The Delta Solution (51 page)

Captain Lansdale ordered his second in command and the young bosun on duty on the bridge to grab the guns out of the locker and to bring one to him. Just then, Admiral Wolde tried the handle and found it locked. He raised his boot and kicked it, but the big teak door held. Elmi opened fire, blasted the lock asunder, and charged in shooting.

Lansdale fired back and hit Sergeant Yacin full in the chest. Elmi blew the captain away with a short burst from his AK-47, and Wolde shot the
bosun dead. The first officer dropped his gun and raised his hands. Wolde raised his right hand, palm extended, and bellowed, “
STOP SHOOTING!
” But it was already too late. The bridge was a bloodbath, and three men were dead, including the pirates’ beloved veteran Ibrahim Yacin.

Again the voice of the main deck security guard could be heard on the intercom: “I’m having trouble assembling the team, sir. Most of the guys are asleep. And the corridors are under the control of the pirates. No one dare leave a cabin.”

Wolde spoke to the first officer, Johnny Barrow, and instructed him to inform the guard that both the captain and the bosun were dead. That he was to gather his men and surrender immediately. There was to be no more bloodshed. The staff of the ship was no match for professional killers.

Barrow did as he was told, and then Wolde told him to slow the ship to a couple of knots. After that, on behalf of the captain, he was to broadcast to the crew and inform them what had happened, ordering both passengers and crew to throw any firearms out into the corridors.

Twenty minutes later, passengers on board the
Ocean Princess
were being ordered to dress and prepare for the pirates to round them up at gunpoint and march them to the main assembly areas, the lounge and dining room.

There was a terrible incident up on the Riviera Deck, where three of the ship’s guards managed to gain entrance to the communications center and form some kind of a stronghold. They shot one of the junior pirates, an eighteen-year-old from Haradheere, through the head. Hamdan Ougoure, stationed at the base of the stairway and an uncle of the boy, immediately opened fire with the heavy machine gun.

He pumped bullets into the comms area and all three of the guards were hit and killed. Most of the electronics were smashed beyond hope by the murderous heavy-duty salvo fired by Ougoure. The
Ocean Princess
was not only held captive; she was also incommunicado by normal channels.

Again, under instructions from the pirates, the first officer broadcast on the ship’s internal system, requesting there be no more gunfire. He assured passengers there was no need to panic, that the pirates would be making their demands of the ship’s owners, and that arrangements would be made.

He reminded them that the Somalis had never killed innocent passengers knowingly and that all five of the dead on the ship were employees of
Southern Islander in New Orleans, professional men who had died trying to defend the
Ocean Princess.

Up on the bridge, Wolde and Ahmed had seized control. That left six gunmen to rule the ship and intimidate the passengers and crew. At this point, using the captain’s private line, Wolde dialled the number for Brad Hyland, the chairman of Southern Islander. There was no reply from Houston, and Wolde redialled, this time using the Hylands’ number in New York, where Brad answered the phone.

“Mr. Hyland? I am the commander of the Somali Marines First Assault Group,” explained Wolde. “Twenty minutes ago, my men took command of the
Ocean Princess
. As we speak, your captain and bosun are dead, and I have been assembling the passengers and crew in the dining area.”

“
WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?
” yelled Brad Hyland. “
IS THIS SOME KIND OF A GODDAMNED JOKE?
”

“No joke, Mr. Hyland,” said Wolde. “We are in the One and a Half Degree Channel in the southern part of the Maldives, approximately 73.20E, Indian Ocean. I am using Captain Lansdale’s phone, which unfortunately he will no longer need.”

Brad Hyland’s mind was in overdrive. It seemed this character was not joking but neither had he made any demands.

“Well,” he said slowly, “what do you want from me? You already have my ship and apparently have no qualms about killing members of my crew.”

“A very easy question,” replied Wolde. “I require 10 million dollars from you. If you get it here within thirty-six hours, that sum of money will remain in operation. If we cannot agree, it immediately increases to $12 million. And then every two hours, I shall take out two passengers and shoot them publicly, before throwing their bodies over the side.

