Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

  The bleached-blonde American woman approached him ahead of the other two. She flashed perfect white teeth in a broad smile as she reached out for his hand and then gently cupped it with her other hand. He wondered how many people saw through her disingenuous veneer.

  “What an incredible accomplishment, Vanni. We are all so impressed with what you have achieved,” she said, the smile never leaving her face.

  “What is it you want?” Vanni asked, pulling his hand away and clasping it with the other behind his back.

  The smile stayed firmly in place. “I like your directness,” she said. “I will be direct too. Mr. Hu is concerned. As you know, the firm has devoted a great deal of its resources to assisting you. He would like some payment.”

  “How much of the hafnium does he want?”

  He was pleased to see her smile waver. She had not expected him to be this cooperative.

  “Thirty pounds,” she offered.

  “I can give you twenty now. Two bars,” he countered. “That will give you many weapons.”

  “What of the rest?” she asked.

  “We are still processing it. Next week we will have everything finished,” Vanni said stoically.

  “Very well,” she said. “That will be acceptable. We appreciate your flexibility.”

  Vanni looked away long enough to order a guard to get a box from his stateroom.

  When the guard returned with the box Vanni told him to open it and show the contents to the three visitors. Inside were two silvery, brick-sized blocks of metal. The woman and the Russian man nodded approvingly.

  “We will take this to Mr. Hu and return in one week for the rest,” the man said.

  “Vanni, it is a pleasure to do business with you,” said the blonde. She offered her hand again.

  Vanni merely looked at it. He turned away with his guards and entered the ship, leaving the threesome alone on the deck.

  “Delightful disposition,” Makarov said sarcastically.

  The blonde sniffed. “And he’s a charismatic leader?” she replied.

  “In the land of the blind, even the one-eyed man is king,” the Russian offered. “The people will follow anyone who offers them a glint of hope, especially when they are looking into the barrel of a rifle,” he added dryly.

  M/V Syren

  The helmsman easily kept station off the less maneuverable Asity as Stark sat in the captain’s chair sketching out notes about everything he had seen and heard at the Breakers. On one page he drew a rough map of Sri Lanka with an X to mark each of the ships anchored offshore, although there was a large photo of the anchorage taken by the second, now-lost UAV in the CIC. Syren had lost her eyes. She was befert of her UAVs, radar, and over-the-horizon communications. Only the hand-held radios were operational. Both RHIBs were out acting as pickets just over the horizon.

  The sky was clear, but Stark and the bridge crew kept a weather eye on the sea and the horizon looking for telltale signs of a change. The wall-mounted barometer on the bridge and the beautiful old sextant on the navigation table, among the few old-school devices Stark kept around out of sentiment, were going to prove useful after all.

  Most of the crew were resting because they didn’t know when or how the next attack would come. Warren was below in his engineering module assessing the three captured hafnium rockets. Despite their rudimentary craftsmanship, he admired their design—crude but effective.

  Golzari was on the helo deck conducting target practice with one of the security teams, including a few of the men he had led back in Socotra. Stark watched them for a moment, musing that Golzari would make a great successor to Gunny Willis. Their initial animosity toward each other had developed into deep respect, and then friendship. Maybe I should offer him the job, Stark thought.

  Melanie was sitting on the UAV pad to starboard taking notes and recording her thoughts into her digital recorder, her camcorder at the ready. She was about to write the kind of story every journalist dreamed of reporting.

  Stark adjusted the pillow that cushioned his back from the hard chair. His discomfort was increasing to pain again. He reached into his breast pocket for the Percocet bottle, took another pill, and washed it down with his ever-present coffee. Once again he went over the potential threats and his capabilities to counteract them. Syren still had plenty of ammunition but only two RHIBs. And they couldn’t get close to the anchorage without being spotted and chancing more rockets, which would take out the spare cards they were now carrying and leave them dead in the water and alone.

