Syren's Song (21 page)

Mullaitivu District

Stark made it another fifty yards through the paddy before his boot slipped and he went down. The old knee injury from the terrorist attack in Italy tripped him up, and he fell face-first into the dirt. The gunfire continued to erupt behind him as twenty men raced across the paddy toward him. They were three hundred yards away now, there was nowhere to hide, and he had long since exhausted his ammunition, save for one bullet he had been saving just in case. At least he thought he had one left. It was hard to keep track while running and firing.

I will lie me down and bleed awhile, then I'll rise to fight again
. He forced himself to kneel and face the line of insurgents coming toward him. Although they vastly outnumbered him, their approach suggested caution. These weren't professional soldiers. The Tigers' organization may have been planning this war for some time, but they hadn't had the opportunity to recruit and train soldiers en masse. Of course, with the EMP weapons the Tigers didn't need highly trained ground or maritime forces.

These would be the last insurgents he faced—the last of many during his life. There had been the terrorist attack in Italy when he was a junior officer who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. He' d played cat and mouse with Iranian Revolutionary Guards when he commanded a PC boat in the Persian Gulf. There was his final act as a naval officer, challenging a terrorist group in Canada, where his career and the lives of allies and enemies had ended on a tarmac. The list scrolled through his mind as he waited. His time with Highland Maritime dealing with Somali pirates, and the Yemeni coup attempt, when he had condoned the vicious torture of a young terrorist who had been part of his extended family and the near-execution of a senior administration official. All along the way there had been dead bodies. His would be the last.

If helping his friends escape was the last thing he ever did, it was a good end. How would Maggie hear? Would Golzari tell her? Or Warren? Would she forgive him? Would she put his picture up on the wall of heroes alongside those of her other family members and friends who had been killed in military operations?

As the insurgents drew nearer he recalled the first time he met her. He had left Yemen and was traveling through his mother's native Scotland, wandering the Highlands before coming to the small coastal town of Ullapool to catch the ferry to the outer islands. The rain had stopped and he had time for just one drink when he sat at an empty table at the side of the room. Tourists
wandered in and out while the regulars enjoyed their drinks and watched a football match on the television above the bar. She came out of the kitchen, her arms full of plates for a table of tourists on the far side of the bar. Her long red ponytail swayed as she twisted and turned, effortlessly distributing the plates. As she finished she turned and caught him staring. She lifted her chin and smiled at the burly, bearded American who had found his way into her pub. That was when he knew he would miss the ferry. He stayed for one more drink, and then another, and after the other tourists left and the football match was over, they talked long into the night.

The gunfire slowed, and he could hear footsteps nearby. It was time. He looked to the azure sky, took two quick deep breaths, and said aloud “Maggie,” then pointed the gun at his right temple. Before he pulled the trigger he saw her face before him.
If I do this I'll never see her again
. He lowered the pistol. There was little chance they would let him live—but if there was any chance at all, he'd take it. He threw the pistol away and waited for whatever fate had in store for him.

USS
LeFon

One of the watch standers on
Asity
was the first to spot the small boat. She raised a red flag and waved it at the watch standers on
LeFon
and
Syren
, who acknowledged it. Signaling was a primitive form of ship-to-ship communication, but since the last EMP strikes had effectively wiped out their bridge-to-bridge radios and other systems, they had no other. Commander Johnson, Olivia Harrison, and Commander Ranasinghe had worked out some basic but effective signals because neither
Asity
nor
Syren
had Navy signal flags like
LeFon
's.

Fortunately,
LeFon
's general announcing and alarm circuits had already been EMP-protected before the attack. Johnson called for all hands to battle stations. As
LeFon
pulled from the lee of
Asity
, Johnson went to the port bridge wing and peered through the lenses of the hull-mounted binoculars. Bobbing in the water was a U.S. Navy RHIB. “I'll be damned,” she said. “Prepare for recovery of the boat, officer of the deck.”

Ten minutes later the RHIB pulled alongside the warship and boatswains guided its recovery on the crane. Johnson awaited the passengers on the deck. When the boat was flush with the deck, Johnson watched in astonishment as Jay Warren handed nine children across to the waiting sailors. Then he, a woman, and Agent Golzari made their way on deck.

