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.
Suleiman, Gulf of Aden, 1820 (GMT)
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.
Northwest of Socotra, Gulf of Aden, 1940 (GMT)
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.”
USS Bennington, Gulf of Aden, 1942 (GMT)
“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.”
Datum, 1948 (GMT)
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 ca
pacity 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.
Stark had been on a cruiser only once before—when he was a young ROTC student on a summer midshipman cruise. The Aegis-equipped cruisers were still new then, with only a few in the fleet. Now they were practically obsolete. With a corpsman on either side supporting him, he joined the rest of the Kirkwalls in sickbay, where a senior corpsman was attending to Jaime Johnson.
“Is she alive?” Stark croaked. He felt the ship begin to shudder, the unmistakable feel of a steel hull accelerating through the water. The bright lights of sickbay faded into black before he heard the answer.
DAY 9
USS Bennington, Gulf of Aden, 0330 (GMT)
“Commander? Commander Stark?” He woke to see a woman with red hair hovering over him. At first he thought it was Maggie. But she didn’t wear a naval uniform. Did she?
“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Commander Marla Lorenski, the executive officer.”
Stark fought his drowsiness and pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Thank-you for coming, XO.”
“Our pleasure, sir. It’s zero-six-thirty. I realize you haven’t had much rest, but the chief here says it would be okay to ask a few questions. Actually, they’re Fifth Fleet’s questions.”
“Something for the morning brief, huh?” Stark took in the two other people crammed into his sickbay cabin—a corpsman and a specialist.
“Our intelligence specialist here will ask the questions,” the XO said. “It shouldn’t take long. After that we can go to the wardroom and get something in your system.”
“The Kirkwall’s crew, the captain?” Stark turned toward the others.
“Just the six of you, Commander,” responded the senior chief corpsman. “No other survivors or bodies that we found. The captain is one tough lady, sir.”
Stark felt as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. “Is she awake? Can I see her?”
“No, sir, she won’t be talking for a while. The doc said she had the worst of it and needs a lot more attention than he can give her. Broken arm, shock, cracked ribs, head injuries. It was a very near thing with her being in the water so long. We’re going to medevac her to a French military hospital in Djibouti as soon as our helo is within range.
Stark nodded his thanks and turned to the lieutenant commander. “XO, I need to get back to Sana’a.”
“I’ll talk with Air Boss and the CO to see if we can accommodate. Now I’m going to leave you in the specialist’s hands for a debriefing.”
Still dazed, and suddenly overwhelmed with hunger, Stark struggled to recount every detail he remembered from the attack—the types of boats, the number involved, and especially the helicopter he had heard before the first blast shook the Kirkwall.
When he finally limped into the wardroom, the senior officers and a few junior ones were just finishing breakfast. He stood dutifully at the end of the table and recited the traditional request.
“Commander Connor Stark. May I join you, Captain?”
“Please do,” the captain nodded. Only once in Connor’s own career had he seen the senior officer present at the table reject the request. He was an ensign in an old Perry-class frigate. The skipper had just found out that his wife had slept with his chief engineer. The captain maintained a cool professionalism elsewhere on the ship, but he refused to allow the CHENG to eat at the same time as he did.
“Thank you, sir,” Stark replied as he took an open seat opposite the captain. He nodded at the other officers present at the table. A very young-looking ensign gave him a shy smile.
One of the mess cranks asked Stark his preference for breakfast.
He didn’t hesitate. “Coffee first and then everything else you have.”
The captain cleared his throat and assumed a severe expression. “What were you doing out there, Commander?”
“I’m the new defense attaché in Sana’a, sir.”
“Defense attaché?” the captain asked. He looked confused. “I was told you were on a mercenary ship.”
“Sir,” Stark replied, “the Kirkwall is—was—a privately owned armed escort vessel employed by Highland Maritime Defense to provide security to the oil platforms and supply vessels operating near Socotra. It’s part of my job to understand all activity in Yemeni waters related to U.S. interests. I was on my way to visit Maddox International’s new oil platforms.”
“There’s nothing out there that hasn’t been here for two thousand years,” the captain said dismissively. “You should have stayed at the embassy. I haven’t been to Yemen. Is it worth a port call? Perhaps the Bennington should visit.”
