“What’s the distance, Conn?”
Bobby shouted, “Two hundred feet,” as he steadied the range finder.
“Call out every thirty feet. Helm, steady on course at one-five knots.”
The Bennington passed the tanker’s superstructure.
“One hundred seventy feet . . . one hundred forty feet . . . one hundred ten feet.” The Bennington was now dangerously close to touching the tanker, and a vortex began developing between the two ships. The cruiser was nearly at the bow of the tanker. “Eighty feet . . . fifty feet . . .”
“All hands, brace for collision!” Stark called out. “Right standard rudder, starboard engine ahead one-third, port engine ahead full! Bobby, get the hell in here.”
Bobby dove in from the bridge wing just in time to hear the sickening sound of metal on metal, far louder and more painful to his ears than hitting the channel marker had been.
“Helm, stick us to them. Right full rudder. Bobby, get a damage control report from the bow. Make sure our landing was soft enough.”
“Aye, sir.”
Slowly, the whale of a supertanker turned, the Bennington acting as a giant tugboat. The Navy ship shuddered and began to lose way as one of its great screws stopped churning.
“NAV, how are we doing?”
“Projected course now due east of the platforms. We’re in the clear, sir.”
“Keep us with her, helm. All right, we need fuel, and I need ideas, no matter how crazy they sound.”
“Sir?” Bobby Fisk chimed in. “I read something in Proceedings,” referring to the monthly publication of the 140-year-old Naval Institute, “about a procedure where a Military Sealift Command ship was refueled by a tanker. I asked BM1 Garcia in my division about it when I was working on my quals, and he told me that it works only with the newer tankers. Older tankers burn heavy fuel oil that’s incompatible with our engines. I checked the registry, and the Katya P. is only two years old, which means she has multifuel burners.”
“And?”
“Garcia’s a qualified rig captain, and we can do a stern-to-bow transfer instead of the traditional UNREP.”
“Make it happen, Ensign.”
A few minutes later, Stark watched from the bridge wing as Hessian 2 motored toward the tanker. Ensign Fisk and a boatswain’s mate sat huddled together over a naval ship technical manual trying to figure out exactly how they would do what the ensign had just told the CO he could do.
Hours later, when the tanker was well clear of the platforms and the Bennington had enough fuel to continue its mission, a crew took control of the Katya P. to return it to its owners. Back on the bridge, Bobby Fisk asked his skipper a nagging question about the engagement.
“Sir, we never got verification of the Viraat Carrier Group. Shouldn’t they have arrived by now?”
Stark laughed. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask. How much of your naval history do you remember from the Academy, Ensign?”
“Sir?”
“Battle of the River Plate, 1939.”
Bobby searched his memory. South America . . . early World War II, before Pearl Harbor . . . Got it! “The German pocket battleship Graf Spee was in a neutral port—Montevideo—and three smaller British ships—Achilles, Ajax, and Exeter—were waiting for her to come out. The Graf Spee was going to engage, but then the British ships contacted a larger strike force over the horizon and the Graf Spee intercepted the message. Instead of coming out, the skipper scuttled the battleship.” Relieved that he had managed to pull that out, Bobby swore to read more naval history in the future.
“What about the British force?” Stark asked.
“It didn’t exist. They were false messages sent out to deceive the Graf Spee. It worked . . . just like today.”
“Just like today,” the captain said. “Almost. We had help from two Highland Maritime ships and their helos.”
“But how did the Indian ship know to do that?”
“Be grateful to Ambassador Sumner. She worked it out with the Indian ambassador. I spoke with the Indian naval attaché a couple of days ago in Sana’a before he boarded the Talwar, and he agreed to step in and help if we were outnumbered. Fortunately, he had studied the Graf Spee incident as well.”
“They helped us, sir. Do they get something in return?”
“Oh, yes. They become very important partners in a strategic resource. Bobby, you have the bridge. I’m going below to check on the wounded.”
DAY 18
Hadiboh, 1112 (GMT)
Two days after the Battle of Socotra and the defeat of Faisal’s pirate fleet, the USS Bennington was again on station off Hadiboh. This time it was tied up to the newly arrived LPD-17, the San Antonio, which was there to assist the cruiser, provide a new command staff, and relieve Commander John Connor Stark so that he could return to his assigned duties as defense attaché.
The humanitarian operation was a beehive of activity. The conductor had handed off the baton to her concertmaster, the consul general, while she attended to more immediate duties. The conductor’s tent had been enlarged to accommodate a table with three chairs and two rows of folding chairs lined up behind it. At the table sat Yemen’s foreign minister, India’s ambassador to Yemen, and Ambassador Caroline Jaha Sumner. In the folding chairs were subordinates furiously taking notes. Well behind the chairs stood Bill Maddox, Connor Stark, and Damien Golzari, watching the event but not taking part in it.
“Gentlemen,” continued Ambassador Sumner after the initial introductions and diplomatic dances had been completed, “allow me to reiterate my deep appreciation for the people and government of Yemen, whose navy courageously deflected an attack here a few days ago. It speaks well of their intent for stability in the region and the lengths to which they will go to pursue what is right. You have our gratitude and admiration. We are here today to sign an agreement that few of us thought possible even a few days ago, but we have seen in recent days what cooperation among our nations can mean for each of our peoples. This agreement has three primary provisions.
