“What? Helm are you sure we’re at three-five knots?” the admiral barked.
“Yes, sir.”
Jaime grabbed her binoculars and hurried to join the crew on the port bridge wing, leaving the admiral mumbling impotently on the bridge.
The admiral followed her just as the boxy ship began to pass on the port side of the outer LCS. The admiral did a double-take as the ship glided smoothly past. “No, that can’t be. More speed, more speed.”
“Admiral, it’s beyond inadvisable. We won’t catch her,” Jaime said.
The admiral ordered both littoral combat ships to match the speed of the other ship, then took the ship-to-ship mike. “This is the U.S. Navy warship. Who is that passing to port?” he asked, looking at the ship he had forced from the Navy’s development program.
“USS LeFon, this is the private security vessel Syren, Captain Connor Stark in command. Have a good day.”
“No, no, no! Not that ship. Not him,” the admiral sputtered in disbelief.
“CONN, all ahead two-thirds,” Johnson ordered.
The admiral had turned to say something to her when Bobby called out, pointing at the LCS to port. “Smoke!”
The call came from the CIC a moment later conveying a message from a Sri Lankan officer. The LCS was experiencing a mishap and was required to shut down one of her engines. The warship quickly fell back as Syren sailed on ahead.
Jaime returned to the captain’s chair and picked up the mike to ask the LCS if LeFon could render assistance just as she noticed a new email on her monitor: “Regards, Jaime. The ship looks good but you need to work on those two barges in company with you. If you’re en route Trin, hail us when you arrive. We have a good chef and scotch is permitted on my ship. Connor.”
“I want off,” the admiral said to Johnson. “Get me a small boat immediately. I’m going aboard that LCS to take command of the squadron from there.”
M/V Nanjing Mazu, off Northeast Sri Lanka
Gala took a deep drag on his cigarette before leaving the deck and returning to the bowels of the ship. The smoke going down his windpipe was a harsh reminder of the Chinese captain’s bony fingers around his neck. He tenderly stroked his throat again at the memory. The cool ocean evening air felt good against his body, which was drenched with sweat from hours belowdecks assembling the equipment. The laboratory had a cooling unit, but it couldn’t keep up with the feverish activities going on in there. In a few moments he had to return to supervise the workers in the weapons lab using the 3D printers he had ordered through the ghost firm of Academic Solutions. Those had arrived on a previous voyage and were already serving their purpose.
He ignored the darkened fleet of ships that surrounded him and stared up at the stars in the cloudless sky. The power he was developing was miniscule compared with the forces at work inside those stars. It was insignificant even against the great arsenals of the world’s superpowers. But it offered a way forward to the Tamils. Had the weapon been available during the civil war, the Tigers would now have their independent state and the thousands slaughtered after the war at the hands of the Sri Lankan government while the world stood idly by might still be alive.
The sound of a small motorboat broke the silence of the night. A few deckhands muttered something beyond his hearing, and a light came on amidships that focused on a small boat pulling alongside the anchored freighter.
Gala moved back from the railing and sat down on one of the boxes stacked on the deck, burying his head in his hands as he thought about the calculations for the next step in the experiment. The light amidships went off, and Gala heard the slow, light pace of a man walking on the deck toward him in the darkness. Gala sighed in frustration. All he wanted was to be left alone to his calculations. He couldn’t think below because the people in the processing area made so much noise. He had thought to have peace and quiet here.
“Here, have some water, Gala,” the man said.
“You used the weapon,” Gala replied without looking up.
Vanni sat beside him, put his thin arm around Gala’s back, and sighed. “I couldn’t wait for you.”
“It needed more testing, Vanni,” Gala said.
“No. It works. But we used most of what we had against their navy and aircraft. We have only enough left for a few small rockets. You have returned just in time. We have much work to do. We have more people extracting the ore now. Another shipment will arrive in two days. You have seen the people working below.”
“Yes, Vanni. They are working and sweating. Just as you and I did at the Breakers.”
