Pirate Alley

CHAPTER FIVE

Irene and Suzanne had a stateroom on the fourth deck, which meant they had a porthole, not a balcony. When cruising they didn’t spend many of their waking hours in their stateroom, so regarded the extra money for a balcony as a needless extravagance. They were rethinking that now.

Oh sure, the stateroom was very pleasant. The air-conditioning was running perfectly, the porthole was intact, the commode flushed, and they had pretty well cleaned out the minibar refrigerator. The television in the room normally delivered twenty channels through some kind of satellite connection, channels like Fox News, the BBC, CNN, CNBC, and several European channels that broadcast nothing but soccer games. If you weren’t a fan of soccer, you were out of luck in the sports department.

On the other hand, Fox, CNN and the BBC were all news, all the time. The women were a bit peeved that they were off the air. When the pirates were spraying bullets around, one bullet, only one, severed a coaxial cable leading from the satellite antennae. Until it was repaired, the boob tube was silent. Which was just as well, because the news on those channels was about the capture of the Sultan.

The primary source, indeed, the only source, for news from the ship itself was Mike Rosen, tapping on his computer in the little office off the shot-up e-communication, or e-com, lounge. So it would have been interesting for the ship’s passengers to watch one of those news channels, and perhaps more so for the pirates, who might have been unhappy with Rosen’s activities. Since Mustafa al-Said remained blissfully unaware, life aboard ship went on under the pirates’ direction.

As they contemplated the uncertain, unpredictable future, Irene and Suzanne decided that whatever happened, they needed more booze to carry into captivity. They pocketed their stateroom keys, which were actually plastic cards the size of a credit card with their photos on them. Security, you understand. Suzanne opened the stateroom door and peeked out. No one in the passageway.

They sneaked along the passageway forward to the elevator well and stairs. At the foot of the stairs they stood and listened. They could hear two pirates talking somewhere above them; of course they were pirates, gabbling along in an incomprehensible language and laughing uproariously. These were two truly happy men.

The sisters went up one deck, looked and listened, then tiptoed along the port passageway toward Mike Rosen’s stateroom. Actually five of the Denver contingent were berthed on this deck, so if one wasn’t in, another might be. Before they reached Rosen’s room, however, they smelled something burning. The smell seemed to be coming from a stateroom.

“Something’s on fire,” Irene said and pounded on the door.

The door opened and a blast of pot smoke almost knocked them over. The room was hazy with it. There was so much it must have overwhelmed the air-conditioning.

Four men. Von Platen, the car guy, and three of his business friends were all smoking weed.

They offered the ladies a joint, but Irene and Suzanne refused. “This place stinks,” Irene declared.

“In light of our impending incarceration, we decided to consume our inventory.”

Von Platen looked to be in his early forties, the others a year or two younger. Perhaps it wasn’t the years that had caused the distinguished gray hairs at Von Platen’s temples but the miles. Or the pot.

The six chatted animatedly, getting acquainted, as the men puffed away on little roll-your-own cigarettes. The sisters from Denver pretended that watching people smoke pot was no big deal, although it was a life first for both of them.

Finally Suzanne said, “What the hell.” One of the men rolled her a cigarette and she lit up, to Irene’s horror.

Aboard Chosin Reservoir, Admiral Tarkington listened to his chief of staff, Captain Flip Haducek, his ops officer, Commander Myron Snyder, and his SEAL team leader as they tossed around the possibility of getting some SEALs aboard Sultan that night if the afternoon matinee didn’t work.

The first problem was intercepting the ship. Helicopters would need to put at least four rubber boats with six men each into the water ahead of Sultan. Assuming the Sultan didn’t turn, for any reason, the SEALs would have to motor alongside, shoot grappling hooks attached to ropes, and climb them about twenty feet to the fifth deck, the first one that had an entrance piercing the hull. The dangling pirate ropes were interesting, but no one had much faith in pirate technology. Besides, the ropes could be a trap.

“Radar?”

“Our rubber boats will be difficult to see on radar, sir.”

Toad raised an eyebrow. Cruise ships had good radars, he knew, because they had to constantly avoid small fishing and pleasure boats when going into and out of busy harbors. The real question was, Would anyone be watching the radar scope as Sultan charged along in the hour or two before dawn?

“You’ll be lucky to get four men aboard,” Flip Haducek said to the SEAL officer. “And once aboard, you will … what?”

