Tipping Point: The War With China - the First Salvo (Dan Lenson Novels) (23 page)

HE
didn’t have far to go to lay the task group athwart
Patchooli
’s track from Karachi to the Mozambique Channel. The motor vessel was already up on GCCS, though still over
Savo
’s radar horizon. He was tempted to send Red Hawk out for a visual, but didn’t, mindful of Wilker’s caution about airframe hours. Since the sonar exercises hadn’t started yet, he just shifted them thirty miles west and proceeded as planned.
Pittsburgh
began her runs, first on
Mitscher,
then on
Savo
. Dan stopped in to watch the sonarmen but was reminded, once again, what ASW really stood for: awfully slow warfare.

He’d seen the poppy fields in Afghanistan with TAG Bravo, trying to localize and kill bin Laden in the aftermath of 9/11. Hashish and heroin were the cash crops of those remote and lawless highlands. When one conduit was turned off, the stream flowed another way. Right now, it seemed to be moving by sea, from Pakistan down the east coast of Africa to South Africa, Amsterdam, and New York.

He was on the bridge with his feet up when the sun crashed into the sea in a blaze of flaming debris. The cloud cover had thinned—not for long, Van Gogh assured them—and one bright planet, Jupiter, was even visible. The intercept would occur at night. Down on the forecastle the VBSS—visit, boarding, search, and seizure—team was running a drill. Back aft, Pardees was checking the RHIBs they’d use for boarding while
Savo
stood off.

He sighed, fighting the old apprehension. This was how
Horn
had died. Intercepting what looked like a soft target. The bomb had left her a radioactive wreck. But he couldn’t let that paralyze him. No two situations were ever the same.

Feet up, drawing slow deep breaths, he waited for the night.

*   *   *

HE
detached
Savo
after dusk and ran north. If anything went sour, it would be better to limit the damage to one ship. He wasn’t sure if he was being prudent or paranoid. It was only a freighter, for God’s sake.

Still, he lingered on the bridge, reading over the protocols for boarding. In the old days, you fired a gun to order a ship to heave to. Now you needed probable cause, flag country permission, a warning, and a properly phrased request. You had to reconcile UN ROEs, NATO ROEs, JCS ROEs, and theater ROEs, and the battle group staffs got into the act sometimes too. But in general, the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea—UNCLOS—prohibited boarding on the high seas without permission of the flagging nation. There was wiggle room in the case of suspected smugglers, though, and if the ship’s master gave permission, Dan could do a consensual boarding even lacking flag nation permission.

The interesting thing tonight was that the shipowner claimed Bangladeshi registration, but according to Fleet’s message, the Bangladeshi government hadn’t been able to confirm it. They might just be unable to find the documents, or the shipowner could be lying. Fifth Fleet wanted him to make it consensual if possible, but weasel-worded whether he was to proceed if permission was denied.

Mills made the initial call on Channel 16. “
M/V
Patchooli,
Motor vessel
Patchooli,
this is U.S. Navy warship ahead of you on bearing one-nine-zero. I am closing you for visual inspection. Please acknowledge. Over.”

They got a garbled answer in halting English. Mills went on to ask for identification and flag. The answer came back that it was Pakistani-flagged.

The 21MC, by his feet.
“Captain, you following VHF?”

“Yeah, Matt. I got that. Interesting. Let’s get in there, let him see us,” he instructed Pardees, the officer of the deck. “And get those searchlights on.”

“How close we want to be, Captain?”

“Make it … five hundred yards. And let’s go to general quarters.”

“General quarters, sir?”

“I don’t like to repeat myself, Noah.” He regretted his tone instantly, but refrained from apologizing. Pardees was a little
too
casual, sometimes. “And I want everyone on the bridge in flash gear. Matt, give us four minutes to close in and light him up, then ask for permission to board.”

Someone hawked and cleared his throat on the darkened bridge, but he didn’t hear any voiced questioning. Just the clank and scuffle as lockers came open, gear was distributed and pulled on. Maybe it
was
overkill. But still …

He climbed down from his chair and felt his way out onto the wing. A waning moon that barely penetrated the overcast. Four-foot seas. Boat ops were always risky, and these conditions were marginal, especially at night. He unholstered the Hydra and went over risk-reduction procedures with Mytsalo and BMC Anschutz, back on the boat deck. The freighter grew, red and white running lights, and a row of lit windows.