“Gala, Gala,” Vanni said rubbing his back, “this is different. This is for a cause, and those are not our people.”
“But they are people. Not the soldiers who fought against us.”
“They are people who supported the soldiers who fought against us, Gala,” he said coldly, removing his arm.
Gala straightened. “I will have more short-range rockets for you soon. The material for larger weapons will take longer, but now I have the equipment.”
“Good, my friend,” Vanni said. “Because now we have to worry about the American ships.”
“What American ships? Why are Americans here?” Gala asked.
“Not Americans, but they have given two warships to Sri Lanka to attack us, according to my sources in Singapore.”
“Then no Americans?”
“No. Only Sri Lankan navy personnel. So when we destroy the ships the Americans will have no reason to interfere. You will have one of the new weapons ready?”
“You are certain of this?” Gala asked.
“I am certain,” Vanni said firmly. “Two ships, no Americans except in an escort ship that will depart as soon as the formal transfer is complete in Trincomalee.” Vanni knew Gala. He understood his past, sensed his hesitancy about killing. But Vanni also understood Gala’s weaknesses and knew how to exploit them, as he exploited the weaknesses of everyone he met. Gala was a scientist who wanted perfection in his work and a future for the Tamils. “Gala, you are working for our people, and you are achieving something that not even the Americans could accomplish. Did you not tell me of a group of scientists working for their military who were unable to unlock the secret that you have unlocked for our weapon?”
“It’s true,” the young scientist said with a smile. “I read their report about this technology. But,” he added, “that report was from many years ago, and they did not have a pure lode to work with as we do.”
“The Americans must never know of it.”
“And the Chinese?” Gala asked fearfully. That was another of Gala’s traits that Vanni knew how to exploit—his fear that his history of being bullied, beaten, and belittled would be repeated.
“Gala, Gala, you are now here among my forces—our forces. You are honored among our fighters for giving them a chance against the Sri Lankans. We have destroyed their navy. We have held off their air force and army. What do you think will happen when we launch the attack that will end this for good? The Chinese have already told me that they will be the first to recognize our government. A friend like that will give us leverage in the world.”
“At what cost, Vanni? What do they want in return? They always want something.”
Vanni gave Gala’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “Do not think that way, Gala. You will be a hero of our liberation with your weapon, and you will make us rich when we sell it to the Chinese. We will have everything we need—security, friends, and money.”
Gala merely nodded and went back to gazing at the stars while the sky was still clear.
DAY 7
Trincomalee
Syren held off three miles from the port of Trincomalee. It wasn’t safe to come much closer. Just as it had been in Colombo, boats that had been under way during the EMP attack were now grounded on sandbars or hugging the shore. Four teams manned the topside guns while Stark ordered the aviation component to launch the unmanned aerial vehicles that would provide a bird’s-eye view of the area. Specialists in the
CIC would monitor the cameras, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
“Olivia, you have the conn. Standard operating procedure—keep the engines warm, warn off any ship, and if anything comes within a mile make best speed in the opposite direction.”
“Lovely, Captain. Full retreat, then, is it?” she said with a wink.
“Best to live to fight another day until we can figure out this EMP thing,” he retorted. “The executive officer has the conn,” he said over the shipwide speakers.
Gunny Willis and another security guard joined Stark, Ranasinghe, and Warren on Syren’s RHIB Somers. Warren was still tightening the straps to secure his equipment when Stark gave the command to the boatswain’s mate to lower the boat astern. He quickly found a seat. Each member of the team wore body armor and, except for Warren, held an FN FAL-308 select-fire rifle. The second security officer held onto the pedestal-mounted FN MAG-58.
The boat was halfway down the ramp when it jerked to a stop, almost throwing Warren into the water. The boatswain’s mate gestured to two of the crew, who manually released the boat. “Don’t worry, Captain, we’ll fix it eventually.”
