There was a bit of chuckling. Turbee was gone, like the ghost he sometimes appeared to be.
20
It was just before sunrise, and a thin red line was creeping along the eastern horizon. The seas were calm, and the Haramosh Star was heading due east, at an exhilarating 45 knots. Captain Vince Ramballa himself was on the bridge, rolling a cigarette. He had a cup of steaming hot, freshly ground Java sitting on the console before him. The gauges and computer screens showed that the powerful new engines were functioning perfectly, and that there were no obstructions or ships ahead.
Vince was thinking vaguely about some dockside chatter he’d heard in Karachi, about an American Carrier Group that was conducting naval exercises northeast of Diego Garcia, when an ear-splitting scream shattered the serene predawn air. He instinctively brought his hands to his ears, and in the process of doing so, knocked the coffee into the tobacco can and the rolling papers to the floor.
“Holy—” was all he managed to spit out, as six F-14 Tomcats in tight formation roared overhead, only a few hundred feet above the water. “What the hell was that?” he exclaimed.
His chief navigator was likewise shocked, and the two of them peered at the still-dark overhead skies. Metal doors slammed, as other crewmembers rushed to the bridge. Alarm clocks were unnecessary when there were Tomcats roaring by at supersonic speeds. Sailors were shouting, asking what was going on. They knew that it couldn’t be good. Every man on the ship knew that, less than 12 hours earlier, they had made an unusual rendezvous with a large private yacht. Most had witnessed the slick engineering and mechanics that had been employed to move cargo of some description onboard. A number had worked on the further reload, moving the red brick-like packages received from the Mankial Star to the cargo hold of the PWS-12, stored in a secret pod in the belly of the Haramosh Star. Now they began to wonder exactly what they had on board.
Ten minutes passed, and the distinctive sound of helicopter engines became audible. There was a sharp gust of wind, and two US Navy HH-60H Seahawk helicopters appeared from the aft, matching the ship’s speed.
“This is the US Navy. Cut your engines. Cut your engines now and prepare to be boarded.”
Vince shook his head; he was known by his friends for his tendency to be bullheaded in situations like this. “Fuck them. Who are they anyway? These are international waters.” He told the engineer to keep the course and speed steady. The others looked at him fearfully. The Seahawks had a profoundly menacing appearance. “Keep going,” he said to the crew in his native Urdu. “Those Yankee bastards don’t own this part of the planet.”
“Cut your throttle NOW or we will blow your little tin can boat out of the water,” came the command from the helicopters. “Prepare to be boarded.”
The chief engineer reached for the throttle, but Vince put out his hand to stop him. “No,” he said. “We are in international shipping lanes. We ignore them.”
The engineer looked at Vince as though he was out of his mind. “It’s the US Navy. Are you nuts? These guys are from some carrier battle group south of here, and they could blow up all of India if they wanted to.”
“No,” said Vince. “Let’s see what they do.”
The engineer, navigator, and crewmen now assembled on the bridge were starting to look truly pained. A couple were looking toward the lifeboat stations.
“We repeat. This is the US Navy. Cut your throttle or we’ll blow your asses to Ceylon.” The Navy SEALs aboard the helicopters didn’t have orders to do that, but they figured they might as well have a little fun.
“No,” said Vince, keeping his hand on the throttle.
Another 30 seconds passed. There was enough light now to see the helicopters clearly. A large machine gun was hanging from the base of one of the Seahawks. Abruptly, a spray of 20-mm bullets walked along the starboard side of the Haramosh Star. The engineer reached once again for the throttle. Vince once again stayed his hand.
“No. We keep our speed and course.”
He was now facing a near mutiny from his men. But Vince was wily. He knew what the Americans were looking for, but he didn’t think they’d actually board his ship, or do any major damage. Yousseff had told him that the Americans, if they accosted him at sea, for all their military might and technological wizardry, did not have the political will to sink this little container ship. It would be international suicide. It just wouldn’t happen.
“Easy, comrades. Easy. They are not going to sink us. They are Americans. No balls at all.”
There was uneasy laughter from the crew. Vince reached underneath the command console and grabbed the small digital camera that Yousseff had given him. He set the focus and snapped a couple of shots of the helicopters, hoping there would be enough light to pick them up.
“Last warning, ladies. This ship stops or we will do things to it that are going to make you feel uncomfortable. Cut the throttle. Now.”
Vince stared dead ahead. The crew braced itself. Now what?
They did not have long to wait. On one of the choppers, the pilot turned to his Chief Gunnery Officer. “Let’s give ’em a little fireworks, Sam,” he said. “A mild shot. Stick an RPG into that front container there.”
“OK, boss,” said Sam, smiling. “It’ll be a pleasure.” He attached the RPG to the launcher, and took aim. This shot would have been impossible to miss.
Back on the ship, the front container shuddered and danced. Then there was a great roar, and a flash of fire and smoke. “Holy shit!” exclaimed more than one crewmember. Vince snapped a few more pictures and sighed. It looked like the Americans were serious about searching the small ship.
“OK, cut the throttle,” ordered Vince. “Let’s be gracious hosts and let these people on board. Put this on the International Emergency Frequency,” he told the radio operator. He picked up the microphone and began to speak quickly, in English. “This is the Haramosh Star, a container ship flying the flag of Pakistan. We are being attacked in international waters by the United States Navy. This is the Haramosh Star…”
As the ship drifted to a halt, a series of ropes were dropped from the two helicopters. Eight SEALs descended from each helicopter, and the small team assembled on the still-smoking front deck. They marched, in full battle gear, toward the bridge house, ascended the stairs, and gathered on the bridge itself. Vince was still giving his emergency signal when the soldiers entered the small bridge, but he slid the digital camera into his pocket. With most of the crew there, and 16 armed Americans, it was getting crowded.
“We know that you’re sailing a ship full of explosives, for terrorist purposes,” said the leader of the small SEAL command. “Where are they?”
“No, sir, you are mistaken. We have no explosives aboard this ship. These containers are full of mostly mechanical parts, for automobiles, headed for Vancouver. No explosives here. None.”
“Don’t give us that bullshit, sir,” said the SEAL. “We know that there are explosives aboard this ship. Either you show us where they are or we will rip this ship apart to find them.”
“Sir, please. There are no explosives. Please do not rip apart my ship. We are carrying automobile parts. No explosives.”
“Last warning, buddy. The easy way or the hard way. Where are the explosives?”
Vince merely shrugged.
The SEAL commander smiled grimly. “OK boys, we have work to do. Let’s start with the containers.”