Jack nodded, and they stood back from the dust as the jeep roared off. Two of the marines escorted them past the guardhouse and toward a complex of buildings that abutted the wharf. “Amazing,” Costas said, gesturing at the patrol boat they could now clearly see in front of them. “That’s an old Soviet-era Osa II missile-armed fast attack craft. Last time I saw one of those, it was hurtling toward my ship off Kuwait during the Gulf War.”
“I remember them well,” Jack said, following the marine to the entrance of one of the buildings. “While you were in the engine room of your destroyer, I was up the Shatt al-Arab laying charges under three of those boats with my team.”
“To think we were so close, but we didn’t even know each other then.”
“It was a different world. There may have been a war on, but at least back then you could sail past the Horn of Africa without being attacked by pirates.”
They entered a conference room with British Admiralty charts pinned around the walls and a table in the center. “Sit here,” the marine said curtly, pointing at the chairs on the opposite side of the table.
“That’s sit here, sir,” said a Somali officer who had followed them in. “This is Captain Howard, Royal Naval Reserve, and Commander Kazantzakis, United States Navy Reserve.”
“I am very sorry,” the marine said, flustered, looking at Jack. “It is my poor English. I meant no disrespect, sir.”
“No problem,” Jack said, smiling at the marine and then leaning across and shaking hands with the officer. “Captain Ibrahim? Thanks for meeting with us at such short notice.”
“It’s my pleasure.” He shook hands with Costas and they sat down. Two other officers had followed him in and took chairs on either side.
Ibrahim was a slender, fit-looking man with a neatly trimmed gray-flecked beard and two rows of medal ribbons on his shirt. Jack looked at them, intrigued. “UK Operational Service Medal and Distinguished Service Cross?”
Ibrahim nodded. “After school in England and Dartmouth Naval College, I spent twelve years in the Royal Navy before transferring here. My father was a Somali diplomat in London and my mother’s English. I was in Afghanistan with the SBS.”
“Huh,” Costas said. “Jack’s unit. We were just talking about old times.”
“My experience was nothing like Afghanistan,” Jack said, waving his hand dismissively. “I was only on the active list for a year.”
“You say that, but we knew all about you,” Ibrahim said. “One of the chief petty officer instructors with the SBS had been with you during the Gulf War. They still use your operation up the Shatt al-Arab as a model for how to insert an underwater demolition team at night from an inflatable.”
“That was a long time ago.” Jack gestured at the window, where three patrol boats were visible. “What’s the state of the Somali navy today?”
Ibrahim gave him a rueful look. “You’ve just seen it. Altogether we’ve got five of those patrol craft and two search-and-rescue boats. You’ll recognize the Osa-class missile boat, obviously. It’s the same craft you were up against in the Gulf War, with a few modifications. The P-15 Termit anti-ship missile is a bit of a Cold War relic, but it’s still reliable. There’s always a large amount of unexpended fuel in the nose tank of those missiles even after a long-distance flight, and that acts as an incendiary to complement the hollow-charge warhead, meaning you get something like an old-fashioned sixteen-inch battleship shell combined with napalm. Put that into a pirate trawler and it’s curtains for them.”
“Infrared as well as active radar homing?” Costas asked.
“Correct. We’ve just finished the upgrade. It increases the missile range to more than ten nautical miles.”
“Any interdictions yet?”
Ibrahim shook his head. “We’re only on the cusp of becoming properly operational again. The navy didn’t even exist a few years ago, having been disbanded more than twenty years back when the country went into meltdown. That’s how the problem with piracy really took hold. Even now we’re barely effective as a coast guard, with three thousand kilometers to patrol.”
“What’s the range of your vessels?” Costas asked.
“Eighteen hundred nautical miles at fourteen knots,” he replied. “The two boats that aren’t here are based further up the Horn of Africa, so we can reach anywhere in the Economic Exclusion Zone within twelve hours. It’s not enough boats to give us the response time to a call of distress from a merchant ship that we’d like, but it’s better than nothing. From the northern base we’ve operated joint patrols with the Yemeni navy into the Red Sea and around the island of Socotra.”
“What’s their armament other than missiles?” Costas said.
“Two AK-230 twin thirty-millimeter guns, two thousand rounds apiece. It’s yet more ex-Soviet equipment, but we look after it well and it works.”
“What is the situation with piracy at present?” Jack asked. “The current commander of Combined Task Force 150 in Bahrain is an old friend of mine, but I’ve left contacting him until liaising with you first.”
Ibrahim leaned back. “CTF 150 have kept things at bay over recent years and the number of incidents has dramatically decreased. But with the new US administration reconfiguring its role in the war on terrorism, the increased focus on tension with Iran, and the need for a greater Mediterranean naval presence to counter terrorism there, the naval assets off the Horn of Africa are no longer what they once were. We’ve learned the hard way that once a problem appears to be resolved and others take the limelight, the political will of supporting nations to continue their commitment dries up.”
“There’s just too much else going on,” Jack said.
Ibrahim nodded. “The continuing refugee crisis in the Mediterranean, the war in the Middle East sucking in more and more players, the conflict with the terrorists in Libya, our own battle against Al-Shabaab in the south of the country. Meanwhile, the fishing economies of the Somali coastal villages have collapsed again, as the foreign factory ships have returned to transgress in our territorial waters, something we’re virtually powerless against with a few patrol boats. As a result, our fishermen have become desperate and are open once again to offers of money to go out and prey on foreign merchant ships, and the problem with piracy has reignited. Over the last six months alone there have been eight attacks, with millions paid in ransoms. Of course, hardly any of it goes to the men who actually do the dirty work.”
“There’s always a paymaster,” Jack said grimly. “Who’s behind it all?”
Ibrahim pursed his lips. “For the terrorist organizations, the Somali coast is more important as a recruiting ground for foot soldiers. We’re not talking about suicide bombers, fanatics, but about cannon fodder, low-cost mercenaries who are expendable and easily replaced. It’s these guys we’re killing when we take on the terrorists just as much as the naïve Western recruits and the hard-core jihadists.”