Savo
’s lights came on, swung across the dark sea, and pinned it. Black hull, white superstructure, a shelter-decked break-bulker with pilothouse aft and booms forward. At a guess, three hundred feet, and by no means new, by the streaks of rust along the scuppers and anchor well. She flew no flag.

“About ready for the scrap heap, looks like to me,” Noblos said, beside him.

Dan almost winced, the guy’s appearance was such a surprise. “Bill … I mean, Dr. Noblos. Don’t see you up here much. In fact, I think this is the first time.”

“I heard GQ being passed.” The reclusive scientist was a tall shadow. “What’re we doing?”

“Intercepting a smuggler. Want to go over with the boat, take a look?”

“Ha-ha! I think not. Can we talk about your crossfield amplifiers on the forward transmitters?”

“Uh, Doctor, I’d love to, but right now I’m kind of preoccupied.”

“It’s important. If you want to keep your Aegis on the line.”

“Sure, but can we make it some other time? Soon, but right now.”

“I’ve been trying to have a conversation for some time, Captain. As I’ve said before, several of your radar parameters are degraded. Others are merely nominal. Your operator proficiency is actually dropping, it seems to me.”

Dan said, “I don’t think you’re saying my operators aren’t trying hard enough. Or are you?”

Noblos shrugged. “The reasons are not my concern. But I’ll advise you now: I’m drawing up a recommendation that your BMD mission area certification be suspended.”

Dan said evenly, “Thanks for the heads-up, Bill. But as I just said, can we make this some other time? Right now I’m trying to run a board and search.”

Noblos smiled coldly. “Absolutely, Captain. Whenever is most convenient for you. Just let me know.”

Noblos felt his way to the door, knocking something off the nav table. Dan filed him away and got his binoculars back on the nearing ship, gripping the radio handset awkwardly too. “Five hundred yards,” the OOD reported. “Matching course and speed. Ten knots, one niner five.”

“All right …
whoa
!”

Under their lights, the freighter had swung her rudder hard, rotating her stern out toward
Savo.
It neared and neared, looming. Pardees ordered his rudder left, but Dan cautioned him that might smash their sterns together as both ships pivoted apart. “Steady as you go. He’s gonna just miss you.”

The 21MC:
“He’s not going to cooperate.”

“Yeah, he just turned away … Let me talk to him.” Dan pulled down the gray handset, clicked to the International Bridge to Bridge, squeezed the Transmit button. “Motor vessel
Patchooli,
this is commanding officer of U.S. warship. Request to speak to captain.”

“This captain M-V
Patchooli.
Go on.”

“This is U.S. Navy warship. What flag do you sail under, Captain?”

“Bangladeshi flag vessel.”

“Bangladesh does not acknowledge your registry. What is your true ownership and home port?”

The answer came back scrambled and cut off, but might have been “Pakistan.” Dan cradled the handset, frowning. Pakistan, not Bangladesh? Well, he wasn’t going to wait around with his thumb up. “
Patchooli,
this is Navy warship. We are boarding under provisions of UNCLOS Article 108 and the Convention on Facilitation of International Maritime Traffic. Come to course one-nine-zero at five knots and stand by for boarding on your port side aft.”

“No, Captain. You are in violate of 1988 SUA convention. Boarding us without permission is piracy under international law.”

“Jeez,” said Staurulakis from the dark. He wondered how long she’d been there. “This is new. A smuggler quoting international law.”

Dan grinned. “A real ‘sea lawyer’ … Okay, let’s try this again.” He lifted the handset once more.

This time he got a different voice back. An oily, smooth spokesperson with a much better command of English. She said,
“This is
Patchooli.
I am speaking for the master. You are in violation of international law. We are beyond territorial seas. A warship may ask us questions, but you may not board us without our permission.”

Dan cleared his throat impatiently. “This is Navy warship off your port side—”

“This is
Patchooli.
Maritime law insists you must identify yourself properly.”