Stark almost said that the murder of twelve, and very nearly eighteen, people ought to qualify as something new when he realized that the captain had lost interest and had returned his attention to his breakfast. He was astonished that a man so vacuous commanded a U.S. Navy cruiser. “I appreciate the ship picking us up, sir,” he said instead. “Glad you were nearby.”
The captain glanced up but didn’t reply.
Stark spoke again, hoping to get some idea why the Navy had virtually abandoned the waters of the Gulf. “We sure could use some more ships out here to keep things settled.”
“Why? The Navy has more important things to deal with elsewhere.” The captain took a piece of toast off the small rack and nibbled on it like a rabbit.
Bobby Fisk had given up all thought of his own breakfast and was paying rapt attention to the exchange.
“But, sir,” Stark continued, “this would be a perfect time for us to have a lot of small boys out here to cover more territory. I used to command a PC and . . .”
The captain interrupted him without pausing to swallow his toast. “I don’t see the need, Commander. Small boats only waste vital resources. CHENG, how are we doing on fuel? Are we going to make it to Djibouti?”
Bobby waited hopefully for Stark to continue, but the visiting commander gave up just like everyone else did.
Stark downed the rest of his coffee, pushed back his chair, and stood. “Excuse me, Captain,” indicating he wished to leave. The captain waved him away.
Stark didn’t envy the XO or crew of this ship. Until he met the CO, the ship’s crew had seemed first-rate. But he knew that a bad captain could demoralize even a first-rate wardroom and crew. The small man seated at the middle of the long wardroom table was clearly such a captain.
Stark looked at the XO and nodded slightly toward the door, signifying that he wanted to talk outside. He left the wardroom to the sound of the chief engineer’s report on the significant loss of fuel sustained during the previous night’s high-speed operation. The other officers who had been seated at the table, including the XO and the cigar cabal, rose and followed him out.
“Commander,” the XO said quietly in the passageway, “I spoke to the captain. No go about your flight.”
“XO, I trust you to look after the Kirkwall’s captain and crew. Now I need to get to Sana’a and report on this.”
“Air B
oss, are you okay to fly up there?” the XO asked.
“Not a problem. Once we’re further west, it’s a straight shot up.”
“OPS, do you think we can help the commander here?”
The operations officer sighed. “I guess so, but the well’s starting to dry up.”
Stark watched this byplay, not certain what was going on but well aware that a smart crew could almost always find a way to get things done.
The XO smiled. “It’s a plan.”
“XO, are you and the others okay on this ship? Does Fifth Fleet know about the situation here?” Stark asked, expecting a vague response that would not be seen as potentially mutinous.
To his surprise, the XO gave him a forthright answer. “Commander, what you’ve just experienced is only a taste.”
“I don’t have many strings to pull, XO, but these are dangerous waters. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’ll do it. We were armed and well trained, and they hit us hard. I can’t imagine they’d target a cruiser, but those unmanned skiffs and the helicopter have taken things to a whole new level. You didn’t see anything in the air?”
“Our SPY-1 radar has been down for months—no spare parts to any ship except those in high-priority areas.”
“Sounds like someone’s forgotten about this ship, XO.”
“Commander, it’s why one of our nicknames is the ‘island of misfit toys.’”
“I haven’t seen any misfits.” Except for one he added to himself instead of breaching protocol. “Let’s keep in contact and see how we can help each other.”
“Much appreciated, sir. As soon as we get authorization from Fifth Fleet, we’ll get you in the air.”
Sana’a, 0330 (GMT)
Two hours before Ambassador Sumner was scheduled to leave the embassy compound, Golzari drove again along her intended route looking for anything that seemed unusual or out of place. It was a game he and his father had played when he was a child, after they fled Iran. The Ayatollah’s minions might well pursue the shah’s former general and his family even in a foreign country, so Damien Golzari had learned the game. He had continued to play it in all the years since, honing his skills while walking down city streets as a beat cop, in grocery lines, and in airport lounges like the one where he had first spotted Connor Stark. The game had saved his life several times in his work as a Diplomatic Security Service agent—most recently in London when the scent of cologne had alerted him to imminent danger. It had long since stopped being a game.
The Aden Effect Page 14
