The Delta Solution

by Patrick Robinson

  “Forty-six.”

  “So we need to leave at noon on Friday. She’s fuelled but we need to start loading her. We’ll have a full crew, twelve, plus Captain Hassan. So we’d better take a lot of sandwiches, bottled water, and fruit juice. There’s no stove, but we might get lucky if we take the tanker.”

  “When you take the tanker.”

  “That’s what I said,” grinned Admiral Wolde.

  “You’ll be gone for a week,” said Salat. “Two days out, two back, and three on station while we organize the ransom.”

  “Yessir. The Mombassa has a big refrigerator on board, so the food and juice will be fine. But we need to be careful about our armaments, especially if you want an on-deck drop for the cash. We have to cover a lot of ocean by ourselves, and if we get attacked, with all that money on board, we will have to destroy our enemies, right?”

  “I had thought about that,” said Salat, “and for this very important mission, we will have a special cache of arms that will be used to defend the ship if necessary. We will store the stuff separately from the weapons we use for the mission.”

  “What do you suggest, sir?”

  “I’d say one spare crate of six Kalashnikovs loaded with a couple of dozen spare magazines. We should have a box of twelve RPG7 grenades. A half dozen hand grenades and a heavy machine gun in case we’re attacked by superior numbers. We might need to cut them down to size.”

  Ismael Wolde nodded in agreement. “And for the mission?”

  “Each man will be issued an AK-47. There will be three more on the Mombassa’s bridge, with ammunition magazines. To be used, if necessary, by Captain Hassan and anyone of the assault party who loses a weapon.”

  “You’ll need four packs of dynamite, that’s twelve sticks taped together for each one. Plus five radio-link detonators. You’ll need det cord plus spare tape, and you’ll need RPG7s, I guess three or four, though you almost certainly will not use them. The initial assault group will carry four hand grenades, just in case you meet stiff resistance. There had better be one heavy machine gun. How many grappling hooks?”

  “I’d say six, plus four rope ladders, the ones with the brass rungs. This boarding will be the fastest we’ve ever done. I don’t want people hanging around waiting for a spot on the ladders. We need to climb up onto the deck four at a time.”

  “How about mooring lines for the skiffs?”

  “We have them, sir. On board the Mombassa. I already checked.”

  “Are the skiffs gassed up?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just the medical box in case anyone gets badly hurt. Make sure there’s morphine.”

  “Okay, Ismael. What time at the beach?”

  “Two hours from now, 1900 hours. We’ll start loading.”

  The admiral left the garrison and walked around the town gathering up his men. He called on his missile director Elmi Ahmed, who would be at the beach for the loading. Kifle Zenawi, second in command of the boat, was told to join the forward planning group, and the skiff drivers, Abadula Sofian and Hamdan Ougoure, were instructed to report for duty at 10:00 a.m. the following morning.

  The evening passed slowly. Almost everyone in the town drifted down to the beach on the warm equatorial night. They loaded the boat and stowed the hardware under the direction of Hassan and the head of ordnance, Hamdan Ougoure. The moon was high and the sea calm when Hassan made his decision to launch the boat, tow her down to the surf, and then manhandle her out into deeper water and drop anchor for the night, four hundred yards offshore on the ebbing tide. Hassan, along with two guards, would sleep there and be ready to go before noon.

  The monsoon season was approaching and the weather could change very quickly. Hassan wanted to avoid a general panic if the sea got up and it became difficult to launch the Mombassa in the rolling surf and perhaps even rain squalls. He much preferred to float her tonight on the calm evening tide.

  And so once more they gathered, the citizens of Haradheere, manning the lines behind the revving SUVs inching the Mombassa across the sand, all 1,500 tons of her plus fuel. The winch howled as it wound in the long steel painter attached with a ringbolt to the stem of the boat, the foremost steel member forming the bow and joined to the keel.

  The Mombassa was a relatively unprepossessing vessel, but she had been built of tough stuff and she was strong enough to take the strain as she was hauled back to the water, like an aged, slightly rusty walrus.

  Shortly after 10:30 the tide began to splash against her hull. The SUVs could do no more and the winch was silent, and the people had to push. They waited for the waves to raise her, especially the ninth one, and as it broke they all heaved together. The Mombassa began to twist around, her bow striving to aim seaward.

