CAN’T FIGHT, WON’T-FIGHT US NAVY
PLAYS POLITICS WITH THE FAMILY
OF A VERY BRAVE AMERICAN
This was too much for Admiral Mark Bradfield, who asked Jay Souchak to get Admiral Carlow on the line from SPECWARCOM in Coronado, San Diego. And the conversation was terse.
“Are you announcing the first mate’s name tonight?” asked Andy Carlow.
“No choice.”
“You understand the media will probably go bananas? Guys outside his family’s front door, cameras everywhere, interviews with Charlie’s best friend, ex-girlfriends, school teachers, and Christ knows who else.”
“And that won’t be the worst of it,” replied Admiral Bradfield. “Because right after that, they’ll start ranting about the navy’s reluctance to face up to a real gun battle at sea despite overwhelming odds in our favor.”
“And they are not going to get put off real easy,” added Andy Carlow. “Because they know this is a subject where we have to tread very carefully, and they can say anything they damn please.”
“I don’t expect to come out of this with flying colors,” said Mark Bradfield.
“And I’m kinda braced for them to accuse us of letting everyone down. They’re bound to do that after the Maersk Alabama. But I have a plan, and I’m putting it into operation starting tomorrow. It’s a new anti-piracy platoon, geared to the recapture of ships and the attack on pirates who commandeer US ships and property.”
“Hey,” said Mark, “I like that.”
“What I really like,” said Andy, “is that the platoon will have a senior commander, and we can flag him up as a world expert on piracy, a man whose job is to destroy the raiders. It’ll help us shut down noisy politicians and journalists. We just bring in our naval authority on the subject, and his word will count. Right now the media thinks we’re only making excuses.”
“Excellent. Can you get to Washington and brief us in person? I think Zack Lancaster would very much like to see you.”
“Sure. When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No problem. I’ll leave at 0700, arrive late afternoon.”
“We’ll meet you at Andrews. Return San Diego next day.”
“See you tomorrow, sir.”
“And, Andy, bring your new anti-pirate commander with you. What’s his name?”
“Commander Bedford, sir. Mack Bedford.”
THE SCENE ON THE BEACH in front of Haradheere was a bacchanalian romp. Bonfires burned, goat carcasses were roasted on spits, African beer flowed, and almost the entire town was in attendance on the hot equatorial night. The most beautiful girls in the town, some married, some not, were dressed in their summer best, heavy on African jewelry, especially necklaces and bangles. In token deference to their Islamic religion—mostly Sunni Muslim—they also wore bright headscarves
Hundreds of local tribesmen danced to the throbbing beat of the drums, and they chanted words of praise and thanksgiving. Before their eyes stood the symbol of their triumph: the navigation lights of the Mombassa , moored four hundred yards offshore.
They’d bring it in at low tide and beach it on the soft sand, allowing it to rise with the incoming tide, with the option of leaving two hours either side of high water. Meanwhile the two skiffs had been lowered, and the massed revelers on the beach could see the flashlights as the crew disembarked and boarded the little boats.
Already the soft beat of the Yamahas could be heard across the dark water, and there was enormous anticipation in the air as the crowd pushed ever closer to the lazy breakers in the still of the African night.
The chant was resonant of the grand farewell that had echoed along the beach when the Mombassa had departed almost a week ago. But then there had been a note of anger, an unmistakable tribal sound of impending battle. This was different, full of laughter. But the clapping was the same and the words seemed simpler. Whatever they were singing held a disciplined rhythm, and it sounded like: O-O-O-O-H SOMALI . . . S-O-M-A-L-I HAAAAH! H-E-E-E-Y WHOMBA!
They jumped up and down on the sand in a chaotic rhythm, waving to the boat, calling out the name of Ismael Wolde, the pirate leader who was bringing back the wealth.
When the skiffs reached the shallows, the Yamahas were cut and tipped up. Tribesmen leapt out into the water and manhandled the boats onto the beach. Willing young men ran into the water to help. Others came down with bottles of cold beer for the heroes. Mohammed Salat, surrounded by six armed guards, walked through the crowd to greet the men he had financed on their mission.
