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What had started as just another low-key day on a quiet patrol had turned into the most exciting operation Haley had ever experienced. She was impressed with both the competence and confidence of the crew as they dealt with what Sam had said was a new challenge for all of them. She wanted to pitch in but realized that anything she did would disrupt the rhythm and likely hurt more than help.
Haley had been nervous as they closed on the fleeing cargo ship. If, as Ben speculated, they were smuggling arms, they could include man-portable rocket launchers that stood a good chance of sinking Kauai with one or two hits at her waterline. Sam admitted as much when she asked him about it privately in his cabin.
“That’s a fact, but it wouldn’t have come to that,” Sam said with a completely blank expression.
“How so? I don’t see the twenty-five-millimeter or the fifty-caliber being able to respond effectively in time,” Haley said.
“We had eyes on with both the UAV and the EO camera. If I had seen anyone carrying anything looking like a launch tube, I would have green-lighted Guerrero on the Flying Bridge.” During General Quarters, Gunner’s Mate Second Class Deke Guerrero was stationed in a fortified position on the Flying Bridge. He was trained and equipped with a fifty-caliber M2010 enhanced sniper rifle. Anyone using a rocket would have to step into the open because of the backblast, and Guerrero could hit any target center mass from up to a mile away under the conditions they had today. Haley had not realized that kind of capability was in play.
The dispatch of the boarding team and the chase after Miho Dujam’s crew had also surprised Haley, who doubted she would have assumed that risk. She said as much to Sam on the Bridge as Kauai drove at full speed to cut off the crew’s escape. Sam also had his worries, but answered frankly.
“It took me some time to accept it, but this is the job. The 252s are already a plague in Europe and are trying to establish themselves here with a ready narcotics supply and arms market. We have to keep them or any other TCO like them from linking up with the cartels, or we will have a war on our hands in our own backyard. This pushes beyond the standard law enforcement risk calculus.
“Ben and his team are combat-trained and can handle anyone left behind. They’ll do a quick sweep and bail if they see anything sketchy. But if we can grab something, anything that leads us to whomever the 252s are working with over here, it’ll be worth it. As for these mooks,” Sam said, pointing at the fleeing boat on the video screen. “They’re obviously not kamikazes, or they would have shot it out with us from a more defensible position.”
The old expression that a stern chase is a long chase was coming true today. Even loaded down with ten people, the Miho Dujam’s RHIB was only a few knots slower than Kauai’s top speed. But they were closing the distance and were within minutes of heading off the villains’ escape when the call came from Drake on the Miho Dujam.
“Kauai, COB, request immediate assistance.”
Sam bolted out of his chair and grabbed the microphone. “COB, Kauai Actual, what’s going on?”
“Sir, they set up scuttling before they beat feet. They also left twenty-two female trafficking victims and no PFDs or rafts.”
“COB, we’re on the way.” Sam turned to Hopkins, “Chief, return to the ship. Fast as possible, please.”
“Aye, Aye, sir,” Hopkins replied and turned to the helmsman. “Left full rudder.”
“Left full rudder,” the helmsman repeated. “Chief, my rudder is left thirty degrees.”
“Very well, steer two-six-five,” Hopkins added as Kauai heeled to the right in reaction to the hard left turn.
Sam followed the fleeing RHIB with his binoculars after Kauai steadied on her new course, then slammed his right hand on the bridge railing. “Dammit! I should have known they would have done something like this.” After a few seconds, his face returned to its regular calm expression, and he grabbed the microphone and switched to the 1MC. “All hands not on watch, don life vests and helmets and muster on the foredeck for rescue and assistance operation. Health Services Technician provide.” He hung the microphone and called out the port bridge door, “Hebert!”
“Yes, Captain!” Hebert replied from his post on Mount 52, the port machine gun.
“Secure the mount, get to the foredeck, and take charge! We will have twenty-plus survivors coming on board in a few minutes!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Haley saw a chance to contribute and pounced. “Captain, those women have probably been through hell, and it can’t hurt to have a female face down there.”
Sam glanced at her, smiled, and said, “Go!”
Haley ran to the main deck, grabbed a boat helmet and life vest out of the ready locker, and continued to the foredeck. Hebert was already briefing the crew and turned to her. “Ma’am?”
“You’re still in charge, Petty Officer Hebert. I’m just another pair of hands.”
“Yes, thank ya’, ma’am.” Hebert nodded and then turned to the other crew.