  Everyone was up to his knees in the ocean. The biggest wave so far lifted the boat, and more than sixty of the strongest men in town rammed their shoulders into the hull and that deep African chant, haunting but joyous, echoed rhythmically on the moonlit water . . . O-O-O-O-H! HOW SHE FLOATS! . . . H-E-E-E-EY WHOMBA!

  The Mombassa flopped over from her starboard side to port, and as the water caught her, they heaved once more. The pirate boat was afloat, bumping on the sandy bottom, but definitely floating. On board young Kifle Zenawi hauled the rudder over, trying to back the stern into the deepest water.

  He started the engines, and on the next wave he jumped her into gear and the propellers spun her out into the surf into the second line of waves, with five feet now under her keel.

  Mombassa’s bow rose up, and Kifle gave a quick burst on the throttle. His ship was under way. He gave two long blasts on the horn like a maestro before the assembly of his musicians. And the Haradheere throng, still in the water, clapped in unison, uttering one of those long, lonely cries of the dark continent . . . O-O-O-O-H SOMALIA . . . GOD BLESS YOUR SONS . . . H-E-E-E-E-Y WHOMBA!

  Zenawi gave them another short blast, and Mohammed Salat, back in the garrison, heard it. He raised a glass of chateau-bottled French claret and addressed his people through his very beautiful wife, “Thank you, everyone, we are on our way.”

  The intonation was that of the royal “we” utilized for hundreds of years by Great Britain’s monarchs. And Salat, in his own way, was a monarch, an African chief over all the land as far as the eye could see. And right now he was looking at another enormous payoff.

  Back on the beach, Abadula and Hamdan were hauling one of the skiffs into the water assisted by Captain Hassan. They slowly chugged out to the pirate ship and climbed aboard. It was still very warm, and the captain poured everyone fresh fruit juice, and they talked for a while about the mission. Hassan, for the first time, seemed concerned that they might become targets for a rival gang, and he confessed that he was afraid they were becoming too famous.

  “I hope the Battle of Haradheere sent a message that we are not to be interrupted in our lawful business. But some people may feel they want a share of our success. The Mombassa might become too well known, and I accept I have to change her soon. I have a feeling we must stay on our guard, night and day.”

  “We have enough heavy weapons on this ship to attack Pearl Harbor,” laughed Hamdan, the head of ordnance for the Somali Marines. “And everyone in this crew knows how to use them.”

  “I understand that,” replied Captain Hassan. “But I do intend to step up our watches, night and day. I believe we can destroy any enemy, but we must be alert. I’m putting two or three lookouts on duty at all times. These have become very dangerous waters, and we have more to lose than most people.”

  “Especially on our way home,” chuckled Hamdan. “Don’t worry, boss. We can handle anything. I never heard any group had better weapons than us.”

  “Stay alert,” said the captain. “That’s our motto. And if you take a look through the night glasses, you will see there are three armed guards right there on the beach. Three guards. One task. To keep us safe. That’s the way Mr. Salat and I want it. Nothing left to
chance.”

  “That’s good,” said Hamdan. But two hours later he learned a sharp lesson. All three men were dozing under the moon in the deck chairs Hassan had loaded. They were awakened by a soft bump as one of the skiffs came alongside, bringing a large jar of coffee they could drink iced, a present from Mr. Salat.

  Captain Hassan thanked the two guards who had made the short journey, and they watched as the boat putt-putt-putted back to shore. As soon as it was beyond range, the skipper turned on both Hamdan and Abadula.

  “You see?” he snapped. “See how easy it is for someone to creep up on us in the night. That guard could have been an enemy, and he was practically on board the ship before we came awake. And remember, the guard was not even trying to keep quiet. Our enemy would not have made that bump that woke us.”

  Hamdan was forced to agree. “If he’d been our enemy, we’d be dead.” Abadula shuddered involuntarily. It was a good lesson. Both men would have that incident in their minds throughout the forthcoming voyage.

