Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

  Stark secured the Whaler in its slip and grabbed his own backpack, then set it and himself down, suddenly exhausted as the day’s training caught up with him. He was already sore. That would get worse, he knew. He tried to remember how effortless training had seemed back when he competed for the U.S. Olympic pentathlon team. But that was more than twenty-five years ago. He hated growing old, but the alternative wasn’t exactly attractive. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he listened to the harbor. The gentle slap of water against hulls and the squeaking of wet lines were the only sounds he heard. Few tourists ventured to picturesque Ullapool in winter. The peace and the cold sea air rejuvenated him enough to stand and walk the hundred yards to the Friar John Cor pub across the road from the dock.

  The door creaked as he opened it. The pub, as usual, was full of locals. Mack was behind the bar chatting with a couple of regulars as they watched a football game on the overhead television screen. Maggie was at a table taking an order from a customer. She turned her head toward the creaking door and smiled at Stark. The smile faded when her eyes drifted to his wounds. She turned back to the customer and then moved toward the kitchen, keeping her back to Stark. As she passed the bar she told the bartender sharply: “Mack, get ’im a Talisker and throw it in his face.” Mack poured the Talisker and was about to dutifully comply when Stark shot him the look; Mack thought better of it and drank the whisky himself.

  Stark turned away to hide his smile. In the two years he and Maggie had been together he had learned not to expect subtlety from her. She would make him suffer for this, but only because she cared for him.

  Mullaitivu District, Sri Lanka

  “Son of a bitch,” Melanie Arden groaned as she slid to a stop on the jungle floor. Walking along the unstable ridgeline hadn’t been the wisest thing to do after the recent rainfall. She had been trying to get a better view of the village, but five feet from the edge the dirt and mud gave way, taking her down thirty feet of hillside and sending her sliding and scraping against exposed roots. She lay there stunned for a few minutes. The birdcalls that usually filled the jungle had gone silent when she fell. After a brief interruption the birds picked up again, bringing Melanie back to her senses.

  She stood up carefully and took stock. No pain in her ankles or legs, and both arms still worked. A few scrapes and cuts, but nothing serious, thank God. Her backpack was nearby, but one of the zippers had broken when she fell, releasing the pocket’s contents all the way down the hillside. She sighed when she recalled what had been in that pocket. The first aid kit was likely to be close to the top of the hill because it had been the last item she stowed. Holding onto roots and tree trunks Melanie carefully made her way back up the hill, picking up her things as she went and stuffing them in her cargo pockets. The wet soil gave way frequently beneath her feet.

  It took her nearly fifteen minutes of repeated attempts to reach the top. The white first aid kit was easy to find. She brushed away some leaves and found her Swiss Army knife. A few MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—were below it. She pocketed the knife and then collected the kit and food, stuffing them hastily into the backpack.

  Still dizzy from her fall, she rose and leaned against a tree as she tried to recall what else had been in that backpack pocket. The soil beneath the tree gave way, and she crashed down the slope to the bottom again. Unable to slow her slide this time, she tumbled head over heels the last ten feet and came to rest with her sternum against a medium-sized rock. Gasping for air, Melanie slowly rolled to one side, wrapped her arms around her midsection, and threw up the cold soup she had eaten just before she started on the path. She gingerly rose. You’ve been through worse, she told herself. There was no thought of turning back. This was something she had to do.

  In her brief view of the village from the ridge she had spotted several dozen houses and a narrow river, but no people. It was still midmorning, and she decided to take time to rest before moving on. When she finally caught her breath, she opened the first aid kit and applied Neosporin to her larger abrasions, then covered them with gauze and secured them with bandages. She felt around her chest and knew from past experience as a rugby player that she hadn’t cracked any ribs. That was lucky. A couple of aspirin might help dull the pain of her injuries, but she knew it would be a couple of days before it went away.

  Melanie started to reach around to the right side of her belt but stopped when pain lanced through her chest. Instead, she unbuckled her belt and pulled it around until one of her canteens was close enough to grab with minimal pain. She took a swig and then poured a little on her face and let it drip over her chin and chest. Moving as little as possible she checked the rest of the contents of the backpack. The camera and video recorder were still operational. The digital audio recorder also still worked; her extra set of clothes had cushioned them during the fall. Most of her batteries seemed to be secure. She repacked the backpack, redistributing the contents of the broken pocket.

  A half hour later she felt rested enough to begin walking toward the village. Slipping her arms through the backpack straps, she again felt the sharp pain in her sternum but soldiered through it. She took a deep breath and began the march under clear skies and the midmorning sun.

  She was still a few hundred yards away from the huts when she noticed the first sign that all was not well. This was a farming village. The sun was well above the mountain ridge to the east, and yet there were no animals in the pens and no people working in the fields. Even the skies were empty of birds.

  Melanie approached the first home, a primitive shack, and knocked on the outer wall. “Hello?” she called out, coughing with the second syllable as her sternum demanded that she be more careful. She knocked again. Nothing. The door was ajar, so she pushed it inward and edged inside. She gagged when the stench hit her nostrils. Rotting food, unidentifiable now, sat on the table. To her left was an unmade bed. She pressed forward through the kitchen to a back room. This bedroom too was empty. There was nothing on the bed except old wrinkled sheets. She made her way back out and went to the next hut.

