Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

  Melanie felt perspiration dripping from the ends of her short black hair. She had been a week without a shower or much food. She was exhausted and sore. And now she had a choice. She would tell the story from the perspective of the insurgent Tamil Tigers or they would execute her because she would be worthless to their cause.

  DAY 11

  M/V Syren

  The small-waterplane-area twin hull—SWATH to those who knew them—skimmed effortlessly through the waters east of Sri Lanka. Jay Warren and the team had been busy for the better part of two days preparing a container specifically to encase extra circuit cards to protect them from a Tamil Tiger EMP. The makeshift Faraday cage was ready. Stark remained skeptical. The problem was timing, he told them. The cards would be safe if the Tigers launched an EMP, but the ship would be vulnerable to attack during the time it took to retrieve them from the cage and install them.

  He explained his strategy. Distance was their friend. Syren would remain just far enough from EMP-bearing ships to keep her circuitry from being fried if they fired a rocket but near enough to respond quickly. The power of the electromagnetic pulse was the issue. The detonations thus far had affected electronics within a one-and-a-half- to two-kilometer range. The pulse’s effective range was like a bulls-eye, strongest at the center and dissipating out toward the edges. LeFon had experienced this already. She had been far enough from the detonation bulls-eye to avoid complete destruction of her electronics but was close enough for the EMP to fry the GPS antennas and NAVSSI—the navigation system.

  Stark’s major problem was reconnaissance. With the threat of an EMP, he couldn’t launch the small boats lest their crews be rendered defenseless, as he and his team had been. Airborne reconnaissance was also restricted. There were no commercial airliners flying overhead into Sri Lanka for a reason. The Malaysian Airlines jet that that been hit by an insurgent missile over the Ukraine during a recent conflict with Russian separatists had proved that even civilian aircraft were not safe above insurgency zones. And Sri Lanka had sent no military jets or helicopters to the north out of fear they would crash.

  Fortunately, Syren carried two commercial unmanned aerial vehicles in one of the containers. Just before dusk, Stark ordered the first UAV launched. The device carried enough charge for a twenty-hour dwell time overhead, and its embedded camera would transmit imagery directly to the CIC and to Stark’s computer on the bridge. At its operating altitude the bird could see fifty miles in every direction and identify approaching ships. And unless the Sea Tigers had sophisticated radar equipment they would not know the UAV was there.

  He watched the launch from the chair in the LSO shack directly above the bridge. He sipped his coffee as the bird gracefully slid off the starboard side of the deck, guided by Jay Warren, who pumped his fist in proud celebration at the takeoff. Another one of his toys was being put to good use.

  Stark knew he could rely on his crew in the upcoming operation. Their professionalism kept them working even though they felt keenly the loss of their three colleagues. Many had served in the military before and understood that missions had to continue after the loss of personnel. There was no talk of Gunny Willis and the others in the mess deck at meals, but neither was there the boisterous laughter Stark normally heard among them. Each crewmember mourned the loss, but formal mourning would have to wait until after the mission was complete.

  Connor toyed again with the idea of calling Maggie, but what would he say? That he had not immediately taken the ship to her original destination? That he had accepted an assignment in Sri Lanka? That he had already lost three of his shipmates because of his decision? That if he continued the mission more of his crew—and he himself—would be at risk? Or would he tell her that he might be the only asset in the area now that the Sri Lankan navy had lost not only its entire fleet but the two replacement ships as well? That he had seen a weapon that could eviscerate warships in minutes? If he told her any of those things he would lose her, and he could not bear to think of that.

  As much as he wanted to hear her voice and savor its Scottish lilt, as much as he wanted to give up the mission and return to Ullapool to help with the most mundane tasks in the pub or her house, as much as he wanted to open a side of himself to her that no one else saw, he had chosen this path and he would follow it to its end. And then he pushed those thoughts aside. This was a personal issue. His priorities had to be the crew, the ship, and—for the time being—the mission. For now he had to concentrate on the immediate and potentially life-threatening situation. Crew, ship, mission; he could allow no personal thoughts to interfere.