The SEAL team leader was Lieutenant Angel Cordova. With a plain, unmemorable face, he stood about five feet seven inches tall and had wide shoulders, huge arm and chest muscles, and a ridiculously thin waist. The veins in his arms stood out like cords. He looked like a professional bodybuilder, Toad Tarkington thought.

“Once aboard…?” the admiral murmured.

“Fight our way forward and up, sir, to the bridge. Kill the opposition as we go.”

“What if they start shooting hostages? What then?”

“We take them out with silenced weapons as we get to them, regardless.”

“Hostages or no hostages?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So how many pirates are aboard?”

“We estimate between twenty-five and fifty.”

“Estimate.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the minimum number of men you need to get aboard to have any realistic chance of handling twenty-five to fifty armed pirates?”

“At least ten, sir.”

“Each of your boats holds six men?”

“Correct, sir.”

“So you must rendezvous with Sultan with at least two boats.” Toad looked from face to face. Small rubber boats on a night sea, trying to get alongside a ship doing ten knots—ten knots just now—getting swamped in the wash if they failed to get their grappling hooks to snag. Hoping no one on deck saw them and started shooting while they were climbing the ropes.

“What’s Plan B?” the admiral asked.

“We jump overboard. The saltwater will activate our beacons. Someone comes to pick us up.”

“Too iffy,” Toad said. “We need a better plan that this.”

The brain trust was still noodling when a yeoman brought Toad a Flash message from Washington. “Green light for SEAL mission.” There were several more paragraphs, but Toad didn’t bother reading them. He handed it to Commander Snyder, who actually read it while Toad listened to Angel Cordova.

Snyder interrupted. “Admiral, they want to know when the mission will launch.”

“We’re not going to do it,” Toad said. “Too risky.” Cordova’s face fell.

“Aye aye, sir.” The ops officer headed for the admin office just off the flag plot spaces to draft a reply.

“I don’t want you people dead for nothing,” Toad told Cordova.

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

Time for the showdown, the afternoon matinee. Sea still calm, high cirrus clouds moving in …

The admiral’s aide, a Hornet pilot, brought him a message. “Better read this one, Admiral. Some guy on that ship has been e-mailing a radio station in Denver. Everyone on the planet is reading his stuff.”

Toad read the message, then passed it back. Oh, boy. Stuff like this would light a fire under the politicians, stimulate them mightily. Murders, rapes, brave resistance from the crew …

Toad was eating a salad in the raised chair in Flag Plot when another message from Washington arrived. He read it in amazement. The National Command Authority, which meant the president of the United States, ordered him to launch the SEAL team mission.

Commander Snyder was there, wearing a worried look, along with Flip Haducek.

“No,” Toad said. “In my judgment, the mission is too risky. What did you tell those people?”

“Just that, sir.”

Toad wadded up the message and gave it back to Snyder.

The chief of staff cleared his throat. He tried to resist the urge to point out the obvious because that tactic rarely sat well with the admiral. He lost the inner battle and said, “Sir, that’s an order. From the president.”

Toad handed his salad to Snyder, took the message and smoothed it out. He removed a pen from his pocket. He began writing on the back of the sheet the reasons he thought the mission would probably fail. If the SEALs couldn’t get enough men aboard Sultan to win control of the ship, they would die or be captured. Passengers and crew might be caught in a crossfire. Pirates might begin executing hostages.

Toad summed up, “The chances of a handful of SEALs successfully intercepting and boarding Sultan at night while under way are small. The chances of those who do successfully board winning the battle for control of the ship are even smaller. When the pirates get Sultan into a port, they will undoubtedly demand ransom, which, if paid, means that no civilian lives will be lost. If the decision is made to refuse to pay ransom, a much larger, more capable military force can be deployed against the pirates, one that will maximize the possibility of victory and minimize the loss of life.”

He used another paragraph to explain the benefits of a show of force. It could happen quickly; if the pirates were cowed, they would surrender and marines could board the ship, and if they weren’t, the navy had risked little and could try something else. A lot of upside, little downside. Those were the best kind of military operations. And he would be ready soon.

Tarkington handed the sheet of paper to Captain Haducek. “Send that,” he said, “and copy everyone in the chain of command. That’s the problem in plain English.”

An hour later, Washington answered Admiral Tarkington’s message. He was ordered to launch the SEAL mission.

Toad managed to keep a deadpan look on his mug as he struggled to hold his temper. Overruling the judgment of the officer on the scene was not the way the navy worked. The system was designed to find the best-qualified officer, put him in charge, let him make the judgment calls and hold him responsible for the results. Micromanaging from long distance certainly wasn’t unprecedented, but on those occasions in the past when the politicians had tried it, the results were usually not good.

