“Dude,” Mouse called after him. “You quit, I win.”
“I don’t quit. We start over later. There’s a mission.”
Mouse clapped down his paddle.
Everyone around the big table and on bar stools watched Wally Bloom stride to the phone. Jamie held it out with excitement for this first call from the Personnel Recovery Coordination Cell since they’d arrived in Lemonnier three weeks ago.
Wally took the receiver. Jamie backed away, but not enough. Wally shooed him off a few more steps before answering.
“Bloom here.” Wally listened only for a moment before responding, “On our way, ma’am,” then returning the receiver to the eager Jamie.
“LB,” Wally called, “Major Torres wants me and you at the JOC, stat. Let’s roll.”
“What’ve we got?”
Wally headed for the Barn’s door with LB trailing. He used his length to take long strides and put LB in a semi-jog.
“Dunno yet.”
This first mission had come two weeks into their deployment in Horn of Africa. The unit from Long Island they’d replaced had waited two months for their first call. In combat theaters, the action ran in a more steady current, sometimes a mission a week. For years in Iraq and Afghanistan, the United States had kept plenty of aircraft going, plus long-range patrols in remote, inhospitable, and denied terrain, tangling with an insurgent enemy, advising and supporting the local militaries in remote locations. Isolated personnel included downed air crews, troops cut off by severe weather, and small covert actions behind enemy lines; all these kept the phones ringing.
Here in HOA, the IPs were very different, the rescues quieter and more infrequent. The American military presence in Africa was primarily threat assessment. The United States needed to catch the next hot spots in the world while they were just sparks, and chances were good they were smoldering somewhere in Africa. Yemen, Somalia, Eritrea, Libya, Egypt, down to Uganda—LB could throw a dart at a map of the eastern half of the giant continent and hit something or someone America was keeping an eye on. The PJs’ rescue missions were most often ODA teams, CIA, Special Forces, SEALs, direct action commandos, or any covert operative engaged in recon and intel, counterterrorism, or unconventional warfare. When these black operatives found themselves in sudden need of rescue from a blown cover, unexpected resistance, wounds, dangerous weather, even fatigue, they called for the PJs.
In their two previous tours in HOA, LB and Wally had effected rescues in deserts, mountains, plains, and jungles. They’d dropped in fast and silent, bringing teams with enough muscle to fend off an enemy and extract their isolated personnel. If the IPs were hurt, the PJs stabilized them. If they couldn’t run anymore, the PJs carried them. They’d exfilled wounded enemies, recovered the bodies of American battle dead, plucked natives off hills ahead of floodwaters and contractors off roofs ahead of mobs.
When the phone rang in HOA, the mission could be anything.
LB hadn’t been inside the Joint Operations Center since his last stint at Lemonnier three years ago. Outwardly, little had changed. A wall of video screens, banks of computers, a windowless intensity, and icebox air conditioning greeted him and Wally. Across wall monitors, the Falcon View program displayed a rolling map pinpointing the target’s location, distance, and weather.
Major Torres stepped forward with hand outstretched. Black hair in a bun, dark eyes over a smile, she was the warmest thing in the JOC. LB had sat with her and Wally at a few meals in the Bob Hope mess. He found the PRCC smart and focused. Here, in her electronic element, she looked even crisper, prettier. She shook Wally’s hand first.
“That was fast.”
Wally grinned. “You’re my reason for living, Major.”
Torres shook LB’s hand next. “This one’s a milk run.”
Deadpan, LB said, “Milk gives me gas, Major.”
She nodded with her smile intact, still shaking hands, but blinked.
Wally stepped in. “Okay. Let’s brief.”
LB let go of her hand. Torres turned to the Falcon View. Behind her, LB nudged Wally. He mouthed, She likes you. Wally did the same. She hates you.
“Gentlemen.” Torres moved close to the wall display. Using a finger as a pointer, she indicated the target, a ship entering the mouth of the Gulf of Aden from the east.
“The captain of the CMA CGM Valnea has put out a distress call. It was received by a Canadian warship who forwarded it to us. The Joint Force COs have discussed it. We’ve decided to respond as a humanitarian mission. We’re not busy with anything else right now, and nothing’s on the horizon. Early this morning the vessel had an accident on board. They require medical assistance. We’re sending it.”