  One of the watch standers entered the bridge and reported two incoming contacts at high speed. Stark was about to give the word for battle stations when the radio crackled. “MacDonough to Syren, MacDonough to Syren. We are inbound accompanying another boat, unarmed. Stand by to receive in five minutes.”

  “MacDonough, Syren Actual. Message received,” Stark said. “Notify the bay, helm. Let’s get them refueled and resupplied while they’re here. I’m heading down there.” He exited the bridge onto the main deck, well away from the target practice starboard and aft, and remained briefly on the port side looking through his binoculars at the two boats just coming into visual range.

  Melanie appeared behind him. “Captain? What’s out there?”

  “Not sure yet. One of our RHIBs is coming back with another small boat, not one of ours. The only other small boats I know of belong to the Sea Tigers. It may be MacDonough found one and is bringing it in.”

  “He shoots well, doesn’t he?” Stark said as he caught her looking at Golzari.

  “He’s excellent at everything he does—except marriage,” she answered.

  “When you look at the statistics, few marriages succeed,” Stark pointed out. “About 50 percent. Plus another 20 or 30 percent who wish they could get a divorce. Likely it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  “It definitely wasn’t meant to be,” she said bitterly. “I’m not his type. I’m a South African woman, not an English man.”

  “He is who he is,” Stark said simply. “I may not like him all the time—but he has my respect, and my friendship.”

  “Yes, he has many positive characteristics,” she admitted. “He’s an intrepid fellow, for one thing.”

  Stark snorted. “I’ve not heard him described as that. Cantankerous, opinionated, and arrogant, yes; but not intrepid.” Stark’s mind wandered from their conversation to the view astern. “Intrepid,” he said again. “Intrepid.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I think I am now.”

  “Sir,” said a crewman interrupting them. “Another call from MacDonough. They’ve requested that Doc meet them when they tie up.”

  Stark didn’t bother to ask who was injured. It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting his teams taken care of. “Stick with me,” he told Melanie as he went down to the stern ramp.

  The boats arrived just as they got there. MacDonough stood off as an unknown speedboat piloted by one of Syren’s crew pulled alongside. Doc and a couple of others got a man off the boat. His white shirt bore a quarter-sized bloodstain. He was still conscious when Stark knelt beside him, just as Golzari joined them.

  “Who are you?”

  “My . . . my name is Gala.”

  Sea Tiger Command Ship Amba

  Vanni felt a temporary sense of satisfaction when he thought of the two bricks he had delivered to Hu’s hatchet men—and woman. Because hafnium was most often found with zirconium and was similar in color, it had been easy to pass off the two bricks Gala had formed of zirconium as hafnium. He had hoped that they would not assess the bricks right away. But if they had, he would simply order his guards to eliminate them. There were only three of them. Eliminate the opposition—and sometimes even reluctant allies—had long since become his mantra. Josef Stalin’s history in the Soviet Union had taught him that.

  Nanjing Mazu slowly pulled away to the north on the port side of Amba, which was, like the rest of the ships, facing east, the direction in which t
he previous night’s breeze had gently pushed them. He could still see the Russian and the American on the deck watching Amba like a vulture watching over its eggs, waiting for them to hatch. No hafnium would hatch for Hu and Zheng R&D.

  The breeze had picked up, creating tiny ripples on the surface indicating rising wind. The sea conditions were still good for the small craft but not optimal, particularly for the suicide boats. He had hoped for perfect conditions in the next two days as the trawlers and freighters got under way, bound for the southern Sri Lankan coastline to release the low-freeboard suicide boats and the speedboats that would launch the Gala II hafnium EMP rockets over cities and towns.

  Soon the landscape—or rather the seascape—of the Mullaitivu Breakers would change. Vanni’s long-laid plans were reaching fruition. He ordered one of his guards to bring the Chinese scientists to the starboard side of the ship and line them up against the rail. He sent another guard to find Gala. It was time for him to join the others whose usefulness had come to an end.

