The Delta Solution (5 page)

The slow-moving trawler was showing no radio or radar transmissions. It was plainly harmless and very small compared to his 18,000-ton merchantman.

The result of all this radar cat-and-mouse was that the
Mombassa
was somehow watching the Americans, but the Americans were paying little or no attention to the former longline tuna boat from Thailand.

As the powerful freighter from Diego Garcia rolled ever forward, Captain Hassan steered out to a position eight miles off the
Niagara Falls
’s starboard quarter. From there he could watch the screen as the Americans went past. And now he came around, facing south in a slightly rising sea, beneath a bright moon and phosphorescent water.

Hassan could see her starboard lights as she steamed along the horizon, making that same steady 12 knots she’d been recording throughout her journey.

By now Ismael Wolde was standing next to him staring through the Russian binoculars. “We come straight in on her stern?” he asked.

“We don’t have much choice,” replied Hassan. “We don’t fire across the bows. We move up on them very carefully. This is a bright night, and I don’t want them to see us. I’d recommend the skiffs track him for a couple of very quiet miles, no lights. And then close in at high speed for the final five hundred yards, staying in the portside shadow of the ship for the attack.”

Captain Hassan fell in astern of the
Niagara Falls
, about eight miles off her starboard quarter. His plan was to track the Americans for maybe twenty-four miles, drifting to his portside, closing all the way, until the
Mombassa
was only a mile back and dead astern. Then they would lower the skiffs and move unobtrusively in for the attack. No lights, no revs, quiet running until they came alongside their quarry.

The Americans might catch a “paint” of the tuna boat, but they would not see the skiffs moving in below the radar, showing nothing on the screen for the last mile. Captain Hassan turned off all of his electronics and they proceeded forward in dark silence.

Captain Hassan opened his throttles at 0100 and came in much faster to his chosen spot, making 18 knots through the water for the six-mile journey. It took him less than twenty minutes, and there was heavy activity on deck as Ismael Wolde’s men prepared to lower the two fully laden skiffs over the side.

As long as they were on board, Captain Hassan gave the orders, and at 0140, he called down, “Okay, Ismael. Lower away.”

The skiffs reached the water with two men already aboard each one, and the Yamahas kicked into life. On either side of the ship, Ismael’s men moved expertly down the rope ladders. The pirate leader came last, climbing down to the starboard skiff, which would be helmed by Abadula Sofian.

Also in this boat was the slim, athletic Somali lookout, Bouh Adan, and the missile director, Elmi Ahmed. Two other young bloods from the old fishing fleet completed the six-man crew. Each boarding pirate carried an AK-47 plus two grenades.

On the portside, Hamdan Ougoure, Wolde’s head of ordnance, would take the helm. Omar Ali Farah would ride with the big machine gun and the veteran Somali army sergeant Ibrahim Yacin would be first up the
grappling ropes. Gacal Gueleh, a former fisherman from Mogadishu, was in charge of fixing the rope ladders up the side of the
Niagara Falls
just as soon as the first grappling hook sailed over the gunwales.

Somalia’s pirates had learned the hard way that rope ladders were about a hundred times quicker to climb than having the men climbing ropes, hand over hand, their feet struggling to find a grip.

And now, with everyone seated and the boats low in the water, Captain Hassan cast off and sent them away. Three of the departing pirates had cell phones with open lines to Hassan’s bridge.

The skiffs moved through the water at 20 knots. They were barely a mile behind the US aid ship, which was, as ever, making 12 knots. Gaining eight miles an hour, that meant a seven-minute run for the skiffs to catch her, and Wolde was confident they were under the radar.

The stern lights on the
Niagara Falls
grew closer, and the men from Haradheere could see the silhouette of the 18,000 tonner in the moonlight as she rode the long swells toward the coast of Africa.

It was 0155 when they hit the first rough chop from the freighter’s mighty bronze single screw. Wolde, in the lead boat, ordered Abadula Sofian to steer into the smoother water to the portside and then run in along the hull, cutting the speed and holding position in the shadows.

