Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

  His connections in Washington, however, saw it differently. They made a hero of him and ignored the role Bobby, Connor, and the rest of the crew had played in defeating the terrorist attack. At the direction of OLA, the Chief of Naval Information released a carefully crafted—and almost completely fictitious—description of the events on Bennington. The press release lauded Rossberg’s heroic leadership in rallying his surviving crewmembers and launching a counterattack. There had been no reporters present on Bennington who could contradict that. No one who could inform the public that Connor Stark and Bobby Fisk had taken control of the ship and led the counterattack. No one who could say that during that entire time, Captain Rossberg was unconscious in sick bay, coincidentally on the same bed on which Jaime had lain only days before. Only the U.S. ambassador to Yemen, the Yemeni leadership, and the crew of Bennington knew the truth. Captain Rossberg was awarded the Navy Cross and promoted to rear admiral. And now he was on his way to Sri Lanka to deliver two U.S. Navy ships to the Sri Lankan navy.

  The clash was inevitable. Jaime Johnson was not one to suffer fools when it came to her ship and crew—a crew she had groomed since taking command five months ago. Jaime lacked experience in the ship’s tactical systems, given her absence from the Navy for several years, but she made up for that in her crew’s morale and efficiency. Like every member of her crew—enlisted and officers alike—she spent the first hour of every workday cleaning compartments. Every day she joined a different division cleaning passageways and heads. She got to know her crew, and they her.

  Rossberg had been on board less than twenty-four hours when he passed Johnson in a passageway on her hands and knees scrubbing the deck alongside a chief and three sailors, all clad in blue work overalls. “Commander,” he gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning, Admiral. Standard operating procedure for this time of day.”

  “That’s not Navy regulation. Get up this instant. Sailors clean. Officers command at their stations.”

  “Not on my ship, sir,” she said evenly. “Everyone cleans. It’s part of everyone’s assigned duties.”

  Rossberg pulled himself up to his full five and a half feet and pointed a short, stubby finger at her. “You listen, missy, I am the senior officer on this ship and you will do what I tell you. You will stop cleaning this instant and go to the bridge. We have important work escorting those two ships to Sri Lanka. Now!”

  Commander Johnson rose from the deck and met his eyes squarely, then walked over to the 1MC and picked up the handset. “Good morning, LeFon, this is the captain,” she said calmly. “Secure from cleaning and proceed with the plan of the day. You know what day this is and how long we’ve been at sea. Each of you who wants one will be given one beer at noon. Captain out.”

  “What?!” the admiral huffed. “No, no, no. Give me that.” He took the mike and made his own announcement to the crew. “This is Admiral Rossberg. Belay the captain’s direction. This is a United States Navy ship, and there will be no drinking.”

  Johnson was beginning to understand what had happened on Bennington. It sure as hell was not going to happen on her ship. “Admiral, Navy regulations clearly state that after sufficient days at sea, the crew will be given one beer.”

  “Did you hear me, Commander? No drinking. Now you get to the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Jaime remained on the bridge the entire day and evening as LeFon led the two surplus warships toward Sri Lanka. She left only to personally deliver a sandwich to the imprisoned Bobby Fisk. Neither mentioned Rossberg’s name. It wasn’t necessary. Bobby knew what she was facing without having to leave the confines of his stateroom.

  While the admiral was eating a salad in the wardroom that evening, Jaime called the SUPPO—the supply officer—to her stateroom. She gave him clear verbal directions. Then she pointed to a box of bottles and presented him with two cards to be placed on a monitored table in the galley. The SUPPO understood. After that she approached the admiral and advised him that once he was in his stateroom for the evening she planned to post the master-at-arms outside his door so that he was assured of a quiet sleep. A better officer would have thanked her for the thoughtful gesture. Rossberg merely acknowledged it as his due. What Jaime didn’t tell him was that the master-at-arms was under orders to call her immediately if Rossberg left the stateroom.