Golzari offered a brief explanation of the boat's passengers and suggested that the children would be better off with Ranasinghe on board
Asity
—as, he pointed out, would Melanie.

“No way,” she objected. “The kids are safe now. I'm following this story to the end.”

“Whoa,” said Jaime. “Slow down, everyone. We need a command conference to sort all this out. Let's get these children cleaned up and fed while I get Commander Ranasinghe and Commander Harrison over here. We'll reassemble in the wardroom in two hours.”

Vadduvakal, Mullaitivu District

Stark remained on his knees and put his hands behind his head as the armed soldiers neared. It was up to them now: execution or capture. The Tigers kept their guns trained on him as their leader approached. He shouted an unintelligible command at Stark, who found himself wishing he had access to Warren's translation app. The leader motioned for Stark to get up, then drove the butt of his rifle into Stark's stomach. Stark doubled over in pain.

Other soldiers surrounded Stark, grabbed his arms, and marched him back to one of the trucks. They threw him in the truck bed and piled in on top of him, kicking him and laughing as he lay helpless at their feet. The younger ones—conscripts, clearly—seemed energized by their first military action. Stark looked past their faces at the sky and tried to ignore them. The truck made four turns in its twenty-minute journey, passing through a small town just before the end. When the engine stopped, the men threw him out of the truck. He landed in soft, white sand. He was only thirty yards from the water, although a four-foot-high dune obstructed his view.

To his left in the distance—toward the north—he could see dozens of rusty, dilapidated freighters and containerships anchored offshore. He surmised that this was the famed Mullaitivu Breakers, where old ships went to die. They rode passively at permanent anchor, waiting to be picked apart like a Thanksgiving turkey. More were beached in various stages of disassembly. Behind him was a causeway that connected the small town with this isolated spot. To the south he saw anchored fishing boats as well as some commercial speedboats probably used for patrolling the waters. There were two bunches of soldiers on the beach, each of about a dozen men. He had found the Sea Tigers' headquarters.

His captors pushed Stark toward a square wooden building with a tin roof and shoved him inside. The building had no windows, but dusty sunlight peeked in through cracks between the wooden planks and the corrugated tin roof. A few large boxes, one of which was open and empty, were scattered about the floor. Above were wooden beams with pulleys. The building had probably been used to store supplies for the local fishermen until the Tigers had reignited the war.

The soldiers pulled Stark's coveralls down to his waist and ripped off his black T-shirt. They bound his hands tightly together. He didn't try to fight them. There were too many here and outside, and he had to conserve his energy. They secured the rope that bound his hands to one of the pulleys and raised him so that his feet were off the ground. It took four of them to hoist him to that height. He heard another vehicle stop outside. He took long, deep breaths and waited.

A small, thin Tamil in khaki trousers and a white shirt entered with two soldiers ahead of him and two behind. These men weren't like the conscripts who had captured him. These men were older, and they had the severe and determined look of men who had seen battle. These were veterans of the first Sri Lankan civil war.

“I grow weary of foreign visitors,” the man said curtly as he nodded to one of the other soldiers behind Stark. Stark heard the unmistakable
whoosh
of a whip just before it snapped on his back. He cried out with the first stroke, then regained his composure and clenched his jaw during the subsequent four strikes. He was able to bury the pain deep within himself but lost the ability to control his breath.

“Shall we talk now?” the man said, pacing in front of him. “You are in Tamil territory and you were armed. You killed many of my men. I may kill you now.” He nodded, and the soldier whipped Stark twice more. Stark grunted and snapped his head back toward the pain at each blow.

“Why are you here?” Another nod. Another slash. “Have you come to rescue someone?” Another nod. Another blow. Stark tried to ignore the sonic booms caused by the crack of the instrument of pain.

Rescue someone?
Stark thought.
Who needs to be rescued? Melanie? The children? Surely they're safely away by now. Someone else?
By now Stark was having difficulty getting enough air.

“Talk.”

“Go to hell,” Stark whispered. The man punched Stark in the groin. Stark's eyes watered with the pain, but even with blurred vision he was able to see
soldiers drag a man into the room and drop him on the ground near the leader's feet. The man's face was obscured, but he was obviously in pain, and his bound hands revealed that he hadn't come with the Tamils willingly.

