Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

  “This does not fall within my plans. I am supposed to deliver this ship to the Gulf of Aden for security duty,” Stark responded. “Nothing more.”

  “As you have just said, you are six weeks ahead of schedule.”

  “That’s true, Mr. Ambassador,” Stark said. “But I have to pay my men, and fuel isn’t free.”

  “We are prepared to pay your firm very well for this service and will provide an advance. But you must begin as soon as possible. Time is of the essence.”

  Stark was not at all comfortable with the sudden change in mission, particularly in a region where he had never operated or even planned to be.

  “Your military is willing to share information before we begin our search?” Stark asked.

  “Of course. You will have access to every bit of knowledge my government has.”

  “Ambassador, my team would need some time to plan. We’ll need supplies for the mission.”

  “Our naval station in Colombo will provide you with whatever food, fuel, and ammunition you need,” Adikira said quickly.

  Stark narrowed his eyes. The ambassador was fidgeting. Experienced diplomats didn’t do that. And he appeared desperate to hire Stark and the company. This isn’t going to be as easy as he says. Still . . . it would make a good shakedown cruise. Boardings, if done correctly, were simple procedures so long as the teams were vigilant. And for a little intelligence gathering he would get enough money to pay for the final upgrades on the ship with enough extra to give the crew and security team a bonus.

  “I’ll give you four weeks of my time, Mr. Ambassador. Perhaps you will join me here tomorrow so we can work out the details of this agreement?”

  “Of course,” the ambassador said, his relief showing. “Our navy’s operations center will coordinate with you on the areas where you will work. Until tomorrow, Captain Stark.”

  Stark nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  “I wish you good luck,” Captain Dasgupta said, to Stark.

  “It won’t be the same without you this time,” Stark said, and received a knowing grin from the Indian captain.

  “Perhaps,” Dasgupta said. He turned to the ambassador and gestured toward the limousine, then took Stark’s arm and walked out of hearing distance from the ambassador.

  “Connor, we are pleased that you have taken this assignment.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “Your ship. My navy is impressed with her, but they would like to see how she performs in Sri Lanka. I understand that Highland now owns the ship and the patents. My navy may be interested in building a number of these.”

  “I’m not in this to make a lot of money. We’re just trying to do a job.”

  “Yes, of course. But we have maritime security concerns, and if we buy the plans from you instead of buying old Russian ships, we both benefit, my friend. The ship’s name is not yet painted. How shall I hail you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Stark grinned. “She’ll call out to you. Her name is Syren.”

  Singapore

  The captain of USS LeFon, one of the U.S. Navy’s newest destroyers and only six months out of the shipyard, brushed back her wiry blond hair, quickly retied it in a regulation bun, and pulled on her ball cap bearing the ship’s crest and motto: “For strength. For courage.”

  LeFon had been at sea forty-four days without a port visit. Every mariner on board—enlisted and officer—knew what that meant. By Navy tradition and regulations, a beer would be served to each person on the ship in one more day. That was little consolation for a crew within sight of a city famed for its nightlife. Nearly every crewmember had offered to man one of the small boats that went ashore or were conducting antiterrorism force protection duties. LeFon’s task was a significant responsibility. Off one of the busiest ports in the world, the crew maintained high alert for possible threats. Just this morning the captain had noticed a couple of new gray strands in her blond hair.

  Cdr. Jaime Johnson leaned back in the captain’s chair on the starboard side of the bridge and held her binoculars tightly against her eyes. The wind had shifted from south to northeast and had slowly pushed the ten-thousand-ton warship like a great horizontal pendulum until her bow was directly facing the city. Johnson counted three dozen containerships under way, all steering well clear of LeFon. Johnson double-checked the gun crew below manning the port and starboard bow .50-caliber machine guns. The rising sun to starboard reflected off the water, and Johnson looked back at the starboard watch to make sure he had his sunglasses on so he wouldn’t miss anything out there. She trusted her crew, but it never hurt to double-check. Her jaw muscles tightened. She wasn’t going to lose another ship or crewmember.