Haley looked across the water at the Miho Dujam. There was wispy black smoke still drifting upward from her smokestack, and the bright colors of individual clothing were just becoming visible on the decks. Haley estimated about a mile to go. Two pairs of line handlers detailed by Hebert were already laying out mooring lines and attaching heaving lines to the ends, and Hebert himself was suspending three large fenders over the side.
Bryant stepped beside her, carrying a litter in one hand and his medical kit in the other. He placed both on the deck next to the superstructure and said, “Ma’am.”
“Petty Officer Bryant.” Haley stood silently for about half a minute. Bryant was one of the few people aboard Kauai who seemed less interested in small talk than she was. “Have you handled any human trafficking before?”
“When I was in the army, ma’am. Not here.”
“I imagine communication might be a challenge. Do you speak any foreign languages?”
“Some German, Czech, and Polish, ma’am.”
“Really, how much?”
Bryant turned to face her. “Enough to do the job. Do you speak any foreign languages, ma’am?”
“A little Spanish,” Haley answered.
“Won’t do much good with this crowd. Here’s what you need to say: Komm mit mir is ‘Come with me,’ and bleib hier is ‘Stay here.’”
“You think they speak German?”
“Enough of them will, ma’am,” Bryant nodded and handed her a travel-sized jar of Vicks Vapor Rub.
“What’s this for?” Haley asked as she looked at the jar.
“The smell, ma’am. Those gals have been locked in a box on that tub for two weeks on a North Atlantic crossing in November. I prescribe a swipe of that under your nose if you don’t want to be hurling yourself.”
They were within a quarter-mile now. Haley could clearly see the deck was crowded with individuals, and the ship had a visible list to port. They were still charging at full speed. Hopkins had better hit the brakes if she doesn’t want to overshoot.
As if reading her mind, Hopkins’s voice came over the 1MC, “All hands, prepare for crash-back!”
Haley observed the deck crew kneeling and grabbing a handhold. As she did the same, the bow suddenly dipped down, and the hull began the shudder Haley recognized as engines going full astern with a high forward speed. She almost fell forward in the deceleration as Kauai came to a halt about thirty feet off the Miho Dujam.
“Heaving lines, let fly!” Hebert shouted, and two small lines with weighted balls at the end streaked across the water to where Ben and Bondurant were standing. They hurriedly pulled over the two mooring lines, threading them through the hawseholes on the ship and giving a thumbs-up to show they had been attached. In the meantime, Hopkins was working motors and rudder to walk Kauai sideways into the larger vessel, with the crewmen pulling in the slack from the mooring lines. The two vessels came together with the loud squeak of compressing fenders. “Hold all lines!” Hebert shouted. “Second men, report to me!”
The second man at each position dropped his mooring line and trotted over as Hebert said, “Help Doc get the litter over there.” As they assisted Bryant, Hebert turned to Haley. “Ma’am, it’s gonna get mighty crowded mighty fast. Can you take them to the messdeck when we gather half a dozen? I have water bottles laid out for them.”
“No problem!” Haley answered.
“Thank ya, ma’am.”
The litter with the catatonic woman came across first, with Drake and Bondurant on each side handing it carefully across to their counterparts on Kauai, followed by Bryant. The men carried it aside, laid it on the deck for Bryant to do his work, and returned to their place on the rail. Like the litter, Drake and Bondurant handed off each survivor to the crewmen waiting on the patrol boat while Ben was herding the others into a single file for the transfer. Haley beckoned over each new arrival to keep the path clear. The fear they showed of the male crewmembers and the contrasting expressions of gratitude on their faces when they saw Haley almost made her tear up. As they huddled close to her, Haley was grateful for Bryant’s gift—even in the open air and through the Vapor Rub smear she applied under her nose, the stench of waste and old sweat and vomit was almost overpowering.
When she hit the required critical mass of six victims, she led them aft to the open messdeck, sat them in the chairs, and handed out water bottles. There was concern among the women when she turned to leave, so Haley smiled, waved her hand, and said, “Bleib hier.” as Bryant suggested. Those who had stood sat again, although their looks of concern remained until Haley returned with the second half dozen survivors. Some faces were more expressive than others, but the new arrivals brought signs of relief and hope.
On her second return to the foredeck, Haley noticed Ben was no longer herding the remaining women in line. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered if he had returned on board while she was shuttling survivors to the messdeck. After her third run, she remained on the foredeck and watched as the last survivor came aboard, followed by Drake and Bondurant after they cast off Kauai’s mooring lines. As the two vessels drifted apart, Haley walked directly to Drake and asked, “Chief, where’s the XO?”