“What is his name?” the Tiger leader asked the man on the ground.

“His name is Stark,” the man answered dully. “He has a ship.” Even through his agony Stark was shocked to recognize the whiny voice of Rear Adm. Daniel Rossberg.

“Thank you, Admiral. Tell me about your ship, Captain Stark.”

“Are you Vanni?” Stark shot back, regaining his composure. Rather than answering, the man grabbed a tire iron from atop a box and struck Stark's left ankle. Stark still had his boots on, but they did little to dull the sharp pain. He wondered if something had just been broken.

“Better answer him, Stark,” Rossberg said. “He'll just keep hurting you until you do.”

“Yes. The admiral has been very cooperative,” Vanni said, guessing the thoughts running through Stark's mind.

When Stark was silent for a moment longer, Rossberg ventured, “His ship is—”

“Shut your fucking pie-hole, Rossberg,” Stark yelled just before Vanni took the tire iron to his thigh. He stiffened in agony, unable to stifle a scream.

“Tell me more about him, Admiral.”

“His name is Connor Stark. He was a Navy commander once, but now he is a mercenary. He stole my ship, my command,” Rossberg said as he cowered on the dirt floor.

“Very good, Admiral. Are you a mercenary or a Navy commander now, Mr. Stark?” Vanni asked.

“I'm a man on a pulley,” Stark said defiantly.

“Were you here to rescue Admiral Rossberg?” he asked.

Stark closed his eyes and focused on the pain and his breathing.

“Very well. Now I have two hostages. You will both serve a glorious purpose in a few days. And how fortunate that you know one another. You can spend the time getting reacquainted.”

The Squadron

Melanie had just enjoyed her first shower in more than a week, courtesy of the destroyer
LeFon
, and had donned the camouflage “blueberries” worn by most sailors on deployment in the fleet. A female crewmember with an extra rack
in her stateroom had offered it to Melanie so she could have some peace and quiet. She took a short but very refreshing nap, and then a sailor escorted her to
LeFon
's wardroom, where Jaime Johnson, Ranasinghe, Olivia Harrison, and Golzari were already seated. Golzari had bigger bags under his eyes than normal, but she hadn't known him to sleep much anyway during the brief time they were together. Jay Warren entered just after she did. He carefully avoided looking at Olivia Harrison.

Harrison rose, walked straight up to Warren, and grabbed his meaty arm. “Where's the captain, Jay?”

After a moment of silence, he choked out, “He's still there. The captain's the reason the rest of us made it out.”

“Please have a seat, Ms. Arden,” Johnson said. She stood and went to the galley window, where a mess crank handed her a plate of greens, rice, beans, and bread. Johnson walked it over to Melanie's place. “Agent Golzari told me you're a vegetarian. We can make something else for you if you prefer.”

“No, thanks. This is perfect. Thank you very much for your kindness, Captain,” Melanie said.

Jaime Johnson took her seat and looked around the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, we find ourselves in unusual circumstances. The last EMP attack left our ships without radar and navigation systems. While it's not the optimal situation, we can get by without those. Humankind sailed the oceans for thousands of years without modern technology. My junior officers have all been brushing up on their MoBoards,” Johnson said, adding, “maneuvering boards, Ms. Arden,” after she noticed Melanie's quizzical look.

“More troubling is that we find ourselves without the ability to communicate with anyone on the outside. The last rocket was close enough to wipe out our communication systems. We are left with only a few choices on how to proceed,” Johnson said. “And I want to be clear at the outset why I have allowed Ms. Arden to remain here. First, she has been with the Tigers and I'm hoping she can enlighten us. Second, she's a journalist. Normally our public affairs officer at Seventh Fleet would have to be consulted about this, but that isn't possible. Because of the circumstances, I want to be as transparent as possible without violating security constraints. Ms. Arden, you are our guest. You are free to take notes and eventually to report on what we do, because there should be a record and accountability. We have been drawn into a war zone. The Tamil Tigers have demonstrated that they are a threat not only to the Sri Lankan government but to neutral shipping as well.