The Aden Effect (21 page)

Stark had been on a cruiser only once before—when he was a young ROTC student on a summer midshipman cruise. The Aegis-equipped cruisers were still new then, with only a few in the fleet. Now they were practically obsolete. With a corpsman on either side supporting him, he joined the rest of the Kirkwalls in sickbay, where a senior corpsman was attending to Jaime Johnson.

“Is she alive?” Stark croaked. He felt the ship begin to shudder, the unmistakable feel of a steel hull accelerating through the water. The bright lights of sickbay faded into black before he heard the answer.

“C
ommander? Commander Stark?” He woke to see a woman with red hair hovering over him. At first he thought it was Maggie. But she didn't wear a naval uniform. Did she?

“Sir, I'm Lieutenant Commander Marla Lorenski, the executive officer.”

Stark fought his drowsiness and pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Thank-you for coming, XO.”

“Our pleasure, sir. It's zero-six-thirty. I realize you haven't had much rest, but the chief here says it would be okay to ask a few questions. Actually, they're Fifth Fleet's questions.”

“Something for the morning brief, huh?” Stark took in the two other people crammed into his sickbay cabin—a corpsman and a specialist.

“Our intelligence specialist here will ask the questions,” the XO said. “It shouldn't take long. After that we can go to the wardroom and get something in your system.”

“The
Kirkwall
's crew, the captain?” Stark turned toward the others.

“Just the six of you, Commander,” responded the senior chief corpsman. “No other survivors or bodies that we found. The captain is one tough lady, sir.”

Stark felt as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. “Is she awake? Can I see her?”

“No, sir, she won't be talking for a while. The doc said she had the worst of it and needs a lot more attention than he can give her. Broken arm, shock, cracked ribs, head injuries. It was a very near thing with her being in the water so long. We're going to medevac her to a French military hospital in Djibouti as soon as our helo is within range.

Stark nodded his thanks and turned to the lieutenant commander. “XO, I need to get back to Sana'a.”

“I'll talk with Air Boss and the CO to see if we can accommodate. Now I'm going to leave you in the specialist's hands for a debriefing.”

Still dazed, and suddenly overwhelmed with hunger, Stark struggled to recount every detail he remembered from the attack—the types of boats, the number involved, and especially the helicopter he had heard before the first blast shook the
Kirkwall
.

When he finally limped into the wardroom, the senior officers and a few junior ones were just finishing breakfast. He stood dutifully at the end of the table and recited the traditional request.

“Commander Connor Stark. May I join you, Captain?”

“Please do,” the captain nodded. Only once in Connor's own career had he seen the senior officer present at the table reject the request. He was an ensign in an old
Perry
-class frigate. The skipper had just found out that his wife had slept with his chief engineer. The captain maintained a cool professionalism elsewhere on the ship, but he refused to allow the CHENG to eat at the same time as he did.

“Thank you, sir,” Stark replied as he took an open seat opposite the captain. He nodded at the other officers present at the table. A very young-looking ensign gave him a shy smile.

One of the mess cranks asked Stark his preference for breakfast.

He didn't hesitate. “Coffee first and then everything else you have.”

The captain cleared his throat and assumed a severe expression. “What were you doing out there, Commander?”

“I'm the new defense attaché in Sana'a, sir.”

“Defense attaché?” the captain asked. He looked confused. “I was told you were on a mercenary ship.”

“Sir,” Stark replied, “the
Kirkwall
is—was—a privately owned armed escort vessel employed by Highland Maritime Defense to provide security to the oil platforms and supply vessels operating near Socotra. It's part of my job to understand all activity in Yemeni waters related to U.S. interests. I was on my way to visit Maddox International's new oil platforms.”

“There's nothing out there that hasn't been here for two thousand years,” the captain said dismissively. “You should have stayed at the embassy. I haven't been to Yemen. Is it worth a port call? Perhaps the
Bennington
should visit.”

Stark almost said that the murder of twelve, and very nearly eighteen, people ought to qualify as something new when he realized that the captain had lost interest and had returned his attention to his breakfast. He was astonished that a man so vacuous commanded a U.S. Navy cruiser. “I appreciate the ship picking us up, sir,” he said instead. “Glad you were nearby.”

The captain glanced up but didn't reply.

Stark spoke again, hoping to get some idea why the Navy had virtually abandoned the waters of the Gulf. “We sure could use some more ships out here to keep things settled.”

“Why? The Navy has more important things to deal with elsewhere.” The captain took a piece of toast off the small rack and nibbled on it like a rabbit.

Bobby Fisk had given up all thought of his own breakfast and was paying rapt attention to the exchange.

“But, sir,” Stark continued, “this would be a perfect time for us to have a lot of small boys out here to cover more territory. I used to command a PC and . . .”

The captain interrupted him without pausing to swallow his toast. “I don't see the need, Commander. Small boats only waste vital resources. CHENG, how are we doing on fuel? Are we going to make it to Djibouti?”

Bobby waited hopefully for Stark to continue, but the visiting commander gave up just like everyone else did.

Stark downed the rest of his coffee, pushed back his chair, and stood. “Excuse me, Captain,” indicating he wished to leave. The captain waved him away.

Stark didn't envy the XO or crew of this ship. Until he met the CO, the ship's crew had seemed first-rate. But he knew that a bad captain could demoralize even a first-rate wardroom and crew. The small man seated at the middle of the long wardroom table was clearly such a captain.