“The first is that Yemen selects India and the United States to produce the oil in the fields south of Socotra. The platforms there have now been sold to the Yemeni firm Mar’ib Oil . . .”
“Thanks a lot, Connor,” Maddox whispered to his old friend. “That was one hell of a quid pro quo. Mutahar asked my firm to assist with some construction projects. It will be one of the largest construction partnerships in the region.”
“Consider it payback for that double date our freshman year.”
“Second,” Sumner continued, “a portion of the wealth generated by the oil will be used to build and operate a new medical facility for the people of Socotra and to hire and train personnel to protect the unique environment of the island, a world treasure that from this moment will always be treated as such.
“Third, Yemen agrees to allow the Indian and U.S. navies to develop a small port and airfield on the western side of Socotra, at a position to be determined at a later date, specifically for the purpose of fighting piracy in the Horn of Africa.”
“Nice, Connor,” Maddox again whispered. “I’m sure the Chinese loved that move.”
“You don’t see their archway anymore, do you?” Stark returned softly.
Golzari, standing on Stark’s other side, said in an undertone, “Commander, by any chance do you play chess?”
“I’ve played once or twice,” Stark answered.
“We’ll have to play sometime.”
“Why? You’ve realized that you’ll never beat me in a shooting or fencing match, Golzari?”
“On the contrary, old man, I just want to make sure you have a chance for a best of five.”
“We’ll see. This all may have to take place in jail. I get the sinking feeling that a few things I’ve done here are going to bring me up in front of another court-martial.”
“When are you going to tell me about the first one?”
“Best three out of five, Agent Golzari, will earn you the ri
ght to that story.”
“I look forward to it. And if I lose?”
“I’m running short on whiskey,” Stark suggested.
“It’s a deal. I’m stopping by to see a sick friend in the U.K. on my way back to Washington tomorrow. I’ll find something you’ll approve of—in case I lose, of course.”
“It’s always best to plan ahead, Agent Golzari.”
After the ceremony, C. J. strolled up a nearby hill with Connor as Golzari followed ten paces behind.
“Thank you, Connor. This agreement may not be what the White House expected—or wants—but it’s a good one.”
“Why thank me, C. J.? You worked out the deal and got the president to approve it.”
“Because we figured this one out together and you facilitated it. I couldn’t have done it without you and your connections. The Yemenis love you more than ever now, and owe you a huge debt too. And the Indians—the ambassador and the naval attaché couldn’t stop talking about you. You made India a player here and bumped the Chinese in the process. You have some new and very powerful friends there.”
“I may need them, C. J., depending on how this all works out.”
She shook her head. “This isn’t Canada. You did things the right way this time. I leave for Washington the night after tomorrow to get the answers to some big unanswered questions. I think I can fix things for you there. For now, please accept this,” she said, offering him an envelope.
“Can I open it now or do I have to wait until Christmas?”
“If you want to stay here six more months on active duty, be my guest and wait.”
He opened it to find a modification to the orders he had received just two weeks before. He was now officially off active duty. A second faxed page was his honorable discharge from the Navy.
“I figured you might want to frame the real thing. It will be forwarded to you in Ullapool.”
“Thank you, C. J., but there’s one item of business left—the American Asha said was behind all this. Damien suggested that it may be Eliot Green.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” she replied without hesitation. “That’s the only way this makes sense. He’s been manipulating events from the start.”
“You knew? I’m the only one who hadn’t figured it out, I guess. I need two more favors from you, C. J.”
“You’re so high maintenance.”
“Let Golzari and me handle Green and the rest.”
“Done. That’s one favor, Connor. What’s the other?”
“This is a special favor for someone.” He whispered something into her ear.
“Agent Golzari, look over there—flying elephants!” she called out, pointing to the sky.
Golzari turned his head instinctively, then, recognizing the utter impossibility, turned back just quickly enough to see Ambassador C. J. Sumner kiss Commander Connor Stark on the cheek.
DAY 19
Mar’ib 0747 (GMT)
Stark and Mutahar entered the abandoned stone house in the desert several miles from the Yemeni’s luxurious estate. Inside, the naked body of his firstborn son rested in an awkwardly arched position with a crate bracing his lower back. His hands and feet were tightly bound by shackles secured to the stone walls. Two days of feces and urine caked the floor beneath him. His teeth and the cheap, blood-stained pliers that had been used to remove them were scattered about, and the skin from his fingertips had been burned away to forever remove other means of identification. The flies had come for him, and as each touched down on his body he winced with no means to swat them away. His torso jerked with his inaudible whimpers begging for a drop of water or for the torture to end.
Mutahar’s face was expressionless as he gazed on the son he had loved.
“He is ready to answer questions,” said one of Mutahar’s security officers. “Commander Stark did not lie to you.”
“He never has,” Mutahar reprimanded the security agent. “Connor, he is yours.”