Wally asked, “This got anything to do with a hijacking? That ship’s smack in the middle of pirate waters.”
“No pirates. There was a mechanical explosion belowdecks in the engine room. Before dawn, the second engineer and a cadet were inspecting the ship’s pistons. Something big blew. A blast of steam out of the gasket knocked the engineer into a rail, breaking his back. He’s got paralysis below the waist. The cadet took second-degree burns over half his body and face. The captain reports that the injuries are more than they can care for. The medical officer on the ship is also the first mate. He’s handy with first aid. Nothing more. They need medication and advice.”
“How urgent?”
“The burn case is bad. The back patient is stable but in a lot of discomfort. Don’t know if the paralysis is permanent or temporary.”
LB said, “Sounds like pain management, mostly. Infection control for the burns. Anti-inflams for the spinal. They asking for a medevac?”
“Yes.”
“Can we land on deck?”
“No.”
Torres motioned to the conference table. Waiting for them were bottled water and stapled reports. Torres handed out the pages.
LB and Wally flipped quickly through the sheets. On top lay company photos of the Valnea, a stock-looking container vessel. Three high cranes, aft, mid, and fore, gave the Valnea the ability to load and offload herself. The cranes presided over an empty white cargo deck, spiked with tall metal lashing bridges where the containers would slide in to be secured, so that it resembled a vast field of barbed wire fences. The big ship was clearly designed to run empty only on rare occasions; everything about her said beast of burden. She rode high; her dull red hull paint rose a good fifteen feet above the water. The gigantic bow bulb, used to break through the water, was also halfway exposed. Valnea didn’t look comfortable without a couple thousand containers strapped to her back.
Below the company photos lay several black-and-white satellite pictures taken hours ago in the Gulf of Aden. As in the brochure beauty shots of the Valnea, the ship ran empty, not one container visible anywhere. The lashing bridges would prevent a chopper from landing.
LB flipped to peruse the rest of the collected info—a schematic of the freighter, its dimensions, capacities, power supply, architecture.
Torres tapped the satellite shots on her report. “As you can tell, we won’t be landing on the ship. And we can’t hoist the injured up to the choppers.”
LB shrugged, frustrated not for the first time with the inability of the MH-53 copters to recover personnel from a hover. In other theaters, the MH-53 was a combat platform loaded to the teeth with rockets and guns. The ones at Lemonnier were cargo choppers, used to lift and carry immense weights, deliver and pick up soldiers and vehicles. On all of the MH-53s, even in combat theaters, the feeble door hoist wouldn’t support the weight of a full Stokes litter. The starboard door wouldn’t even open far enough to haul the basket in. In HOA, the PJs didn’t have their own air force helicopters, the HH-60 Pave Hawks built for CSAR. The Guardian Angels of Djibouti were stuck using the marines’ machines and pilots.
LB raised a hand, a schoolboy gesture. Torres didn’t call on him, expecting him to speak without the formality. LB didn’t budge.
Wally made a sucking sound, then
said, “Just ask.”
LB lowered the hand. He could tell Wally wanted to kick him under the table.
“We can fast-rope in.”
“That is what I’d intended to suggest, yes.”
“Okay.”
Torres continued. “You take two PJ teams, drop in one. Carry enough meds for forty-eight hours, to get them to shore. Give the medical officer all the guidance you can in forty minutes. Then you head back here.”
“Roger.” LB checked the Falcon View for an update. The Valnea was located 20 miles northwest of Cape Guardafui, 510 miles away.
“Speed and heading?”
Torres answered. “Twelve knots. Bearing two sixty. En route to the French hospital here in Djibouti.”
Wally screwed up his face at this. “Twelve knots? That’s a big, modern freighter running empty. It should be doing over twenty coming into the gulf. Why’s it going so slow?”
“The skipper reports he’s got seven pistons working, not eight. He can’t keep the speed up, not with his engine out of balance. The vibration would wreck the rest of the engine. Twelve knots is all he can do.”
