The Aden Effect (20 page)

He shouted as loudly as he could: “Kirkwalls! This is Connor Stark. I have the captain with me. I'm on the port side midships. Follow my voice.” The last vestige of daylight faded from lavender to black. The stars shone brilliantly in the cloudless, moonless sky, their reflections in the water the only light.

“Here!” he shouted again. “Follow my voice.” He was encouraged to hear multiple splashes coming around the bow. The calm water amplified sounds in the still air. He heard water lapping against the aft topside compartment and even closer over the side. There was no time to work the lifeboats loose. Securing life preservers on himself and Jaime, he slipped her over the side and then lowered himself down. He pulled her limp body close with one arm and kicked away from the sinking ship before it could drag them under with it.

His body remembered his years of swimming laps in Olympic-sized pools training for Seoul, but his heavy, wet coveralls and steel-toed boots made maneuvering difficult. He moved doggedly on, dragging Jaime, keeping her face above the water, farther and farther away from the boat.

Every few strokes he yelled out, “Kirkwalls, follow my voice!” He swallowed water and gasped for air. He felt the sea trying to pull Jaime away from him, but he never let go of her. The survivors, almost all younger than he, were finally approaching. Four crewmen made it to him before, in the otherwise silent sea, they heard the
Kirkwall
slip beneath the water.

“Everyone, stay close.” Only then did Connor Stark realize how cold nighttime water could be even in the Gulf of Aden. He experienced his first shiver and rubbed Jaime's unbroken arm, hoping to warm her.

His water survival training kicked in, and he directed the crew to huddle to limit the loss of body heat. They kept their injured captain in the middle of the pack to reduce the shock sure to follow her injuries. The crew took turns speaking to keep their minds alert and prevent the delirium and numbness that would eventually overcome all of them if they were not rescued.

“Stay close,” he told them above the silent waters. “We're all going to make it. Do you hear that Jaime? All of us.”

Time passed and the stars wheeled above them. Stark treaded water with Jaime and the four other survivors, remembering every exercise he'd used in those training pools—trying them all. Jaime's pulse was weakening. A few times she appeared to wake only to fall back into unconsciousness.

Stark's extremities started to feel the cold water's effects. The muscles in his fingers and toes contracted. The others were also experiencing the first signs of hypothermia. Their feet and hands cramped up and stiffened, then their joints. Two of the Kirkwalls began to garble their words.

Faisal shivered slightly in the cool night air as he placed the call to Mukalla.

“It is done,” al-Ghaydah said.

“Give me the report from my ships,” Faisal said harshly.

“It was very costly. They were very well armed.”

“What else?”

“We lost four boats.”

“Yes, yes. That was expected. What of the security ship carrying the military adviser?”

“It was their smaller ship. One of our new unmanned boats got through and damaged it, and our RPGs killed most of the crew. Any that survived surely died when the ship sank. They are all dead, Faisal, just as you ordered.”

“You did well, Ahmed. Did the ship call for help before sinking?”

“One distress call went out, but there was no one to respond. The Chinese ships were too far away with their convoy. The only other warship was the U.S. Navy one—the one that boarded the
Suleiman
and then ran away.”

Faisal al-Yemeni laughed.

Stark heard a helicopter in the distance, but it wasn't the small helicopter he had heard during the attack. This one made the distinct thumping sound of a U.S. military helicopter—a Seahawk. The only surface ship he knew to be operating in the area was the
Bennington
, and every cruiser had Seahawks. The surviving crewmembers, hopeful again, used their waterproof flashlights to signal.

The Seahawk drew nearer. If the survivors in the water were lucky, the helicopter would have a harness to haul them up, but with three crewmembers already aboard, the craft would have space for only a couple of extra bodies. Even that would depend on how much fuel was available. Every pound mattered. How far had the Seahawk already flown? How close was the
Bennington?

The helicopter's wash created concentric waves around the six survivors as its searchlight picked them out of the darkness. All Connor could see were the craft's green and red running lights and the massive searchlight.

He could feel Jaime's body constricting, succumbing to the cold and shock. “C'mon, Jaime, stay with us. Please. You have to try.”

“My babies, my crew,” she whispered.

“You're going home, Jaime. Just hold on.”

“
Bennington
, Batwing Five-Seven, over,” the co-pilot's voice crackled in the Combat Information Center over HAWKLINK, the secure data link from the helicopter to the ship.

“Go ahead, Five-Seven.”

“Six survivors found at datum, all in life vests; no life raft. One survivor appears to be unconscious. My intentions are to lower the rescue swimmer, pick up as many survivors as possible, and return to mom to drop them off and refuel before going back for the rest.

“Copy all, Five-Seven. Six survivors, no life raft. We are passing this information and your intentions to bridge and CO.”