  Melanie checked another dozen huts on her way to the center of the village. All were the same—empty houses, rotting food, dust, insects, and a few small rodents. But no people. This village of forty or so houses should have had about two hundred people. She took photographs of the empty homes and the ghost village.

  One building—slightly larger and better kept—stood out among the others. It appeared to be some sort of community center, or as close to one as a village this size could muster. It had been ransacked, though she couldn’t imagine anyone finding much of value here. She left the building and walked to the other side of the village, where she found a patch of loose dirt and mud about thirty yards long and ten yards wide. Her heart sank. She had seen patches like these in Rwanda and Bosnia. She knew where the villagers were.

  Melanie shifted her backpack to the ground and pulled out binoculars, checking the entire perimeter. She was alone. She set the binoculars aside and looked around for something to use as a shovel. She had to make do with a broken wooden chair she found inside the central building. She didn’t have to dig deep. She saw the maggots almost right away. The bodies weren’t even wrapped. She continued moving the soil aside until she had exposed dozens—all adults—breathing through her mouth to avoid passing out from the disgusting odor of rotting flesh emanating from the ground. Then she set aside her makeshift shovel, adjusted the camera settings, and began to take pictures and video.

  When she was done, she moved the mud and dirt back over the bodies, ignoring the pain in her chest. And then she sat back against the wall of the community building and did something she was sure no one had yet done or would do—she cried for them.

  Trincomalee

  Vanni had become accustomed to the throngs that followed him everywhere—supporters and those just curious to see him. They had never seen his photograph, but they all knew who he was. In each town, village, and hamlet they spoke his name. Some spoke it in awe
, some in fondness, and some in fear; but they all spoke it.

  No one spoke his name here, though. He was alone and away from his home region. He had chosen not to travel with a retinue of sycophants or guards. Alone and in the clothes of a common man he was free to walk the streets of Trincomalee, to speak with the street vendors about their problems with the corrupt government, to watch the poor mothers with their children in rags—people thrust into the background where they would not offend the city’s more affluent residents. Here he was a ghost—transparent to the politicians and, more important, invisible to the military, who had no idea what he was about to unleash upon them. He was free to observe his plan, his people, and his ships.

  He nodded as the bell atop the promontory began to toll. A few worshippers were inside the temple. Outside, tourists from China, Japan, and Europe took photographs of the temple’s famous statues and other ornamentation or of each other. Vanni took care not to appear in any photo. He reflected that the tourists probably didn’t know that this wasn’t the original Koneswaram Kovil temple; that had been destroyed four centuries ago. They probably wouldn’t have cared if they did. This was merely another place tourists went. He didn’t care about them either. The Chinese, the Europeans, the Americans—none of them concerned him. At this moment only the Sri Lankan leadership mattered.

  Vanni crouched in front of a large rock in front of the temple on the Konesar Malai overlook and rested his back against it as he pulled out his binoculars. Surveying Gokarna Bay, he identified his boats; the first ones to come had arrived weeks before and had been safely moored ever since. At first appearance the sailboats were no different from the other pleasure boats in the harbor. All were sloops or ketches with roller-furling jibs. Their mainsails were lashed to the booms with lazy jacks. Only an observant mariner would have noticed the absence of lines from the tack to the head—a key part of a sailboat’s rigging. Even someone who took a closer look wouldn’t have seen the rockets hidden inside the masts. They weren’t complicated rockets capable of delivering warheads to another continent. These were simple devices with composite propellants from rockets modeled on those used by the Lebanese Hezbollah against Israel. All they had to do was carry a five-pound payload and reach an altitude of a few hundred yards.

  Vanni watched the Sri Lankan navy ships at the entrance of the bay. All of them were facing out to sea. He had told them his fleet would attack, and they did as he expected. They secured the entrance to the harbor and prepared for an invasion from outside.

  When the bell tolled again, the first rocket launched from one of the moored sailboats. Then a second launched and a third. After each launch, the boat’s crew left their sailboat and got into a smaller boat. When the rockets reached a preset altitude, they exploded in blue-green sparkles, one after the other. Vanni looked down from the hilltop and noticed cars stopping in the middle of the road near the docks. Only a few did not stop—those were probably older vehicles or diesel trucks. He focused his binoculars on the Sri Lankan navy ships and the other ships approaching the harbor. Until a few minutes ago they had been operating in a well-coordinated pattern directed by electronic communications. The explosions blocked the communications and left the ships powerless and rudderless.

  The boats of Vanni’s second squadron, in contrast, were very well coordinated. Each of the small boats that had left the sailboats, under the command of a very loyal and committed man, rowed swiftly toward a Sri Lankan navy ship. The men on the ships finally recognized the threat and were trying to mount a defense, but they lacked even internal communications—even the Phalanx weapon system on their largest ship was unresponsive.

