The Delta Solution (7 page)

“You get a dozen of those guys boarding your ship, and they’re not afraid to open fire. You don’t have a prayer.” Admiral Bradfield was visibly concerned by these events.

“I have to tell the chairman,” he said. “And he must inform the president. And the defense secretary has to be brought in. And then I guess State. Jesus Christ, right there we’re looking at a prairie fire of goddamned words.”

“Sir, they’re going to ask us for recommendations,” said Jay. “And they’re going to want them fast. They’ll ask us if we can rescue them.”

“Yeah,” said the CNO, “and how long that’ll take. And they’ll want to know if the SEALs can do anything.”

“Trouble is,” said Jay, “They’re all politicians and desperately light on brains. The best course of action is to get the goddamned price down to $5 million then pay it. That Somali aid already cost the US government upward of a $100 million.

“And five mill solves the problem, right? That’s the commercial decision. A fucking monkey on a stick could work that out.”

“It’s also why the goddamned pirates are so rich. And if we pay ’em, they’ll do it again next week. The politicians believe they have to be stopped soon, and it might as well be now—
if
the US government could come in with a show of strength.”

“I guess so,” replied Jay Souchak. “But my instinct would be to pay them, free up the ship, and then flatten their fucking hometown. Haradheere, right? The pirates’ lair?”

“I know, Jay. But it’s not going to happen. This is going to be a protracted negotiation unless we can somehow swing it onto a civilian course. Get it paid. But not by Uncle Sam.”

“I sense the germ of a major idea,” said Lieutenant Commander Souchak. “We better have a couple before the entire government starts demanding answers. Because they’re all going to duck and dive for cover and then tell us it’s the navy’s problem.”

“I know. And it isn’t even our ship anymore, right?”

Just then the chairman’s buzzer sounded, and Admiral Bradfield picked up a private line to the highest office in the US military.

“Sir?” he said.

“You finished with me?” replied General Zack Lancaster, the craggy ex–Rangers C-in-C who had occupied the chair since returning from Afghanistan three years previously.

“Sir, I haven’t even started,” replied Mark Bradfield. “I better come in and bring my XO and his secretary with me. Because you are gonna need answers.”

General Lancaster really liked his chief of Naval Operations and he chuckled that deep confident laugh of his, the one that all his troops had loved at even the most diabolical briefings in Helmand Province, the one that implied,
Take it easy, kid, we’ll be alright
.

Big Zack was every inch the US warrior. An ex–West Pointer, he was enormously popular and he had political ambitions. Owing to his propensity to show total exasperation with lesser intellects, however, the popular view was that Zack would last about ten minutes in a diplomatic situation.

Still, there were those in the Pentagon who thought much the same about Admiral Mark Bradfield, but the truth was, if you really wanted to get something done, these two formed one hell of a starting point. It was common knowledge that Admiral Bradfield would himself become chairman of the Joint Chiefs when the fifty-four-year-old General Lancaster retired.

He led Jay Souchak and Mary-Ann into the inner sanctum of the Pentagon. The chairman immediately stood up and greeted Mary-Ann first, remembering her name with that unfailing certainty that had made him a prince among army commanders. Every soldier who fought under his command anywhere in the world thought he was General Lancaster’s best friend.

He was six feet four inches tall with neatly clipped, greying hair and very blue eyes. A New Englander and the son of a Connecticut timber
merchant, he had a deep voice and a slight air of irreverence about him. He was a man to whom others had naturally deferred throughout his career. If he’d not chosen a military career, his father would doubtless have employed him as a lumberjack.

“Okay, lay it on me,” said the general, reseating himself behind his vast antique desk. “No sugarcoating. I know it’s gonna be bad.”

“Sir,” said Admiral Bradfield, deferring to the chairman’s rank in front of the other two, “Somali pirates have just captured at gunpoint the USS
Niagara Falls
, an 18,000-ton aid ship in the India Ocean.”

“Is she still navy or under civilian command?”

“She’s still navy. But under permanent charter to USAID.”

“Does that let us off the hook?”

“Negative.”