  The following morning the crew began to arrive, ferrying out by skiff. At ten o’clock, Captain Hassan took them through his plan to defend the ship in case of an encounter with an enemy. At the first sign of an intruder, however far away, everyone would disappear below the gunwales, weapons would be primed at all times, and the heavy machine gun would be operational from the stern area. The RPG7s would be launched from the raised cockpit of the bridge, straight through the door where Hamdan would be stationed.

  No vessel of any description would be permitted closer than twenty-five yards. If anyone dared come nearer, the Somali Marines would open fire with everything they had. Captain Hassan expected the intruding ship to be sunk. There would be no prisoners, no survivors.

  “Our business is private,” he said. “No one lives to tell the tale of an encounter with us.”

  In a way it was quite inspiring. Captain Hassan was not in command of the pirate operations in capturing an enemy ship. But he was in command of the Mombassa, and he alone had the authority to order its defense.

  A few people walked down to the beach to wave good-bye to the Mombassa. They were mostly relatives of the crew, the main population of the town having bid farewell last night. At noon Captain Hassan ordered the anchor hauled.

  He gave two sharp blasts on the horn and headed out to sea, adjusting the helm to course one-three-five, southeast, aiming for the second parallel, which ran east-west 160 miles due south. According to Salat’s contact, the Global Mustang would make her easterly journey three miles to the north of that second-degree line, and Hassan wanted the Mombassa to come up under her to the south.

  They ran before a light southwesterly breeze, which wafted over the Mombassa’s starboard quarter. The sea was long but the swells were gradual, and conditions could scarcely have been more pleasant. There was barely any traffic, and aside from a large tanker heading south, ten miles up ahead, they saw only one other vessel in the first three hours, a local Somali fishing boat hauling heavy nets.

  Shortly before 4:00 p.m. they spotted a new boat on the horizon. She was dark red and looked like a converted trawler without the familiar outriggers, the booms that swing out port and starboard to tow the trawl. She was bigger than the Mombassa, maybe seventy feet overall, with a forward superstructure housing the wheelhouse and accommodation and an aft working deck. She was probably seven miles away and travelling fast on a diametric course. If she kept going on that bearing, she would cross the Mombassa’s bow in thirty minutes.

  “Keep an eye on her,” said Captain Hassan. “She’s not a fishing boat and she’s not naval, so she rates as a mystery. And she’s bigger and faster than us.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the other boat had not changed course and she was running more or less neck and neck, two miles off Mombassa’s starboard beam. Unless Captain Hassan made a course change, the boats would come together in the next ten minutes. Thus far there had been no signal or contact between them, but Hassan did not like what he was seeing.

  Five minutes later, with the dark-red boat less than a half-mile distant and closing in, he roared, “ACTION STATIONS!” In the opinion of Mombassa’s master, the other boat had increased her speed and come 12 degrees red. Unless someone throttled back, the two boats were on a collision course.

  Captain Hassan throttled back. Ismael Wolde was in the wheelhouse with him, and Elmi Ahmed was loading an RPG7 into the launcher. Omar Ali was flat on the deck below the portside gunwales holding a hand grenade. Everyone was holding a loaded AK-47, and the oncoming intruder could not see a thing. Wolde was holding the heavy machine gun.

  As the other boat began to converge, Captain Hassan could see the name on her bow, Somali Star. She flew no flag but her captain, a powerfully built black-skinned Somali seaman wearing a US Navy baseball cap, was on the high, sloping foredeck, and he was holding a bullhorn. And some kind of light machine gun. An older model, not a top-of-the-range Kalashnikov.

  “Ahoy, Mombassa! You are the famous pirate ship from Haradheere, ha?”

  Hassan called back, “No. Wrong ship. We’re just fishermen.”

  “I know who you are, Mombassa. And we want a deal. A share of your wealth. In return we give you protection. My men are all well armed. Very good fighters.”

  “I told you,” yelled Hassan. “I’m out here fishing. Just with my assistant here. We’re not pirates. You got the wrong boat.”

  “Not wrong boat. You pirates. I’m Major Marro. And we want to take over your operation. We’re a bigger boat, faster, more experienced people. You cooperate now. We’re coming aboard.”

  “I don’t want that,” yelled Hassan. “Get away from me. We’re just unarmed fishermen.”