Bobby stood close to the OOD as they listened to the exchange. He felt a bit breathless from the tension and excitement. Both men were about to be relieved by the next watch, but neither wanted to leave. With the OOD's permission, Bobby called down to the officers' quarters and told them what was
going on. The captain, XO, Air Boss, and OPS all arrived on the bridge within a minute. The OOD briefed them on the situation.

OPS noticed the ship's speed on the indicator. “Helm, confirm our speed.” The young sailor complied. OPS quickly went to the chart table between the chief quartermaster and a third-class boatswain. With seemingly blinding speed, he calculated the time to reach the survivors. “Captain, with OOD and NAV's concurrence, I recommend we proceed on course two-six-zero at
flank
speed, recover Five-Seven, have her drop off survivors, refuel her, and relaunch her toward the datum. We will continue closing the position at flank. We should also ready the RHIBs for launch in case we need to pick up the remaining survivors once we arrive at datum.” OPS spoke as quickly as he had made the calculations.

Bobby watched the captain's face in the ambient light; he seemed confused by the rapid-fire information directed at him.

“We'll be burning a lot of fuel, and we don't know when we'll rendezvous with an oiler,” he said doubtfully.

“Sir,” the XO interjected, “this situation is grave. There are six individuals in the water; one is unconscious. Water temperature is,” she checked the console, “sixty-two degrees. They've got a couple of hours at best. We need to get there now!”

The CO frowned at his executive officer. “Who are these people anyway, XO? Why are they out there?”

“
Kirkwall
, sir. She's a U.S.-owned ship that protects private U.S. assets.”

“A mercenary ship protecting American assets? The U.S. Navy does the protecting out here, missy. Are we clear on that?”

The XO overlooked the “missy” for the moment. “Sir! That's not the issue. Those are lives. We don't have a choice. We
have
to help!” She tried to think of some way to push him without angering him. “The U.S. Navy
always
answers the call, sir. And we need to act now.”

Air Boss weighed in as well, trying to appeal to whatever logic the CO might listen to: “Captain, I concur with OPS' plan. At flank speed the ship would arrive in two hours. Given the time/distance problem, the helo should be able to rescue several survivors and return to the ship twice prior to
Bennington
's arrival on-scene.”

Everyone on the bridge held their collective breaths while the captain paused to absorb the multiple streams of recommendations.

The XO cautiously added an extra nudge. “Captain, recommend we go with Air Boss' idea and upon rescue proceed to Djibouti for transfer of the personnel and refueling.”

That seemed to reach the captain. “Hmm, refuel at Djibouti. I've never been to Djibouti.”

Bobby fumed silently while the captain dithered. He could feel his face flushing with the anger that threatened to explode from his mouth.

After a full minute the captain finally responded. “Okay. OOD, make course two-six-zero, flank speed. Contact Batwing 57 and advise them of our intentions.”

The helicopter crew kept the survivors in sight through the FLIR and night vision goggles as they prepared to conduct the rescue operation. When the pilots, hoist operator, and rescue swimmer were ready, Batwing 57 passed above the survivors and turned downwind to a point twelve hundred yards in front of them. The co-pilot pressed the automatic approach button on the Automatic Flight Control System (AFCS) control panel and the aircraft commenced a computer-assisted “automatic” approach that resulted in a gyrostabilized hover, the AFCS computer keeping the helicopter over a fixed geographic position eighty feet above the survivors. A crewmember started the winch that lowered the rescue swimmer into the water.

Fighting the waves and sea spray kicked up by the Seahawk's wash, Stark grabbed the wetsuit-covered rescue swimmer's forearm and placed it on Jaime Johnson's limp body. The rescue swimmer nodded rapidly. He quickly hooked Jaime to his Tri-SAR harness and then spoke into the radio at his right shoulder. The hoist cable went taut, and the rescue swimmer and Jaime Johnson rose out of the water and into the night sky. In another ten minutes the rescue swimmer was back in the water hooking himself to the next survivor. Each time the swimmer was lowered, Stark passed the harness to another Kirkwall. As the swimmer hooked himself to the last of the Kirkwalls, he shouted to Stark that Batwing 57 was at capacity and would have to return to the ship. Stark nodded his understanding.

With all the survivors save one safely aboard and the cabin secure for flight, the pilot depressed the automatic depart button and Batwing 57 began the 120-knot arc back toward the rapidly closing
Bennington
. As the sound of the Seahawk's giant rotor died away, Stark wondered whether the ship would arrive in time. For the first time he doubted his survival.

Stark thought he was hallucinating when the helicopter returned. He lacked the strength to help the rescue swimmer hook him into the harness or even to hold up his head. As he rose into the air his eyes remained on the water below. An iridescent rainbow glittered in the helicopter's spotlights, the remains of fuel leaked by the
Kirkwall
. The lights revealed no other sign of the ship and those who had given their lives on it. Someone from the helicopter was shouting down at him, but the numbness had finally won. The adrenaline needed to save Jaime and lead the others was gone. He hung limply in the sling, oblivious to the sounds above him as he used his remaining energy to keep his eyes on the watery grave.