Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

  “Very well. Now I have two hostages. You will both serve a glorious purpose in a few days. And how fortunate that you know one another. You can spend the time getting reacquainted.”

  The Squadron

  Melanie had just enjoyed her first shower in more than a week, courtesy of the destroyer LeFon, and had donned the camouflage “blueberries” worn by most sailors on deployment in the fleet. A female crewmember with an extra rack in her stateroom had offered it to Melanie so she could have some peace and quiet. She took a short but very refreshing nap, and then a sailor escorted her to LeFon’s wardroom, where Jaime Johnson, Ranasinghe, Olivia Harrison, and Golzari were already seated. Golzari had bigger bags under his eyes than normal, but she hadn’t known him to sleep much anyway during the brief time they were together. Jay Warren entered just after she did. He carefully avoided looking at Olivia Harrison.

  Harrison rose, walked straight up to Warren, and grabbed his meaty arm. “Where’s the captain, Jay?”

  After a moment of silence, he choked out, “He’s still there. The captain’s the reason the rest of us made it out.”

  “Please have a seat, Ms. Arden,” Johnson said. She stood and went to the galley window, where a mess crank handed her a plate of greens, rice, beans, and bread. Johnson walked it over to Melanie’s place. “Agent Golzari told me you’re a vegetarian. We can make something else for you if you prefer.”

  “No, thanks. This is perfect. Thank you very much for your kindness, Captain,” Melanie said.

  Jaime Johnson took her seat and looked around the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, we find ourselves in unusual circumstances. The last EMP attack left our ships without radar and navigation systems. While it’s not the optimal situation, we can get by without those. Humankind sailed the oceans for thousands of years without modern technology. My junior officers have all been brushing up on their MoBoards,” Johnson said, adding, “maneuvering boards, Ms. Arden,” after she noticed Melanie’s quizzical look.

  “More troubling is that we find ourselves without the ability to communicate with anyone on the outside. The last rocket was close enough to wipe out our communication systems. We are left with only a few choices on how to proceed,” Johnson said. “And I want to be clear at the outset why I have allowed Ms. Arden to remain here. First, she has been with the Tigers and I’m hoping she can enlighten us. Second, she’s a journalist. Normally our public affairs officer at Seventh Fleet would have to be consulted about this, but that isn’t possible. Because of the circumstances, I want to be as transparent as possible without violating security constraints. Ms. Arden, you are our guest. You are free to take notes and eventually to report on what we do, because there should be a record and accountability. We have been drawn into a war zone. The Tamil Tigers have demonstrated that they are a threat not only to the Sri Lankan government but to neutral shipping as well.

  “Our three ships represent the United States, Sri Lanka, and a private security company operating in the interests of the Sri Lankan government. We need to learn what we can from one another before our three respective ships make decisions on their next course of action.”

  With that, Jaime went around the table asking each stakeholder to share information. Golzari explained his search for Gala and the tie to hafnium. Melanie briefly recounted most of what she had seen and done from the time the Buddhist monk in Thailand asked her to go to Sri Lanka. She described the soldiers and her interview with Vanni.

  Jay, who was standing against the bulkhead sipping coffee, offered what he knew about the weaponized hafnium, which, to Jaime Johnson, represented the greatest immediate threat to them and the Sri Lankan government. “Dr. Warren,” she said, “is there any indication how much of this pure hafnium they have?”

  “Lots.”

  “Let me rephrase the question,” she said calmly, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Do you think they have the capability to make multiple high-explosive weapons?”

  “I scanned the area outside the mine,” he replied. “The dust contained high levels of pure hafnium. As I understand it, weapons such as the rockets and buoys we’ve seen require only very small amounts of hafnium. I did some calculations based on the previous attacks, and I’d say each rocket contains about three milligrams of hafnium.” He raised his hand and touched his thumb to the tip of his little finger. “About that much. The size of a raisin. If the Tigers have the right equipment and enough people, yes, they can mass-produce the weapons.”