  Later that night, when the admiral was asleep, the word went out verbally to every sailor. One by one they filed up to a table on the mess deck where a glass of Guinness awaited each crewmember, accompanied by a card that read “For strength.” Also waiting, courtesy of their captain, was a shot of Jameson with a card that read “For courage.”

  DAY 4

  Colombo, Sri Lanka

  When Syren reached a point ten nautical miles from Colombo off the southwest coast of Sri Lanka, Connor ordered the security teams to man the guns mounted at four stations topside. He set his coffee mug on the counter in front of him as he settled back in the captain’s chair. The laptop mounted on the right arm of his chair showed photos of the twisted hulks that were all that remained of the Sri Lankan navy. In the past few hours he had read everything that was publicly known about the attacks, but he knew from experience that first reports were usually wrong. The only undisputable fact was that Sri Lanka’s warships were now either at the bottom of the harbors and channels of the three major port cities or drifting helplessly on the surface.

  “Slow to one-third,” he said.

  “One-third, aye,” the helm responded, gently pulling back on the joystick and adjusting the controls. The era of turning the ship’s wheel to set a course was passing. The seven-hundred-ton Syren responded not with the pronounced shudder that shakes most Navy ships when their huge propellers slow, but with a calm sigh as the water-propelled jets relaxed their intake.

  The high-resolution navigation monitor next to the helm showed the contour of the coastline ahead of him and the depth of the water around it. Stark checked the time on the digital clock on the bulkhead above. The Sri Lankan liaison would be here soon. Stark had advised the Sri Lankans that he would await the liaison at this location rather than enter the harbor so soon after the attack, but communications with them were still spotty.

  Even from this distance Stark could see with his naked eyes the high-rises that dotted the city behind the harbor. The city was home to four and a half million people. The harbor itself, though, was oddly empty. Small fishing boats were going about their business, but no large ships were entering or leaving port. He took out the binoculars to confirm what he was reading on one of the radar displays. Several large container ships were indeed out there, but all were anchored well away from the harbor. One signal mystified him because it coincided directly with the coastline.

  “Helm, all stop.”

  “All stop, aye.”

  “When was the last time you did maintenance on the radar, Stephanie?” he asked the technician to his right.

  “Last night at 2130. It’s all good, sir.”

  If the radar and navigational display were both working correctly, then a containership had run aground outside the port.

  “Small boat approaching, sir, coming in dead ahead,” one of the watchmen called over the ship’s communications system.

  Stark picked up the radio mike and spoke. “Small boat approaching, this is the security vessel Syren. State your intent, over.”

  “Syren, this is a Sri Lanka navy boat delivering an officer for assignment to your ship,” the voice crackled over channel 16. “Request direction, over.”

  “Sri Lanka navy boat, you are at—” he checked the radar quickly—“three hundred yards from our ship. Stop immediately, over.”

  The small boat responded.

  “Navy boat, remain where you are. We will meet you for transfer, over.”

  “Understood. Out.”

  The memory of the attack on Kirkwall in the Gulf of Aden by several suicide boats was still fresh in his mind, as was the additional loss of
life that had occurred on Bennington when an armed terrorist was allowed on board. Stark picked up the shipboard mike. “This is the captain. Launch small boat Somers. Gunny, have the team check any backpack or gear the liaison is bringing aboard—and frisk him.”

  “Understood, Skipper,” the security team leader replied.

  Stark took another sip of coffee as he watched the launch of Somers on the live-feed monitor. The left side of the monitor showed feed from the camera in the well deck. Another camera showed the view from just above the stern launch platform. The coxswain swung the small boat around and prepared to leave. Connor couldn’t distinguish the security team members from one another in their identical gray uniforms and black protective gear, but he knew from previous training that Gunny Willis was on the bow. Willis rested his weapon on his thigh momentarily as he turned back to direct the spacing of the other four security personnel, then he faced forward and the boat disappeared off to port.