“You have two hundred passengers, so the process will continue for several days. When all the passengers have been killed, I will blow up your ship, with your crew still on board, and accept that my mission has not gone according to plan. Except that my men are currently stripping every one of your passengers of their valuables, jewelry, gold, watches, cash. So it will not have been entirely without reward. You, of course, will have the deaths of more than three hundred people on your conscience.”

Hyland needed time. If this joker was not bluffing, he needed to give
the $10 million serious thought and he needed to talk to his insurers, who stood to lose more money than the rest of the pirate victims put together. Two hundred very rich but very dead American passengers represented a financial catastrophe for the Lloyds shipping brokers in London.

“Okay, tell you what,” said Brad, “it’s a bad time here. Offices are closed and people aren’t home yet. I can’t raise $10 million right now on my own, but I don’t want to lose my ship. I’ll need help, so you better give me some time.”

“How long?”

“Six hours. I’ll try to get my insurance company involved. Plainly the ransom is a whole hell of a lot better than everyone dying and the ship being scuttled. But I expect you have already considered that.”

“I have. But I do not have six hours to give you. I’ll give you four, at which point the first two passengers die, unless I get assurances.”

“Will you call me, on this line?”

“I will. That will be 0700 my time.”

“Eleven in the evening mine.”

Both men hung up without the courtesy of a good-bye. Brad Hyland went to work, immediately telephoning the FBI in New York and requesting a link to the antiterrorist unit. From there, in the space of five minutes, a report of the capture of the
Ocean Princess
in the Maldives islands was relayed to every possible branch of the United States armed forces.

The FBI alerted the CIA, and Bob Birmingham called General Lancaster at the Pentagon, where two assistants telephoned Admiral Mark Bradfield and Simon Andre. The CNO personally called Admiral Andrew Carlow at SPECWARCOM, and Andre, the secretary of defense, called the Oval Office to inform the president.

Every recipient of every call was shocked at the brass neck of the pirates—an American passenger ship sailing under an American flag, members of the crew gunned down, and a chilling threat issued against the United States by brigands. These guys were criminals of the worst type.

General Lancaster sent out a signal to all the relevant departments. It read succinctly: “Capture of the
Ocean Princess
unacceptable to this office. Fire at will.” No one was in any doubt about what he meant.

But the man who would issue the crucial command was in greater shock than all the rest when Mark Bradfield called.

“Jesus Christ,” said Admiral Carlow, “the
Ocean Princess
in the Maldives! My parents are on that ship.”

“They’re what?”

“They’re on the goddamned ship—a cruise from Mombassa up through the Seychelles to the Maldives.”

“Admiral Tom?” gasped Mark Bradfield.

“I’m afraid he’s the only dad I’ve got,” replied Andy. “And you’re telling me this bunch of fucking savages have taken him prisoner?!”

“That’s not all I’m doing, bro,” said the CNO, slipping into the idiom of the SEALs. “I’m telling you, this is it. No more options. I’m ordering you to send in Mack Bedford’s Delta Platoon and recapture that ship. No holds barred. Take it by force, and let’s go right now.”

Andy Carlow checked his e-mails and right there was the precise position of the
Ocean Princess
in the western regions of the One and a Half Degree Channel, Maldives 1.5N 73.20E.

The destroyer
Chafee
had already been ordered to leave her station in the northeast corner of the operations box, make flank speed four hundred miles to the datum, and be prepared to take on board the entire Delta Platoon, ocean drop, Indian Ocean, in the next three hours. The Sikorsky Sea Stallion, which would carry in the SEALs team, was on board the
Chafee
.

The cruiser
Port Royal
was also headed directly for the
Ocean Princess
, and she carried another critical component of the near-certain air attack on the
Ocean Princess
—the AH-1 Cobra helicopter gunship, especially requested by Commander Bedford.

Admiral Carlow, appalled by the news of his parents’ capture, was in a daze as his assistant opened up his phone line to the Djibouti base and told them to put Commander Bedford on the line immediately.