  “Can you estimate how much hafnium they have?” Johnson asked again.

  “That mine was about a year old. Apparently they’ve been bringing in large numbers of slave workers, so they’ve probably extracted several tons of raw earth. Based on the percentage of dust and the piles at the monastery, I’d guess they probably have fifty kilograms by now.”

  “Fifty kilograms!” exclaimed Ranasinghe. “That’s enough to make thousands of rockets. Or they could even build a massive bomb. They could destroy my country!”

  “Whoa, whoa, Commander, it’s not that straightforward. They may have the raw material, but they need a lot more—components for rockets, detonators, the ability to process it quickly—lots of stuff. Unless they have access to all those things they just can’t make that many.”

  “But what about a much larger warhead?” the Sri Lankan commander asked again anxiously.

  “Well, I guess it’s possible if they have the right setup,” Jay said rubbing his chin. “I’d have to see their lab to know for sure. And they’d need something a heck of a lot bigger than the Qassams they’ve been using against us. I’d have a tough time believing that the United States, China, or Russia couldn’t see something like that from space.”

  “Are you saying it can’t be done or is unlikely to be done?” Jaime asked.

  “Ma’am, until I went to that monastery I would have told you that a hafnium-based EMP couldn’t be done,” he said.

  “Very well.” Johnson took a deep breath and reached for her bottled water. “Folks, we need to get word to someone what the Sri Lankan government is facing. I’m going to give my crew six hours to see what we come up with on the radios. In the meantime, we’ll make a high-speed run to Chennai. I recommend Asity and Syren remain on station to gather more information.”

  Ranasinghe and Harrison concurred. Golzari remained silent. Only Warren spoke up.

  “What about the captain?” he asked quietly.

  “From what you’ve told us he’s gone, Jay,” Jaime said. “We have to continue the mission.”

  “His body is back there somewhere,” Jay countered.

  “He’s right, Commander,” Golzari said in Jay’s defense. “It is unlikely that any of us would be here had it not been for Stark’s sacrifice. We owe it to him to retrieve his body if we can.”

  “Look, I knew Connor Stark before any of you did,” Jaime said in an unusually sharp voice. “I served under him as a junior officer and he hired me at Highland Maritime. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be in command of this ship.” Jaime stopped when she realized what she’d said and pointed to Melanie. “You never heard that, understood?” It was less a question than a command and warning. Melanie nodded and raised her hands to indicate acquiescence.

  “We all owe him,” Jaime continued. “Jay,” she said, walking toward him and reaching up to lay her hand on his shoulder, “if you can figure out where his body is and a way to get him home, we will.”

  Vadduvakal

  The sun beating down on the corrugated tin roof heated the interior of the windowless structure like an oven. The dirt floor beneath Stark’s body was muddy from the mixture of his perspiration and blood. The angle of the sunbeams poking through the wooden planks was Stark’s only indication of the time when he awoke. At best guess it was just after noon.

  He heard the muted banter of several men on the east, ocean side of the structure and two more outside the door on the north side. A truck started up beyond the door and rumbled down the causeway. Admiral
Rossberg sat with his back against the east wall, arms wrapped around his legs, staring blankly at Stark.

  Stark shifted his hands in an attempt to unhook the rope that bound them from the pulley, then he started swinging forward and backward to loosen it. Neither worked, and he was quickly out of breath from the pain of his raw wounds.

  “Cut me down,” he said to Rossberg. The admiral simply stared and said nothing. “Cut me down,” Stark said again.

  “They put you up there. They’ll take you down if they want to. If they find you loose they’ll do something bad to you,” Rossberg whined.

  “Like what? Hang me, whip me, and hit me repeatedly with a tire iron?” Stark said.

  “There’s nothing here to cut with,” Rossberg said.

  “Check those boxes. Maybe there’s something in them. Break them apart. Get a sharp piece of wood, a nail, a screw, anything.”

