“They’ve moved offshore alright,” said Mark Bradfield. “Probably because they know ships are less suspicious of attack way out there. But also because it’s hard to get assistance. That European mercy fleet, or whatever the hell it’s called, has proven more or less useless, mostly because it’s always in the wrong place.”
“So,” said the general, “if we’re going to make a serious impact, we need warships patrolling inside that square. It’s 360 miles by 736 miles. What’s that? 265,000 square miles. I guess that sounds like a lot. But you can look at it another way. North/south we can have a ship every seventy miles, and lengthwise we can have them each 140 miles apart, forming a diagonal across the datum.”
Mark Bradfield, a former surface-ship commanding officer, had been following the general’s numbers on a writing pad in front of him, translating the words into a picture. He now had a rectangle longer than its height. And across the middle he drew a diagonal line of four small crosses, the four US warships.
“The fact is, sir,” he mused, “if an atrocity occurred at the farthest point from our nearest ship, there would still be a maximum of only three hundred miles to steam. These things make a comfortable 30 knots through the water, so the most it could take us to get on station would be less than nine hours.”
“Right!” said the general triumphantly. “They hit after dark at 2100 hours, and we’re on the scene before dawn a little after 0530, with Mack and his boys flying out for the drop. That’s beautiful. Four warships it is, Mark. Get ’em out there, with the helos, right in that little box with the crosses.”
“Let’s get these bastards,” he added. “Let’s show them who they’re really dealing with.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME for several months, the office of the CNO looked like the engine room of a nation at war. Somehow the words of General Zack Lancaster had added a new dimension to America’s view of piracy on the high seas, and it was a battlefield mentality. Anyone within thirty yards of Admiral Mark Bradfield’s suite of offices on the fourth floor of the Pentagon could sense the urgency in the air.
There were navy personnel coming and going. Phones were ringing, computers humming, lights flashing, and staff calling out data. The lines to the Norfolk yards were open. Lt. Com. Jay Souchak was trying to locate the 10,000-ton guided missile cruiser Port Royal.
This was normally a ten-minute task. But Admiral Bradfield wanted to know right away. So far as Jay could tell, the warship should have cleared the Malacca Straits, running north, and ought to be fifty miles southwest of the Nicobar Islands.
But “should have” and “ought to be” were not acceptable. The Port Royal was probably 1,400 miles from Diego Garcia, and Admiral Bradfield wanted to know precisely when she was expected to dock. Before the evening was over, the admiral would organize the deployment of four ships: the Port Royal; the guided missile destroyer Chafee; a second destroyer, USS Momsen; and the Harpoon missile frigate Reuben James.
All four of them would head directly to the US Navy base at Diego Garcia for resupplying and then head out in convoy to the 265,000-square-mile stretch of ocean where the next Somali pirate attack was expected to occur. Lt. Com. Jay Souchak also needed to check for helicopters and their availability.
So far as he knew, the four selected ships were already equipped with helos. But Admiral Bradfield wanted to insure that the Port Royal could carry a Sikorsky CH-53D Sea Stallion. If not, he’d have to start thinking aircraft carrier. And that put his back to the wall time-wise because the US Navy did not have a flattop within striking range of Diego Garcia, and it would take three days for the Harry S. Truman to get there from the South China Sea.
Also, a Nimitz-class carrier was a very hefty piece of gear to deploy against a group of pirates. But the chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself had decreed that this was a priority, and if the CNO had to move a carrier to help clear up the problem, then that carrier would swiftly be on its way.
There was no doubt in Jay Souchak’s mind that there were unusual forces at work. The pure frustration of the apparently unsolvable pirate problem was profoundly irritating the best minds in the US Navy. This latest seizing of an unarmed ship, the Global Mustang, had injected anger, short tempers, and an element of overkill into the equation.
It was as if everyone understood that the US was wielding a sledgehammer to crack a nut. But that’s how it was. And these goddamned tribesmen from East Africa were about to be severely slammed by the sledgehammer of the United States Navy—Special Forces, aircraft carriers, destroyers, missiles, and whatever the hell else it might take, to quote General Lancaster. It was, in a sense, a formal announcement that Uncle Sam was done with this piracy bullshit, so hang on to your hats.
