Larger ships had multiple larger teams, but Rogue’s smaller crew necessitated a five-man team commanded by a lieutenant, plus the boatswain’s mate acting as coxswain, driving the boat. Each VBSS team member carried at least fifty pounds of gear, including a Kevlar helmet with NVGs, radio headset, body armor in a tactical vest that doubled as a life preserver, flexible restraints, pepper spray, a Beretta M9 pistol, and an MK18 rifle. One member of the team traded the carbine for a Mossberg twelve-gauge in anticipation of the need to breach locked hatches.
Five minutes from target, Lieutenant Junior Grade Steven Gitlin, the ship’s communications officer, ordered his team into the twenty-four-foot RHIB. Petty Officer 2nd Class Marty White, the VBSS team’s usual coxswain, had sprained his ankle while on liberty in Darwin, so Chief Boatswain’s Mate Bobby Rose was at the helm of the rigid hulled inflatable boat. Two minutes later, the ship’s hydraulic aft doors opened, jerk lines were pulled, and the RHIB slid down the aft ramp into the frothy black sea. The 248-horsepower Steyr diesel burbled in the water, and the chief boatswain’s mate, called “Boats” by the crew, brought the inflatable up along Rogue’s starboard side. Gitlin looked at his watch.
Four minutes out. The first images from the Puma would just be streaming in.
? ? ?
The seas swelled in long, rolling trains, but there was hardly any chop, and it was a simple matter for Awang to bring the fishing vessel alongside Lucky Strike and tie off to fore and aft cleats. Rubber bumpers squealed and squeaked as Jemaah Islamiyah men moved steadily back and forth, moving quickly to load a dozen twenty-five-pound canvas bags from the skiff to the sailboat.
The women cowered belowdecks, clutching pitiful kitchen knives and wailing uncontrollably. Their flimsy, whorish clothing made it easier for Mamat not to pity them. Those who would act less than human deserved to be treated like dogs.
It was an easy matter to swat the knives out of the way and drag both woman topside. Awang suggested they rape the women to teach them a lesson in piety. Mamat looked at his watch and shook his head. There was no time for that.
The smaller woman with dark hair remained stoic as the boy dragged her forward and tied her to the bow rail. The redhead spat and fought as they lashed her to the mast. Mamat had to club her in the face to shut her up. One hand he tied at her waist, the other Mamat fixed to a thin length of cord that ran up to a pulley above her head and then down again, leading into the cabin. Though the woman’s arm was free, Mamat could raise or lower the hand by taking up or releasing the tension on the line.
As planned, the boy remained on the sailboat with Mamat and the infidel women—and the RPGs. Awang and the other men climbed back aboard the fishing skiff, the bow of which was packed with three pounds of ammonium nitrate and fuel-oil explosive—half the load they’d brought with them.
Mamat gave a solemn nod to the men and then followed the boy below. The ship would be here in minutes. For this to work, he needed to be out of sight.
? ? ?
A fishing skiff appears to be moving away from the sailboat, sir,” Petty Officer Cooper said, his eyes glued to the hooded viewfinder. He’d issued the Puma a command to loiter two hundred feet above Lucky Strike. “I count two females on the sailboat’s deck.”
“Let’s get a closer look,” the skipper said. “Zoom in. It may give us some indication of these pirates’ state of mind if they didn’t kill their hostages.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Cooper said, increasing the magnification by seven.
“They’re still alive,” Akana mused, studying the images streaming to his tablet. “They’re bound in place and gagged, but one appears to have gotten a hand free. Looks as though she’s waving.”
“I see it too, Skipper,” Cooper said.
A sudden gust of wind blew the Puma off for a moment, disrupting the image. The bird reacquired quickly, but Akana was already giving orders.
“Bring us up to a hundred fifty meters off the stern.”
The XO nodded and relayed the order to the helmsman.
Akana got on the radio with the team. “Lieutenant Gitlin, this is Rogue. Pirate vessel appears to be bugging out. The Puma shows two survivors on the sailboat’s deck. Head on a swivel, Steve. Something feels wrong about this.”
Chief Rose kept the RHIB tucked in beside Rogue, using her as cover and concealment as they approached, veering off to speed forward only after the larger vessel hove to, a hundred fifty meters off Lucky Strike’s stern rail.
“Pirate vessel . . . departing . . . to the northwest.” Gitlin’s voice came in stops and starts as the RHIB bounced across waves. “I count four . . . scratch that, five skinnies on board.” Skinnies was the term sailors used for pirates off the coast of Somalia. Some, including Gitlin, who’d worked Task Force 151, used it for pirates no matter where they were. “Sailboat’s dark,” he added. “Just the two females so far.”
Chief Petty Officer Bill Knight stood to the right of the coxswain’s post. “I concur,” he said. At thirty-eight, the Alabama native had more time in the Navy than all the men on the team—and Gitlin trusted his opinion implicitly.
“Skipper’s right, though,” the chief continued, peering through a pair of marine binoculars. “Somethin’ about this whole thing gives me a case of the creepin’ red ass.”
The two chiefs stood side by side, Rose driving, Knight watching out for the safety of his men. Neither was more than five feet from Gitlin, but they all spoke into the small boom mics on their comms gear to be heard over the roar of motor, wind, and waves.
“Boats,” Gitlin said, addressing Rose. “Take us by for a closer look.”
Chief Rose pushed the throttle all the way forward, standing off fifty meters and racing the RHIB up the starboard side of the sailboat. Once he came abeam the bow, he stood the RHIB on its side in a tight U-turn and pointed it back behind the sailboat again to swing around her stern and then jet up the port side, all the while holding a fifty-meter standoff. The maneuver was known as a “horseshoe,” and it allowed the VBSS team a good look at the target vessel from a distance while traveling at a high rate of speed.
“Rogue, Gitlin,” the lieutenant said.
Commander Akana’s unflappable voice came back across the radio.
“Go ahead, Steve.”
“Any more intel from the Puma, skipper?”
“Pirate vessel is still moving away to the northeast,” Akana said. “Approximately eight knots. Boarding the sailboat is your call.”
“Aye, sir,” Gitlin said. The woman tied to the mast continued to wave at him. “We plan to board.”
“Very well,” Akana said.
“Boats,” Gitlin said. “Bring us up on the port side, slowly. Chief Knight, Cartwright, Ridgeway, cover the approach.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Knight said, then muttered under his breath as he aimed in with his carbine. “Yep, creepin’ red ass, all right . . .”
The bobbing sailboat was a green hulk against the black sea through the NVGs. Something was off about the woman at the mast. She was mechanical, puppetlike.
Rose eased back on the throttle.
Thirty feet out, Gitlin looked toward Peavy on the bow hook. “Ready with—”