  Rossberg shook his head. “No. If they come in here and see me doing that, they’ll hang me up there too.”

  “So, leaving me hanging again, are you? Just like the last time.” Stark asked.

  “What does that mean?” Rossberg snapped before realizing he’d raised his voice too much. The guards outside the door quieted their chatter.

  “It means I was on Kirkwall when she was attacked by Somali pirates. Two-thirds of the crew were lost. The rest of us were in the water praying for rescue. The ship’s captain, Jaime Johnson, was badly injured. And you did nothing to save us.”

  “Johnson?” Rossberg asked. “That female commander who disobeyed my orders on LeFon?”

  “Shut up, Rossberg. She almost died in the water that night while you delayed Bennington. If it hadn’t been for your exec and operations officers, the ship and its helicopters would never have arrived in time to save her and the rest of us.”

  “You have no proof of that,” Rossberg responded cautiously.

  “Oh, yes I do. I saw the logbooks for that night,” Stark said coldly. “And the charts. What did your officers get for doing what was right? You killed them with your incompetence. Nearly every officer and chief petty officer on that ship died because of you.”

  “That’s not true! I was the captain. I got a medal for Bennington’s actions against the pirates. You were the real pirate. You took my ship.”

  “That’s a lie, Rossberg. You’re completely delusional. You were unconscious in sick bay. There were only three officers left. I took command.”

  “No, that isn’t true.”

  “Washington covered it up—the entire engagement—because it wasn’t approved by the chain of command and the White House. But people know about it. Some of them are on LeFon, which was almost destroyed too when you led the two LCSs to the bottom of the ocean.”

  “You’ll hang for those words, Stark.”

  “A little late for that,” Stark said sarcastically. He knew he was essentially alone here. Rossberg was less than useless. Stark’s left knee and ankle were swelling from the tire iron strikes. He wasn’t sure he could walk if he did manage to free himself. If only Vanni had struck the other boot, Stark reflected, the sgian dubh might have protected him. The sgian dubh! I’m an idiot!

  Stark rested a moment, focused, and summoned all his strength to lift his legs straight up—and dropped them immediately at the unexpected pain in his back and abdomen. He paused for a minute, took another deep breath, then raised his legs again, this time getting them above his head next to the pulley. He hooked his right boot around the chain to stabilize his leg, then brought it closer to his hands. His wrists were bound together, but his hands and fingers were fairly unrestricted. He reached into his boot, careful not to let the knife slip out and fall onto the dirt floor, where, he was sure, Rossberg would only sit and look at it impassively.

  His fingernails found the jeweled pommel. Inch by inch he tugged it out until the pommel was free of the boot. Once it was secure in his grip, he let his legs fall back to their dangling position, panting from his exertions. He concentrated on each tiny movement of his fingers. His hands were sweating, and he didn’t want to relax now and accidentally drop the knife. Had the sheath been made of plastic instead of antique leather, it might have simply slid away. He slipped the knife free and placed the serrated edge against the hemp, methodically sawing back and forth, each movement bringing more pain from the open wounds on his back.

  “Stop that, Stark. If they catch you with a weapon they’ll kill us,” Rossberg whispered up to him.

  “They’re going to kill us anyway, Sherlock. Vanni’s not keeping us around for intelligence. He’s going to use us for something. My guess is we’ll be human shields.” The knife was now a quarter of the way through his bindings.

  “Oh, my God. He promised to release me. What are we going to do?”

  “I’m trying to do something, Admiral. Tell me how you ended up here. I thought you died when the LCS you were on was destroyed.”

  “Well, there was an explosion, and I guess the ship sank. I don’t remember what happened. I was in the water for a long time; then I blacked out. When I woke up I was on a ship. Down below in a little cell. Everything looked old and rusty. They beat me,” he whined. “But I didn’t tell them anything.”

  Stark suspected Rossberg had given up every bit of information he knew about Navy ships but figured the admiral would never admit that to him. Rossberg was a broken man.

