Farmer said, “So our major job in this exercise will involve keeping Orange subs clear of the transit lanes through which the convoy will move. The IO’s new territory for us. Personally, I’m looking forward to seeing how well we can pick up Pittsburgh today.”
Dan nodded; the sub would be running slowly in on the ships at varying angles and depths, letting them calibrate sensors and estimate detection ranges. He sipped bug juice and massaged his neck. If he could break away and lie down, that would be great. He hadn’t slept well since Hormuz…
He suddenly realized everyone was looking at him. “Excuse me?”
“Sir, I asked if you had anything to add.”
“No, Winston, nothing. Just keep careful notes for the hot washup.” He coughed into his sleeve. “Okay, let’s get to the transit phase. XO?”
Staurulakis stood, and a laser pointer pulsed red. “This slide shows the entry point for the transit of ‘Yellow Road’ to the destination port in the country ‘Oz.’ As you can see, given constructive depths along the route, there’ll be numerous opportunities for Orange force interdiction…”
“Sir.”
Dan flinched at a nudge. The duty radioman, holding the aluminum clipboard with the red and white stripes that meant top secret. Staurulakis fell silent. Dan rose. “Uh, go ahead, Exec. I’ll take this offline.”
He read the message leaning against a stanchion by the juice bar. It was from Fifth Fleet. CentCom Intel reported that M/V Patchooli, Pakistani-flagged, was reported to be carrying a hidden cargo of drugs from Karachi to Europe. The same ship had been boarded the year previously by an Australian destroyer on antidrug patrol, but nothing had been found. Since the Savo task group was operating in the smuggler’s transit area, Dan was directed to board and search, if it didn’t interfere with ongoing operations.
He checked the coordinates, course, and speed. Then plucked the J-phone off the bulkhead for a conversation with CIC.
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?”