Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

The director sighed. “If we pay the ransom, presumably the pirates will release the ship, crew and passengers,” he said. “It’s good business. On the other hand, if the ransom is not going to be paid, we have to go forward as if it will be and rescue those people before the pirates realize what is going down.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Okay. Get the sniper thing going and give me a plan for rescuing the people if the politicians refuse to pay.”

“Is that even a possibility?”

“They’ll make the decision that they think will do them the most good politically. Whatever that is. They always do.”

“Plans are just paper,” Jake said. “We’ll have to see how the cards fall.” He shrugged.

“Just as long as the cards fall our way,” Tomazic retorted dryly. Like Grafton, he didn’t believe in fair play. Stacking the deck was not only legal in the intelligence business, it was the only way to play the game.

“Do you really think the White House will give you a green light for a sniper hit?”

“I’ll get one eventually,” Tomazic said grimly. “After the ship’s passengers and crew are ransomed, released or whatever, those people downtown are going to have an epiphany. They are going to want us to do something to solve the pirate problem in that corner of the world, or at least make it go away for a while, and they are going to want it done yesterday. When they come to Jesus, I want you and your men ready.”

* * *

Half a world away from Washington, Toad Tarkington was as frustrated as a man can get. Sultan of the Seas lay a mile away from his flagship, drifting on the glassy sea. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Surrounding her were gray warships, sprinkled here and there, moving slowly to conserve fuel and yet remain under control. Helicopters and Ospreys droned back and forth overhead, watching and filming and staying far enough away from Sultan to present no threat. Miles above an E-2 circled, watching every ship and plane within a two-hundred-mile radius.

If he wanted them, carrier jets were armed and ready on the flight deck of an American carrier coming south from the Persian Gulf. They could be overhead within an hour. With every minute that passed, the carrier closed the range.

Sometimes in the night when he was trying to sleep, Toad thought about the irony of keeping all these ships at sea, the sailors on watch, the airplanes flying, all to prevent pirates from grabbing an occasional merchant ship and demanding some money, a pittance really, compared to the cost of preventing the piracy in the first place. Maybe most crime is like that: It costs more to deter bank robbery and catch and punish bank robbers than they could ever steal. Yet we try to deter bank robbery and catch and punish the evildoers nonetheless.

Toad wasn’t thinking about the irony now. He was sitting in his chair on the flag bridge listening to reports and reading messages from Washington, his fleet commander, and his theater commander. Messages poured in, and staffers read them and passed the ones they thought he should see on to him for perusal. Orders, advice, reminders, more orders, suggestions and general bullshit. Toad was used to it. He had been reading navy messages since he graduated from the Naval Academy, back before the glaciers melted and man discovered toilet paper. Back when there were iron men in wooden ships. Or wooden men in iron ships. Something like that, Toad knew. He was an old fart; all these youngsters standing around busily looking at the Sultan and trying to be respectful while thinking of ways to solve this military problem just reminded him of it.

The fact that the problem was insoluble right now didn’t compute. Gotta work this thing, get it unscrewed, come up with a solution, make it happen. That’s what we’re here for. Dammit, people, this is the U. S. Navy we’re talking about.

He decided to write another message to Washington. Reached for a pad of paper and took his pen from his shirt pocket and started in.

When he finished, he motioned to his chief of staff, Flip. “Washington be damned. This is what we are going to do.” He handed the captain the draft message.

Haducek scanned it. “But, Admiral, they already told you not to do this.”

“No, they told me to do the SEAL thing instead. So I did. Now I’m going with my plan.”

“Sir, you can’t -”

“Yes, by God, I can! There are eight hundred and fifty unarmed civilians on that ship whose lives are being threatened by homicidal pirates. I’m the officer on the scene. Yes, by God, I can! ”

Tarkington took a deep breath. When he resumed speaking, his voice was again normal. “Get that typed up. Get the ships in position. We go when everyone is ready. Ten minutes before we go, you send that message. Got it?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

* * *

Mike Rosen left the e-communications center and headed for the buffet at noon. There had been no announcement, but he was hungry-and why not? He passed two pirates on the way. They were standing near the elevators chewing khat and cradling their weapons, looking worried. Perhaps the earlier SEAL assault had unnerved them. The ship was obviously not moving, not getting closer to Eyl and safety, and they must be worried about that, too.

Rosen could see the surface of the ocean through a window in the lounge area as he walked through it. The sea was flat as a plate, with gray naval vessels moving slowly along. Beyond them was the sea’s rim, a perfectly straight line. A high, white overcast threw a soft light that made every detail stand out.

There was indeed food, food straight from the coolers. Nothing hot. Still, the toasters worked, and there was plenty of jam. Coffee was a score. The stewards had trouble keeping the big urns full because the passengers were draining it out so quickly. Rosen had to stand in line to get a cup. At least it was hot and strong.

The passengers were subdued, more withdrawn, plainly worried. Some of them had been roped to the lounge chairs during the SEAL attack, and they were badly frightened. Watching that pirate murder two passengers right before their eyes had shaken them to the core. They might not live through this disaster. Tragedy. Death was right there, waiting …

Those who spoke did so in whispers, with glances at the pirates huddled together near the door. There were no smiles, no nervous laughs. The SEAL attack was the main item of conversation. Everyone knew a tidbit, no one knew the whole story. They speculated endlessly over what the attack meant and what it had achieved.

What would this day bring? The dead man and woman by the pool-a woman from Germany and a man from Florida. Slaughtered. Thinking about danger, worrying about something that might or might not happen, well, we all did that every day as we wandered through life. The spouse, the job, the kids, the doctors, the lawyers, the damned stock market … But to see people ripped apart by bullets right in front of your eyes, to see real people instantly turned into blood and guts and brains and half-digested food-that was a trauma that nothing in your life up to that moment had prepared you for. It changed you. You would never again be the same. Life would never have the same feel it once did. The world would be scarier. More dangerous.

Rosen could see the stress in his fellow passengers’ faces. No doubt they could see it in his. He asked questions in the serving line and got answers, though several of the people tried to pretend they weren’t talking to him.

He also saw the stress in the pirates, who were obviously shaken, probably by the SEAL assault. The Americans and their allies were fierce warriors; men lying on deck in pools of their own blood with their throats slashed apart proved that point. Rosen wondered if cultural shock had anything to do with the pirates’ mood. This morning they looked like children caught playing hooky. More to the point, Rosen wondered if any of this lot would actually murder a passenger. Their body language said no. The AK-47s were no longer pointed at anyone. None of them laughed or swaggered. It was something to think about.