Tarkington summoned Angel Cordova and handed him the clipboard containing the message. Cordova read it with raised eyebrows.

“Looks like you are going to have to give it a try,” Tarkington said dryly. He searched for words while Cordova rubbed his chin. “I want you to know that I think your chances of successfully pulling off a boarding are poor. Too poor to justify risking your life and the lives of your men. I made my case and lost. The ‘National Command Authority’ says go, so you are going.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That being said, if you do get aboard, or any of your men do, you don’t have to do the Alamo trick. I want you to try to disable the engines, stop her at sea. If the pirates aren’t going anywhere, we can negotiate a surrender.”

Cordova nodded.

“Flip, get the engineers to talk to Mr. Cordova. Brief him on the engineering plant and find him as many demolition charges as he and his men can carry.”

Toad frowned. “It’s goddamn thin, Cordova. Use your best judgment. Disable the ship if you can. If you can’t, kill as many pirates as possible.”

“Oh, you can bet on that, sir. But what if they use the crew or passengers as human shields?”

“Kill anyone you have to kill to save your own lives.”

Lieutenant Cordova took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’d like that in writing, sir.”

“Flip, write a direct order to Mr. Cordova to attempt to board Sultan of the Seas and disable her engineering plant. Authorize him and his men to kill anyone to save their own lives, including passengers and crew used as human shields. I’ll sign it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then send a copy to Washington. Hell, send it to everyone on the distribution list as info addees. When it’s gone with a date-time group, give Mr. Cordova a copy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Toad Tarkington fixed his gaze on the SEAL lieutenant. “You are being handed a really tough mission. If you don’t think it’s doable, say so. No one is ordering you or your men to undertake a suicide mission. We don’t do suicide missions in the United States Navy.”

“We can do it, sir.”

Goddamn gung-ho kid, Toad thought.

“You ever been shot at before?”

“No, sir.”

“You are about to get an education. Get cracking. I want a complete briefing from you before you go.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Jake Grafton thought he understood what had happened in the Gulf of Aden when he went to the director’s conference room at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, for the 7:30 A.M. meeting. He had read all the message traffic and even Rosen’s e-mails, which the night duty staff had arranged in chronological order by date-time group.

CIA director Mario Tomazic was a new guy, a retired army four-star who made his bones in Iraq. He got this job, Jake suspected, because he was quite good at not saying things the staffers at the White House didn’t want to hear.

“Who are these pirates?” the director asked.

The silence that followed was pregnant, so Jake Grafton stepped in. “Apparently they work for a pirate warlord named Ragnar, which is not his real name but a nom de guerre. Either he’s a fan of Ayn Rand or someone told him a lie or two. In any event, NSA says he and the pirate leader aboard ship have been gabbling back and forth. Our files say Ragnar’s base is Eyl.”

“Any ransom demands yet?”

“Not yet, sir. If they hold to their normal routine, there won’t be until they get the ship in the harbor and the people into the old fortress on the bluff.”

“What’s 151 going to do about all this?”

An aide directed the people at the table to the appropriate messages. Of course Jake had already read his copies. Now he reread them as the others digested Adrmiral Tarkington’s messages and the national security staff’s responses.

The director got it. “The staffers decided they know more about pirates than Admiral Tarkington.”

Grafton met Tomazic’s eyes. “Oh, man,” the retired general said disgustedly. He swept the pile of paper in front of him aside.

“Okay,” he said to the aide. “Where the hell is everybody out there?”

That was an easy request to answer. The computer display was soon on the screen on the wall. On the left side was a legend that explained the symbols. An aide pointed out ship positions and enemy strongholds with a white piece of wood, one little more than a large splinter.

“Let’s assume the ship reaches port, somewhere,” the director said. “There’ll be a ransom demand. That’s where the politicians will go into a dither. Pay or don’t pay? Shoot or surrender?”

“What if the ship owners or governments or private people refuse to pay ransom?” one staffer asked.

“Those people on that ship will expect the government to pay or rescue them,” said another.

“One or the other.”

“What about all those foreigners aboard Sultan? Should the U.S. government pay ransom to get them back?”

“Their governments can figure it out.”

“So we only buy out Americans?”

“Foreigners don’t pay taxes or vote. The American taxpayer is tapped out. And in a pretty damn sour mood.”