One minute later, when Mack came on, it was almost 3:30 in the morning on the Horn of Africa. But the SEAL leader sounded alert and listened carefully as his friend recounted the shocking news of the
Ocean Princess
.

Before the Delta boss could reply, Andy told him that his mother and father were on board the ship. “They’re quite elderly now,” said Andy. “Mack, promise me, bro, you’ll get them out of there.”

“I’ll get ’em. Admiral Tom, right?”

“That’s the man, bro. I’m counting on you.”

Mack Bedford came out of bed like a bullet. He opened his door and
stood in the corridor and yelled, “
CHIEF SHARP! CHIEF CHARLTON!
Get dressed and get in here right now.
WE’RE GOING!
”

He grabbed the base intercom and ordered the mission aircraft to be ready to leave in thirty minutes maximum. He then called General Offiah, briefed him on the situation, and requested hard copy from the comms center, providing the latest movements of the
Chafee
and
Port Royal
, information expected to be transmitted directly, hour by hour.

Chief Sharp was the first into his stride and toured the SEAL rooms, bellowing at the top of his lungs and ordering the men out of bed and into action. “
WE’RE GOING!
” he yelled,“
We’re going right now. Check your personal weapons. This is SEAL Team 10, Delta Platoon going to ACTION STATIONS! RIGHT NOW!
”

It may have looked like pandemonium in the SEAL section of the living quarters as they stampeded for their lockers, hauling on their wet suits, but it was not. These were the ultimate professional troops, men who knew full well that the ship to which they were headed, USS
Chafee
, was a floating SEAL base, already loaded with two crates of their personal stuff, plus heavy weaponry and essential battlefield gear.

This would be an obvious ocean drop, which none of them looked forward to. But they were world-class exponents of the most difficult entry method in the book. Each man would make the parachute jump with only two items strapped to his back: a light, waterproof rucksack and a machine gun, carried in a sealed holster. Everything else they needed was already onboard the
Chafee
.

Every hour of their training both at Coronado and on the Horn of Africa had been geared for this moment. In fifteen minutes the men were in one of the trucks transporting them to the end of the runway. Five minutes later they were piling into a Lockheed C-130, one of two kept permanently at the Djibouti base. Its engines were already running, well . . . howling.

As the last man climbed on board, the big doors slammed shut, and the SEALs got down on the floor for takeoff. They faced a two-and-a-half-hour flight to the rendezvous point with the
Chafee
. Most of the journey would be dedicated to preparing for the jump. Limited seating would be organized, but the main part was to fix the parachutes on forty men, check them, and check them again.

The loadmaster and the dispatcher worked with Mack Bedford while he briefed and talked to his team. In the cockpit of the aircraft there were two pilots, a navigation officer and a special communications operator, whose task was to make contact with the
Chafee
ASAP.

The huge aircraft hurtled down the runway in a cloud of drifting sand and screamed into the night sky, banking left over the coastline of northern Somalia and out over the Indian Ocean, heading east.

It took an hour to make contact with the American destroyer DDG-90, but both the aircraft and the ops room of the
Chafee
were receiving satellite signals advising each on the other’s position. The warship’s journey from the northeast corner of the box took twelve hours and she was running through the night for three of them when the C-130, flying low, came through:
Delta SEALs on time making 400 knots . . . ETA Chafee 0630.

Chafee
’s ops room picked them up instantly:
Low-flying contact 5,000 feet . . . speed 250 . . . course zero-nine-zero . . . range sixty miles . . . IFF transponder code correlates Delta SEALs.

“
LAUNCH THE INFLATABLES!
”

Up on deck the crews began to lower away, easing four rubber Zodiacs down to the water. Within moments the two-man crews were aboard, the engines running, moving away from the ship, out to the designated landing area 1,000 yards off the portside beam.

In the C-130 the dispatcher assumed command:
Okay, get ready now—we’re heading right toward the zone . . . another four minutes . . .

The SEALs, hoods up, flippers clipped to their thighs, began to move toward the aircraft doors, port and starboard. Each man was struggling aft, hauling his backpack and rifle and the parachute pack. Commander Bedford took the lead and would exit the aircraft first at the head of his team.