Stark and the rest put on their sunglasses to block the midday sun as they sped into Trincomalee harbor. Stark surreptitiously slid his hand down his right pant leg to the spot where it was tucked neatly into his boot. Once he felt the bejeweled hilt of the sgian dubh, something he had done often since Maggie had given him the good luck charm, he was comforted. He removed the knife and took a closer look at the family crest on the hilt. When Warren noticed the weapon, Stark handed it to him and explained its significance in Scottish history.
Warren looked at it appreciatively. “Nice piece. Well balanced. I like the quartz on the hilt. Cairngorm, isn’t it? And I like how they worked the iron into a crest. Great craftsmanship,” he said as he carefully returned it to Stark.
Ranasinghe seemed to have no good luck charm to bring him comfort. He was visibly distraught, particularly when they reached the entrance of the harbor. Wrecks and flotsam still littered the water and shoreline because the local port authorities were skittish about proceeding with salvage efforts. The Sri Lankan commander pointed to the mast and partially submerged superstructure of one ship. “That, Captain, is—or rather was—Sayura. I had orders to report to her as my next ship. I knew her and her officers well.”
There was little Stark could say. He too had experienced the loss of a ship and crew. A simple knowing nod was more meaningful than any words.
The fishing boats that had not been in port during the attack were now going about their normal business, casually laying lines miles outside the harbor. One sailboat—a catamaran—was slowly making its way to the port under power.
Stark missed his own sailing days. A cutter-rigged sloop berthed on the Potomac River had been his home during the year he spent as an aide on Capitol Hill. On long weekends he would sail down the river and out into the Chesapeake, especially on sun-filled, windy days like this. He smiled remembering full-bellied sails and a fifteen-degree heel as the boat dug steadily into the water. Something about the catamaran didn’t seem quite right to him, though. On its current course the boat should be sailing close-hauled to wind-ward, not putt-putting along under power. He couldn’t imagine a sailor not taking advantage of prime sailing conditions like these.
He carefully set his rifle down and pulled binoculars out of the equipment case. The catamaran was an older design without the roller-furling jib, but it carried no headsail at all. The mainsail hung loosely from the boom, though he couldn’t see a halyard attached to it. Stark’s RHIB was nearly fifteen hundred yards from the sailboat, and even with the best binoculars he couldn’t see every detail. He could see three men in the cockpit. One was standing and steering the boat. The other two were looking in Stark’s direction.
“Commander,” Stark said to Ranasinghe, “you wanted us to investigate ships. How about we get in a little practice here?”
“That sailboat?” the Sri Lankan officer asked.
Stark nodded and said, “Something’s not right. Might be nothing. Coxswain, make for that sailboat. Gunny, stand by to cover.” Willis motioned for the guard standing with the MAG-58 to focus on the sailboat while Stark kept the binoculars trained on it. He couldn’t make out a name.
“Jay,” he said to the scientist, “what’s the distance between that sailboat and Syren?”
Warren redirected his attention from his instruments to take a look. “I’d guess about three thousand yards.”
Stark did some math in his head. The men in the boat scrambled as the RHIB closed to two thousand yards from a different vector than Syren. Stark was about to hail them on ship-to-ship when he saw them scurrying around. The question remained: was something wrong, or was this merely a damaged sailboat seeking safe harbor whose crew took alarm at seeing an armed RHIB heading toward them?
“Hey, boss,” Warren shouted. “More ships over there.”
Warren was right. There were more ships—the two littoral combat ships and the Arleigh Burke–class destroyer Syren had passed earlier. Stark grabbed the radio and handed it to Ranasinghe with some directions.
“Catamaran, catamaran,” the Sri Lankan commander said in Sinhalese, “this is the government boat approaching you. Do you require assistance?”
There was no response from the other boat.
“They just went below,” Stark said.
Ranasinghe repeated his message, then said it in English in case the men were not locals. Still nothing.
The three Navy ships continued to approach, and Stark hailed them.
