The Delta Solution (48 page)

There was ample room to hurl the grappling hooks straight through the openings to these decks, and they were positioned quite low on the hull, certainly not as high as the rails on the
Global Mustang
.

“We’d need to be very careful boarding,” said Wolde. “Probably timing the throw on the rising wave.”

“That’s how the old gun-decks worked in the eighteenth century,” said Captain Hassan. “The British always fired their first salvo on the rising wave. And then another as it subsided.”

“That must be our aim,” said Wolde. “We hurl the grapplers at the top of the wave and then hang on to the lines. We’d need leather gloves for this, even though we can have the skiffs making zero relative speed against the hull.”

“I’m seeing the pictures,” said Hassan, “and I think Ismael and his guys can board the ship. My biggest problem is the distance. It’s more than 1,200 miles from here to the Maldives. That’s way beyond any distance we’ve ever taken the
Mombassa
. It’s 450 miles further offshore than any previous pirate attack.

“And we can’t run at top speed all the way. If we did we’d be there in a little over three days. But I wouldn’t want to push her that hard. We’d run at maybe 15 knots and that would take us over four days. Three days on station, and four back. It’s all too long, Mr. Salat. Much too long.”

“Precisely what worries you the most?” asked Salat.

“Four things. Food, water, fuel, and then the biggest worry: We’d be vulnerable for such a long time, running hard trying to get home, knowing that a US warship could catch us easily and sink us out of pure revenge. I just don’t think the
Mombassa
is man enough for the job.”

“I agree,” said Wolde. “We could pull this off. But not in the
Mombassa
. I doubt we’d get home alive.”

“Gentlemen,” said Salat, “are you saying we ought not to try this, or are you saying we need a different attack boat?”

“Second option,” said Wolde. “Different attack boat.”

“Gimme the stats,” said Salat.

“She’ll want to be at least sixty-five feet long, 2,500 tons, twin-shafted,
fast, maybe up to 35 knots max, running real easy at 25. Big gas tanks, range around 3,500 miles. Spare tanks.”

“What kind of a boat—fishing vessel, motor yacht?

“I’m not sure a fishing boat would be fast enough for a project like this,” said Captain Hassan. “I wanna say a motor yacht, something with a real good engine. But I don’t know where we’re going to get one.”

“I’ll get one,” replied Salat.

“From where? We have nothing like that,” said Hassan.

“I’m going to charter one,” said Salat.

“You’re gonna what?!”

“Charter one,” repeated Salat. “Hire a big motor yacht for a month.”

“What? To rob and then ransom a luxury US cruise ship?” Wolde was incredulous.

“Sure.”

“You can’t do that,” said Hassan.

“I’ve got the money, and in my experience you can buy anything if you want it badly enough,” said Salat. “The
Ocean Princess
does not even leave Mombassa for another two days. And it doesn’t reach the channel for another twelve days after that. We need to be out there to meet her. That gives me at least a week to get us a good boat and bring it here.”

“But where are we going to get it?” asked Wolde. “There’s not a boat like that in the entire country.”

“I don’t know where I’ll get it—but I will get it,” said Salat. “You can count on that.”

“If you get it, we’ll take the
Ocean Princess
,” said Wolde. “You can count on that.”

COMMANDER BEDFORD made the Delta Platoon’s opening day in Djibouti a full study session—maps and charts, a familiarizing process for every one of the SEALs, and quality time taken to understand and digest exactly where they all were on the map and exactly where they were going.

Each man was issued personal charts, hand-marked by the SPECWARCOM cartographers, drawing in the theater of operations, the big square in which the four patrolling US warships were already on standby. Rolling in from the southeast was the carrier
Harry S. Truman
. In addition to its normal complement of eighty fighter/bombers and Black Hawks, the flattop
carried two extra helicopters, one of them a Sikorsky Sea Stallion, assault troop delivery.

The next two days were spent once more practicing parachute operations. They were accomplished at the first phase of their arrival in the ops area, the ocean drop from high altitude, and then the pickup by navy crews.

The second phase, which might require them to perform a HALO drop, the 26,000-foot free fall, and low opening for a ground landing was their least practiced area of expertise. And Commander Bedford was happy that there was ample opportunity in Djibouti to spend time honing this.

They were all expert parachutists and they could land in the ocean in their sleep. But Mack and the service chiefs at the Pentagon wanted this Haradheere garrison taken out. And the Delta boss could see no alternative but to land by air along the beach from the garrison itself and attack from the ground with helicopter cover.