  Sea Tiger Command Ship Amba

  A deck below the laboratories and manufacturing facility on the former submarine tender, two Tamil Tiger guards dragged their prisoner back into the makeshift cell. When he whimpered in protest, one of the guards kicked his legs out from under him, then kicked him in the ribs. He writhed on the deck and begged them to stop. The guards looked at Vanni, calmly sitting in a chair in the corner, for his orders. He nodded once, and they kicked the man in the groin and then removed his uniform to show Vanni the whip marks on his back. His Navy-issue blue-and-gray camouflage uniform had served its purpose well—no one had seen him in the water, not even the search-and rescue-teams. One of the guards handed the uniform blouse to Vanni.

  He read the embroidery on one pocket: “U.S. Navy.” The name on the other pocket read “Rossberg.” The embroidered collar devices, one on each side, were silver five-point stars. “Admiral Rossberg,” he said with his deceptively gentle smile. “Why is a United States Navy admiral helping the Sri Lankan government?”

  Rossberg said nothing, trying only to pull free from the guards. One of the guards punched him in the stomach. “I was delivering ships,” Rossberg finally muttered.

  “Ah, yes. We sank those ships. Only you survived. And no one knows you are here. What are we to do with you?”

  Rossberg’s eyes bulged in terror. No one did know. LeFon hadn’t found him. These terrorists could do anything they wanted.

  Vanni’s voice hardened. “What happens in this country is no business of the Americans, Admiral Rossberg. Do you understand?”

  Rossberg nodded.

  USS LeFon, Chennai

  The destroyer was one of the youngest in the fleet, but she and her crew had already experienced and survived the first EMP weapon attack at sea. LeFon had survived only because Cdr. Jaime Johnson had the sense to recognize and act on Connor Stark’s warning—and because she had disobeyed the orders of Rear Admiral Rossberg. The two littoral combat ships ostensibly under his command had failed to take appropriate action, failed to recognize the threat of the fishing boats towing the lines, and had gone down with all hands as a result.

  The Flash message—disseminated immediately to the entire intelligence community—had taken only a minute to write and provided only the basics: the location, the ships involved, the nature of the attack, and the estimated loss of life. It did not matter that the two lost LCSs had already been transferred to Sri Lanka and that their crews were Sri Lankans. It did matter that an American admiral was on board one of them, and it mattered to the Navy that LeFon had been there and had also been attacked. Jaime’s situation report to Seventh Fleet took six hours to write, including cutting and pasting relevant information from her department heads.

  Navy logistics could not replace LeFon’s GPS and NAVSSI right away. The ship would have to continue on without surface radar, and positioning would rely on the crew’s solid navigational skills. Jaime had contacted Captain Dasgupta when she arrived in Chennai, and he quickly facilitated the purchase of a commercial ship’s radar, which LeFon’s crew jury-rigged into place. It could not interface with the ship’s weapons systems, but at least Jaime and the ship’s crew would have some basic situational awareness of their surroundings.

  Jaime was in her cabin when she took the call from Adm. Maura O’Donnell, Seventh Fleet’s commanding officer. She glanced momentarily at the rotating frame with pho
tos of her children, who were staying with her parents until she returned from this deployment. She closed her eyes and focused on what O’Donnell was telling her. The admiral was clear on the country’s and the Navy’s position.

  As had been the case during the previous civil war in Sri Lanka, the United States would not be directly involved. The loss of Rear Admiral Rossberg was tragic, but there would be no official response. Seventh Fleet had no platforms available to transfer away from those conducting the quarantine of North Korea, and airframes were out of the question until more was known about the threat of the Tamil Tigers’ EMP weapons. LeFon was to operate independently in the region to protect any U.S. commercial ships that might come under inadvertent attack by Tamil Tigers.

  “What are LeFon’s rules of engagement, Admiral?” Johnson asked.

  “Fire only if fired upon or otherwise clearly and imminently threatened by the Sea Tigers. If you are protecting U.S. assets such as a U.S.-flagged commercial ship or lives, you will defend them appropriately.”

  “Ma’am, how much latitude do I have on that word ‘appropriately’?”

