Syren's Song (5 page)

“Excellent. I'll start with that. Thanks for your help.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Kelly returned with the secretary, who was still wiping away tears with a wad of tissues.

“I need your help,” Golzari said. “I know this is difficult for you, but we need to find out what happened to Special Agent Blake. I need a list of his cases, access to his computer, and anything you received for him from a lab called Academic Solutions. Can you do that?” Golzari spoke with as much sympathy as he could muster, which wasn't very much. He had a low tolerance for human weakness.

She nodded and went back to her desk.

“You look tired,” Kelly said.

“I feel tired. Long flight.”

“Let me guess. Because of the latest Capitol Hill budget battle your department downgraded you from business to coach?”

Golzari nodded once. “And yet they expect us to walk off the plane bright-eyed and ready to work.”

“Tell you what,” Kelly said. “It'll take a little time to get this stuff for you. Why don't you head to the hotel? You're at the Marriott downtown. Get a couple of hours of rest, clear your mind, and then I'll give you any help you need.”

“Thank you. I'll do that.” Golzari wasn't happy about any delay at all, but at least it would give him a chance to get his wine-soaked trousers cleaned.

DAY 2
DAY 2

Port of Chennai, India

T
he khakis, boat shoes, and white long-sleeved cotton shirt Stark wore were an adequate combination for the heat of southeastern Indian weather. The bustling daytime activity at the large port made him cautious. Cranes, vehicles, and people all trying to move cargo and ships as quickly as possible to maximize profit were a dangerous combination. Accidents and injuries—even deaths—were not uncommon in busy ports. Stark slung his large backpack over his shoulder and made his way to one of the smaller piers. Gunny Willis was by his side.

“What do you think, Gunny?”

“No offense, but give me terrain instead of the sea, Skipper. Never liked being on an amphib or in port.”

The out-of-the-way pier was just as busy as the rest of the port and the nearby shipyard, though on a demonstrably smaller scale. Dockworkers were loading crates of food and supplies onto an unusually shaped ship that resembled a shoebox with a horizontally pointed bow. The ship's pilothouse sat forward and was offset to port, making her appear lopsided as well. Two men were on the deck watching a crane load pallets. One of them, a tall, burly redhead, caught sight of Stark and Willis and made his way down the ladder to the dock.

“She don't look like much,” Willis remarked.

“It's all in how you look, Gunny,” Stark said as he leaned across and put one hand on the familiar aluminum hull. “She's a very special ship.”
It's good to see you again, old girl
, he thought.

“If she's so special, why did the U.S. Navy get rid of her?”

“Shortsighted flag officers and rice bowls, Gunny. If the Navy had built a whole class of these ships, things might be different. They're small, but they have a lot of potential.”

“That's why Highland Maritime bought her? For her potential?” Gunny asked.

“Yeah, potential and more. I commanded her for a few months back in the day when she was first built. I know her. And she's got as much heart as
Kirkwall
,” Stark said, referring, Gunny knew, to the Highland Maritime ship lost in the Gulf of Aden in a battle with pirates. “But in the end, it's not the ship but the crew that makes her special.”

Stark checked the lines that secured the ship to the pier as the redheaded man reached the end of the gangplank. “Jay, what's the good word?” Stark said, shaking the outthrust hand of Jay Warren, Highland Maritime's utility infielder. Warren was one of the new hires in Highland Maritime—in the non–security operations wing.

“Boss, are we glad you're here!” Warren said, pulling Stark close and embracing him in a bear hug. Gunny Willis frowned at the informality and took a step backward to put himself out of reach. Stark didn't appear too comfortable with it either, but he had learned long ago to give Warren leeway. You had to do that when dealing with a genius.

“I got here as soon as I could, Jay,” Stark said, gasping as Warren's giant arms finally released him.

“You have
got
to see the new engines,” Warren said enthusiastically. “They work like a dream! She'll be the fastest ship in the Indian Ocean.”

“Speed burns fuel fast, Jay.”

“I know, I know, usually; but that's the beauty of the new system I installed. We'll get 30 percent more range at top speed,” he said, happy as a child with his first bicycle. “I wish we'd thought of it back when we built her. Remember? We talked about it, but the technology just wasn't there yet.”

“Thirty percent? This I have to see.”

Gunny Willis touched Stark's arm. “Sir, we have company coming,” he said as a black limousine approached.

