Pirate Alley: A Novel (6 page)

Tarkington knew the Rules of Engagement cold, and he understood the political climate in which he operated. He would create an international incident if he ordered the jets to use their weapons, an incident that would probably have serious political repercussions in European capitals, perhaps jeopardizing the continued existence of the antipiracy task force. On the other hand, the pirates had shot at his helicopters, perhaps killed the crewmen. He had spent his career in the U.S. Navy; self-defense was instinctive, institutional, ingrained. Overaggressiveness in the face of a threat could be forgiven; excessive caution, never. Then there were all the people on that cruise ship …

Toad Tarkington made his decision. “Tell Sea Wolf flight to sink the pirate boats. Weapons free.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

*   *   *

Lieutenant Commander Dieter Gerhart was leading Sea Wolf flight. Lieutenant (junior grade) Tom Borosco was on his wing. Gerhart listened to the orders, then asked Borosco, “You get that, Tom?”

“Roger.”

“You take the boats on the land side, I’ll take the boats on the seaward side. Strafe and sink them.”

“Got it.”

Gerhart consulted the mil-setting table on his kneeboard, found the mil setting he wanted and dialed it into the gunsight. He adjusted the brightness of the reticle, trying to find a setting that would not overpower a hard-to-see target on a gray ocean on a hazy day. Finally he toggled his master armament switch on and selected
GUN
.

He pushed the nose over, left the power up. He had the cruise ship on radar … if indeed it was the right ship. She was twenty-five miles away. He wished visibility were better.

Waiting was difficult as the jets plunged deeper into the atmosphere and the range marched down. Gerhart set his radar altimeter to sound a warning at 1,100 feet above the sea. At 1,100 feet, he would open fire, and hold the trigger down for no more than a second. At 900 feet he should be off the gun and pulling out, right or left, to avoid any ricochets off the water.

He was at six miles when he saw the ship embedded in the haze. There, one, two, three skiffs on the starboard side. He didn’t see the fourth, but he could only attack them one at a time, so he picked the closest and went for it.

Power back, down to 420, now 400 … speed bleeding off, angle steep because he was diving toward a point well ahead of his target, which was paralleling the ship, moving toward a point perhaps twenty degrees right of his six o’clock.

He raised the nose to establish a ten-degree dive angle, put the pipper short of the boat, slightly left … saw 1,500 feet on the radar altimeter, 1,500 on the pressure altimeter, airspeed down to 350. A touch fast for his taste, but okay.

He would be shooting in three seconds.

*   *   *

Captain Arch Penney felt the heavy thud of a nearby grenade blast. Idly, he wondered how many grenades the pirates had brought along. Probably enough to murder hundreds of people.

Three minutes.

“Here come the jets.”

Penney risked a look. He saw only one, coming in fast, slanting down. It was coming from about ten degrees left of the bow and crossing over the extended centerline of the ship toward the starboard boats.

Even as he saw the jet, Penney realized it wasn’t going for the skiff nearest the ship, but one half a mile away.

He watched, mesmerized. The fighter came plunging down like a hawk.

The F/A-18 Hornet dipped low, perhaps a thousand feet, and began its pullout. The pirate boat disappeared in a cloud of sea spray as the audible buzz from the jet’s cannon reached him, seconds late.

“There’s a fighter over here, too,” someone called. “Hammered a boat.”

What would the skiff right by the ship do?

“Stick it to those balmy bastards,” another man yelled.

*   *   *

Mustafa al-Said was so intent on getting more RPGs into the
Sultan
’s bridge that he didn’t see the jet fighters at first. One of his men pointed … then he saw them. Saw one of the boats disappear under a hail of cannon shells. The jet was pulling out, climbing and turning for another pass.

Mustafa spun the wheel. The fighter pilot might not take the chance of shooting so close to the ship. Mustafa expertly brought his skiff to within ten feet of the speeding cruise ship. The sea between ship and boat was a river of foam.

The RPG man fired another grenade right into the bridge wing.