  “Ma’am,” a baby-faced young ensign said behind her.

  “What is it, Ensign?” she said with a smile. She had a soft spot for Bobby Fisk.

  “Latest message from Seventh Fleet should be on your screen now,” Ensign Fisk said. Johnson pulled the monitor and keyboard closer and typed in her password.

  “One more day, ma’am,” Fisk said. “Think Seventh Fleet will let us pull into port and grant us liberty instead?”

  “I doubt it,” she said, adding after a moment, “in fact, I’m sure that’s not going to happen. Looks like we’re leaving. We’re escorting two littoral combat ships to Sri Lanka. We get under way first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Ma’am, terrorists there just wiped out their navy. Does this mean we’re going to war?” Bobby asked that only to clarify their mission. He had been in battle before. That action had tempered the young man’s desire to go to war, but it had also left him far better prepared if he and his ship were to engage in combat.

  “No, Mr. Fisk, I think we’re staying out of this one,” Johnson said with a laugh. “The Navy is giving the ships to Sri Lanka, and they have skeleton crews of Sri Lankan officers and sailors. A U.S. Navy flag officer is coming along to supervise the changeover. LeFon is just the shepherd. Looks like the admiral will be on board with us until we arrive in Sri Lanka. Huh, no name in the message.”

  “Is that unusual, Captain?”

  “Not necessarily, but it would be nice to know so we can prepare. Flag officers all have their idiosyncracies.”

  The radio crackled as she spoke. The radio operator lifted his headphones momentarily to say, “Captain, an admiral is inbound.”

  “Already? The message said they aren’t supposed to be here for a few hours.”

  “Sorry, Captain, that’s all we know. The RHIB just left the seawall and should be here in about twenty minutes,” the operator replied.

  “Damn it, is a little freaking common courtesy unreasonable?” she muttered under her breath. “Bobby, call down and have them make sure the VIP stateroom is ready.” There was little reason it wouldn’t be. The stateroom was never used unless there was a dignitary or senior officer on board.

  Johnson made her way across the bridge to the 1MC—the shipwide radio. “Good morning, LeFon. I know you’ll be disappointed, but we weigh anchor at 0700 tomorrow on a temporary assignment. The Supply Department will provide one beer per person to those who wish it at tomorrow evening’s meal. You’ll enjoy it. Before we left San Diego I replaced the bottom-shelf beer the Navy provides with Guinness—for strength. Now, attend to your duties. We have a flag officer arriving in a few minutes. Show the admiral what I already know—LeFon is the finest ship and crew in the fleet. Have a good day and live your profession. LeFon Actual, out.” Even through the bulkheads she heard the crew explode in applause and cheers.

  Johnson, Fisk, the navigator, and the quartermaster pored over the charts of the harbor and the Strait of Malacca as they sipped freshly brewed coffee. The starboard watch entered the bridge with her binoculars in hand.

  “Captain, one of our small boats is arriving.”

  Johnson checked her watch. Had the RHIB been on full throttle the whole way? She grabbed her binoculars as Fisk followed her to the bridge wing. She saw the small boat only three hundred yards from their a
nchorage, and it was, as she suspected, on full throttle. What the hell was her small boat crew thinking? She brought the binoculars up and focused on the approaching boat. Something was odd about the crew. They weren’t positioned as her boat crews were instructed to be, they were coming in too fast, and they hadn’t notified the ship when they were at four hundred yards. There was one more person on board than normal—it had to be the arriving admiral. But why was the boat crew disobeying her instructions? Her mind flashed back briefly to the events on Kirkwall, when an incoming small boat had spelled doom to most of her crew.

  “Bobby, hail them!” she ordered. Then she yelled to the bow gun crews: “Train weapons on that small boat.” They immediately did as she directed.

  “Nothing from the small boat, ma’am.”

  She took the hand-held radio. “This is Warship 125. Small boat, you are on a direct course with us. Veer off now or we will fire.”