Meanwhile millions of dollars were flying not only through the banking ether but also in the face of every instinct the US military possessed. On Fifth Avenue in New York, preparations were being completed to pay off these goddamned hooligans. And from Zack Lancaster down, no one in the Pentagon approved of the system.
Because there was only one surefire method . . . NEVER pay off these bastards because they will come straight out and do it again. They have to be stopped, slammed, and obliterated. That way no one’s in any doubt about the consequences of attacking the United States or its allies or its possessions. That’s anything or anyone operating under the American flag.
THE $10 MILLION REQUIRED to free Captain Pitman’s ship was, thanks to the miracle of interbank wire transfers, safely in the ground-floor vault of Building Six, Barclays of Dubai, at the downtown end of Sheikh Zayed Road.
Five tellers were counting, stacking, and packing the $100 bills into ten heavy-duty mailbags. The UAE Air Force would strap them together and fit the huge package with four luminous flares, which would fire on impact with water should the drop from the aircraft miss the deck of the Mustang. Sheikh Mohammed’s air force personnel would also take care of the flotation device, which would prevent the bags from sinking.
At 6:00 p.m. (local), the bank was closed, but waiting for the mailbags outside was a Dubai military truck and six armed guards, ready to deliver the money to the airport.
At 6:15 the guards lifted the bags into the truck and drove out to Dubai International. Its $10 million cargo was swiftly loaded and the Hercules took off, flying southwest, deep into the Arabian Desert toward the burning sands of the Rub’ al-Khali.
It was a long, 1,200-mile haul down to Djibouti, across the widest part of the Arabian Peninsula, and then over the southern mountains of Yemen to the narrow waterway where the Red Sea flows into the Gulf of Aden. Djibouti lies right on the coast, and the Hercules touched down at 10:00 p.m.
The Americans were waiting to refuel her, and two members of the catering staff were at the end of the runway, together with the tanker, to serve Sheikh Mohammed’s pilots and crew hot coffee and sweet pastries. On the return journey they would land here again, probably close to 2:30 a.m. and spend the rest of the night at the US Navy base before flying home across the Empty Quarter.
The Hercules took off on the last leg of her journey to the Global Mustang at 11:00 p.m. She hurtled down the sand-swept runway into a cool southwest wind directly off the Ethiopian highlands and then banked hard around to the southeast, climbing toward the Somali coastline, and out over the dark waters of the Indian Ocean.
By midnight they were at the halfway point, having covered almost four hundred miles over the ocean.
ON BOARD THE Global Mustang, Admiral Wolde was in conference with the captain. Abdul Mesfin was still wielding the heavy machine gun, and there were lookouts posted on the promenade deck that almost surrounded the bridge.
Elmi Ahmed was in command of the imprisoned crew, and he had them divided between the dining area and the recreation room. They had been permitted to return to their regular sleeping quarters immediately after dinner. Somali guards patrolled every area, and the ship was still more or less stationary.
Captain Hassan had the Mombassa running slowly about three hundred yard
s off the Mustang’s port beam, and Abadula Sofian was back in his skiff, while the veteran Somali army sergeant Ibrahim Yacin had the helm of the second skiff. Both were making their way to different sides of the Mustang in readiness for the drop, just in case it missed the deck and tumbled into the ocean.
As the time ticked slowly past midnight, the tensions grew. Ismael Wolde appeared on the high walkway above the stern and peered through his Russian night-glasses up into the dark, moonlit sky, searching for the navigation lights of an incoming military aircraft.
Back on the bridge, after he returned, Wolde said to the captain, “Perhaps they have let you down, sir. Perhaps they’re not coming. Perhaps they are prepared to sacrifice this ship and its crew, trying to discourage us from this kind of naval conquest.”
It was as if he thought threatening the captain would somehow push the shipowners to greater efforts, even though they could not hear his words.