  Stark typed in a number on his console, and the monitor showed the feed from the camera mounted one deck above the bridge atop the rarely used landing signals officer’s shack. The LSO shack was originally designed for helicopter operations, but Highland Maritime had modified it slightly for other air component requirements. Stark typed in new orders for the camera, and it faced forward and zoomed in on the Sri Lankan navy boat.

  The boat had only three seated men on board, including the liaison assigned to Syren. Somers circled the Sri Lankan boat twice to give Willis enough time to look for anything out of the ordinary, then the gunny waved his arm and the coxswain guided Somers alongside as one of the Sri Lankans rose. Gunny and one of the team boarded the other small boat and checked the contents of a sea bag as Stark had directed. A few minutes later the officer and his bag were transferred to Somers, which sped back to Syren while the other boat went in the opposite direction, back to shore.

  “This is the captain,” Stark called on the shipboard mike. “When Somers is recovered have Gunny Willis escort our guest to the CIC. Jay, meet us there.”

  Stark turned to his left and looked at the ship’s English-born executive officer, Olivia Harrison. “XO, let’s head down,” he told her. “Helm, you have the conn. Hold us here for now. Standard security measures apply.”

  “Aye, sir,” the helm responded.

  M/V Nanjing Mazu, Northeast of Sri Lanka

  Gala was bloody and clinging to one of the shrink-wrapped pallets in the container when they found him. The Chinese sailors kicked him awake.

  Gala didn’t know how long he had been in here, only that the container door had finally closed on him for good and locked, trapping him here in the dark. He let go of the pallet and stretched out his stiff fingers, and suddenly realized that he no longer heard the ship’s engines or felt the vibrations that had lulled him to sleep. The ship was still. “Have we arrived?” he asked.

  “Yes. We are pulling alongside the ship for the transfer. We thought you had fallen overboard,” added one of the crew.

  Gala rose and limped out of the container as the crew secured it for transfer. Before he went through the hatch of the after superstructure, he noticed the other ship at anchor alongside. It was not as large as the freighter he was on, and it was rusty from age and the elements. It was home. He returned to his stateroom, took a shower, dressed, and grabbed his belongings—extra clothes, eyeglasses, some papers, and a tablet that had most of the information he needed to operate and modify the equipment.

  The captain entered. He was, like the crew, Chinese. His clothes hung loosely on his lanky frame.

  “You should knock,” Gala said in imperfect Mandarin.

  “It is my ship, Gala,” the captain said dryly. “The company was concerned when I told them you were missing.”

  “It was an accident. The heavy seas . . .”

  The captain laughed. “We had no heavy seas. You should stay on board with us. Perhaps you will really experience a storm.” He sat at the table and picked up the tablet.

  Gala seized it back. “I have had enough of your ship, Captain. Tell the company you found me and that I have arrived with the equipment.”

  “What is so valuable in that container?”

  “You know better than to ask that,” Gala responded. “It is of concern only to me and the company.”

  “Very well,” the captain said thumbing through the papers, “but I will remind you that this ship and its missions are my concern. You will never speak of this ship. Ever. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, of course,” Gala said dismissively.

  The captain rose swiftly and seized Gala by the throat with both hands. He threw the slender scientist against the bulkhead and dug his bony fingers deeper into Gala’s throat until the Sri Lankan could no longer breathe. “Do you understand?” he hissed. “Do you understand that we can find you anywhere and do anything we wish to you or anyone you know?”

  Gala could only nod in response, unable even to gasp for air in the stronger man’s grip. The captain let him go, and Gala instinctively grabbed his own throat in a futile effort to sooth the damage already done.

  “Do you understand? Say it.”

  Gala rasped out a weak, “Yes.”

  “Good. Now get off my ship,” he said as he left Gala’s stateroom.