Dan said unwillingly, because the woman did have a point, “This is U.S. Navy warship
Savo Island.
I say again,
Savo Island
.” He gave her his hull number and said, “Request you cease maneuvering and slow for boarding.”

“This is
Patchooli.
The Convention for the Suppression of Unlawful Acts Against the Safety of Maritime Navigation makes it a criminal act to unlawfully seize or exercise control over a foreign flagged ship at sea. You have no right to stop us. Therefore we will not heave to.”

Dan snorted. In the not too distant future, every ship would have to sail with a full legal team. Beside him the officer of the deck murmured, “A shot across his bows?”

“Just give me a minute, okay, Noah?”

The 21MC.
“Bridge, CIC.”

Pardees hit the lever twice to say “Go ahead” and a petty officer said,
“Sir, we have a distress call going out from our guy alongside. He’s saying he’s under attack by pirates.”

“What the fuck?” Staurulakis stamped her boot.

“
Mitscher’s
answered up asking for his position.”

Dan said, “Get
Mitscher
on a secure circuit. Advise them there’s no attack, just this little prick jerking our chain. Tell this asshole, stop screwing around and cooperate.”

He slid down from his chair and crossed the pilothouse, bumping into someone but not apologizing, just shoving on through until he’d undogged the starboard door and was out on the wing. He looked across to where the searchlights still illuminated the freighter. It was headed away. Froth at the rounded stern showed he was cramming on power. A heavy, oily smoke bit his nostrils, and the beams above became solid shafts, turning coffee-brown as they plunged into obscurity.

Did this idiot really think he could make smoke and run away? He shouted into the pilothouse, “Come around to follow him. Bump up to ahead full. But don’t get too close, and watch his stern.” That was where they’d see motion first, if the freighter tried to squirm away again.

Back on the radio. “Motor vessel
Patchooli,
this is
Savo Island,
astern of you and closing. You are placing yourself in danger by attempting to avoid a legal boarding. This is your second verbal warning. Log that, and the time,” he told the junior officer of the deck. His ROEs were clear: he had to offer a graduated series of nonlethal warnings before resorting to lethal force. But verbal cautions didn’t seem to be having much effect. He picked up the sound-powered circuit and snapped the dial to Gun Control. “CO.”

“Guns here, sir.”

“I may need a star shell. And break out a couple rounds of BL&P just in case. But so far, weapons tight. Can do?”

“Aye aye, sir. Mount 51, load one illumination round to the transfer tray.”
The forward five-inch gun suddenly tilted its barrel up, then snapped it down again. It rotated left and right, testing the train mechanisms.

“Report on 21MC when ready.” Dan snapped off as his own bitch box said,
“CIC, bridge: he’s going out on HF.”

“Say again?”

“M/V
Patchooli
is going out on high frequency to ‘any vessel this net,’ reporting attempted piracy.”

This was too much. He told Pardees, “Six short blasts,” and waited as the horn droned out. He followed it with another warning over VHF as the cruiser, responding to increased power, surged up alongside the fleeing freighter. Huge black clouds were pouring from its stack, and a bow wave glowed in the searchlights’ beams.

“Am I missing anything here?” he asked the exec.

“External loud hailers. So they can’t say their radio malfunctioned.”

“Okay, right.” He had Nuckols repeat his warning on
Savo
’s loudspeakers. The other still didn’t alter course. She was making about fifteen knots, which had to be close to her maximum speed, but
Savo
could easily double that. Dan kneaded his face. Where did this fool think he was going?

“Bridge, Gun Control. One round illumination to the transfer tray.”

Dan said, “Mount 51 in local control. One round illumination. Load. Thirty degrees left of his bow light. Double-check bearing. Report when ready.”

“Mount 51, ready and standing by.”

“Batteries released, one round,” Dan said.

The gun thumped and flashed, and a red-hot comet arched out into the night. It ignited into a magnesium brilliance that illuminated the undersides of the clouds and glittered white off the waves, so bright he had to squint. As the rays gleamed across the water he brought the binoculars up until he was looking at the pilothouse. Through one window, just for an instant, he made out the cutout of a human figure. And behind it, what looked very much like an armed man pointing a rifle at the back of its head.