Operation Sea Ghost (7 page)

What they found instead was a U.S. Navy warship.

*   *   *

IT WAS THE USS
Messia
.

Six hundred feet long, with a crew of 350, it was, at least officially, an Aegis cruiser. But it had satellite dishes and VRL transmitters poking out of many places where one might expect to find naval guns, and its bridge and superstructure were covered with antennas of all types and shapes and sizes.

The best description of the USS
Messia
was probably “armed intelligence-gathering vessel,” because while the ship did carry tons of eavesdropping gear, it was also equipped with surface-to-surface missiles, antiaircraft weapons and even a naval cannon or two.

Essentially, it was a spy ship—and whenever any kind of covert operation involving the United States was happening anywhere in the waters of Asia, the
Messia
could usually be found lurking close by, taking it all in.

That’s what it was doing here this night, moving very slowly on the edges of the Indischer fog bank.

*   *   *

IT WAS TOO late to change course by the time the Tang pirates spotted the warship.

And it was their bad luck that they were heading right for it, because they knew there was a good chance their leaky rust bucket would be recognized as a pirate vessel. But they also knew turning around would be such suspicious behavior, they might as well had just run a skull and crossbones up the main mast. They had no choice but sail right past the Navy ship and hope for the best.

They were within a thousand feet of the warship when they blew their foghorn twice. A few seconds passed, then they heard the warship blast its own mighty horn twice in return. A short radio conversation ensued, discussing the distance between their two ships. The pirates blew their foghorn again at five hundred feet away from the warship, and received two more blasts in response.

Not a minute later, the pirate vessel sailed past the Navy ship, a hundred feet off its port side. The pirates blew their foghorn again, and the warship replied in kind. Moving much faster than the almost stationary warship, the pirates disappeared back into the mist thirty seconds later unmolested.

The Tangs couldn’t believe it. They’d risked certain capture and had gotten away with it.

*   *   *

DEEP IN THE heart of the fog bank five minutes later, the pirates came upon another ship. Its name was the
Pacific Star
and, though old and rusty, it was the answer to their prayers. It was a hybrid cargo vessel and fishing boat, 250 feet long, with a deck covered with huge eel traps. It was moving very slowly to the east and sending out an SOS, asking for help.

Why the U.S. warship had not come to its aid, the Tangs did not know. But they couldn’t resist. They contacted the ailing vessel, told them they would come alongside and render any assistance they needed. The captain of the stricken ship quickly agreed.

The Tangs tied up to the ailing vessel minutes later and swarmed aboard. They were met by a crew of ten sailors, all of them Vietnamese.

The captain came forward to greet the Tang gang leader warmly. But on noticing the Tangs were armed, the captain said in broken English, “I was told real guns were not part of the plan.”

The Tang leader was confused. They all were.

He told the ship captain, “We’re taking over your vessel. If you don’t fight back, no one will be hurt.”

The Vietnamese captain stared back at him. “Are you saying that you’re pirates?”

The Tang leader shrugged and replied: “Yes—we are.”

But still, the Vietnamese captain was confused. He said: “But you’re not Filipinos. I don’t understand your role in this…”

Now everyone on board the ship was confused. The Tangs had no idea what the Vietnamese captain was talking about.

“We are taking your ship, we are hijacking it,” the Tang leader emphasized, trying to clarify the situation.

But the Vietnamese captain just shook his head. “But this ship has already been hijacked.
By Filipinos.
We’ve been waiting for them—but they’re late.”

“‘Waiting for them?’” the Tang leader asked. “Who waits for pirates to take over their ship?”

The Vietnamese captain shrugged uncomfortably. “But that’s what we were told to do,” he said.

“By who?”

The Vietnamese captain replied testily. “By
you
—you’re CIA—aren’t you?”

Now the Tang leader was totally baffled—and he was getting mad. He finally pulled the arming bar back on his AK-47. That’s when the Vietnamese sailors knew something was
very
wrong here.

With little more than a nod from their captain, the entire crew suddenly jumped overboard, hurling themselves into the foggy waters below.