  The boat slowed and veered to port. Through the binoculars she saw the passenger flailing his arms and yelling at her boat crew. The small boat’s commander reached for the radio.

  “Warship 125, this is Tomcat, requesting permission to come alongside with our passenger.”

  Johnson breathed a sigh of relief, then ordered Bobby to give permission and called to the gun crews to stand down.

  Bobby stood close to Johnson on the bridge wing and pulled up his own binoculars. When the boat’s occupants came into focus he gasped. “Oh, fuck,” he said aloud.

  Johnson was shocked. She had never heard Bobby curse, not even a “damn.” The baby-faced ensign looked and acted like a choirboy. “What’s the problem, Ensign Fisk?” The boat was now only fifty yards away.

  “That admiral, ma’am. I mean . . . I didn’t realize he made flag. I don’t know how he could have. And he’s coming here. And I’m here. Oh, fuck, ma’am. I’m screwed.”

  “You’re not making any sense. What the hell’s the matter?”

  “It’s him, ma’am. Daniel Rossberg. He was my CO on Bennington last year.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stood down the gun crews.”

  Malacca Strait

  The cargo ship Nanjing Mazu had just exited the north end of the Singapore Strait, a day out of port. The dockworkers and government inspectors in Singapore had been well paid to ignore the seventh forty-foot container unit loaded onto the ship. Gala had made sure it was positioned close to the aft superstructure, behind all the other containers. That had been easy to do with the ship’s high-tech deck crane. A software program called Tetris, named after the old computer game in which the player had to fit various shapes into a compact pattern, controlled the crane and organized the placement of the containers based on their destination to facilitate speedier unloading. The transfer had appeared completely ordinary. Nevertheless, Gala wanted to make certain the container’s contents were properly secured.

  The wind had picked up by the time Gala was certain that no Singaporean coast guard craft had followed them. The sea was choppy now that the ship had left the lee of the land to the west and east. He pushed his 120-pound body against the heavy hatch, which refused to open. A passing sailor assisted him and told him to be careful on the deck. Gala immediately went to the container, unsealed it, and entered. He hadn’t counted on the rolling sea. The door swung closed when he was halfway inside and struck him in the back, launching him head first into the crated equipment.

  In the darkness, Gala tried to cry out for help, aware that no one would hear him above the drone of the engines and the wind. His hands shook as he struggled to find the flashlight in his pocket. The sea rolled again, opening the door and shedding light into the container. He grabbed the crate and held on as his attempted cry became a sob. At least the crate was here and safe. Gala had spent months trying to find this piece of equipment after the first had been damaged in an accident.

  The door swung closed again, plunging him back into darkness. He found his flashlight and shone the light on the crate. The hydrostatic extrusion press was safe inside within several layers of shrink-wrap. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned to leave. The door creaked open and then slammed shut as the ship rolled, taunting him, beckoning him to exit as it opened and denying him just as quickly when it closed. He knew he wasn’t fast enough or coordinated enough to judge the right time to jump through, so he decided to stay with the crate for a while. As he turned back toward the equipment, he noticed a red spot on the shrink-wrap. He instinctively brought his free hand to his head and felt the place where it had struck the crate. His head was wet. He shone the flashlight on his hand, now red with his own blood. He felt light-headed, nervous, and fearful. Suddenly shaking, Gala dropped the flashlight, which broke into two pieces as it hit the floor. His legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto the floor. The door slammed shut and this time did not open again, even when he pounded on it.

  The accidental loss of the first extrusion press had been a devastating setback. Even with the new replacement, though, he needed more people and more resources to extend his research. He had tried to explain that to Vanni, but his leader had said only that there were too few people to spare. His Chinese assistants would have to suffice until more people were inspired to join the cause. Once that happened Gala would have all the workers he needed. If only Vanni had given him just two strong men, he reflected bitterly, he would not be clinging to a crate inside a dark container while his blood pooled on the deck below. Would he have to hang on like this for two more days until they reached Sri Lanka?