Stark looked at the XO and nodded slightly toward the door, signifying that he wanted to talk outside. He left the wardroom to the sound of the chief engineer's report on the significant loss of fuel sustained during the previous night's high-speed operation. The other officers who had been seated at the table, including the XO and the cigar cabal, rose and followed him out.

“Commander,” the XO said quietly in the passageway, “I spoke to the captain. No go about your flight.”

“XO, I trust you to look after the
Kirkwall
's captain and crew. Now I need to get to Sana'a and report on this.”

“Air Boss, are you okay to fly up there?” the XO asked.

“Not a problem. Once we're further west, it's a straight shot up.”

“OPS, do you think we can help the commander here?”

The operations officer sighed. “I guess so, but the well's starting to dry up.”

Stark watched this byplay, not certain what was going on but well aware that a smart crew could almost always find a way to get things done.

The XO smiled. “It's a plan.”

“XO, are you and the others okay on this ship? Does Fifth Fleet know about the situation here?” Stark asked, expecting a vague response that would not be seen as potentially mutinous.

To his surprise, the XO gave him a forthright answer. “Commander, what you've just experienced is only a taste.”

“I don't have many strings to pull, XO, but these are dangerous waters. If there's anything I can do to help, I'll do it. We were armed and well trained, and they hit us hard. I can't imagine they'd target a cruiser, but those unmanned skiffs and the helicopter have taken things to a whole new level. You didn't see anything in the air?”

“Our SPY-1 radar has been down for months—no spare parts to any ship except those in high-priority areas.”

“Sounds like someone's forgotten about this ship, XO.”

“Commander, it's why one of our nicknames is the ‘island of misfit toys.'”

“I haven't seen any misfits.”
Except for one
he added to himself instead of breaching protocol. “Let's keep in contact and see how we can help each other.”

“Much appreciated, sir. As soon as we get authorization from Fifth Fleet, we'll get you in the air.”

Two hours before Ambassador Sumner was scheduled to leave the embassy compound, Golzari drove again along her intended route looking for anything that seemed unusual or out of place. It was a game he and his father had played when he was a child, after they fled Iran. The Ayatollah's minions might well pursue the shah's former general and his family even in a foreign country, so Damien Golzari had learned the game. He had continued to play it in all the years since, honing his skills while walking down city streets as a beat cop, in grocery lines, and in airport lounges like the one where he had first spotted Connor Stark. The game had saved his life several times in his work as a
Diplomatic Security Service agent—most recently in London when the scent of cologne had alerted him to imminent danger. It had long since stopped being a game.

Two of his weapons were out and at hand on the front passenger seat. The first was his Sig 228 5.56-mm pistol, standard State Department issue. He would be issued a new pistol when State changed over to the 229, which was a little beefier than the 228 but still used NATO-compatible ammunition.

His second weapon was an M4, a carbine variant of the military's M16 with a shorter 14.5-inch barrel and collapsible stock. He had strapped two extra magazines of M4 ammo to the gun, and his go-bag with eight more magazines on a bandolier was within reach on the floor. That should be more than sufficient to get him through a firefight.

He noted some changes on his final pass. Three men standing next to a parked moving van on a dusty street corner caught his eye. They appeared to be taking a cigarette break. One of the three did not look Yemeni. He was taller and thinner and much darker skinned than the two Yemenis. Golzari didn't slow down. After two more blocks he turned down a side street and circled around to park just a block away from the van on the opposite side of the main thoroughfare.

The three men were standing casually, laughing as they smoked. Golzari took a hard look at the one who was not a Yemeni. He appeared to be East African. When he turned so that Golzari could see his face, Golzari went rigid; it was Khalid—or, as he now suspected, Abdi Mohammed Asha. The two Yemeni men climbed into the van's driver and passenger seats while Khalid continued to smoke and talk with them through the open driver's window. Periodically he looked casually down the street in the direction from which the ambassador's car would be coming. He never looked in Golzari's direction.

Golzari had a fleeting doubt. Was he sure about this? Or was the van just a moving van and the men just friends chatting during a work break?
Damn that Stark
, he thought. The little incident with the private security guards had undermined his confidence. He had to decide. Gunny and his Marines would be leaving the embassy compound with the ambassador in just a few minutes.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, holstering his pistol and covering his M4 with his go-bag. He got out of the rental vehicle and locked the doors. In the window's reflection he saw Khalid shake the driver's hand and wave to the passenger. Golzari turned and started walking quickly toward the van. Khalid was crossing over to Golzari's side of the street, moving nonchalantly toward a café
that hadn't yet opened. Suddenly he turned abruptly right toward the street. Even when he could see nothing but the man's back Golzari had no doubt that this was the same man he had met in Maine and tangled with in London. He spoke quietly into the microphone: “Code Black. I repeat, Code Black,” signaling the ambassador's convoy to take an alternate route immediately and return to the relative safety of the compound.

Less than twenty seconds later he saw the Somali put a cell phone to his ear, listen for a moment, then start back across the street, waving at the van.

Thirty yards away now, Golzari reached for his Sig. Taking a chance, he said out loud: “Abdi Mohammed.”

Asha froze and looked back at Golzari, confused that anyone but the terrorists would know his name. When he saw the familiar face, he moved forward a step to attack, then saw the Sig in Golzari's hand. Lacking a comparable weapon, he turned and ran down the street in the opposite direction.

“
Kaf
(Stop)!” Golzari yelled in Arabic. As Asha continued away from him, Golzari heard the moving van's engine rev up as the vehicle pulled away from the curb. Golzari continued to chase Asha even as he knew that he couldn't outrun the van behind him. He pivoted toward the vehicle, which was now less than a block away and headed straight for him.