LB snorted. “Does the guy have a map?” He aimed his chin at the Falcon View and the icon for the ship limping into the Gulf of Aden, into the thick of Somali pirate waters.
Torres said, “The ship’s well protected. Three armed guards are on board, and the captain’s experienced in the route. They set out two and a half weeks ago from Vladivostok. Port of call Beirut.”
Wally asked, “What about the crew? Who are they?”
“Russian skipper and officers, except for a Romanian chief engineer. The ratings are all Filipino. The engineer with the busted back is Russian. The burned cadet is Ukrainian. The three guards are Serbian. They all speak English.”
Wally said, “Sounds like a floating UN.”
LB held up a satellite photo. “Excuse me. Why are there guards on an empty ship?”
Torres considered LB’s question. She addressed her answer to Wally.
“The CO left here just before I called you. The word’s come down to him, and now I’m giving it to you. This is a high-value shipment.”
LB’s eyebrows went up, piqued. “So it’s not empty?”
The major continued speaking to Wally, as if to say, I’m expecting you to curb your dog.
“We don’t know, and we don’t ask.” Now Torres looked at LB. She was no-nonsense, all officer. “Understand something. Your stay on this ship will be short. While you’re on board, you limit your attention to the injured. Let me repeat myself. Regarding any cargo, you show no interest.”
“Understood.”
For the next five minutes, LB and Wally took notes on sea, wind, and air conditions, current and approaching weather, water temperature, all in case one or both of the mission choppers had to ditch along the way. They calculated where the Valnea, headed their way at twelve knots, would be after three hours of chopper flight time at 150 miles per hour. LB allowed for forty minutes of hover over the ship to assess the situation, then rope-ladder up to the choppers for the return trip.
Wally closed his notebook first.
“LB, go on back to the Barn. Spin up two teams—you choose. Two PJs each. No need for me or Robey on this one. You’ll take two copters and a refuel. Wheels up in thirty. The major and I will brief the pilots.”
LB stood, so stocky he hardly seemed to rise out of his chair.
Wally kept his seat. Torres got to her feet to extend her hand and send LB on his way. She didn’t need to, but she was trying to be polite. The instinct lasted only a moment. With LB’s mitt in hers, eye to eye, the major shook her head, chuckling.
“You are a bowling ball of a man, Sergeant.”
“Yes, ma’am. You deliver me right, I’ll do the job every time.” LB nodded at Wally, then the major. “You kids behave. Daddy’s got to go to work.”
Torres patted the back of LB’s hand in mock sympathy. She spoke over her shoulder. “I’m just glad he’s yours, Wally. If he was mine, I’d kill him.”
Wally laughed, said nothing, and returned to his notes. LB let go the major’s hand. He backed away.
“No offense, Major. But if it was that easy, someone would’ve done it by now.”
“Go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 7
Qandala
Puntland
Somalia
Yusuf’s dhow had rusted during the winter monsoons and his seven months of lassitude. His crew had done a poor job maintaining the boat; it sat neglected at a salty berth in Bosaso, fifty miles west. He’d stolen the sixty-foot trawler two years ago from a Pakistani crew, and there was little pride in its ownership among the Somalis. The two long skiffs, built of wood by local hands, had been kept in better shape, out of the water, painted and oiled, their twin outboards protected and ready. Yusuf sent for the dhow to be motored from Bosaso and then anchored off Qandala. For the next three days he had the boat painted and fumigated, and all engine oil, filters, and belts changed. He found a skinny black cat in an alley in Qandala, named it Sheik Robow, and made it one of the crew, in charge of rats.
When the word went out that Yusuf Raage was taking to bad-weyn again, two hundred men arrived at his gate. He allowed them all inside the adobe walls and let Suleiman choose twenty-four of the most experienced. None of them were teenagers except for cousin Guleed, all of them rer manjo, coastal men, and Darood. Everyone had gone to sea with Yusuf and Suleiman at least once before. There would be no qaat on this venture, nor alcohol. Because the voyage was to be short, Yusuf contacted none of his foreign investors. He and Suleiman would finance this hijacking.
