! We need you to clear that smoke cover! This is the US Navy!”

Eichenbrenner cocked his head back, gazing at the spreading smoke cloud.

If God would part that cloud…

Still scrunched in a ball, he felt cramping set into his calves. He instinctively kicked his feet down into the water to relieve the pain. The sharks were circling faster now.

One of the sharks broke away, and just as before, began swimming away, toward the ship. Then the second also broke away. Both swam away from him.

They were now at least twenty yards away.

Then, as if choreographed by a trainer at Sea World, both sharks pivoted, one a time. Their vicious snouts took aim at him.

Swirling and splashing their tail fins, they started swimming back toward the life ring.

Fifteen yards. Ten yards.

His life flashed in front of him. His marriage. His divorce. His girls.

This was it.

Fred closed his eyes and remembered words his grandmother once
taught him: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come…Thy will be done…”