meeting. He had read all the message traffic and even Rosen’s e-mails, which the night duty staff had arranged in chronological order by date-time group.
CIA director Mario Tomazic was a new guy, a retired army four-star who made his bones in Iraq. He got this job, Jake suspected, because he was quite good at not saying things the staffers at the White House didn’t want to hear.
“Who are these pirates?” the director asked.
The silence that followed was pregnant, so Jake Grafton stepped in. “Apparently they work for a pirate warlord named Ragnar, which is not his real name but a nom de guerre. Either he’s a fan of Ayn Rand or someone told him a lie or two. In any event, NSA says he and the pirate leader aboard ship have been gabbling back and forth. Our files say Ragnar’s base is Eyl.”
“Any ransom demands yet?”
“Not yet, sir. If they hold to their normal routine, there won’t be until they get the ship in the harbor and the people into the old fortress on the bluff.”
“What’s 151 going to do about all this?”
An aide directed the people at the table to the appropriate messages. Of course Jake had already read his copies. Now he reread them as the others digested Adrmiral Tarkington’s messages and the national security staff’s responses.
The director got it. “The staffers decided they know more about pirates than Admiral Tarkington.”
Grafton met Tomazic’s eyes. “Oh, man,” the retired general said disgustedly. He swept the pile of paper in front of him aside.
“Okay,” he said to the aide. “Where the hell is everybody out there?”
That was an easy request to answer. The computer display was soon on the screen on the wall. On the left side was a legend that explained the symbols. An aide pointed out ship positions and enemy strongholds with a white piece of wood, one little more than a large splinter.
“Let’s assume the ship reaches port, somewhere,” the director said. “There’ll be a ransom demand. That’s where the politicians will go into a dither. Pay or don’t pay? Shoot or surrender?”
“What if the ship owners or governments or private people refuse to pay ransom?” one staffer asked.
“Those people on that ship will expect the government to pay or rescue them,” said another.
“One or the other.”
“What about all those foreigners aboard Sultan ? Should the U.S. government pay ransom to get them back?”
“Their governments can figure it out.”
“So we only buy out Americans?”
“Foreigners don’t pay taxes or vote. The American taxpayer is tapped out. And in a pretty damn sour mood.”
“It’s a British ship. Don’t forget that. This is really London’s problem, not ours.”
“It’s registered in Monrovia, Liberia.”
“So call the Liberians.”
“This is amazingly insightful,” Tomazic said dryly. He glanced at Grafton, who had been sitting with his mouth firmly closed. “Don’t we have a covert team in Somalia?”
“A snatch team camped out in the desert,” Jake said with a curt nod. “Eating MREs, shitting in a hole and working on their tans.”
Tomazic grunted and glanced at his watch. “Well, I gotta get over to the White House and get told what we’re gonna do.” He stood and the meeting was over.
* * *
The remainder of the afternoon passed slowly with Richard Ward and Chosin Reservoir keeping station four miles away on each of Sultan ’s flanks. Ospreys and choppers ferried marines to the Ward, just in case. Fighters from the carrier to the northeast flew lazy patterns high overhead.
When he had done everything he could, Toad Tarkington went to his stateroom and tried to nap. He tossed and turned and fumed at the politicos in Washington.
He wrote a letter to his wife, worked his way through a pile of routine paperwork and was on the flag bridge to watch the sun sink in the west.
As darkness settled over the ocean, Sultan of the Seas kept every light ablaze as she steamed south, even the
CIA director Mario Tomazic was a new guy, a retired army four-star who made his bones in Iraq. He got this job, Jake suspected, because he was quite good at not saying things the staffers at the White House didn’t want to hear.
“Who are these pirates?” the director asked.
The silence that followed was pregnant, so Jake Grafton stepped in. “Apparently they work for a pirate warlord named Ragnar, which is not his real name but a nom de guerre. Either he’s a fan of Ayn Rand or someone told him a lie or two. In any event, NSA says he and the pirate leader aboard ship have been gabbling back and forth. Our files say Ragnar’s base is Eyl.”
“Any ransom demands yet?”
“Not yet, sir. If they hold to their normal routine, there won’t be until they get the ship in the harbor and the people into the old fortress on the bluff.”
“What’s 151 going to do about all this?”
An aide directed the people at the table to the appropriate messages. Of course Jake had already read his copies. Now he reread them as the others digested Adrmiral Tarkington’s messages and the national security staff’s responses.
The director got it. “The staffers decided they know more about pirates than Admiral Tarkington.”
Grafton met Tomazic’s eyes. “Oh, man,” the retired general said disgustedly. He swept the pile of paper in front of him aside.
“Okay,” he said to the aide. “Where the hell is everybody out there?”
That was an easy request to answer. The computer display was soon on the screen on the wall. On the left side was a legend that explained the symbols. An aide pointed out ship positions and enemy strongholds with a white piece of wood, one little more than a large splinter.
“Let’s assume the ship reaches port, somewhere,” the director said. “There’ll be a ransom demand. That’s where the politicians will go into a dither. Pay or don’t pay? Shoot or surrender?”
“What if the ship owners or governments or private people refuse to pay ransom?” one staffer asked.
“Those people on that ship will expect the government to pay or rescue them,” said another.
“One or the other.”
“What about all those foreigners aboard Sultan ? Should the U.S. government pay ransom to get them back?”
“Their governments can figure it out.”
“So we only buy out Americans?”
“Foreigners don’t pay taxes or vote. The American taxpayer is tapped out. And in a pretty damn sour mood.”
“It’s a British ship. Don’t forget that. This is really London’s problem, not ours.”
“It’s registered in Monrovia, Liberia.”
“So call the Liberians.”
“This is amazingly insightful,” Tomazic said dryly. He glanced at Grafton, who had been sitting with his mouth firmly closed. “Don’t we have a covert team in Somalia?”
“A snatch team camped out in the desert,” Jake said with a curt nod. “Eating MREs, shitting in a hole and working on their tans.”
Tomazic grunted and glanced at his watch. “Well, I gotta get over to the White House and get told what we’re gonna do.” He stood and the meeting was over.
* * *
The remainder of the afternoon passed slowly with Richard Ward and Chosin Reservoir keeping station four miles away on each of Sultan ’s flanks. Ospreys and choppers ferried marines to the Ward, just in case. Fighters from the carrier to the northeast flew lazy patterns high overhead.
When he had done everything he could, Toad Tarkington went to his stateroom and tried to nap. He tossed and turned and fumed at the politicos in Washington.
He wrote a letter to his wife, worked his way through a pile of routine paperwork and was on the flag bridge to watch the sun sink in the west.
As darkness settled over the ocean, Sultan of the Seas kept every light ablaze as she steamed south, even the
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