Lieutenant Commander Souchak stepped in while the senior officers gathered their thoughts. “Sir, he said, “They’re asking 10 million dollars for her return. Her cargo’s worth well over $100 million, and the pirate chief intimated that there may have been casualties. He is of course threatening to shoot everyone if he doesn’t get his bread.”

“Better remind the little sonofabitch it’s not his bread right now. It’s ours. And he’s playing with fire. Mark, did you speak to the SEALs yet?”

“Not yet, sir. I thought we’d better have a strategy meeting first. Before we make definite decisions.”

“Well, we know the policy of the US military for the last thirty years since President Reagan: We never negotiate with terrorists, which is what these guys are. So I guess we better start thinking about an attack policy.”

“It’s not easy, sir,” said Mark Bradfield. “We do not have a Special Forces platoon anywhere near. There’s nothing at Diego Garcia or at our base in Djibouti. Nearest SEALs are in Bahrain and that’s 1,500 miles to the north. Also we don’t have a platform within a thousand miles of the goddamned ship, in any direction.”

“If we did, how would a rescue be attempted?”

“Well, I don’t think we could come in by sea and board the
Niagara Falls
. Too dangerous, and too hard to get covering fire. The guys would be sitting ducks climbing the hull. Carlow would never sanction it.

“So I guess we’d need to come in by air. That would require a big helo, probably a Chinook, plus a serious gunship to cover them while they landed. All of it miles from help.”

“Hmmmm,” said the general. “But what about that operation in the Arabian Gulf two or three years ago? When the SEALs shot three pirates who’d captured the US captain?”

“That was very different, sir. The pirates had taken the captain off. He was an important US citizen from Vermont as I remember. And they had him at gunpoint for several days, held prisoner in a lifeboat. Our guys had a target, and they had the ship as a platform from which to attack. It was only a short distance to the lifeboat.”

Mary-Ann said, “Wait a moment. I’ll pull it up.”

“There’s probably a dozen heavily armed pirates on board the
Niagara Falls
right now,” said Admiral Bradfield.

“I think we’d take unavoidable casualties if we stormed the ship either by sea or air. And I really don’t want that to happen. For a start, the public would hate it. They think SEALs are gods.”

“So do I,” said the general.

“Here we are,” interjected Mary-Ann. “She was the
Maersk Alabama
, a 17,000-ton container ship. Captain was rescued on Easter Sunday night. She was owned by a private shipping line and operated by a steamship company. She was only thirty yards from the lifeboat. SEAL snipers.”

“The trouble with the public,” said the general, “is they know very little. But they have good memories. In their minds, the way to end a hijack at sea is to send in the United States Navy SEALs. They did it last time. Ask’em to do it again.”

“But this is different,” said the admiral. “If you want my opinion, it would only be possible if we accepted there would be a lot of dead SEALs in the Indian Ocean. And Andy Carlow will not send his guys on a suicide mission. The answer is obvious. We get the price down and then pay the sonofabitch pirate. Get the ship moving, get that cargo to the people who really need it. No dead bodies.”

“When’s this friggin’ Blackbeard coming back to us?”

“’Bout half an hour.”

“You going to take control?”

“No choice. He won’t speak to anyone else. And he says he’ll shoot the second mate plus an able seaman immediately if we don’t agree to his terms.”

“Bastard,” grunted the general. “Listen, you guys get back up to the navy
offices and deal with him when he calls. I’m going to scout around and see if I can find a way to pay the ransom. It’s no good chasing up blind alleys. We need to go with what might work.”

“Okay, sir. Meanwhile, you want me to touch base with Admiral Carlow? SPECWARCOM needs to be kept informed. Just in case.”

“Good plan,” said General Lancaster.

Before the three navy personnel were even out of the doorway, General Lancaster had summoned the youngest of his three personal assistants, Air Force Major Harry Blythe, a thirty-four-year-old ex–fighter pilot, veteran of the current Afghan strife, and native of Memphis. He’d once been shot down in the Iraqi no-fly zone but escaped and made it back to base, dressed as a tribesman, riding a camel. Harry Blythe was very smart and cunning as a Tennessee fox.