Stark knelt beside the helpless Faisal. Any sympathy he might have had for Mutahar’s son had been destroyed by the deaths Faisal had caused and the destruction he had nearly accomplished. “Your crime of piracy is evident, Faisal. But you were not just a pirate, were you?”
Faisal shook his head.
“What was the purpose of your piracy?”
He answered through swollen lips, “It was the only way to fight the West, by attacking their ships. I wanted my ships to control the Gulf of Aden and beyond, and my fleet to be greater than my father’s”
“That’s not enough. Tell me more. Why were you working with Asha and al-Ghaydah?”
“A man named Hu. He is Chinese,” Faisal whispered. “When Asha’s warlord was killed, they protected him and used him in America. Then they had the Americans bomb his warlord’s killers. They were going to put him in power in Somalia, and he would give them access to ores and other resources there.” Faisal coughed, a plea for water.
“Did you conspire with al-Ghaydah’s family?”
“Yes, yes. I had worked with al-Qaeda first. When I was young, I helped bomb the American ship in the harbor. I worked with them and with Ahmed al-Ghaydah’s family and Hu to rid Yemen of the West and its allies.”
Mutahar stepped forward. “Am I an ally of the West? And our family?” he asked.
“Yes,” Faisal cried. “You worked for them and let them come here. You treated one as a brother! I wanted to stop the Western ships coming through the Gulf of Aden. Al-Qaeda was to start riots in the port cities when people began to lose their work; al-Ghaydah’s family would do the same in their district. We were trying to create disorder. I would bring order from that chaos.”
“And you would be the new leader of Yemen?” Stark asked.
“Yes.”
“What would Hu get?”
“The oil.”
“But you were going to destroy the oil platforms with the Katya P.”
“Yes. But the Chinese had brought equipment to Socotra to rebuild them.”
Mutahar rubbed his face and looked once more on the body of his son, who struggled to meet his father’s gaze.
“What was al-Amriki’s role?” Stark asked.
“He gave us information—about the embassy, about the ambassador, and the military adviser. He was working with Hu. I never met him.”
“What do you know of him?”
Faisal paused. The security officer pulled his shoulder and Faisal screamed.
“Al-Amriki is a powerful man in Washington,” he immediately yelled. “He ordered the Navy ships away from here. He ordered weapons away from the cruiser to make it helpless.”
“Does he work in the Navy? In the Pentagon?”
“No. He works for your president.”
Stark and Mutahar looked at each other.
“Do you know his name?” Stark asked.
“No, but Asha told me it was a color.”
“A color?” Stark paused. “Green,” he said. “Just as Golzari thought.”
“I know that name, Connor. Is he not President Becker’s chief of staff?”
“Yes. I knew him once. This doesn’t surprise me.” He looked down at Faisal. “Please end this, Mutahar. I have what I need. I did not want it to come to this.”
“Nor I, my brother.”
“Father?” Faisal called out weakly.
“You are done with him?” Mutahar asked.
“Yes, I must leave immediately to attend to some matters.”
“As must I.”
Stark and Mutahar embraced; then the father bent down on one knee and whispered into his son’s ear. “You shamed our family. You lifted a sword against my brother Connor, the man who once saved your life and who has never lied to me or disrespected me, my house, or my country. You planned to lift a sword against your own family and your country. You must never be allowed to tell anyone of this. You have brought this upon yourself. You are no longer my son. You are alone in this world.”
A few days later a new beggar appea
red on the filthiest street of Sana’a. His tongue had been cut out and his right hand and left foot had been amputated in accordance with Quranic law governing hirabah. The passersby who threw him an occasional scrap of food would never know the wailing beggar’s name.
DAY 22
McLean, Virginia, 0323 (GMT)
Eliot Green turned off the outside lights to avoid attracting insects and stepped onto the deck off his study for a late-night smoke. Summers in D.C. were miserably hot and humid, but having a house right on the Potomac River helped. Furious that Sumner and Stark had foiled him again—just as they had in Canada—he made plans to cover his tracks in the affair. Some money had to be returned, and some planned major purchases had to be deferred as a result. It was an inconvenience, nothing more.
Sumner hadn’t provided the details yet, but somehow she had succeeded in getting the Yemenis to sign an oil agreement. He slapped his hand on the deck rail in anger, then stubbed out his cigarette. When he opened the door to go back inside, he found himself facing a man standing in the shadows with a gun pointed at him. Eliot Green feared no one in Washington, D.C.—until this moment.
“Sit down, you fat, malevolent bastard,” commanded a second voice from the far wall, out of reach of the dim light coming from the hallway.
Eliot Green, who never obeyed anyone, obeyed now. He began to sweat. “I have money.”
“How nice for you,” said the second voice.
“What do you want?”
“Answers,” responded the first voice.
“To what?”
“Your role in Yemen,” answered the second man, still hidden at the other side of the room.
Green heard a click, then a recording. The voice he heard was clearly that of a man in pain, but the words were muffled.
“Al-Amriki is a powerful man in Washington. He ordered the Navy ships away from here. He told me that he had taken weapons away from the cruiser.”
A second voice sounded from the recorder. “Does he work in the Navy? In the Pentagon?”
The Aden Effect Page 29
