Sultan was proceeding south at nineteen knots, which Rear Admiral Toad Tarkington thought was probably her normal cruising speed. If she held this speed, she would make the harbor at Eyl, Somalia, roughly at dawn tomorrow. If she was going to Eyl. Toad certainly didn’t know.
The weather was gorgeous, with just a high, thin cirrus layer diffusing the direct rays of the sun. Visibility was thirty or forty miles; wind out of the northwest off the Arabian Peninsula at five knots, a dry wind. Even the swells of the morning had dissipated until the ocean was a gentle, undulating mirror reflecting the sky.
His staff was sorting though the message traffic from his superiors and dashing off replies. They handed him clipboards full of this stuff, which he quickly scanned and handed back.
Washington wanted the impossible: the Sultan recaptured without the loss of a single civilian life.
The marine Force Reconnaissance team had taken down pirates aboard several merchant ships before, a bulk carrier and a container ship. Both had small crews. The Force Recon team knocked out topside opposition, boarded, then fought their way through the ship, killing any pirates who didn’t surrender. Most of them did.
Yet today the captured ship contained eight hundred and fifty people, literally people in every compartment, under the control of three boatloads of pirates, somewhere between twenty-five and fifty, all armed, headed for a safe harbor where they would anchor and demand ransom. Don’t pay, they kill people. Board, they kill people. Pay the money and you get everyone back alive. They’ll even give you back your ship. Then, since that went so wonderfully well and the pirates all got filthy rich, they’ll recruit hundreds more pirates, buy more boats and weapons, and motor out into Pirate Alley or the great wide ocean to capture more ships and crews and passengers to hold for ransom, all over again.
The fact that the pirates had a safe harbor to operate from and go back to was the crux of the problem, but one that wouldn’t get solved today or tomorrow, so Toad didn’t waste any time thinking about it. “Above my pay grade,” he once told his chief of staff, Flip Haducek, who was expounding on the wisdom of wiping out pirate nests.
A real-time television picture of Sultan appeared on the monitor above the tac display. The camera was on one of the helos.
As Toad studied it, Flip Haducek and Colonel Zakhem joined him.
“Washington wants to approve any plan of action you decide on,” Haducek said. He wiggled the message board in his hand.
“Gentlemen,” Toad said flatly, “my preferred course is an overwhelming show of force. Steam alongside with armed marines lining the rails of this ship and the Ward, helos and Ospreys overhead, fighters zipping past at masthead height. That is what I intend to do. When we’ve given them a good look, marines will rappel down and take the ship. They’ll be letting it all hang out. Still, it could work.”
Zakhem nodded his concurrence. The pirates could shoot the marines on the ropes, of course. It would take guts to go down those ropes. His marines had plenty.
“But if it doesn’t work, if they start machine-gunning captives or shooting marines, we need another plan,” the admiral continued. “I am not willing to watch those bastards sail away on the ocean blue with eight hundred and fifty captives to ransom at their leisure.”
“A clandestine boarding by SEALs tonight,” Colonel Zakhem said. He pointed to the monitor. “Those lines dangling over the side. Those are on the grappling hooks the pirates used to board. They are still there.”
Toad stared. The lines were difficult to see on the monitor. “We need real photos, of both sides of the ship. Blow-ups. Flip?”
“Aye aye, sir.” He picked up a telephone. The photos had already been taken and were being processed, he was told.
“SEALs,” the admiral whispered, staring at the thin lines on the monitor.
“If it were dark enough, a few determined men in wet suits might be able to climb those lines or their own and get aboard unnoticed,” Zakhem mused. “After all, the pirates did it. Who knows, if SEALs get aboard, the pirates can surrender or die.”
Toad wasn’t so optimistic. The pirates would want a shit-pot full of money for all those people, and he suspected they would fight like hell to get it. On the other hand, four or five SEALs sneaking through the ship slitting throats and tossing pirates overboard might convince the remainder they were in over their heads. Might. Or might not.
“Colonel, you and Flip scare up some SEALs and bring me a plan.”
The two officers left without a word.
Toad sat staring at the monitor and tac display until his ops officer approached him.
“We’ve rescued three pirates, sir. There was a fourth, but he had a twenty millimeter round through his abdomen and died five minutes after we pulled him out.”
“What do they say?”
“They are from Eyl, Somalia. Their warlord is a guy named Ragnar.”
Ops had prepared a message for Tarkington’s signature. He read it through carefully. There was a brief description of the Sultan, projected time of arrival off the Horn of Africa, intel from the rescued pirates, projected time of arrival at Eyl, the first suitable pirate port, and so on.
He thought if the pirates intended to cross the bar into Eyl, they would wait for dawn. They were seamen, certainly, but Sultan was not a fishing boat or pirate scow. Tod signed the message.
He picked up his binoculars and focused them on Sultan. Tarkington made a face. Then he began cursing, silently. Ah me.
Toad wondered what was going on aboard that ship.
Whatever it was, the pirates had the initiative. Toad wanted it back. He wanted to force his will upon the pirates, force them to do what he wanted, which was surrender. His primary goal was to make the pirate captain realize he had no other options.
“Every marine aboard is to be topside and on the sponsons with a rifle. We’ll make it plain—they can surrender or die.”
He glanced at his staff. “Flip, send another Flash message to Washington, Fifth Fleet, everyone on the list. Let’s do this as an Unless Otherwise Directed. Tell them Plan A and Plan B. We will go as soon as we get the marines transferred to the Ward, and our ships in position. Make that two hours from now. Draft that and let me see the draft.”
Haducek looked at his watch. “It’s 1130, sir. May we aim for 1430 instead?”
“Okay. Put that in the message, 1430 local time.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Captain Haducek strode away.
The other members of the staff discussed what had to be done and began making it happen. After another brief discussion with Colonel Zakhem, Toad personally briefed the captain of Chosin Reservoir. While they were talking, a first-class yeoman brought Toad a draft of the message dictated by Haducek. Unless Otherwise Directed, UNODIR, this is what I intend to do and when I intend to do it. Left unsaid but implicit was, If you don’t want me to do it, say so. Put yourself on record. Or let me proceed on my initiative and my responsibility.
Toad corrected one word, signed the form and handed it back.
When he and the Reservoir’s captain were finished, Toad called the captain of Richard Ward on a secure voice channel.
On the Reservoir’s flight deck, marines in battle dress were lining up to board Ospreys and helicopters. Colonel Max Zakhem didn’t believe in fooling around. Neither did Rear Admiral Toad Tarkington.
Toad climbed out of his chair and went to the head. He had needed to go for an hour.
Most of the women aboard the ship were at least twice the age of the pirates, who wanted something younger. Juicier. Fortunately there were several dozen good candidates in the crew quarters. In twos and threes, they went below and assaulted some women. One of the women screamed so loudly they strangled her, and they left another bleeding badly.