Captain Hassan, Admiral Wolde, and Commander Elmi Ahmed stepped out onto the warm sand, dragging behind them the five orange bags that contained the $5 million. The crowd cheered rhapsodically.
Mohammed Salat stepped forward to shake the hand of each Somali Marine for their selfless and courageous actions in battle. Then he ordered the guards to load the bags into a 4 × 4 SUV parked down by the water, and the six men, in company with two of the village elders, climbed aboard. Salat, with his wife, boarded another vehicle farther up the beach, and the crowd roared as they set off in convoy to deposit the money in the vast vault of the stock exchange.
The men of the Mombassa joined the great throng for the midnight feast, the celebration of a battle hard won and so much extra wealth for almost everyone on the beach. All of their families were there, but in a very separate group, talking with Ismael Wolde, were the parents of the two local men, young Bouh Adan and Gacal Gueleh, who had been killed in the action.
There was a heart-gripping sadness, but Mohammed Salat was unfailingly generous to those who died for the cause. The Adans and the Guelehs would each receive a $25,000 credit at the stock exchange with the option to reinvest in the next mission of the Somali Marines.
Out on the waters, beyond the breakers, the dark hull of the Mombassa could be seen against the high equatorial moon. It was riding its heavy anchor, silent and without lights. Tomorrow it would be brought in and beached while a half-dozen local mechanics serviced, painted, and refuelled it.
The Mombassa would be ready for the next mission within a couple of weeks and would rest on the sand until new advice came in from Yusuf Kalahri, the mole in the Ronald Reagan Building. Or, alternatively, from someone else in the labyrinth of US government offices who received a monthly allowance from Mohammed Salat.
ADMIRAL CARLOW and Commander Bedford touched down at Andrews Air Base in the late afternoon. A Cobra strike/attack US Marine helicopter transported them the twenty miles to the Pentagon. Lt. Com. Jay Souchak awaited them beside the landing area and escorted them immediately to the office of Admiral Mark Bradfield on the fourth floor.
They took a half hour for coffee and a general chat about the pure audacity of these pirates and then walked down to the office of General Lancaster, who was anxious to be briefed about the new anti-pirate operation.
They found him in a state somewhere between irate and thoroughly pissed off. He was introduced to Commander Bedford and greeted the SEAL officer with grace and enthusiasm. “I’m very pleased to meet you at last, commander,” he said. “You’ve had an unorthodox but highly distinguished career. And everyone here has reason to be grateful to you—especially after those shenanigans in . . . er . . . Afghanistan . . . not to mention Connecticut.”
“Thank you, sir. I just did what any one of my fellow officers would have done on a mission like that.”
“There aren’t many missions like that,” grinned the general. “So we’ll probably never know what anyone else would have done. However I know what you accomplished and, as I said, I’m personally grateful. You probably single-handedly kept Guantanamo Bay open! Sure as hell scared a few people around here.”
But the general’s levity was quickly over. And the pirate attack sprung right back to the forefront.
“You guys seen the latest editions of the newspapers?” He pushed several issues across his desk toward them and snapped, “Just look at this crap. They’ve got the name of Charlie Wyatt, the guy who died
in the Niagara Falls attack, and now there’s about four hundred reporters, cameramen, and who the hell else camped out in his parents’ backyard right up the road in Baltimore.”
“Headline’s really great,” muttered Mark Bradfield.
US NAVY STANDS IDLE WHILE AMERICAN HERO DIES
“They don’t actually mention that our nearest warship was over a thousand miles away,” he said. “They think the Indian Ocean’s about the size of the friggin’ Reflecting Pool.”
General Lancaster nodded. “I read the interviews they’re coming up with: Charlie was the nicest guy in the world . . . the most popular . . . most brilliant . . . no one’s surprised he’s the one man who stood up to the armed pirates since the Navy SEALs went in to save the Maersk Alabama.