That would mean a carrier coming inshore with a complement of Black Hawks. It would be a big, costly operation, but the top brass, Lancaster, Bradfield, and Andre, wanted it dealt with. And if that’s what it would take, so be it. That was all that mattered.
Just get it done
, he was told. And that’s exactly what he was doing.

Mack Bedford was more than pleased with his team. Their marksmanship was impeccable; they were trained to the minute either for an ocean, ground, or air attack. Either way they were geared to take a moving or stationary target, no matter how big or well-armed their enemy was.

For now all they could do was train on the Djibouti base, perfect their freefall parachuting, and retain their sensational fitness. Other than that, there was nothing more to do except wait for the pirates to strike again.

TOM AND MIRANDA CARLOW boarded the
Ocean Princess
early in the evening and settled into their fabulous suite on the Promenade Deck. The ship was due to sail on the tide at 0100 the following morning, and that first evening Andy Carlow’s parents had been invited to dine with the captain, Hugh MacColl, a lifelong seaman from Cape Cod.

After dinner, Miranda retired to bed but the admiral went out onto
their small private deck and took with him a brandy and ginger ale, a sailor’s drink he had learned from the Royal Navy during an official visit to the Faslane submarine base in Scotland, soon after receiving his first command.

He drank in the atmosphere of the jetties and soaked up the general buzz of a ship scheduled to leave. It wasn’t much different from the departure of a US warship—except a bit sloppier with ropes and lines all over the place. And there was a lot more yelling as various African shore-hands went missing or showed up late or in the wrong place.

But the basic procedure was the same: lines cast off, signals from the foredeck and stern, the wash of the giant engines as she eased away from dry land. And finally the short blast on the ship’s horn as the
Ocean Princess
pulled out into the harbor and set a course southeast down the channel and out into the broad waters of the Indian Ocean.

SITTING IN HIS REGULAR SPOT in the middle of the Old City of Sana, the capital of Yemen, was the secretive Middle Eastern arms dealer Najib Saleh. For the third time that day he was talking on the phone to Mohammed Salat and this time the news was agreeable to both of them.

“She’s lying at anchor in the harbor on Socotra Island,” he said. “The owners are Saudis. They only use her a couple of times a year. I’m empowered to charter but I never have.”

“What the hell’s she doing in Socotra?” asked Mohammed. “I thought that place was prehistoric.”

“Twenty years ago you might have been right,” laughed Najib. “Not anymore.”

The island to which the hefty Yemeni referred was about 80 miles long and located 240 miles off the Arabian Peninsula but only 160 miles off the Horn of Africa. It is probably the most remote, unspoiled place in all the world, the largest island in the ancient Land of Sheba.

Socotra has a small native population and is a place of unspoiled natural beauty, unchanged since the Middle Ages. In recent years, however, the march of civilization has been encroaching. There are paved roads, one hotel, an airport, and a harbor located four miles from the main town of Hadibo.

The president of Yemen has a beautiful residence there, as do two Saudi princes. The boat that Hajib was discussing was a powerful seventy-foot oceangoing motor yacht that belonged to one of the princes.

“Is she fast enough?” asked Mohammed.

“Hell, yes. She makes 35 knots if you ask her. Big range, too. She’ll go more than 3,000 miles and after that she has a 1,000-gallon spare tank.”

“What’s her name?”

“
Desert Shark
. She’s painted white and sails under a Saudi flag. She’s just been fully serviced. The prince won’t be back for three months.”

“How come he trusts you to guard his boat?”

“I don’t guard it. I charter it if anyone is rich enough.”

“You ever been to Socotra?”

“Are you crazy?” laughed Najib. “I only leave the casbah to go to Russia and Riyadh. The prince and I do a lot of business.”

“How long?”

“A month.”

“How much?”

“Normally a boat like this would cost you $300,000—$10,000 a day in the Indian Ocean. She’ll carry fourteen people easily. I’ll let you have her for $200,000—cash, payable on delivery.”

Salat had not the slightest doubt that the Saudi prince would not see a dollar of that money. And in his mind, there was only one question: “How do I get her?”

“No problem, old friend,” replied Najib. “I’ll have her delivered to Haradheere. By sea, she can bring that merchandise you ordered.”

“I need it now.”

“She’ll leave tonight.”

“Who pays the freight?”

“I’ll cover the journey to Haradheere. You fly my guys back. Three of them.”

“Done,” said Mohammed with a self-satisfied smile on his face.