General Lancaster briefed him carefully and concluded by saying, “Harry, we want to pay up and get that ship free with no more bloodshed. The strong-arm route is no good to us, not right now. I want you to locate a civilian organization that will pay the ransom for us.

“I don’t like it, but I am not ordering SEALs to die for no reason. And we need to move fast. See what you can do.”

Harry moved fast. He Googled the ship and located data on the captain, who was, thank god, an American citizen. Then he spoke to the duty officer at Military Sealift Command and then the head of the US Navy Fleet Auxiliary, both in Washington navy yards. That was
Niagara Falls
’s former life. Now in effect, she was civilian, and Harry needed advice.

The Fleet Auxiliary controls more than one hundred ships, which provide combat support, oilers, hospital ships, cable repair vessels, research, and surveillance. The senior command was of a high order, and Captain Jack Carling suggested he contact the Seafarers International Union of North America out at Camp Springs near Andrews Air Force Base.

This was the main trade union, an umbrella for several other seamen’s unions, representing deep-sea personnel and the crews of merchantmen that worked the Great Lakes. It took Harry less than a half hour to get the chairman of the union on the line. Everyone in America jumps for the Office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The word “Pentagon” is apt to make people very nervous.

He outlined the problem and confided in the union boss that he, the
US Navy, and the chairman himself believed this was a time to pay up and free the ship. Any other course of action, under the circumstances, was a stupendous pain in the ass and may fail.

The union’s chairman wanted to know what role he was supposed to play.

“We would like you to pay the ransom,” said Harry.

“Who me?” exclaimed the chairman. “How much is it?”

“Somewhere between 5 and 10 million dollars.”

“You must be out of your mind.”

“Sir,” said Harry, “we’ll give you the money. We just can’t be seen to pay off pirates. The policy of the United States is that we don’t negotiate. So in this case, the lives of the crew will be saved by the Seafarers International Union, which has nothing to do with the government.

“If the ransom’s, say, $6 million, you get $6.25 and you can keep the change. We’ll take care of the delivery, just so long as you arrange the cash and handle any press announcements.”

“So the party line is the ship is a civilian merchantman on an aid mission to Somalia? We just stepped in to save our personnel.”

“Precisely. I expect they’re all members anyway.”

“They will be. I just tapped in the name of Fred Corcoran and he’s one for a start. Major, this is very good for us. And I’m grateful you called.”

“No problem,” said Harry. “I’ll call you as soon as we know the precise sum negotiated. Then you can send your bankers in to see us, and we’ll get it done.”

Five minutes after Harry Blythe had relayed the good tidings to General Lancaster, the phone rang in the CNO’s office two floors above. Admiral Ismael Wolde was on the line, direct from the bridge of the
Niagara Falls
.

“Okay, sir. I have been in conference with my people,” he told Admiral Bradfield. “And we have decided to reduce our demand to 7 million dollars. Have you decided to cooperate, or will I just go ahead and shoot the prisoners and then sell off the cargo?”

“The attitude of the US Navy is not flexible,” said the admiral. “They will not negotiate with you. So far as they are concerned, you can go right ahead and kill anyone you like, because we believe it will be a very small price to pay if we can reduce your future activities against innocent ships and their crews.”

“Is that your last word, sir?”

“No,” replied the CNO, “because we have a serious complication here. The
Niagara Falls
flies an American flag but is no longer a US Navy vessel. Which disqualifies us from paying out many millions of dollars for her release. She’s not ours.”

“Well, who are her owners?” asked Wolde.

“That won’t help you,” replied Bradfield. “She’s on charter to a US aid agency. Which is also government and cannot negotiate. No one else cares. My high command, incidentally, is disgusted by your actions since the ship is bringing voluntary aid, millions of dollars worth, from my country to yours, as a gift.”

“We are businessmen,” said the assault chief of the Somali Marines. “We are interested only in the price. Not the morals.”

“Evidently,” replied Mark Bradfield, somewhat loftily. “However, we are still working on this and would like you to call back in thirty minutes. We may have a way forward.”

“Well, that will be 0400 our time,” replied Wolde. “Eight o’clock yours.”