“They can’t get that fucking ship out of their minds. And they suspect we’re lying about the ransom paid to free the Niagara Falls. So every damn thing they write is slanted against us.”
“Well,” said Mark Bradfield, “The one thing we can agree on is that something has to be done. All of this is very bad for the morale of the armed services. Damn newspapers coming out and nearly accusing us of cowardice.”
Zack Lancaster grabbed another newspaper and pointed in outrage at the treatment of the story. “Look at this bullshit,” he added, pointing to a new headline:
ORIOLES DEVOTEE CHARLIE
DIED SWINGING—HIS LOUISVILLE
SLUGGER GRIPPED IN HIS HAND
Zack shook his head. “I haven’t yet returned a call to the defense secretary, mostly because I know he’s been on the line to the president who’s basically on the side of the goddamned pirates! But even he won’t like being C-in-C of a fighting force that’s under national attack for a lack of courage in the face of the enemy.”
“Well, sir,” said Admiral Bradfield, “I hope we have some enlightening news for you. Because the navy is unanimous: We can’t go on without a specialized anti-pirate force. And Commander Bedford here is in the process of forming an elite SEAL platoon ready to go in and conduct rescue operations with whatever force necessary.”
“Okay, gentlemen, let’s sit down and give the subject a good airing,” said General Lancaster. “Trouble is, it’s a high-risk game, and the consequences of having our own guys die, especially SEALs, are very, very bad. Because the public hates it, and the media knows that. Commander Bedford, where the hell do we start?”
“Sir, the basic concept is rescue at sea, essentially trying to retake a fortified enemy stronghold. That’s what a captured ship becomes. So we need to become experts on boarding, probably at night, a target possibly moving at 12 knots through the ocean. She may be slow. And she may be stationary, but we have to get on board with a minimum of uproar. Preferably in silence.
“I understand this may be impossible either because of sea conditions or an overwhelming pirate guard presence, but we still need to become world experts at such a boarding operation. Because there will be times when we must take that chance.”
“How long to train guys to pull that stuff off?” asked the general. “I guess we’re talking grappling irons and ropes?”
“Yessir. Probably take regular navy personnel about six months to master it. My guys? Three weeks.”
“How about the approach?”
“Inflatables, sir. Quiet running. The way we’d go into a beachhead. But if we can get into a submarine, somewhere close, we might prefer to hitch a ride and then swim in, which is even quieter.”
“Assuming you get the platoon on board, what do you consider the chances of complete recapture of the ship?”
“One hundred percent. With respect, sir, no SEAL team would be held up long by a bunch of overexcited, trigger-happy natives, would it?”
“Not hardly,” replied General Lancaster. “And what about all these new rules about not attacking and killing pirates on the high seas? Mostly European, some international, framed by the insurance companies and their lawyers?”
“Sir, my men will be behind enemy lines for this. When they open fire, they shoot to kill. If we have to fight our way on board or fight to get off, we will spare no one. In this case we will fight only under the military laws of the United States of America. Any other rules of engagement would be entirely unacceptable.
“On a mission this lethal, the guys cannot be encumbered with regulations. If my men are not given a free hand to defend themselves and accomplish the mission, any way they see fit, I’m afraid they’re not going.”
“You are never going to meet anyone who agrees with you more,” replied the general. “The operations will take place under the precise circumstances you have just outlined. Every mission you undertake will be classified to the highest possible level.”
“We do have a built-in secrecy factor,” said Mack Bedford. “Because all of it will happen far away from any observers—no press, no foreign diplomats or lawyers, no long-range photographers. No one will find out anything happened for several days.”
“None of this will ever be put into writing,” said the general. “But in the presence of two United States Navy admirals, I give you my solemn word that no member of your SEAL platoon will ever be prosecuted, court-martialled, or reprimanded for any action he may take on one of these missions.
“These fucking Somalians have taken the gloves off. They have issued their own set of rules. They have set up a cutthroat business of lawlessness on the high seas. And whereas other countries have moved to allow this, we will not. I have six very powerful senators on my side in this. And Simon Andre will back us all the way.”