This was easier said than achieved. There was by now a bow wave rolling back, and the
Niagara Falls
’s quarter deck was higher than Yusuf’s sketch e-mailed from Washington, DC. It was, in fact, an old military helicopter landing pad, and immediately forward the deck dropped down to its lowest point. There was a fifty-foot “window” to throw the grapplers. It was up to the helmsmen to hold the skiffs at zero speed relative to the forward motion of the freighter.

The upper works too were higher than Wolde had expected, but the deck was much lower and the Somali pirate king assessed the grapplers needed to fly fourteen feet above the water in order to clear the rails and grip. The good news was there was not a sound from the crew of the
Niagara Falls
, most of whom were sound asleep.

Wolde’s boat was right where he wanted it. Abadula had the skiff balanced. The engines ran softly. The only sound was the occasional clink as the grappling men stood clear of their shipmates, waiting to throw, awaiting the command.

Hard astern, Hamdan Ougoure was having minor problems getting
Skiff Two balanced against the hull, and the sea was now rising perhaps four feet on the swell. But his team was made up of experts. The grapplers were ready. The crew stood back for the throw.

Ismael Wolde positioned himself on the stern to ensure his command would be heard by both boats.

“Ready?” he snapped.

“Affirmative,” called Ibrahim Yacin, a former Somali gunrunner who believed he was the reincarnation of General Rommel.

“LET’S GO!!” called Wolde. In the same split second, four grappling hooks whirled around three times and then flew upward. Each rope was marked with a thick red wool tie, showing the precise place the throwers should tighten their grip to avoid the grapplers rolling around on deck.

The irons hurled by three of the pirates landed perfectly over the rails with a clinking noise, but the fourth one got away, flying up way too high and landing with a thump, clatter, and rumble as it shot back to the rails and smacked into the metal post.

Charlie Wyatt, wide awake and with the air-conditioners cut back, was sitting below an open window on the port side. The clatter caused by grappler four caused him to jump out of his chair.

“What the fucking hell was that?” he shouted. Fred Corcoran, dozing on the whiplash hair trigger of a veteran ocean master, came out of his chair like a bullet. Rick Barnwell had been reading on the far side of the bridge and did not hear the racket. But he heard Charlie Wyatt.

“We’ve fucking hit something!” he shouted. “Either that or the goddamned radar just fell off the roof.”

Charlie craned out of the window and could not believe his eyes. There in the moonlight, illuminated by the light from the upper-works entrance, two figures could be clearly seen clambering aboard the
Niagara Falls
.

Ismael Wolde and Bouh Adan were up and over. And before Charlie Wyatt had time to collect himself, the rope ladders and their separate grappling hooks were flung over the rail by the dead-eyed Gacal Gueleh, which signalled the moment when everyone, all eight of the remaining men, jumped on to the ladders and climbed up with every ounce of their strength.

“HOLY SHIT!” bawled Charlie. “We’re being boarded. Get the fucking baseball bats, RITCHIE! This is it!”

Captain Corcoran already had the loaded M-4 machine gun in firing
position and had joined Charlie at the window. The full crew from the
Mombasssa
was not yet over the rails, but both Fred and Charlie could see four heads coming up the ropes, with the two lead climbers, Wolde and Bouh, pulling their Kalashnikovs off their shoulders.

Fred opened fire in a reckless and inaccurate volley of flying bullets. More by luck than anything else, he hit and killed young Bouh. Wolde rushed for cover, and Charlie and Rick charged down the stairs wielding the Louisville Sluggers. The fact they were facing gunfire with baseball bats did not faze them since they both believed they may be fighting for their lives.

Fred Corcoran pinned Wolde down behind the portside bulwark. He unleashed another furious volley of fire from the high window but hit nothing. Bullets ricocheted in all directions. The assault troops at the top of the ladders froze since to move forward would be suicide.

By now Charlie and Rick had both reached the bottom of the companionway, and Charlie rushed out onto the deck, where he could see the stalled incoming climbers still on the hull of the ship. Charlie swung hard and caved in the skull of Gacal Gueleh. The former fisherman from Mogadishu, who was trying to fix the rope ladders, toppled backward into the warm waters of the Indian Ocean.