  A composite turtle shell covered each small boat, so the few small arms that managed to hit the boats glanced off harmlessly. Slowly, relentlessly, they came on. The crews of the navy ships would only watch in helpless horror as they approached. The first small boat, with a wedge-shaped explosive charge in its prow, slammed against the largest ship. The resulting explosion split the ship in half. Within a minute the other suicide boats had destroyed the other Sri Lankan navy ships.

  The Trincomalee waterfront was a chaotic scene of screaming people shocked by the explosions and the destruction in the harbor. Few seemed to realize yet that their cars, radios, and televisions had stopped working. The tourists tried using the cameras on their smart phones to no avail. Technology had been used to silence technology.

  Vanni stood and took a last look at the harbor to admire his work. He recognized this was only the first round in the new war. But it was a promising start. He walked over to his bicycle and pedaled away through the pandemonium he had caused, an invisible man in a now very visible war.

  Ullapool, Scotland

  Stark returned to the pub just as the last guests were leaving. Mack was cleaning up the bar and tables for the next day.

  “Maggie in the kitchen, Mack?”

  “Yep. Watch yerself, Connor,” Mack whispered. “She’s been in a mood since she saw you earlier.”

  Stark wanted to tell him to go home, that he would help Maggie close, but he had tried that—once. When Maggie found out, she made it clear that she ran the pub, and Connor had lost his license to walk into the kitchen or go behind the bar. Maggie, he sometimes thought, would have been a hell of a chief petty officer. He took a seat on a stool at the middle of the bar and eyed the wall of heroes behind it. Above the mirror were photos of Ullapool men who had gone off to war and never returned, beginning with the Boer War a century before and continuing through the two world wars, the Falkland Islands War, and right up to the Iraq war. They were the fathers, brothers, sons, husbands, fiancés, and boyfriends of Ullapool. Would his photo have been placed there had things ended differently in Yemen? He didn’t think it was likely. He had not been raised in Ullapool—and he had been on duty in the U.S. Navy, not the Royal Navy.

  “The new boys seem good. They’re well behaved when they’re here,” Mack said as he dried clean pilsner glasses.

  “Glad to hear it, Mack,” Stark replied. He hired the best for Highland Maritime, unlike some of his competitors. Each was well vetted. Plus, an applicant had to know at least one person with the security firm to even get an interview. No one was a complete stranger.

  The television was still on but the audio was off. The late evening Sky News report was broadcasting a story about some attacks in Sri Lanka.

  “Can you turn on the volume, Mack?”

  Mack complied, but the announcer was already halfway through the story. The same images were used in a loop. As best Stark could tell, Tamil Sea Tigers had sunk most of Sri Lanka’s navy in a single day in the ports of Colombo, Galle, and Trincomalee. The anchor interviewed an analyst from a London think tank who called it one of the most significant and successfully coordinated maritime attacks in history. It was also a surprise. Sri Lankan forces had defeated the Tamil Tigers several years before, marking the end of the Sri Lankan civil war. No one had seen this coming.

  Maggie walked through the swinging doors from the kitchen and caught Connor’s eye—the one that still bore the mark of Gunny’s work earlier in the day. “Go home, Mack, and kiss the little ones for me,” she said, then took the remote control and turned off the television.

  “Aye, girl. See you in the morning. Connor.” He nodded. Stark nodded back.

  Maggie’s long red ponytail swung as she came around the bar and sat down next to Stark. “When are you going to stop trying to be a hero and let the young lads do the work?” It was less a question than an order.

  “I need to train with them. I need to work with them. And I always have to be ready. Remember that surprise a few months ago at the dock?”

  She didn’t need to be reminded. Three Somalis had been sent to Ullapool to kill Connor, and while he had managed to take out two of them, the third might have succeeded had Maggie not arrived and made good use of a handy oar.

  “Are you still leaving the day after tomorrow?”

  “I have to,” he said. “I won’t
be gone long. The new boat has been fitting out in India, and I need to be there for the final work. The crew’s been there for two months. I’ll take Gunny and the new security team with me.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because I’m the one who bought the ship. And I know her better than anyone. I’ll take her for a shakedown cruise, make sure everything works, and as soon as we arrive in the Gulf of Aden I’ll hand her off to our team there and come home. Three weeks at most.”

  Maggie rose. Even without her high-heeled boots she was an imposing figure. She was tall for a woman—only a few inches shorter than Stark’s six feet—and well built, but it was just as much her attitude as her size. Honest and forthright, she rarely backed down from an argument. That was one of the reasons he respected her. That was one of the reasons he loved her.

  She went behind the bar, ostensibly to throw a damp towel into the laundry basket, but he knew it was to put the physical barrier of the bar between them.

  “I don’t need this,” she said. “Look at what happened last time—when those military people came and took you away to Yemen. You might have died.”

  Maggie still didn’t know the full story of what had happened there. She had overheard some of the Highland Maritime personnel mention the loss of the firm’s ship Kirkwall with nearly all hands. But Connor had never told her about the firefight in Old Mar’ib or the subsequent battle when he found himself in command of a Navy cruiser facing down the forces of the man who wanted to seize control of Yemen. She hadn’t asked, and he thought it best not to volunteer the information. She must have had some idea, though, because the wounds on his body, including a deep scar on his leg, were impossible to keep hidden.