“I’m grateful for that, sir, really I am,” said Mack. “The guys must have confidence when they go in. They need to believe in their moral rights, and they have to be sure their government backs them. One of the biggest worries SEAL teams have these days is that their own people, American media and lawyers, will turn against them. It’s very dangerous for us if our team, subconsciously, holds back in the attack. We all find it very, very sad, this frequent disapproval by our own nation.”
“Yeah,” said Mark Bradfield. “In this case, we can’t do anything right, and you get a regular guy like Charlie Wyatt whacks a pirate on the head and he’s treated like Eisenhower.”
General Lancaster chuckled. “You’ll need air support?”
“Sir, there will be several times when a sea-launched attack is not possible. Then we’ll have to come in by air. And we’ll need two helicopters. A big guy to land the force and a gunship to provide heavy machine-gunfire cover while we land. There may be other times we need a decoy attack from the air while we board the vessel from the sea.”
“Sounds militarily correct to me,” replied General Lancaster. “And we want to be correct. No mistakes. No failures. No expense spared. We need to make this work.”
“That’s the spirit, general,” said Mack jauntily. “Make the bastards play by our rules.”
“For a goddamned change,” snapped the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
CHAPTER 4
MR. PETER KILIMO RAN THE OPERATIONS DIVISION OF ATHENA Shipping from a twentieth-floor office in New York’s 570-foot-tall Olympic Tower on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-second Street. Peter’s father, Omar, had worked as a butler for Aristotle Onassis, the man who was largely responsible for building the tower in the early 1970s.
The operations division in any big-city shipbroking house represents the heart of the corporation. It is the computerized engine room of the business—the room where the world’s shipping lanes are tracked and the satellite signals come in, having located giant cargo vessels and tankers all over the globe.
There’s nothing glamorous about this section of the work—guys in “ops” don’t lunch in fancy Manhattan restaurants wooing potential clients. Guys in ops have their finger on the maritime pulse. They don’t have time for lunch. But they can tell you in a split second if a 300,000-ton VLCC is likely to miss the tide when it finally turns up the Yangtze River toward Shanghai.
Peter had been in the shipping
game all his life. Mr. Onassis had liked him from the start, this tall twelve-year-old son of one of his most trusted butlers, a Somalian named Omar Kilimo. And Peter, who had been born Ali, became Westernized and was schooled in New York while his father lived and worked in the sprawling Onassis residence in the Olympic Tower.
When the great man died in 1977, Peter Kilimo was headhunted by a rival shipping line that also had offices in the tower. And while Peter subsequently made a respectable living, $250,000 a year plus annual bonuses that often ran to a similar sum, his loyalty to any corporation vanished with the demise of his friend Aristotle Onassis.
Peter was sixty years old now and probably knew more than any man about the world’s shipping lanes and the enormous oceangoing vessels that rode them. He knew their cargo capacities and the seaports that could handle them. Tankers were his specialty. Massive tankers, that is. The VLCCs that take four miles to stop after someone applies the brakes.
Peter was a family man. He was married to a New York girl, and they had brought up three children in the outer suburb of Bronxville. And from them he harbored a very deep secret. In 2005, he had met a somewhat engaging financier at a United Nations reception for East African diplomats and been offered a private consultancy position, which would require little of his time but a certain amount of detail about voyages of crude oil and petrochemical tankers sailing out of the Persian Gulf.
It was a weekly task that Peter Kilimo could have done in his sleep. In recent months he had been disconcerted to notice that his e-mailed reports to his “chairman” contained the names of several big merchant vessels subsequently hijacked for heavy cash ransoms off the coast of Somalia. His chairman’s name was Mr. Mohammed Salat.
It occurred to Peter that he may be becoming an important wheel in a major pirate operation. And soon he became an expert on the activities of Mr. Salat, who plainly ran an enormous illegal operation out of Haradheere and was very likely wanted by Interpol and God knows who else.
The Delta Solution Page 10