  Some of the scientists were still in their underwear, clearly pulled right from their racks. They rubbed their eyes or shielded them with an upraised arm from the powerful sunlight. They were accustomed to working in the incandescent light of the laboratories below, and some had not seen sunlight in days or, in some cases, weeks.

  When they were all lined up against the starboard rail, five Tiger guards quickly ran alongside, took up positions, and began shooting the unsuspecting scientists at close range. The force of the gunshots hurled some of the victims over the side. Others hung limply over the rail. The remainder simply crumpled to the deck. One guard walked along the line of bloody bodies and put two bullets into the head of anyone who moved. When all were dead, the guards threw their bodies over the side. Vanni watched it all from the bow. This was just the beginning of the violence. When his Tigers entered the cities, the death and destruction would rival Japan’s rape of Nanking during World War II.

  Vanni approached the murder scene, careful to avoid the blood and pieces of flesh that remained on the deck. He told the crew not to wash it down. The blood would whet their appetite for the slaughter that was about to come. He looked up to see one of his picket boats returning at high speed. Just as it pulled alongside the starboard ladder a guard ran up from below. “Gala is gone!” he shouted.

  “What?”

  “We have searched the entire ship. He is not here.”

  “Then search it again!” Vanni uncharacteristically shouted.

  “Vanni,” a weak voice said. One of his Tigers was climbing the final rungs of the starboard ladder. The man had blood on his fatigues. Vanni looked over the side and saw two bodies in the picket boat below.

  “Report,” Vanni said.

  “One of the speedboats came through in the early morning when it was still dark,” the man said. “It came from the direction of the Breakers so we thought it was either a message from you or supplies. A voice on the radio said that the boat was taking station beyond us. Our night-vision goggles showed only one man in the boat. He failed to answer when we asked who he was. Then he sped out to sea. We chased after him and kept shooting at him, and I think we hit him because he fell. A few minutes later, an American small boat came up and boarded the speedboat. And then the Americans attacked us—two men were killed.”

  “Gala . . . ,” Vanni breathed, fighting for self-control. The Americans had Gala. If he was alive, then he could tell them a great deal that might damage the upcoming operation. The Sea Tigers still held the upper hand, but Vanni could not take the chance. An all-out attack right now was necessary.

  “How soon can the Vels be readied?” he asked of one of his aides.

  “They are all fueled and ready for tomorrow’s deployment. We just need to order the teams to the boats.”

  Vel. The name meant “lance” in Tamil. In Tamil mythology Muragan, the god of war, carried a vel as he rode a great peacock into battle. The name seemed appropriate for the suicide boats that would lance into the heartland of Sri Lanka. A spar on the bow of each boat need only touch the hull of an enemy ship to detonate the shaped explosives it carried and severely damage or destroy the ship, along with the Vel. The weapon’s effectiveness had already been proven during Muragan Day when the Sri Lankan fleet was destroyed.

  “Now. Have them leave now.” He pointed at the injured Tiger. “This man will lead them to the last known coordinates of their target. Here is what you will do . . .”

  M/V Syren

  Two of the crew put Gala on a stretcher and carried him to the medical module, trying to hold him steady as he groaned and twisted from the pain of his wound. The crewmen continued to hold him down as Doc gave him a shot of morphine, and Gala gradually relaxed. The two crewmen left, making room for Stark and Golzari to stand close enough to the bed to watch but far enough away to give Doc enough room to tend to the young Tamil scientist. Doc pulled some scissors from his pocket and cut off Gala’s shirt, tossing it in a heap in the corner. Melanie remained at the hatch observing and taking photos.

  Gala’s breathing slowed and steadied as Doc washed the blood off.

  “Bullet went right through him, Captain.”

  Stark raised his eyebrows questioningly. Doc shrugged. It could go either way.

  “He’s mine, Stark,” Golzari said quietly. The softness of his voice merely emphasized his resolve. Golzari had taken a backseat to Stark’s mission since the two had come together at Mount Iranamadu, but this was the man he had been seeking. The mission was now his.