“This is Coalition Warship Twelve,” came the reply, obviously from one of the littoral combat ships. “We are passing astern of you.”
The high-pitched voice sounded familiar to Stark. “Coalition warship, this is Syren Actual. Recommend you stand off at least three nautical miles, over.”
“This is a U.S. Navy warship! We do not take orders from you. We are coming through.”
“Coalition warship, we are about to conduct a VBSS,” Stark countered as Warren explained the acronym for visit, board, search, and seizure to a confused-looking Ranasinghe. Stark continued, “On behalf of the Sri Lankan government. I repeat: request you stand off at least three nautical miles, over.”
“Captain,” Gunny said calmly, “the catamaran’s turning.”
The catamaran had picked up speed and turned 180 degrees—right toward the two LCSs and destroyer. Stark saw two fishing boats in the distance also change course. He suspected that they would cut across the bows of the warships, although well ahead of them. But they were too far away for him to see what was happening.
“Coxswain, get us on the other side of the sailboat toward those two fishing boats. And crank it.” The crewman complied, and in a few seconds the RHIB was bumping over the water at sixty knots. The passengers ducked down and held on. The RHIB was between the sailboat and the fishing boats when Stark motioned the coxswain to slow down.
When the boat eased to ten knots, he looked through the binoculars again. The two fishing boats were still on a line to cross ahead of the warships, and they were both towing long fishing lines. He couldn’t actually see the lines, but he could make out translucent buoys, about the size of the lobster buoys he remembered as a kid in New England, spaced about twenty feet apart. The warships were still bearing down. They hadn’t listened to him.
It suddenly occurred to Stark that no fisherman or lobsterman in his right mind would use translucent buoys. They should have been colored, identifiable to the waterman who owned them.
The catamaran was clearly not in distress, because it had turned away from the harbor and directly toward the warships, still refusing to respond to the continuing hails from Ranasinghe.
Stark looked back in time to see the sailboat raise a flag on one of the halyards—lions on an aquamarine background. Peering back at the two fishing boats he saw the same flag. “Do you recognize those signals?” he asked Ranasinghe
.
The Sri Lankan didn’t hesitate to respond. “Those are banned in my country. They are the flags of the Sea Tigers.”
“Son of a . . . that’s it.” Stark grabbed the mike. “Coalition warships, these are Sea Tiger boats. Recommend you veer to port at best speed to avoid them.”
USS LeFon, off Trincomalee
Cdr. Jaime Johnson was on the starboard bridge wing looking through the Big Eyes—the powerful, pedestal-mounted ship’s binoculars—observing the movements of the boats ahead and off their starboard bow.
“Standing by, ma’am,” Ensign Fisk said as he handed the ship-to-ship mike to her.
“Admiral, we need to do as Syren’s captain suggests,” she said to Rossberg on the ship-to-ship radio. “Something’s not right and he has better situational awareness where he is.”
“Commander, you will remain in formation. These boats will make way for us. We need to transfer these ships in Trincomalee, and I’m not going to let a bunch of fishermen delay us.”
“Sir, we are being placed at risk.”
“I am ordering you to remain in formation,” the admiral barked.
Jaime took a deep breath and bowed her head for a moment of reflection, thinking of Kirkwall when she was attacked. If she had responded more quickly then . . . She looked through the Big Eyes again and saw the fishing boats trailing what appeared to be fishing nets. Clearly they would be towing the nets across the bows of the three American ships. And she still didn’t understand why that catamaran had turned toward them. Was it carrying explosives? If she trained the 5-inch guns on the small boats, though, she would endanger Stark’s RHIB. I have to do something now! “Admiral,” she radioed, “nets. They’ve got nets. Recommend we change course to avoid entanglement.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll cut right through them. Really, those stupid fishermen should know better.”
Damn it, she thought, then made her decision. “Bobby, all ahead full, left full rudder,” she said as she opened up the distance to the LCSs.
“What are you doing? Get back here now, you,” the admiral shouted into the radio.
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