*   *   *

The explosion of the grenade smashed into the officers and sailors huddled on the deck of the bridge. The concussion momentarily stunned Arch Penney. He found himself sprawled on the deck. Blood. Everything was covered with a fine spray of blood. He looked around. Smoke … carnage … a severed arm lay nearby on the deck. Bodies all over. Harry Zopp was coming around, bleeding from the head. He met his gaze.

“Bloody hell,” said Arch Penney. He crawled to the engine controls and moved the handles to
ALL STOP
.

*   *   *

“Strike, Sea Wolf One Oh Five. The cruise ship seems to be slowing. There is a pirate skiff alongside.”

“Can you attack it?”

“Too close to the ship.”

But one boat wasn’t. Gerhart steadied up, checked his dive angle and pulled the pipper onto the boat. Closing … now! The radar altimeter deedled, he squeezed the trigger, the gun vibrated, then he was pulling.

He glanced back. Spray obscured the skiff. As it exited the cloud of water, he could see that the boat was losing way, that people were jumping into the sea.

The screws of the
Sultan
were no longer churning the ocean into foam. She was obviously decelerating. A pirate boat was alongside.

Dieter Gerhart turned back for a closer look.

“Gear, the bastards are climbing aboard.” That was Tom.

Gerhart got a glimpse of men going up the ropes hand over hand, assault rifles on slings on their backs.

Shit!

They had lost. The pirates were aboard! Two more boats were closing from astern. By the time the fighters got into shooting position, those two boats would be too close to the ship.

There wasn’t a damn thing two fighter jocks could do about it.

“Join on me, Tom. We’ll make a low pass, then go home.”

That is what they did. The two jets went over the
Sultan
just above the top of the radar mast at three hundred knots. Dieter Gerhart got a good look at two men climbing a rope up the ship’s side. He turned to the northeast, began climbing, and keyed his radio.

*   *   *

As he listened to Sea Wolf lead’s report, Admiral Toad Tarkington smote his thigh.

“Send a Flash message to Washington,” he ordered curtly. “Pirates just captured a cruise ship.”

CHAPTER
THREE

Admiral Toad Tarkington stared at the flat-screen display. The destroyer,
Richard Ward,
was about an hour away from
Sultan of the Seas.
His flagship,
Chosin Reservoir,
an amphibious assault ship with the majority of a Marine Expeditionary Unit, an MEU, embarked, was two hours away. The ship was at flight quarters; the helicopters were being readied.

But for what?

The MEU, with 2,200 marines, was a fast reaction force that carried its own logistics. It had choppers, landing craft, artillery and armor, plus the ammo and food to sustain itself anywhere it was inserted. One of the marine units was a Force Recon team, the tip of the marine spear, and was specially trained to board ships under hostile fire.

Toad looked around the ops space. Sure enough, the colonel commanding the MEU was behind him, watching the whole evolution. Toad motioned to him.

The marine’s name was Maximus Zakhem, and he didn’t have two pounds of extra fat on him. With square shoulders and a square face, hair in a buzz cut that made it almost invisible on his tanned head, he looked every inch a professional warrior. Some of the naval officers referred to him as the marine from central casting, behind his back, of course. Still, Colonel Zakhem did a hundred push-ups every morning just to get the blood flowing and then worked out on the flight deck with his men. There wasn’t a private or lance corporal in his command in better physical shape. He could even go step for step with the sergeants of Force Recon, who were fifteen to twenty years younger than he was.

The admiral’s chief of staff and his operations officer joined them.

Admiral Tarkington summarized the situation. Since he had been watching for the last hour, Colonel Zakhem had no questions.

“The pirates will probably take the cruise ship south to a Somali port,” Toad said with a sigh, then paused to listen to a call from the bridge of
Sultan.

“Pirates are aboard. At least a dozen. They will undoubtedly be upon the bridge, what’s left of it, in seconds.” There followed a burst of gunfire; then the radio went dead.

Colonel Zakhem broke the silence with the remark, “That captain had a tough decision to make. He was trying to save the lives of his passengers and crew. Surrendering was the right thing to do.”

He and the admiral knew the pirates would kill just enough people to horrify and frighten the cruise ship owners, but no more, so they could demand a big ransom and get it. Like politics and prostitution, piracy was all about the money.

“We could intercept them on the way to Somalia,” Toad Tarkington said, musing aloud. “What do you think?”