  “Commander, I understand that you were given command of LeFon by the former president under unusual circumstances. Perhaps your lack of formal training led to that question. If you don’t think you’re up for this tasking, I can send a more experienced captain to relieve you.”

  Johnson paused, recognizing her own limitations. It would be easy to accept relief and go home to her children. But she had personally trained this crew, worked side by side with them for months, and knew each of them by name—no mean feat with a crew of more than three hundred. And she would not leave them and take the easy way out. “No, ma’am. LeFon and I are ready for this assignment.”

  “Good. You’re going into uncharted territory, Commander. There is one more thing that we’re asking of you. We need more information on this EMP. We want you to provide us with updates as they come in.”

  “Aye ma’am.”

  “I also understand that if there’s another attack, we may not hear from you. Just carry out your mission, Commander. Godspeed.”

  The ship was refueled and the crew recalled. Jaime stood at the quarterdeck and watched as taxis returned her sailors in groups of two to four as she had ordered. Each man and woman walked up the brow, paused, and turned to salute the flag on the sternpost. She looked into each face and saw determination: duty to the country, loyalty to the ship, desire to get the job done. All had enlisted or been commissioned for different reasons. But they were her crew on her ship. She would not let them down.

  She checked the crew roster. Two dozen or so had yet to report back, but they were still trickling in. She was about to look in on the newly installed radar when another cab arrived. Bobby Fisk emerged, followed by a dark-haired man with a goatee. He was wearing a European-tailored suit and held a medium-sized carry-on bag. Another junior officer—Bobby’s liberty partner—emerged behind them.

  Fisk and the man came up the brow. Like the others, Bobby, in civilian attire, stood at attention toward the flag before he stepped on the ship and showed his identification card to the OOD. “Ensign Fisk returning from liberty. I have permission to come aboard.” The OOD returned the salute and checked him off the list of still-absent crew.

  “Captain,” Fisk said as he turned to Johnson, “we need a moment of your time.”

  The suit fit the goateed civilian to perfection, except for the small bulge on the left side of his rib cage. Most people would not have noticed it. “I expect someone coming on board to report if they’re carrying,” Johnson said to him. “NCIS?” The guard nearby took notice and began to raise his gun.

  “Captain, if I may, I have my credentials and would like to get them out of my coat.”

  She nodded, alert for any quick move.

  “Diplomatic Security,” he said offering his badge to her.

  “I’ve worked with Agent Golzari before, Captain,” Bobby put in. “In Socotra.”

  Johnson had not been present at the battle fought on the Yemeni island off the Horn of Africa. She still had been recovering from the injuries she had received a week earlier when Kirkwall was attacked and went down with two-thirds of her crew. But she had heard all about it in the months since Fisk had reported on board LeFon. USS Bennington under then-captain Rossberg had been working with Yemeni ships on a humanitarian mission to Socotra Island when terrorists working with Somali pirates had smuggled explosives onto the ship and detonated them in the wardroom. Most of the officers and chief petty officers had been killed, and Rossberg suffered head injuries that left him unconscious. Connor Stark assumed command as the senior officer present and ordered a counterattack. Agent Golzari had been on Socotra as well.

  Jaime motioned them both out of earshot of the quarterdeck sailors. “We’re about to get under way, Agent Golzari. We don’t have much time. How can I help you?”

  “Captain, I need to get to Sri Lanka. I’m investigating a murder, and the investigation has led to a possible involvement with the EMP weapons. I don’t have any authority to request this, but I need your help.”

  “An EMP connection, huh? You’re in luck, Agent Golzari. We can get you there. Or at least get you to someone who can get you there.”

  “Captain Stark?” Golzari took an educated guess. “Bobby told me he was in the area. I see trouble continues to follow him.”

  “Sometimes, Agent Golzari, he actually looks for it.” She turned to Fisk. “Bobby, I believe you have an empty rack in your stateroom. And list Agent Golzari as a supernumerary in the logbook.” She looked back at the agent. “Welcome aboard.”