“Jay, this is Gunny Willis,” Stark said. “Would you take him on board while I do a meet and greet?”

The limousine stopped a few feet away from Stark, and two men exited from the rear door. One was a military officer; the other was a civilian holding a briefcase.

“It's good to see you again and with another ship,” said the officer, extending his arm and clasping Stark's hand warmly.

“Captain Dasgupta, this is a pleasant surprise,” Stark greeted the captain. “I hadn't thought to see you on this trip. I appreciate your recommendation that we refit the ship here. This yard completed the work six weeks ahead of schedule.”

“We look forward to seeing how she performs,” the Indian naval captain said with a smile, “although you understand that my government remains concerned about maritime security companies. Your adherence to our regulations has assured them that Highland Maritime remains on our approved list for now.”

“Thank you, Captain. You have my personal assurance that we won't engage in some of the practices of some of our competitors.”

“Yes. In fact, that is why I would like to introduce you to Ambassador Adikira of the Democratic Socialist Republic of Sri Lanka,” Dasgupta said, gesturing toward his companion.

Stark nodded briefly in respect. “Mr. Ambassador.”

“A pleasure, Captain Stark,” the slender, swarthy man said politely. “On Captain Dasgupta's recommendation I have come to you with a proposal. You are aware of the recent terrorist attacks on the Sri Lankan navy?”

“I've seen a few news reports about it.”

“Then you will know that the Tamil Sea Tigers have returned. They succeeded in destroying most of our fleet. That is no secret. We seek . . . assistance.”

“What kind of assistance?” Stark asked warily.

Adikira pulled two sheets of paper from his briefcase and handed them to Stark. The first was in the ambassador's native Sinhalese. The other was formatted the same way but in English. Three words immediately stood out.

“A letter of marque?” Stark asked in disbelief as he read the document.

“We have no ships, Captain Stark, except a few that are in great need of repair. Two American Navy vessels are being temporarily transferred to our government. They will arrive in a few days. I believe the term your government used is ‘capacity building.'”

Stark laughed. “Mr. Ambassador, letters of marque haven't been used since the nineteenth century. I'm not sure they're even still legal.”

“I assure you they are, Captain Stark,” the ambassador said with a smile. The smile faded quickly. “These are difficult times. We need ships and people and very quickly. Captain Dasgupta recommended your firm and you, based on your actions against the Somali pirates.”

“I wasn't hunting anyone then. I was just providing security.”

“This
is
security,” the ambassador said, “the security of our ports and our livelihood. We need you to gather as much information as you can about the Sea Tigers and then provide that intelligence to the new American ships so they can take action.”

“That's all?”

“We understand that you are experienced in conducting vessel searches, Captain Stark. We expect that your intelligence gathering will include stopping and searching any ship within our territorial waters.”

“Does that include only Sri Lankan vessels?”

“No,” he said firmly. “It means any ship.”

Stark's face was grave as he thought about that for a moment, considering the implications. What if his men boarded a Russian or even an American-flagged ship? What were Highland Maritime's legal rights? What were the other ships' legal rights?

The ambassador must have noticed Stark's apprehension. “I think I understand your hesitation, Captain Stark. Your ship would operate under Sri Lanka's flag and would fall under our government's jurisdiction. You will also have a Sri Lankan liaison on board to provide additional legitimacy to your activities. He is a commander in our navy—one of the few who escaped the devastation.”

“This does not fall within my plans. I am supposed to deliver this ship to the Gulf of Aden for security duty,” Stark responded. “Nothing more.”

“As you have just said, you are six weeks ahead of schedule.”

“That's true, Mr. Ambassador,” Stark said. “But I have to pay my men, and fuel isn't free.”

“We are prepared to pay your firm very well for this service and will provide an advance. But you must begin as soon as possible. Time is of the essence.”

Stark was not at all comfortable with the sudden change in mission, particularly in a region where he had never operated or even planned to be.

“Your military is willing to share information before we begin our search?” Stark asked.

“Of course. You will have access to every bit of knowledge my government has.”

“Ambassador, my team would need some time to plan. We'll need supplies for the mission.”

“Our naval station in Colombo will provide you with whatever food, fuel, and ammunition you need,” Adikira said quickly.