  Gala felt the great ship surge forward on a rolling wave and his stomach lurched. Life at sea was foreign to him, but not to Vanni, who saw the sea as the great liberator of his people. In fact, Gala had first met Vanni on a ship—a large freighter that had been intentionally beached, along with many others, at one of the largest breaking yards in the world. Gala had watched in awe as Vanni tore through the ship, savagely ripping away pipes, culling every piece of valuable metal for reclamation that would profit the rich of Sri Lanka while the local Tamils labored at the dangerous work for paltry pay. Gala had struggled to do the manual labor while his mind naturally gravitated toward ways to make their jobs easier.

  Gala’s time working in the Mullaitivu Breakers was short-lived. Vanni quickly recognized the young man’s intelligence—a gift that would be wasted in hard physical labor. “Gala,” Vanni had declared during a brief work break when they were given time to sip some water, “you came here from school. Now you must return to school and learn more. Much more. I will see to it.”

  A few days later a manager came to take him away. Vanni had nodded once at the manager and once at Gala, and with that Gala was sent to school in Trincomalee and then eventually to university in Beijing. And when Gala’s scientific training was complete, Vanni had contacted him. Gala could not deny the man who was his benefactor.

  Now Gala was alone and afraid; he could think of nothing to counter the forces of nature that held him in a prison as dark and dank as the ships in the Breakers yard. He turned back to the crate. Inside was his salvation—the means to get back into Vanni’s good graces and to save his people from the powerful elite who ran Sri Lanka. He just needed to escort it safely until he could transfer it to its final destination.

  DAY 3

  M/V Syren, Laccadive Sea

  Syren hummed along effortlessly toward Colombo at twenty-five knots. Stark left control of the bridge to his helmsman and began the underway inspection of the ship. He made his way down the ladder, through the galley, past the combat information center, and to the cargo bay. The sixity-foot-wide aft cargo bay doors were open, and some crewmembers were working on the RHIB launch platform. All were wearing the Highland Maritime uniform—light gray coveralls with yellow nametags and charcoal gray ball caps with the company logo.

  Six twenty-foot containers lined each side of the cargo bay. The first on his right and left were extra crew quarters, each able to house eight personnel. The next conta
iner on the right was labeled “Weapons.” Inside he found Gunny Willis cleaning pistols with two of the Highland Maritime guards. Willis acknowledged his captain’s presence but kept on with his work; this wasn’t the military. He had worked long enough with Stark to know that Stark preferred informality so that training and maintenance duties could proceed uninterrupted. The ship was well provisioned with weapons and ammunition, a necessity for ships operating in the Gulf of Aden. Other private security firms relied on the twenty-two floating armories stationed from the Red Sea to Sri Lanka for their weapons, but many of these facilities were operated by questionable Ukrainian or Russian companies. With Syren’s storage capacity and port agreements Stark had no need to deal with ships and personnel who looked more like the depraved misfits in the post-apocalyptic movie Waterworld than legitimate twenty-first-century businessmen.

  Next on Stark’s right—which was actually the port side of the ship because he was walking from bow to stern—were three containers with food, uniforms, and ammunition. One container was a reefer—a refrigeration unit—that held enough to feed the crew for a couple of months if necessary. The last container on Stark’s right held two commercial UAVs, unmanned aerial vehicles more popularly known as drones. Though Stark preferred manned airborne craft like helicopters for multimission roles, he recognized the cost savings and low maintenance the UAVs afforded.

  Each of the five remaining starboard containers was devoted to a particular crew component—gear for the boatswains, repair equipment and extra parts for the engineering department, a medical bay, and a sealed container that only one man was allowed to open.

  As if on cue, the big redhead strolled past Stark humming. “Hiya, boss,” he said as he reached out to type in the code for the door lock. He waited until Stark looked away to enter the numbers.

  “Jay, what kind of toys are you playing with in there?” Stark asked.

  “No, no, no, boss. No way do people see my stuff until it’s ready. You agreed to that. And don’t forget, we have yoga in thirty minutes.”