  M/V Syren

  Syren was thirty miles from the shoreline with no other boats in sight. Most of the commercial traffic had changed shipping routes to avoid the conflict in Sri Lanka. Stark ordered the helmsman to change course. Instead of running parallel to the coast in a northerly direction, they would make a heading of 270 degrees—directly for the coast—for the next thirty minutes at forty knots.

  The sun had set over Sri Lanka and the moon was rising astern of the ship as she made her way in. The ship’s crew had conducted four boardings that day. In each case the operating procedures were the same. Olivia Harrison remained in command of Syren while Stark, Warren, and Ranasinghe joined a security team on one of the small boats and boarded the target ship.

  Three of the ships were fishing boats. The team thoroughly checked them for signs of weapons or components—one of the security team even put on a snorkel and fins to dive under the hull. Stark never overlooked that part of the inspection. Years before, as commanding officer of a PC—a small Navy ship—in the Gulf, then-lieutenant Stark had intercepted and boarded a ship the Office of Naval Intelligence was certain was carrying weapons. The inspection turned up nothing in any of the compartments, but Stark and a sailor looking around belowdecks noticed three large bolts in the hull that were out of place, and all were leaking water. Stark ordered his most experienced swimmer to check under the hull, and the man found a large canister bolted to the ship. When the boat was escorted into port, the canister was removed and opened, revealing weapons and ammunition bound from Iran to Gaza for Palestinian terrorists.

  The fourth ship they searched was a five-thousand-ton Panamanian-flagged freighter named Asity. The captain and crew were largely Pakistani, although the steward was a Filipino. The inspection team found no canister mounted beneath the hull, but two of the searchers found a cache of weapons and ammunition in one of the holds. Stark, Warren, and Ranasinghe questioned the captain closely. The compliant captain presented a logbook that showed monthly transits between Myanmar and Pakistan and listed a variety of cargoes including corrugated steel, shovels, copper wire, lights, power sluices, picks, and sieves. When asked, the captain explained that he had a contract to provide construction supplies for the expansion of the port of Gwadar—a big project on which China and Pakistan were cooperating.

  “And you always have a direct route from Rangoon to G
wadar? No stops?”

  “Yes,” the captain said nervously. “No stops.”

  “Why are you carrying weapons?” Stark asked.

  “They are for the Pakistani military.”

  “Hmm, I see,” Stark responded.

  Stark motioned to Ranasinghe to join him on the bridge while the security team monitored the captain and crew. The two walked to the chart table, and Stark called Olivia on Syren asking for Asity’s exact coordinates and heading when she was first spotted. He picked up a ruler, then checked the fuel level and estimated usage. The estimate matched what might be expended if the ship originated in Rangoon. The problem was the heading. The ship had not been on a southwesterly course that would take her well south of Sri Lanka and India. She was on a heading that would take her to northeastern Sri Lanka.

  Stark paced the bridge as he thought. He looked out onto the deck where the captain and crew stood in a group, all watched by the Highland Maritime security team. But someone was missing—the steward. Stark called on the walkie-talkie to his team and was told that the steward had been allowed to remain in the galley because he was busy preparing the evening meal.

  “Follow me,” Stark said to Ranasinghe as he went below.

  The steward was indeed busy in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, boiling water, and moving plates about. He stopped abruptly when he saw the uniformed Sri Lankan commander and Stark standing in the doorway and took a step back when he saw the pistols at their sides.

  Stark held up his hand. “You speak English?”

  “Yes, some English,” the steward replied.

  “You have a logbook?”

  The steward motioned to the small office across from the galley. “I show you?”

  Stark and Ranasinghe broke apart to let him through as he went directly to the desk. Amid a stack of notebooks he found one with a green cover and handed it to Stark.

  The steward’s logbook was different from the ship’s log. The latter noted ship positions, ports visited, and key events. The steward’s log listed all the food purchased for the ship as well as receipts for all services, including garbage taken off the ship by port contractors. Stark scanned the past year. Rangoon was clearly listed, but Gwadar was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the other main port visited was Mullaitivu in northeastern Sri Lanka. Stark took the logbook with him and returned to the deck, where he and Ranasinghe presented the inconsistency to the captain. The captain looked from Stark to Ranasinghe but said nothing.