Stark narrowed his eyes. The ambassador was fidgeting. Experienced diplomats didn't do that. And he appeared desperate to hire Stark and the
company.
This isn't going to be as easy as he says
.
Still . . . it would make a good shakedown cruise
. Boardings, if done correctly, were simple procedures so long as the teams were vigilant. And for a little intelligence gathering he would get enough money to pay for the final upgrades on the ship with enough extra to give the crew and security team a bonus.

“I'll give you four weeks of my time, Mr. Ambassador. Perhaps you will join me here tomorrow so we can work out the details of this agreement?”

“Of course,” the ambassador said, his relief showing. “Our navy's operations center will coordinate with you on the areas where you will work. Until tomorrow, Captain Stark.”

Stark nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“I wish you good luck,” Captain Dasgupta said, to Stark.

“It won't be the same without you this time,” Stark said, and received a knowing grin from the Indian captain.

“Perhaps,” Dasgupta said. He turned to the ambassador and gestured toward the limousine, then took Stark's arm and walked out of hearing distance from the ambassador.

“Connor, we are pleased that you have taken this assignment.”

“Why? I don't understand.”

“Your ship. My navy is impressed with her, but they would like to see how she performs in Sri Lanka. I understand that Highland now owns the ship and the patents. My navy may be interested in building a number of these.”

“I'm not in this to make a lot of money. We're just trying to do a job.”

“Yes, of course. But we have maritime security concerns, and if we buy the plans from you instead of buying old Russian ships, we both benefit, my friend. The ship's name is not yet painted. How shall I hail you?”

“Don't worry,” Stark grinned. “She'll call out to you. Her name is
Syren
.”

Singapore

The captain of USS
LeFon
, one of the U.S. Navy's newest destroyers and only six months out of the shipyard, brushed back her wiry blond hair, quickly retied it in a regulation bun, and pulled on her ball cap bearing the ship's crest and motto: “For strength. For courage.”

LeFon
had been at sea forty-four days without a port visit. Every mariner on board—enlisted and officer—knew what that meant. By Navy tradition and regulations, a beer would be served to each person on the ship in one more day. That was little consolation for a crew within sight of a city famed for its
nightlife. Nearly every crewmember had offered to man one of the small boats that went ashore or were conducting antiterrorism force protection duties.
LeFon
's task was a significant responsibility. Off one of the busiest ports in the world, the crew maintained high alert for possible threats. Just this morning the captain had noticed a couple of new gray strands in her blond hair.

Cdr. Jaime Johnson leaned back in the captain's chair on the starboard side of the bridge and held her binoculars tightly against her eyes. The wind had shifted from south to northeast and had slowly pushed the ten-thousand-ton warship like a great horizontal pendulum until her bow was directly facing the city. Johnson counted three dozen containerships under way, all steering well clear of
LeFon
. Johnson double-checked the gun crew below manning the port and starboard bow .50-caliber machine guns. The rising sun to starboard reflected off the water, and Johnson looked back at the starboard watch to make sure he had his sunglasses on so he wouldn't miss anything out there. She trusted her crew, but it never hurt to double-check. Her jaw muscles tightened. She wasn't going to lose another ship or crewmember.

“Ma'am,” a baby-faced young ensign said behind her.

“What is it, Ensign?” she said with a smile. She had a soft spot for Bobby Fisk.

“Latest message from Seventh Fleet should be on your screen now,” Ensign Fisk said. Johnson pulled the monitor and keyboard closer and typed in her password.

“One more day, ma'am,” Fisk said. “Think Seventh Fleet will let us pull into port and grant us liberty instead?”

“I doubt it,” she said, adding after a moment, “in fact, I'm sure that's not going to happen. Looks like we're leaving. We're escorting two littoral combat ships to Sri Lanka. We get under way first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Ma'am, terrorists there just wiped out their navy. Does this mean we're going to war?” Bobby asked that only to clarify their mission. He had been in battle before. That action had tempered the young man's desire to go to war, but it had also left him far better prepared if he and his ship were to engage in combat.

“No, Mr. Fisk, I think we're staying out of this one,” Johnson said with a laugh. “The Navy is giving the ships to Sri Lanka, and they have skeleton crews of Sri Lankan officers and sailors. A U.S. Navy flag officer is coming along to supervise the changeover.
LeFon
is just the shepherd. Looks like the admiral will be on board with us until we arrive in Sri Lanka. Huh, no name in the message.”