“It’s a British ship. Don’t forget that. This is really London’s problem, not ours.”

“It’s registered in Monrovia, Liberia.”

“So call the Liberians.”

“This is amazingly insightful,” Tomazic said dryly. He glanced at Grafton, who had been sitting with his mouth firmly closed. “Don’t we have a covert team in Somalia?”

“A snatch team camped out in the desert,” Jake said with a curt nod. “Eating MREs, shitting in a hole and working on their tans.”

Tomazic grunted and glanced at his watch. “Well, I gotta get over to the White House and get told what we’re gonna do.” He stood and the meeting was over.

The remainder of the afternoon passed slowly with Richard Ward and Chosin Reservoir keeping station four miles away on each of Sultan’s flanks. Ospreys and choppers ferried marines to the Ward, just in case. Fighters from the carrier to the northeast flew lazy patterns high overhead.

When he had done everything he could, Toad Tarkington went to his stateroom and tried to nap. He tossed and turned and fumed at the politicos in Washington.

He wrote a letter to his wife, worked his way through a pile of routine paperwork and was on the flag bridge to watch the sun sink in the west.

As darkness settled over the ocean, Sultan of the Seas kept every light ablaze as she steamed south, even the ribbon of decorative lights on a wire that ran from the funnel to the masthead, then down at an angle to the bow.

Toad Tarkington stared through his binoculars at the cruise ship. No one on deck that he could see, but Chosin Reservoir was now just a half mile to port, behind Sultan’s beam. A destroyer was on Sultan’s starboard side. It was possible, although not probable, the pirate might jam the helm over and try to ram the warships, so Toad had cautioned the captains to be careful. He also wanted to stay out of range of rifle and machine-gun fire.

The sea had abated and was almost calm. The only wind seemed to be relative, from straight ahead, manufactured by the ships moving through dead air.

Toad wondered what Captain Penney was thinking.

Actually Arch Penney was thinking of possible ways to kill Mustafa al-Said. The pirate’s murder of three ship’s officers, the helmsman and the bosun’s mates who manned the LRAD had filled him with anger. Rage. He had never before felt such a bitter emotion. He eyed Mustafa again. The man would kill him without remorse or hesitation. If Arch had a weapon handy he would use it on Mustafa and enjoy every single second.

But he didn’t have such a weapon. Perhaps the gods were looking out for him.

He wondered about his wife, who was in his cabin. He thought about calling her, and looked at the telephone, but decided against it. No use letting this asshole pirate know she was aboard and giving him another weapon to use against him.

He checked his watch. The chief steward had called him on the phone and they had talked about serving dinner to the passengers … and pirates. Mustafa had watched and listened to the conversation but hadn’t said a word.

Penney obsessed about the murdered officers and crew, one of whom, a woman, was raped to death. The three raped women who survived the experience were in the ship’s tiny hospital; the doctor had telephoned him and reported. He tried to clear his mind and focus on the current situation. The dead were dead—his responsibility was to the living.

Penney picked up his binoculars and aimed them at the warship on the port quarter. Amphibious assault ship—all he could see was her running lights, and red lights on the flight deck. The lights of helos and Ospreys flitting across the sky. Destroyer on the starboard side. Both ships were much closer than they had been during the day, but were maintaining their station now. Penney wondered if Mustafa was paying attention.

Peering out the window of the shot-up passenger computer room, Mike Rosen had seen the warships during the afternoon and evening. They were out there, but closer.

He went back to the office and shoved the desk against the door. He had talked to the ship’s steward, the bosun, the doctor, every department head on the list.

He stared at the phone. Should he?

Well, hell, no guts, no glory. He dialed the bridge. Got someone who identified himself as the second officer.

“The captain, please.”

“Who is this?”

“One of your passengers.”

“Kiss my bloody ass, mate.”

“God damn you, shithead! Gimme the captain!”

Silence. The line was still open. Rosen could hear himself breathe. Then a male voice came on. “Captain.”

“Mike Rosen, sir, a passenger. I am in the computer room, and we still have a satellite connection. I’ve been e-mailing my radio station in Denver. Do you have an accurate casualty list?”

“No. I know that there are at least three officers dead, the helmsman, two bosun’s mates and a woman passenger who was raped to death. Someone told me another passenger, a man, was killed, but I don’t know that for a fact. Four or five more have been injured.”

“Is there a message you want to get out to the world?”

“I’m not free to talk.” The voice was lower.

“Our destination?”

“Eyl.”

“Is that in Somalia?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else.”