But Jack Pitman, who privately believed the phrase “naval conquest” was a bit extravagant, just grunted. “They’re coming, admiral. Keep watching. Those men do not want a loss on this scale. They like profits, not catastrophe. They’ll be here.”
Wolde was by now very tired. He and his men had been aboard the Mustang for more than twenty-four hours. Sleep was impossible for the dozen men involved in holding the ship captive, especially as a well-lit US warship had just appeared over the horizon and was steaming slowly toward them.
Wolde was confident that the four bombs under the gas tanks would preclude any kind of aggressive action from the Americans. But he was aware of the warning he had been given: If anything went wrong with the operation, none of the Somalis would get out alive.
He understood the benefit of having a dozen men with Kalashnikovs holding an unarmed crew captive, but the approaching US destroyer could probably start and end World War III all on its own. Wolde needed everything to go smoothly, and he prayed silently for the aircraft bearing the readies to show up ASAP.
Another half hour went by, and there was a sudden yell from one of the lookouts: “Aircraft approaching from the west, about seven miles out. It’s losing height—STAND BY!”
Admiral Wolde rushed out of the door to see for himself. He raised his glasses, spotted the lights, and knew in that moment that the $10 million ransom was about to be paid. He picked up his cell phone and called Elmi Ahmed, telling his missile director and explosives chief to start making his way down to the floor of the tanker to disconnect the bombs.
The moment the cash was in Wolde’s hands, the bombs would be disarmed, packed up, and removed. Captain Hassan would bring the Mombassa in close, and the pirates would scramble down the rope ladders and pile into the skiffs.
The journey home would be in the nature of a stampede because this was the point where they were most vulnerable. The ship would no longer be at their mercy, and worse yet, there was a 10,000-ton US destroyer watching them make off with an enormous amount of blackmail money. They understood full well that the warship could put them all on the bottom of the Indian Ocean.
The answer was speed—the speed of the getaway, roaring away into the night, reaching Mombassa’s maximum of 20 knots. Of course the destroyer could, if it wished, cut them down and sink them. But Wolde was counting on the fact that a deal was a deal. The shipowners were about to fulfill their side of the bargain, and he did not believe they wanted any more strife.
Ismael Wolde instructed Captain Pitman to turn the deck lights on, until the entire forward area, three hundred yards down to the bow, was floodlit. As he did so, the Arab air force pilot and co-pilot in the Hercules, howling through the night sky, suddenly spotted their drop target, about six miles up ahead, gleaming golden on the dark water.
The captain decided to make the drop from a stern approach, the mailbags and the floater set to fall from the dispatch ramp. They were making a little less than 200 knots and losing height fast. In not much short of a powered dive, the pilot came down to 200 feet, then 150 above sea level.
With a minute and three miles left, he levelled out, and the navigator checked the GPS numbers. They had a direct bead on the Mustang and would run straight down the length of the deck, about fifty feet above the domes. Everything was GO! And with Admiral Wolde standing outside the bridge watching the approach, the Hercules came roaring overhead right above him.
Ismael watched someone jettison the mailbags, which blew out sideways into the slipstream, then tumbled down, hitting the top of Dome Three and then sliding down the right-hand side, landing on the starboard-deck loading manifold.
By any standards it was a supremely accurate drop. And two of Wolde’s men were already racing down the deck to grab the bags and haul them back to the stern area. At this time, the crew was incarcerated in the recreation room, locked and bolted. Only the captain was on the bridge with Wolde, who was on the line to Elmi Ahmed, telling him to stand by to disarm the bombs.
Without a word, the admiral left the bridge and raced to the elevator, which one of his guards had waiting for him. Down on the stern deck, Wolde and three of his men opened and inspected the delivery. They had no time to count, but they were becoming accustomed to the size and weight of a million bucks packed into a single mailbag.
“DISARM THE BOMBS!” yelled Wolde into his cell phone. “ELMI! WE’RE LEAVING . . . LET’S GO, EVERYONE!”