The two cousins told the selected crew nothing of the truth. They provisioned the boat as they normally would for a longer stay at sea, with water and food to last two weeks, plenty of fishing poles. Neither mentioned this was not to be a hunt on open waters; they would not prowl the gulf or Indian Ocean for prey but wait for only one ship no more than 150 miles from Qandala.
Every man in the crew provided his own weapon. Suleiman inspected each gun, found half unreliable. With Guleed he traveled in a technical to Bosaso for a dozen additional Kalashnikovs, two dozen RPGs, and ammunition. While there, they bought five hundred meters of rope and new aluminum grapnels. The cost came to less than three thousand American dollars.
On the morning of departure, Yusuf walked through Qandala with his men around him. All wore loose khameez tunics or Western-style T-shirts and shorts. Weapons strapped across their shoulders, they jangled and stirred up dust. Yusuf led the men past the schoolhouse he had built, so the boys and girls could set aside their books to wave good-bye to him and his pirates. At the end of the road of shanties, he knocked at a door. Yusuf handed the old man who answered, Hoodo’s grandfather, a packet of $10,000.
“In three days,” he whispered. “Maybe four.”
With Suleiman and two dozen Darood beside him toting guns and rocket launchers, Yusuf marched his crew the mile to the beach. There the skiffs waited to take them out to the anchored dhow.
Along the way, Yusuf looked for signs. Lizards would be lucky, and several scurried away from their sandals. Circling gulls meant success, but Yusuf saw none yet. The cat, a happy animal to have been found and adopted, purred on Guleed’s arm. As he approached the gulf, the sky and water made Yusuf wince, they were so blue together. His decade in London as a boy and young man had not made him Christian, nor had it deepened his Muslim roots. Even so, Yusuf sensed that Allah favored him today. The children had cheered, he was wealthy, and Hoodo’s grandfather had smiled. Nothing dead lay along his path to the sea, no poor omens.
At the beach, he passed the spot where he’d knifed Madoowbe. No mark showed in the sand; none was expected. Nor had there been any mention of the killing in the village since it happened, seven months ago. Bold Boy was gone. The earth and man alike cleaned themselves of blood when the act was righteous.
No farewell had been arranged for Yusuf’s armed c
rew. No families or elders saw them off; three black skiffs waited alone on the beach. Only Yusuf and Suleiman knew the true purpose of this quick voyage. They would protect Qandala. And if in doing so they became the wealthiest pirates in Somalia, so be it.
The crew dragged the skiffs into the shallow, lapping gulf, then climbed aboard. Yusuf stepped into the sea last, but did not put his wet feet into the skiff. He waited. The crew scanned the sky with him. None saw a gull anywhere.
Yusuf stuck his head into the cockpit. Old man Deg Deg stood at the wooden wheel helm, where he’d been for the first five hours at sea. Deg Deg was the oldest of the crew. His name meant “hurry.” Even at fifty he had a spry speed about him. His right ear had been sheared off by an exploding shell twenty years before in the long civil war. He’d been the helmsman for Yusuf’s six previous hijackings.
Yusuf said into the little hole in the side of the old man’s head, “Come with me.”
Deg Deg looped a noose around one of the wheel’s pegs. The dhow would motor straight northwest.
Suleiman gathered the rest of the pirates at midships. Barrels of extra diesel were tied to the rails, mixing their smell with the odor of fresh deck paint and the breezy salt gulf in the afternoon. Fishing nets and floats had been scattered over the deck to camouflage the pirate ship as a fishing boat. All weapons were stowed below and out of sight. Behind the dhow trailed the trio of towed skiffs.
Deg Deg joined the crew. Gold-toothed Suleiman spoke first.
“You should know what we’re going to do.”
With that, Suleiman moved to stand among the men.
Yusuf smiled at his Darood crewmen and two cousins. “A man who has not traveled,” he said, “has no eyes.”
He told the men everything. Sheik Robow’s threat to Qandala. The sheik’s report that the French ship would be running empty, even with armed guards on board. Yusuf’s shared belief with Suleiman that perhaps when they found her, she would not be empty at all. This made no difference. The pirates would take her and save their village from al-Shabaab, if only until another day would come. But until then, they would not flinch.
The Devil's Waters Page 7