  “You lie to me, Cap,” shouted the major, and he turned around and signalled for his crew to show themselves. There were twenty of them, all carrying various rifles. “We’re coming aboard. If you don’t cooperate we kill you and your mate. Take all your money.”

  There were only twenty yards between them, hull to hull, and closing. “GET AWAY FROM ME!” bellowed Hassan.

  “STAND BY TO BOARD!” shouted the major to his crew.

  Captain Hassan snapped, “Fire at will. Take them. AND TAKE THEM RIGHT NOW!”

  Ismael Wolde opened up the heavy machine gun and fired a volley straight through the doorway that hit Major Marro with such force it shot him ten feet backward, blood pouring from his shattered head and chest.

  Wolde sprayed the deck, cutting down six of the astounded crew of the Somali Star. Elmi Ahmed launched one of his Russian RPG7s, which smashed into the wheelhouse and almost blew the superstructure off its mountings, detonating in a violent blast of fire and smoke.

  Up from the deck rose Captain Hassan’s gunners led by Abadula Sofian in company with Abdul Mesfin and the ex–army sergeant Ibrahim Yacin. They fired their superbly accurate AK-47s at the now fleeing crew members of the Somali Star.

  They fired steadily, hitting them in the back, head, legs, even blowing the brains out of three who tried to jump into the water. The noise was deafening and the fire was beginning to rage. The only two crew members still alive climbed onto the portside gunwale and tried to jump clear, but Ibrahim shot them both dead before they could leap into the water.

  And into this uproar of fire, death, and carnage, stepped Omar Ali Farah, ripping the pin out of his hand grenade and hurling it across the narrow stretch of water and onto the deck, where it landed with a clatter, rolled, and nearly blew the Somali Star in half.

  The blast split the deck asunder, flattened the main bulkhead, blew out the stern, tore the mast off its mountings, and smashed a gaping hole into the hull, which ripped downward below the water line. The force of the explosion hurled the former trawler into an upward spasm and broke her back.

  In a hail of sparks, hissing steam, flames, and cordite, the Somali Star sank in three minutes. One dying crew member pathetically raised his old Kalashnikov out of the water, like a grotesque scene from Tennyson’s Morte d’Arthur, when the
king’s sword, Excalibur, rose from the lake. Except this had less nobility. Ibrahim blew his brains out with a burst of machine gun fire.

  As Captain Hassan had instructed, there were no survivors. There was almost no trace, except for a few patches of burning oil on the surface, a shredded life-belt, and a pall of gun-smoke and blood. And soon there would be nothing. Like the shattered, lime-soaked buried corpses of Sheikh Sharif’s broken army, the sunken wreck of the Somali Star would be a silent, unseen testament to the blind stupidity of attacking Mohammed Salat’s highly trained pirate brigade.

  They had achieved their victory in less than three minutes. They had sustained no casualties. No one was even wounded. In fact not one of Major Marro’s men had managed to fire a return shot.

  Captain Hassan was about to ask his crew to clear up the ship after the battle, but there was nothing to clear up. So each man just shouldered his rifle and stowed the ammunition and armament boxes. Kifle Zenawi took the helm, opened the throttle, and headed southeast.

  AT 8:00 P.M. ON THAT FRIDAY NIGHT, Captain Jack Pitman sat down for dinner with two of his senior officers. The Global Mustang had an excellent dining room for the senior command, and the three men who ordered New York sirloin steaks were old friends, having sailed together ever since the ship had been commissioned three years previously.

  Jack Pitman, along with a fellow native of Washington State, First Officer Dominic Rayforth, and the navigator, Ray Kiley, had brought the Mustang directly to the Persian Gulf on her maiden voyage from Nagasaki. It took a crew of thirty-two to drive her, including the four specialists who monitored the freezing, round tanks full of liquid natural gas.

  At that time, the three officers had been with Bob Heseltine for many years but saw him only rarely. They were highly paid due to the enormous responsibilities each man carried, not to mention the four-month tours of duty they endured, four months when the only land they saw was the loading docks of Qatar and the unloading piers of Japan.

  All three of them had passed their forty-sixth birthdays. And the great ship had obliterated two of their marriages. Mary Pitman and Sarah Kiley had tired of the long absences and filed for divorce.