“We are doing our best to ensure our passengers and crew remain safe.” The connection was severed.

Rosen got on the computer and started typing. He had his lead. The captured cruise ship, Sultan of the Seas, with at least seven dead, perhaps eight, was being taken to Eyl, Somalia, by pirates.

Mustafa al-Said decided to feed the passengers at 8:00 P.M. The crew members who cooked and served were ready, so at the appointed moment the captain used the loudspeaker to send the passengers to dinner, deck by deck. He started low in the ship and worked up.

By then Irene and Suzanne were back in their small stateroom, trying to get the marijuana smoke smell out of their hair.

“I didn’t know that stuff stunk so badly,” Suzanne declared. Actually, she felt pretty good—knew she had a buzz on, and was past caring how she smelled.

“There are a lot of things we don’t know,” Irene said philosophically. She too had inhaled a lot of that smoke and was feeling very mellow.

“I wonder why those men didn’t bring their wives on this cruise.”

“Because they’re gay, you twit.” Irene laughed hugely.

The captain’s announcement ended the conversation. Food would be good. Irene and Suzanne locked their small stateroom and hurried up the ladder to the restaurant on the fifth deck.

Under the watchful eye of a pirate with half his teeth missing and the other half stained a putrid yellow-brown, the bar at the restaurant entrance was doing a land-office business. They were serving the drinks free. Anything you wanted, they mixed and poured, then you grabbed it and made room for the next thirsty person behind you.

With a Cosmo in each hand, the two sisters sat at a table that already had a man and a woman at it.

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Twila and Harold. We’re from Arkansas.”

When the introductions were over, the diners began comparing experiences. The Arkansas couple had had a long, boring afternoon. The Arkansas lady’s nose twitched. She had caught a good whiff of the marijuana smell on the sisters. “My heavens, what is that smell?”

“It was coming out of our air-conditioning,” Irene explained. “Terrible stuff.”

“Well, with pirates and all, what can you do?”

Eventually the conversation turned to what might come next.

“These pirates just want money,” Suzanne said. “Someone will bail us out and we’ll all go home.”

“Who?”

“The cruise company or the government or something. The pirates can’t keep us forever. And why would they want to?”

“I am worried about what happens when we get to wherever we are going,” the lady from Little Rock said. “Are we going to stay aboard ship, be taken ashore … what?”

“How much food and water is on this ship?” the husband wanted to know. “How long before the sewage tanks fill up and the commodes stop working? How long can they keep the generators going?”

Neither of the sisters had thought for a minute about those questions, and now they looked at each other and considered.

“We’re in a hell of a pickle,” Irene said.

Suzanne nodded soberly.

“Well, who is going to bail us out?” Irene demanded. “Pay the ransom? I don’t have any money and my kids don’t. Any pirate who thinks he is getting money from me or any of my relatives is wasting his time.”

Suzanne went off to get refills for herself and Irene. The Arkansas couple were sticking to soft drinks, the poor bastards.

“Oh, it will all work out,” the Little Rock lady said when Suzanne got back with the booze. “Harold here worked for Walmart for a lot of years, and he always said everything works out in the end, didn’t you, Harold?”

“Yes,” Harold agreed. “There were days at Walmart—”

“But who is going to pay ransom for us?” Harold’s mate, Twila, asked, interrupting her spouse. She then answered the question herself. “Why, our neighbors at the church. Our congregation always sticks together. Or the government. The people in Washington can always print more money and give the pirates some.”

“I guess so,” Suzanne said pensively, glancing at the pirate standing in the door with his AK-47 pointed negligently in the diners’ direction.

“I don’t see why not,” Irene declared. “They ship money in heaps to every dictator on the planet. Might as well send some to Somalia and spring us. Boy, am I going to be mad if they don’t!”

The waiters brought plates heaping with good things, so they all became too busy to talk.

With her mouth full, the Little Rock lady asked the key question. “Do you think the cruise ship company will give us a refund? After all, pirates?”

“Pirates are going to make their marketing more difficult,” Irene said, forking chicken. “Even a partial refund would be good PR.”

“Walmart always worried about good PR,” Harold remarked. “Even a discount on another cruise would be welcome. We always wanted to go to South America. No pirates there.”

“Except in Venezuela. That screwball dictator, what’s-his-name.”

“Chavez. Like the ravine.”

“We’ll skip Venezuela,” Harold said flatly. “Carnival in Rio would be nice.”

“Nice,” Suzanne agreed and finished her third Cosmo.