Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

“Yes, sir.”

“That being said, if you do get aboard, or any of your men do, you don’t have to do the Alamo trick. I want you to try to disable the engines, stop her at sea. If the pirates aren’t going anywhere, we can negotiate a surrender.”

Cordova nodded.

“Flip, get the engineers to talk to Mr. Cordova. Brief him on the engineering plant and find him as many demolition charges as he and his men can carry.”

Toad frowned. “It’s goddamn thin, Cordova. Use your best judgment. Disable the ship if you can. If you can’t, kill as many pirates as possible.”

“Oh, you can bet on that, sir. But what if they use the crew or passengers as human shields?”

“Kill anyone you have to kill to save your own lives.”

Lieutenant Cordova took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’d like that in writing, sir.”

“Flip, write a direct order to Mr. Cordova to attempt to board Sultan of the Seas and disable her engineering plant. Authorize him and his men to kill anyone to save their own lives, including passengers and crew used as human shields. I’ll sign it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then send a copy to Washington. Hell, send it to everyone on the distribution list as info addees. When it’s gone with a date-time group, give Mr. Cordova a copy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Toad Tarkington fixed his gaze on the SEAL lieutenant. “You are being handed a really tough mission. If you don’t think it’s doable, say so. No one is ordering you or your men to undertake a suicide mission. We don’t do suicide missions in the United States Navy.”

“We can do it, sir.”

Goddamn gung-ho kid, Toad thought.

“You ever been shot at before?”

“No, sir.”

“You are about to get an education. Get cracking. I want a complete briefing from you before you go.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

* * *

Jake Grafton thought he understood what had happened in the Gulf of Aden when he went to the director’s conference room at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, for the 7:30 A.M. meeting. He had read all the message traffic and even Rosen’s e-mails, which the night duty staff had arranged in chronological order by date-time group.

CIA director Mario Tomazic was a new guy, a retired army four-star who made his bones in Iraq. He got this job, Jake suspected, because he was quite good at not saying things the staffers at the White House didn’t want to hear.

“Who are these pirates?” the director asked.

The silence that followed was pregnant, so Jake Grafton stepped in. “Apparently they work for a pirate warlord named Ragnar, which is not his real name but a nom de guerre. Either he’s a fan of Ayn Rand or someone told him a lie or two. In any event, NSA says he and the pirate leader aboard ship have been gabbling back and forth. Our files say Ragnar’s base is Eyl.”

“Any ransom demands yet?”

“Not yet, sir. If they hold to their normal routine, there won’t be until they get the ship in the harbor and the people into the old fortress on the bluff.”

“What’s 151 going to do about all this?”

An aide directed the people at the table to the appropriate messages. Of course Jake had already read his copies. Now he reread them as the others digested Adrmiral Tarkington’s messages and the national security staff’s responses.

The director got it. “The staffers decided they know more about pirates than Admiral Tarkington.”

Grafton met Tomazic’s eyes. “Oh, man,” the retired general said disgustedly. He swept the pile of paper in front of him aside.

“Okay,” he said to the aide. “Where the hell is everybody out there?”

That was an easy request to answer. The computer display was soon on the screen on the wall. On the left side was a legend that explained the symbols. An aide pointed out ship positions and enemy strongholds with a white piece of wood, one little more than a large splinter.

“Let’s assume the ship reaches port, somewhere,” the director said. “There’ll be a ransom demand. That’s where the politicians will go into a dither. Pay or don’t pay? Shoot or surrender?”

“What if the ship owners or governments or private people refuse to pay ransom?” one staffer asked.

“Those people on that ship will expect the government to pay or rescue them,” said another.

“One or the other.”

“What about all those foreigners aboard Sultan ? Should the U.S. government pay ransom to get them back?”

“Their governments can figure it out.”

“So we only buy out Americans?”

“Foreigners don’t pay taxes or vote. The American taxpayer is tapped out. And in a pretty damn sour mood.”

“It’s a British ship. Don’t forget that. This is really London’s problem, not ours.”

“It’s registered in Monrovia, Liberia.”

“So call the Liberians.”

“This is amazingly insightful,” Tomazic said dryly. He glanced at Grafton, who had been sitting with his mouth firmly closed. “Don’t we have a covert team in Somalia?”

“A snatch team camped out in the desert,” Jake said with a curt nod. “Eating MREs, shitting in a hole and working on their tans.”

Tomazic grunted and glanced at his watch. “Well, I gotta get over to the White House and get told what we’re gonna do.” He stood and the meeting was over.

* * *

The remainder of the afternoon passed slowly with Richard Ward and Chosin Reservoir keeping station four miles away on each of Sultan ’s flanks. Ospreys and choppers ferried marines to the Ward, just in case. Fighters from the carrier to the northeast flew lazy patterns high overhead.

When he had done everything he could, Toad Tarkington went to his stateroom and tried to nap. He tossed and turned and fumed at the politicos in Washington.

He wrote a letter to his wife, worked his way through a pile of routine paperwork and was on the flag bridge to watch the sun sink in the west.

As darkness settled over the ocean, Sultan of the Seas kept every light ablaze as she steamed south, even the ribbon of decorative lights on a wire that ran from the funnel to the masthead, then down at an angle to the bow.

Toad Tarkington stared through his binoculars at the cruise ship. No one on deck that he could see, but Chosin Reservoir was now just a half mile to port, behind Sultan ’s beam. A destroyer was on Sultan ’s starboard side. It was possible, although not probable, the pirate might jam the helm over and try to ram the warships, so Toad had cautioned the captains to be careful. He also wanted to stay out of range of rifle and machine-gun fire.

The sea had abated and was almost calm. The only wind seemed to be relative, from straight ahead, manufactured by the ships moving through dead air.

Toad wondered what Captain Penney was thinking.

* * *

Actually Arch Penney was thinking of possible ways to kill Mustafa al-Said. The pirate’s murder of three ship’s officers, the helmsman and the bosun’s mates who manned the LRAD had filled him with anger. Rage. He had never before felt such a bitter emotion. He eyed Mustafa again. The man would kill him without remorse or hesitation. If Arch had a weapon handy he would use it on Mustafa and enjoy every single second.

But he didn’t have such a weapon. Perhaps the gods were looking out for him.

He wondered about his wife, who was in his cabin. He thought about calling her, and looked at the telephone, but decided against it. No use letting this asshole pirate know she was aboard and giving him another weapon to use against him.

He checked his watch. The chief steward had called him on the phone and they had talked about serving dinner to the passengers … and pirates. Mustafa had watched and listened to the conversation but hadn’t said a word.