“Board the ship?”

Toad shrugged. Boarding was only one possibility.

Zakhem took a deep breath. “It could be done, Admiral … if you are willing to accept civilian casualties. A packed cruise ship … my men will have to go after the pirates aggressively and defend themselves.”

Toad stirred uncomfortably in his chair. Over eight hundred civilians. Scenes of slaughter ran through his mind. He listened to the thoughts of his chief of staff, a navy captain, and his operations officer, a commander, but he had already decided.

“We’ll intercept the liner,” Tarkington said, his mind made up. “Try to intimidate the pirates with a show of force. Ops, get the task force on a course to intercept. Have
Richard Ward
close and stay out of rifle shot off their beam while we get more ships there. In the meantime, I want a helo over the ship continuously. They are to stay out of range of RPGs and machine guns.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“We’ve lost a chopper off the
Ward.
Launch a couple from this ship to search for survivors and take photos. I want shots of that cruise ship from every possible angle.”

“Sir, how about picking up pirates from the ocean?”

“Anybody they can find,” the admiral said. “I’d like some prisoners to interrogate to see if we can find out just what we’re up against.”

He addressed his next sentence to the chief of staff. “Send a message to the strike group commander.” This was the admiral aboard the carrier three hundred miles northeast. “I would appreciate it if he would bring his force to rendezvous with all possible speed, if his operational commitments will allow it. We could certainly use an E-2 as soon as possible.” The E-2 Hawkeye carried a huge radar dish on its back and could act as an eye in the sky, relaying messages and data-linking contacts.

He eyed Zakhem. “We’ll use all your marines. Transfer as many as practicable to
Richard Ward.
I want them lining the decks of both ships, armed, in helmets, apparently ready to shoot if even one of those sons takes a pot shot. Actual shooting will be done by snipers, on officers’ orders. Force Recon marines will be overhead in choppers and Ospreys, ready to rappel down. I want to put the fear of God in these people, show them overwhelming military force. Saddle up your troops and brief them.”

“Yes, sir,” Zakhem said. “With your permission, sir, I want to be in an Osprey, ready to go down the rope if we get to board.”

Toad paused. Zakhem might be needed later to lead his entire command. Allowing him to go into combat was a calculated risk. Still, Max Zakhem was no headquarters paper-pusher. He had fought in three wars and had the scars to prove it. In an opposed boarding of a cruise liner packed with noncombatants his experience and judgment might prove invaluable.

The admiral smiled grimly. “Of course, Colonel.”

The colonel and Toad’s two staffers hustled away, leaving him to stare at the tactical situation display. Time was on his side. He had plenty of time to marshal his troops and make an overwhelming show of force. That tactic, he thought, had an excellent chance of success with little downside. Although the pirates could murder a few people to prove they meant business, killing passengers wouldn’t make the navy and marines go away. Regardless of what they did, the pirates had to be made to realize they couldn’t win.

And if the show of force didn’t work, he could try to put a SEAL team aboard. If everything failed, hell, maybe the politicians would elect to pay the money the pirates would demand.

*   *   *

Mustafa al-Said walked confidently through the passageway that led to the bridge. He knew exactly where this passageway led because he had carefully studied the deck plan for this ship. Someone had downloaded it from the Internet several weeks ago.

Two men accompanied him. They held their AKs at hip level, ready to fire. The people sitting on the deck against the bulkhead pulled in their feet and looked at the three Somalis curiously.

The door to the bridge was sprung. No doubt from the RPG.

Mustafa gestured, and his men forced it open. Mustafa walked through into a scene from a slaughterhouse. He had seen shot-up bridges before and expected it.

The captain was the man in uniform with four stripes on his tabs, bloody, trying to stand erect near the steering station. An arm and a disemboweled body lay on the floor, and a bloody mist had turned everything pink. Even the captain’s uniform. One sailor, the helmsman, sat on the deck beside the steering station, bleeding from a leg wound. Two other sailors appeared uninjured. They were trying to staunch the flow of blood from another injured officer.

Mustafa could see the captain was unarmed. They all were. His two men spread out to cover them with their weapons anyway.