Charlie was just on his backswing to end the life of Elmi Ahmed when Ismael Wolde stepped out of the shadows and gunned him down, four quick-fire bullets straight into his back, instantly killing the first mate from Baltimore.

Up on the bridge, Captain Corcoran’s magazine was empty and he could not locate another. Jimmy Tevez locked them both in, and down below, with Charlie Wyatt dead, the raiders swarmed over the rail. They’d lost Bouh and Gacal, while Hamdan and Abadula were still on the helms. That left eight fully armed pirates against Rick Barnwell and his baseball bat.

Right now, he was tucked behind the deck-level doorway to the upper works, uncertain what to do. Ismael Wolde knew he was there and not carrying a firearm and, very carefully, the Ethiopian-born pirate chief solved the problem.

“Sir,” he said, “I know where you are. And I command you to throw out that baseball bat and then come out yourself with your hands high. I’m giving you five seconds, and then I shall throw a hand grenade through that doorway.”

Somehow Rick understood that his old friend Charlie was dead. And he guessed the captain had run out of ammunition. He tossed out the bat and walked out onto the deck.

“Stand against the wall,” said Wolde icily. “We do not like bloodshed and I regret your colleague opened fire on us from the high window. Two of my men are dead and one of yours. There will be no more killing. Although if there is further resistance from either you or your crew, my warriors are ordered to shoot to kill. Do you understand me?”

“I understand you,” replied Barnwell.

“And now you will lead me and three of my colleagues to your communications center on the bridge, and we will sort out our business together.”

He then ordered four of his team to secure the ship and assemble everyone on deck. Wolde was counting on there being no armed personnel on board except for his own men. He and Elmi Ahmed, in company with Omar Ali Farah, the pirate with the big machine gun, made their way up the companionway to the bridge, the door to which was locked and clipped.

“Tell them to open it,” he commanded.

Rick Barnwell shouted, “May as well open it, sir. They killed Charlie, and there are eight of them, all heavily armed. If you don’t open the door, they’ll blow it open. They have hand grenades. Their CO has ordered no more killing.”

Captain Corcoran understood he was beaten. He unlocked the door. His second mate walked through with his hands still raised. Wolde came next, his Kalashnikov levelled. Omar made a formidable sight holding the big machine gun. Elmi Ahmed moved to the front of the bridge and stood with his gun levelled, like his boss.

“I want all three of you to walk over there and stand with your backs to the wall,” said Wolde. “And listen to my instructions very carefully. First of all, you will cut the ship’s speed back until she is idle in the water, resting on the tide. Then you will call your owners, I think the time is five in the afternoon in Washington.

“You will tell them the
Niagara Falls
has been captured by the Somali Marines. And that you are powerless to fight back. You will tell them I will be in touch personally in the next thirty minutes to inform them of the ransom money—and that twenty-four hours from now, the crew will be taken into captivity on the mainland.

“For the moment that is all. Except of course to mention that if my demands are not met, you will all be shot and the ship and its considerable cargo confiscated permanently.”

Fred Corcoran ordered Rick Barnwell to cut the engines back and open up communications to the maritime section of USAID in Washington. “It’s Section 418,” he said. “I deal with Frank Allard, but this may require the head of section, Eugene Marinello. Tell whoever answers that no one less will do.”

Ismael Wolde walked across the room and picked up Fred’s empty M-4 machine gun. “I shall confiscate this,” he said, admiring the former US military weapon. “And of course any other firearms we discover on board.”

“You won’t find anything,” said Captain Corcoran. “This is a ship on a mission of mercy, carrying aid to your half-assed country. Except for my personal gun, we are completely unarmed.”

“Then I have been very unlucky to lose two of my best men,” replied Wolde. “Very unlucky. I don’t like dead bodies on my ships, so we will take Bouh Adan home with us and place his body in our skiff. My crew will throw your dead man over the side. My other casualty is already in the water.”

“It is traditional in my country that we too would wish to take our dead home, and for that reason I would ask that Charles Wyatt be placed in a body bag and . . .”

“Permission denied,” snapped Wolde, pointing at both Tevez and Barnwell. “You’re lucky I did not shoot you all, after your stupid reaction when we came aboard. You started the killing; don’t make us finish it.”