The sisters went up one deck, looked and listened, then tiptoed along the port passageway toward Mike Rosen’s stateroom. Actually five of the Denver contingent were berthed on this deck, so if one wasn’t in, another might be. Before they reached Rosen’s room, however, they smelled something burning. The smell seemed to be coming from a stateroom.
“Something’s on fire,” Irene said and pounded on the door.
The door opened and a blast of pot smoke almost knocked them over. The room was hazy with it. There was so much it must have overwhelmed the air-conditioning.
Four men. Von Platen, the car guy, and three of his business friends were all smoking weed.
They offered the ladies a joint, but Irene and Suzanne refused. “This place stinks,” Irene declared.
“In light of our impending incarceration, we decided to consume our inventory.”
Von Platen looked to be in his early forties, the others a year or two younger. Perhaps it wasn’t the years that had caused the distinguished gray hairs at Von Platen’s temples but the miles. Or the pot.
The six chatted animatedly, getting acquainted, as the men puffed away on little roll-your-own cigarettes. The sisters from Denver pretended that watching people smoke pot was no big deal, although it was a life first for both of them.
Finally Suzanne said, “What the hell.” One of the men rolled her a cigarette and she lit up, to Irene’s horror.
Aboard Chosin Reservoir, Admiral Tarkington listened to his chief of staff, Captain Flip Haducek, his ops officer, Commander Myron Snyder, and his SEAL team leader as they tossed around the possibility of getting some SEALs aboard Sultan that night if the afternoon matinee didn’t work.
The first problem was intercepting the ship. Helicopters would need to put at least four rubber boats with six men each into the water ahead of Sultan. Assuming the Sultan didn’t turn, for any reason, the SEALs would have to motor alongside, shoot grappling hooks attached to ropes, and climb them about twenty feet to the fifth deck, the first one that had an entrance piercing the hull. The dangling pirate ropes were interesting, but no one had much faith in pirate technology. Besides, the ropes could be a trap.
“Radar?”
“Our rubber boats will be difficult to see on radar, sir.”
Toad raised an eyebrow. Cruise ships had good radars, he knew, because they had to constantly avoid small fishing and pleasure boats when going into and out of busy harbors. The real question was, Would anyone be watching the radar scope as Sultan charged along in the hour or two before dawn?
“You’ll be lucky to get four men aboard,” Flip Haducek said to the SEAL officer. “And once aboard, you will … what?”
The SEAL team leader was Lieutenant Angel Cordova. With a plain, unmemorable face, he stood about five feet seven inches tall and had wide shoulders, huge arm and chest muscles, and a ridiculously thin waist. The veins in his arms stood out like cords. He looked like a professional bodybuilder, Toad Tarkington thought.
“Once aboard…?” the admiral murmured.
“Fight our way forward and up, sir, to the bridge. Kill the opposition as we go.”
“What if they start shooting hostages? What then?”
“We take them out with silenced weapons as we get to them, regardless.”
“Hostages or no hostages?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So how many pirates are aboard?”
“We estimate between twenty-five and fifty.”
“Estimate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the minimum number of men you need to get aboard to have any realistic chance of handling twenty-five to fifty armed pirates?”
“At least ten, sir.”
“Each of your boats holds six men?”
“Correct, sir.”
“So you must rendezvous with Sultan with at least two boats.” Toad looked from face to face. Small rubber boats on a night sea, trying to get alongside a ship doing ten knots—ten knots just now—getting swamped in the wash if they failed to get their grappling hooks to snag. Hoping no one on deck saw them and started shooting while they were climbing the ropes.
“What’s Plan B?” the admiral asked.
“We jump overboard. The saltwater will activate our beacons. Someone comes to pick us up.”
“Too iffy,” Toad said. “We need a better plan that this.”
The brain trust was still noodling when a yeoman brought Toad a Flash message from Washington. “Green light for SEAL mission.” There were several more paragraphs, but Toad didn’t bother reading them. He handed it to Commander Snyder, who actually read it while Toad listened to Angel Cordova.
Snyder interrupted. “Admiral, they want to know when the mission will launch.”
“We’re not going to do it,” Toad said. “Too risky.” Cordova’s face fell.
“Aye aye, sir.” The ops officer headed for the admin office just off the flag plot spaces to draft a reply.
“I don’t want you people dead for nothing,” Toad told Cordova.
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
Time for the showdown, the afternoon matinee. Sea still calm, high cirrus clouds moving in …
The admiral’s aide, a Hornet pilot, brought him a message. “Better read this one, Admiral. Some guy on that ship has been e-mailing a radio station in Denver. Everyone on the planet is reading his stuff.”
Toad read the message, then passed it back. Oh, boy. Stuff like this would light a fire under the politicians, stimulate them mightily. Murders, rapes, brave resistance from the crew …
Toad was eating a salad in the raised chair in Flag Plot when another message from Washington arrived. He read it in amazement. The National Command Authority, which meant the president of the United States, ordered him to launch the SEAL team mission.
Commander Snyder was there, wearing a worried look, along with Flip Haducek.
“No,” Toad said. “In my judgment, the mission is too risky. What did you tell those people?”
“Just that, sir.”
Toad wadded up the message and gave it back to Snyder.
The chief of staff cleared his throat. He tried to resist the urge to point out the obvious because that tactic rarely sat well with the admiral. He lost the inner battle and said, “Sir, that’s an order. From the president.”
Toad handed his salad to Snyder, took the message and smoothed it out. He removed a pen from his pocket. He began writing on the back of the sheet the reasons he thought the mission would probably fail. If the SEALs couldn’t get enough men aboard Sultan to win control of the ship, they would die or be captured. Passengers and crew might be caught in a crossfire. Pirates might begin executing hostages.
Toad summed up, “The chances of a handful of SEALs successfully intercepting and boarding Sultan at night while under way are small. The chances of those who do successfully board winning the battle for control of the ship are even smaller. When the pirates get Sultan into a port, they will undoubtedly demand ransom, which, if paid, means that no civilian lives will be lost. If the decision is made to refuse to pay ransom, a much larger, more capable military force can be deployed against the pirates, one that will maximize the possibility of victory and minimize the loss of life.”
He used another paragraph to explain the benefits of a show of force. It could happen quickly; if the pirates were cowed, they would surrender and marines could board the ship, and if they weren’t, the navy had risked little and could try something else. A lot of upside, little downside. Those were the best kind of military operations. And he would be ready soon.
Tarkington handed the sheet of paper to Captain Haducek. “Send that,” he said, “and copy everyone in the chain of command. That’s the problem in plain English.”