  “Then they put a smelly blindfold on me and made me climb up to the deck and then down another ladder into a small boat. Vanni was on it. I could hear him talking. And then we came here.”

  “How fast was the boat going?” Stark asked.

  “Slow. Maybe eight to ten knots,” Rossberg said.

  “Any idea how long you were on the boat?” The sgian dubh had sawed through three-quarters of the binding and Stark prepared himself to land on his good right leg.

  “I’m not sure. I was blindfolded. Maybe forty-five minutes to an hour.”

  Stark stored that information away. Their predicament was starting to make sense. Just then the last thread of the bindings split, dropping Stark two feet to the ground, right boot first. He lay prone for a few minutes, breathing hard and trying to control his pain.

  He slid the sgian dubh—Maggie’s lucky charm—back inside his boot, then got to his feet and approached Rossberg.

  As the much larger Connor Stark loomed over him, Rossberg had only two options: cry out to the guards for help or beg for mercy.

  Unwilling to take the chance, Stark wrapped his hands around Rossberg’s throat and began to squeeze.

  M/V Syren

  As soon as he was back on board Syren Warren wasted no time in preparing the ship’s last UAV. Golzari, with nothing else to do, watched over his shoulder. Jay worked furiously to establish the appropriate connections between the UAV’s systems and his control panel. Golzari admired Warren’s determined effort to retrieve Stark’s body. Golzari had no doubt that Stark was dead. His life ended when the gunfire stopped. A man who had sacrificed himself for his friends in that fashion deserved the loyalty of individuals like Dr. Jay Warren.

  “When do you launch it?” Golzari asked.

  “I just have to confirm one more connection—there, have it. Okay, we can launch in five minutes.” Warren called two crewmembers over to help get the device to the flight deck.

  Melanie, who had been standing in the background watching them prepare the UAV, pulled Golzari aside and told him to follow her to the wardroom.

  “May I get you something to drink?” he asked politely before sitting down. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “Water,” she said stiffly. “I know you didn’t tell them everything in that meeting. You withheld information, and I want the backstory,” she demanded.

  Rather than answering her he said, “You didn’t have to hit me. It was uncivilized.”

  Uncivilized. That was the first word he had said when they met ten years ago. She was a young college student from South Africa at American University in Washington, D.C., and a pop
ular rugby player. She and her team had invaded an upscale bar in Georgetown after a victorious game, still in their dirty, sweaty gear, to the visible dismay of the elegant clientele. The young women had a few beers in them already when they stormed in and ordered drinks. After that round, Melanie’s roommate turned and vomited on the Italian shoes of a patron sitting at the bar.

  “Uncivilized!” the patron said loudly in a British accent. He took a napkin and wiped off his shoe in disgust. Although he was dressed in a suit befitting an older man, Melanie realized that he was probably no more than five years her senior. He was rising to leave the bar when Melanie stopped him and apologized for her roommate. Then she paid his bar tab.

  “Did you at least win your rugby match?” he said grudgingly. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a decent one.”

  She was immediately taken with the worldly and suave Iranian American who was studying foreign affairs at George Washington University. After a short courtship they eloped. It took her a few months to realize her mistake. Damien spent his days and weeknights studying. On Saturdays he took her to a firing range and taught her how to shoot various guns. Sunday afternoons were spent at one of the museums in Washington. During their brief, cold marriage, however, he flew to England no less than five times for long weekends. When she finally learned more about his background and came to understand that neither she nor any other woman was Damien Golzari’s type, she divorced him. This was the first time she had seen him since.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have said hello first.”

  He smiled wryly. “Very well, Melanie. I’ll give you a little information.”

  He was interrupted forty minutes and ten stories later when Commander Harrison walked into the wardroom and advised them that Dr. Warren needed to see them immediately in the CIC. When they arrived, Warren was providing guidance to the aviation technician piloting the UAV. Both wide-screens displayed imagery from the bird.

  “What are we seeing, Dr. Warren?” Golzari asked.