*   *   *

THINGS WERE JUST as confused on the bridge of the USS
Messia,
one mile away.

The captain and his executive officer were huddled over the spy ship’s ultrasophisticated sea surface radar. While the XO was studying the images coming in from the fog bank, the captain was consulting a highly classified document marked: “Operation Sea Ghost.”

“Where the hell are they?” the captain finally asked with no little agitation. “According to this, they were supposed to be at the coordinate five minutes ago. They must have blown by it.”

“Expand the screen coverage again,” the XO told a nearby technician.

In an instant, the screen was displaying a ten-mile-square area of the Indischer Bank. It clearly showed about a dozen small fishing vessels and a large blur in the middle.

“What’s with that anomaly?” the captain asked the technician.

The tech replied, “A blur could indicate two ships so close to each other it skews the equipment.”

“But isn’t that where our mark is supposed to be?” the captain asked, putting his finger on the blur.

“And if it’s two ships, who is the other one?” the XO added.

The tech thought a moment. “Maybe that ship that went past us a few minutes ago?” he said.

“Not unless they collided out there somewhere,” the XO replied. “Other than that, what would one have to do with the other—unless they answered their distress call?”

The captain was growing agitated. “Whatever happened, our Vietnamese friends don’t appear to be following the plan.”

The XO could only agree. “What should we do?” he asked.

The captain studied the radar screen again, then said: “Better send in the playboys. Maybe they can straighten it out.”

*   *   *

THE XO LEFT the bridge and quickly headed aft.

He went by a sealed-off section where accommodations for the Vietnamese crew had been laid in.

Food, clothes and money were waiting for them here. The XO took a moment to peek inside the large cabin and thought,
Like a party no one wants to come to.

He kept moving until he reached the aft portion of the bottom deck. Two fast-boats were waiting here, along with a dozen SEALs, all dressed in battle gear and mission-ready. Also on hand were five Filipinos, mercenaries hired by the CIA for this unusual occasion.

This compartment had a recessed panel on its aft wall. This panel was open and looking out onto the foggy sea.

The SEAL team commander saw the XO coming and got his men to their feet.

“What’s our status, sir?” the SEAL CO asked.

“Status is officially unclear at the moment,” the XO replied.

He briefed the SEALs on the situation, how there was some confusion sorting out ships inside the fog bank.

“The captain suggests you guys deploy, get into the soup and see what’s going on,” the XO told them.

“How about our little friends?” the SEAL asked, nodding toward the Filipinos.

The XO just shrugged. “We might have to give them a box lunch and send them home. We’ll see.”

“Should we bring the UDT gear?” the SEAL CO asked.

The XO eyed the three duffel bags he knew held enough explosives to sink a good-size cargo ship.

“Maybe best you guys go in first,” he told the SEAL officer. “If you need the heavy stuff, we’ll get it to you.”

The SEAL CO just nodded.

“OK,” he said. “But just in case you lose sight of us, we’ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs.”

*   *   *

FIVE MINUTES LATER, the two SEAL fast-boats were heading into the thickest part of the fog bank.

They were equipped with a smaller version of the sea surface radar. With surprisingly little difficulty, they were soon approaching what everyone had been calling “the target.” At first, it looked exactly as it had been described to them: a rusty old ship.

One of the SEALs’ boats came up alongside the elderly vessel and several SEALs rappelled up to it. But as soon as they were on board they knew something was wrong.

This ship was
way
older and
way
smaller than what they were expecting. Plus, there didn’t seem to be anyone on board.

They searched the bridge, the cabins and the engine rooms, but found no one. And there was certainly no large shipment of old M-16 rifles or small black box that had a big “Z” stenciled onto it.

The SEAL team leader called back to the USS
Messia
with some very disturbing news.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, sir,” he said to the
Messia
’s captain. “But this ain’t the ship we want.”

*   *   *

BACK ON THE
Messia,
the captain had retreated to his cabin, hoping to figure out what had gone wrong.

He received a subsequent report from the SEALs saying they’d picked up a bunch of Vietnamese seamen in the water, but no one was exactly sure quite yet who they were.