  Gala waited a few moments then grabbed his belongings and made his way to the deck. A crewman waved him over, pointing to the rickety wooden planks that served as the only bridge between the two ships. Gala peered over the side at the forty-foot drop to the water and then at the ten-foot gulf between the two ships. Other crewmen approached and began betting on whether Gala would make it across. The two planks shifted as the tide pushed one ship away from the other and then back again after the super-sized fenders bounced them apart.

  Gala looked back at his container and the two crewmen atop it securing it to the chain of the unloading crane. He ran over to it, opened the door, and then slammed it shut behind him, blocking out the sound of the laughing crewmen exchanging money from the already won or lost bets.

  Gala lay flat and grabbed the wooden pallet as he felt the container lifted from the deck. The ten-minute transfer seemed to take an hour as the crane swung the container carefully around and then slowly placed it on the deck of the waiting ship. The Chinese crew took care in lowering it, following the strict directions of the company.

  Gala heard men above unlatch the container. He rose and pounded on the side of the container until they opened it.

  “Welcome back, Gala!” a fellow Tamil Tiger said.

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Please get that pallet below to my laboratory.”

  “We will. Did you hear the news? Great success with your weapon!”

  “What?” Gala asked. “What do you mean?”

  “You are a hero! While you were away Vanni ordered the attack. You did not hear?”

  “No. I heard nothing on that stupid ship. But he used it too early. It wasn’t ready.”

  “Gala, did you not hear me? We used it. At Trincomalee, Colombo, and Galle. It worked. The Sri Lankan navy is no more. We destroyed all of the ships,” the Tamil Tiger said with a broad smile.

  “But it wasn’t ready,” Gala protested. “It needed more work.”

  “Ha! Tell Vanni that when you see him. Tell him that the weapon didn’t work.”

  Gala headed below toward his laboratory, considering the news. Vanni was not impetuous. He would not have used the weapon if the time were not right for it. Vanni was a great leader—the reincarnation of the great liberators of old. Gala would ask him. But he would ask carefully. In many ways Vanni was like the Chinese captain. Then he put the matter out of his mind and began rethinking the calculations for the next version of the weapon. He already had the basic material below, and now he had the right equipment to make it. And since the Sri Lankan navy was no longer a threat he had plenty of time to work on it.

  M/V Syren, off Sri Lanka

  The Sri Lankan naval officer was in his la
te forties, thin, and a bit gaunt—likely as a result of the shock and sorrow of the past few days. Stark wondered how he would look if his navy, his sailors, and his friends had just been wiped out in one fell swoop. The officer wore black coveralls with his rank on his lapels. Stark, who had been leaning against a table laden with fruit and drinks that he had ordered earlier from the mess, extended his hand in welcome.

  The officer stood at attention and clicked the heels of his boots. “Commander Sampath Ranasinghe at your service, Captain,” he said, shaking Stark’s hand.

  “A pleasure, Commander. You have already met Gunny Willis, head of my security team. Let me introduce my executive officer, Olivia Harrison, and our chief scientist and engineer, Dr. Jay Warren.” Ranasinghe nodded at each in turn, and Stark motioned for all to be seated.

  “We’ll be working together closely for the next month, Commander Ranasinghe. As you know, I have a letter of marque from your government directing me to gather intelligence and attempt to locate Sea Tiger bases. We know about the attack, of course, but we are hoping you can give us more details.”

  Ranasinghe took a deep but measured breath. “Certainly, Captain. Little information has been released. My government has been criticized for not providing more to the international media, but we have not yet gathered all the facts. You see, we had very little warning—less than one day before the attacks came. We didn’t know the Tamil Tigers—actually the Sea Tigers—had re-formed. We thought their defeat in 2009 had ended the insurrection. Our intelligence service had no indication of their plans. We received a warning that they would attack our harbors, so we closed them to traffic. We set our quarantine area, and our warships were on alert. I was not at sea,” he explained. “I was assigned to headquarters as an aide to the admiral coordinating the defense.”