  “Go for it. Just don’t kill him . . . yet. Okay?”

  “I’ll try not to,” Golzari said. In a louder voice he asked Doc if he could begin the questioning. Doc nodded as he began to treat the wound.

  “Gala,” Golzari said firmly. Gala focused his eyes on the fierce-looking man with the large nose and black goatee. “Do you understand me?”

  Gala’s eyes showed fear. Were the Americans going to torture him now?

  “Gala, do you understand me?” Golzari asked again.

  “Yes,” Gala responded.

  “Good. Is your full name Viswanathan Gala?”

  “Yes,” he said, resigned to answer this man’s questions. Whatever he endured here would be benign compared with what he knew Vanni had in store for him. Golzari had borrowed Melanie’s audio recorder for his investigation after agreeing to her stipulation that she could use any of what Gala said for her report.

  “Are you twenty-seven years old?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you Tamil?”

  “Yes.”

  The questions were simple at first as the doctor continued to work on him. Golzari was a skilled interrogator. First the easy questions, then the difficult ones. Over the next fifteen minutes, and relatively painlessly for Gala, Golzari managed to extract the information he needed. The scientist discussed finding hafnium, told how Vanni and the Chinese had provided the resources to develop it into a weapon, and how he had stolen the American laboratory equipment in Singapore through a front company.

  “Did you kill the American Diplomatic Security Agent William Blake?”

  “No.” Gala winced from the pain of the stitches Doc was putting into place. “The . . . security firm sent someone.”

  “What security firm?” Stark interjected.

  “Zheng works with a security firm. They have people and ships.”

  “What ships?” Stark asked again.

  “Some floating armories, some freighters. And they helped to design our new small attack boats.”

  “What’s the name of this company?” Golzari asked.

  “I don’t know. They never told me. I knew only one of them. Qin—he is the most experienced one with weapons and has killed people, including the American agent in Singapore. I was told he used to be a top sniper in the Chinese army.”

  Golzari had a witness, a name, and a lead on a company.

  “I know most of the firms with floating armories, Damien,” Stark put in. “I’ll ma
ke you a list.”

  “Tell me more about Zheng R&D. Who was your contact there?” Golzari asked.

  “Hu,” Gala replied, closing his eyes.

  “Yes, who?” Golzari asked again.

  “Wait a minute,” Stark said. “That’s not a question. That’s a name. Hu. You don’t think . . .”

  “Hu?” Golzari said to Stark. “You think it’s the same man we met at Eliot Greene’s home in McLean after the episode in Yemen? I don’t know. It’s a common name in China.”

  “Describe this Hu,” Golzari said to Gala.

  Gala shook his head. “I saw him only once. He is a Chinese man. He is of medium age and has dark hair.” Golzari asked again, but Gala couldn’t think of any distinguishing characteristics that would be useful in identifying Hu.

  “When we get back to civilization we need to do more digging,” Stark said. Golzari remembered what the detective in Singapore had told him. “They have a long reach,” he said. “This Qin who works for Hu. He could be the same sniper who killed Abdi Mohammed Asha on Socotra.” Golzari was still bitter about losing his prisoner. He had been questioning Asha about the murder of the deputy secretary of state’s son when a bullet shot from a mile away blew the man’s head apart.

  Before Golzari and Stark could hypothesize further a voice shouted down from the bridge. “Battle stations! All hands, battle stations. Captain, we have incoming! Lots of them!”

  “They have come for me,” Gala said. “They have come for you.”

  “Find out what else you can from him, Doc, and let us know right away if you come up with something!” Stark raced to the bridge with Golzari and Melanie on his heels. As they arrived, Warren burst onto the bridge from the starboard bridge wing. Olivia was peering out the port side, holding binoculars in her right hand and offering Stark the hand-held VHF radio with her left. Syren was facing north, with Asity four hundred yards to starboard. “Report, XO,” he said.