The ship’s communications officer appeared at his door a moment later holding a dispatch he’d just written.

He passed it to the captain who read it aloud: “On this date, in the area of the Mentawai Islands, the USS
Messia
engaged a cargo vessel of Vietnamese origin which had been taken over by pirates twenty-four hours before. A brief battle using five-inch naval guns ensued. The hijacked ship was sunk during this action but its captive Vietnamese crew was rescued. All pirates either died in the exchange or are missing.”

The captain gave a grim laugh.

“Let’s make sure we delete
all
copies of this right now,” he told the communications officer. “And that’s an order.…”

8

Aboard
The Immaculate Perception
Gulf of Aden

THE MORNING DAWNED hot and humid.

The sun was crimson bright, turning the Gulf of Aden blood red. There was no wind. No waves. No sound. It was an uneasy calm.

The Immaculate Perception
was still off Yemen, its Omani escorts in tow, doing long meandering figure eights at barely five knots.

Nolan, Gunner and Twitch had spent the night taking shifts up on the yacht’s bow, keeping Batman quiet and away from the other guests. It hadn’t been that difficult. While the party had grown wilder and noisier throughout the night, it finally ended with a whimper a couple hours before sunrise. Those guests who’d lacked the stamina to make it to their cabins still littered the decks. Sleeping off their inebriation, they looked like dead soldiers in the aftermath of a battle.

The sound of a helicopter approaching stirred Nolan from a half sleep. He opened his good eye just in time to see the aircraft fly overhead. It was a UH-61 Blackhawk, painted dark silver, with no markings, but with lots of antennas sticking out of its roof, nose and tail.

Nolan groaned. Only one outfit flew helicopters like this: the CIA.

Splayed on the lounge chair next to him, Gunner was now half awake, too. He saw the copter and instantly knew its origin.

“Why are
they
out here?” he asked with a yawn.

“Taking pictures,” Nolan guessed sleepily. “Looking for someone topless.”

They both expected the copter to just fly on past, but it suddenly turned sharply and came in for a landing on the yacht’s stern-mounted helipad.

“They’re making a house call here?” Gunner asked. “Really?”

Nolan was fully awake now. “Maybe they want to talk to the ice princess about her ordeal,” he mumbled, stretching his legs. “Or get her autograph.”

The copter settled down and a lone passenger climbed out. Nolan and Gunner pegged him right away: the off-the-rack clothes, the bad haircut, the cheap sunglasses, an overall disheveled look; there was no doubt about it. He was from the Agency.

“Freaking spooks,” Gunner mused. “They really
do
all look alike, don’t they?”

The man signaled the copter pilots to kill their engines. They heard him yell: “This might take a while…”

Then he approached two of the yacht’s clean-up crew and had a brief conversation. At the end of it, the workers pointed not toward Emma Simms’s cabin below, but up to the bow where Whiskey was stationed.

“Oh fuck,” Nolan grumbled. “What do they want with us?”

Gunner woke Twitch and Batman while Nolan met the man halfway up the bow.

“You’re Whiskey?” the visitor asked him.

Nolan nodded. There were no handshakes, no introductions.

“I’ve got to talk to you and your guys,” the man said urgently. He was middle-aged, bald and paunchy. This guy was a station chief, Nolan thought. And definitely not a field officer.

“Talk? Before breakfast?” Nolan asked him.

“Yes,” the man replied sternly. “As in right now.”

They climbed up to the bow. The others were waiting at a table right below the bridge deck. Everyone sat down.

Nolan pulled his chair next to Batman.

“How are you doing?” he asked him in a low voice.

Batman gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“One thousand percent improvement,” he whispered in reply. “Nothing beats sleeping it off.”

Nolan believed him. Batman looked much better than the night before.

The CIA man got right to the point. “We’ve been following your activities since yesterday,” he said. “The kidnapping. The Somalis. The rescue mission. We figured you’d still be out here.”

“But you’re a little late,” Gunner told him, pretending to look at his watch. “The party ended a couple hours ago.”