He hit the buttons on his cell phone and immediately told Captain Hassan to close in to one hundred yards. The Somali Marines were evacuating the ship, down the ladders and into the skiffs. It was the ex–Puntland fisherman’s task to mastermind the loading of the little fleet and to have the helmsmen right on station, ferrying the cash and the assault troops back to the Mombassa with all speed. They’d dump the grapplers and ropes in the skiffs and they’d drop the rope ladders down from the tanker’s rails, but the last one they would have to leave behind.
Already the pirates were up and over, climbing down to the boats, the first four men somehow hanging on to the mailbags and heaving them into the first skiff, which Ibrahim Yacin held steady, and then raced out to Captain Hassan who hauled the pirates’ bounty aboard.
Admiral Wolde stood right next to the rope ladders supervising the getaway, his machine gun in the firing position. Deep in the cellar of the tanker, Elmi Ahmed, working with two guards, was already disarming the second bomb. He wasted no time unfastening the electric connections—cutting the critical wires with garden shears.
The moment the bomb was made safe, they pushed forward to the base of the next dome and repeated the operation. The plan was to render each bomb harmless and then, on the return journey, gather up the electronics and the stacks of dynamite, moving everything back to the stern end for the evacuation. Wolde’s men never left behind anything that could be used again. And right now, flushed with their biggest triumph ever, no one was in any mood to retire anytime soon.
Elmi worked fast, clipping and separating, urging his guards to stay alert and to treat the components of the bombs with unwavering respect. They were in a lethal environment. Out to port there was a deadly US warship that could renege and come after them at any moment. The slightest mistake in this operation could cause a catastrophe.
Even the mildest explosion down in the gloom could blow millions of gallons of the world’s most combustible cargo to high heaven. And with every clip of the garden shears, the bargaining tool that had thus far kept them safe was diminished.
When the fourth bomb had finally been dismantled, they began the return journey, jogging through these vast steel caverns, scooping up the high explosives, cramming the electronic detonating parts into a large rucksack. They left the area the way they’d entered, via the steel staircase up to the starboard side of the main deck.
Further astern they could see Wolde, waving at them, beckoning them to get moving, lower their bomb bags over the side into the skiffs, and get on board themselves. There was desperation in the air. The dark glowering shape of the US warship was inching closer and closer. Ismael
Wolde knew with all of his considerable brain that they had to get the hell out of here, as fast as anything he had ever done.
The pirates scrambled over the rail, slipping, grabbing, and clambering down the ladders and into the skiffs. It was plain that the crew was still locked in the rec room, still fearful of Wolde’s last threat: Anyone even thinks of coming through that door, I’ll personally blow his head off.
Sofian and Yacin were jockeying for position, revving their engines, trying to get the evacuation complete in just one more journey to the Mombassa. But there was just too much gear, with the bombs, the rifles, the ladders, and grappling irons. Also no one felt much like trampling over tightly stacked sticks of dynamite.
Sofian eased away from the Global Mustang’s hull and called out, “I’ll be back!” which was just as well because Elmi and Ismael were still up on deck, working by the rope ladders, lowering the heavy machine gun and ammunition belts down to the remaining skiff. Yacin grabbed it and immediately took off. By now Sofian was back, and he grabbed Elmi’s waist, hauling him off the ladder and into the boat. They both grabbed Wolde and the skiff took off, back to the Mombassa.
For the moment, they didn’t bother to attach the davit lines to the skiffs. They just unloaded the cargo and lashed them to the stern of the ex–fishing boat, and Hassan opened the throttle. They roared off into the night, towing the skiffs, standing on the deck, and watching the US warship close in on the Global Mustang.
Ismael Wolde, ever the admiral in his own mind, shook hands formally with every member of his crew and with Captain Hassan.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, quietly. “Nicely done.” And beside him, as he spoke, was the dark pile of mailbags.
The night was hot, and Wolde sipped a glass of iced coffee before taking out his cell phone and sending a text message to Mohammed Salat, who was wide awake with the rest of the town.
The Delta Solution Page 29
