Power and Empire

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—”

Chief Knight’s voice crackled across the radio. “Movement on the bow!” he barked. “She’s standing up… waving us off. Repeat, waving off!”

The woman was indeed standing. She’d ripped away her gag and screamed something unintelligible at the approaching RHIB. When they kept coming, she held her arms up in a raised X, the universal sign for NO!

“Boats!” Gitlin barked. “Get us out of here!”