“He’s inside looking for evidence, ma’am,” Drake replied.
“He’s what?”
“The XO told us to cast off and return on board after the last survivor crossed over. He’s taking the RHIB back.” Drake and Bondurant shared a worried look.
“How much longer will that ship last?”
“Ma’am, I’m surprised she’s still upright.”
Haley hated stepping in, but things seemed to be getting out of hand. “Chief, call the RHIB!”
“Kauai-One, COB, is the XO with you?”
“Negative,” Lee’s voice replied.
Drake lifted his radio again, but before he could speak, a series of loud bangs erupted from the Miho Dujam, and she quickly rolled to the left. He keyed the radio and shouted, “Kauai, COB, XO is still on board!”
The ship continued to roll with a cacophony of bangs and crashes and, within twenty seconds, had completely capsized with only her hull bottom visible. Haley, Drake, and Bondurant were transfixed in shock until the 1MC jolted them into motion.
“Man Overboard Port Side, repeat Man Overboard Port Side! This is no drill!”
Ben ducked as the heaving line came over, then grabbed it and started pulling over the mooring line. He seized the eye as soon as it came within reach and secured it to a nearby bitt after leading it through the hawsehole. Ben then returned to the crowd of women and, with Anca’s help, herded them into a single file for the crossover. By the time he finished, the first few women had already transferred to Kauai.
Ben looked down the line of fearful women with despair, realizing that even if any of them were to come forward, their credibility in any American court would be almost nil. He had to get some tangible evidence of the 252’s involvement. He strode over to Drake and said, “COB, I’m going to the Bridge to see if they left any logs or charts. If I’m not back when the last survivor goes over, cast off the lines and get aboard. I’ll get off on the RHIB.”
“Yes, sir,” Drake said in distraction as he helped another woman over the rail into the hands of the crewman on Kauai.
Ben trotted over to the superstructure and darted inside. A series of cabins led to the Bridge, and although all were disorderly, he couldn’t find any personal items, not even clothing. Well, no one said these guys were dumb—they must have either taken everything with them or dumped it in weighted bags. Ben stepped into the pilothouse and looked at the navigation table. No charts or notebooks were laid out, so he went through drawers. A quick scan revealed nothing with any marks. They must have taken the ones they marked up. He paused for a second. And left the ones they weren’t going to use!
Ben started pulling open drawers looking for plastic trash bags and found some, along with an old laptop computer. They probably hadn’t used it in a while and forgotten about it when they left. Ben wrapped the laptop in two trash bags and tucked it between his chest and life vest. He was stuffing charts into a trash bag when his world turned upside down and dark with a sudden lurch and bang.
Ben was floating and breathing and still inside the pilothouse. He knew he had not been swept anywhere by the water he could feel and hear rushing in. Ben grabbed the flashlight off of his belt and turned it on. Shining it upward, he could see the deck he had been standing on and the bottoms of the helm and binnacle. Everything else was floating around him or resting on what had once been the overhead. He was trapped inside a capsized, sinking ship.
Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath to control the panic. The situation was literally his worst nightmare, and, between the shock and his claustrophobia, he was having great difficulty thinking. OK, there’s an air pocket, but it won’t last. At least I’m not banged up. He shined the light around and estimated about two feet between the surface of the water and deck, and the water was rising fast. Continuing around, he saw the bridge door and swam toward it. He tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. He briefly panicked, then realized the pressure differential would hold it closed until it was completely underwater.
As he did the last time he had faced death, Ben closed his eyes and thought of his first sight of Victoria on their first date. The memory of her smile in that beautiful green dress calmed him enough to think clearly. When the door fully submerges, I can push it open and swim out. But the ship is above me now, and I have to swim far enough out that I don’t get hung up under it. How far? He closed his eyes again and tried to picture the ship in his mind. Door on the starboard side, not much more than a walkway to the edge, almost no tumblehome. About ten feet should do it. Pull clear, swim like hell horizontally while counting to ten, then pop the inflation bottle and head toward the light. He laughed. No, DON’T head toward the light—float to the surface!
The water finally closed over the former bottom, now the top of the door. Ben took and exhaled two deep breaths, then held the third, ducked underwater, and pushed on the door. It didn’t move. Panic was returning when he realized hadn’t turned the knob. He felt around, found and turned the knob, and pushed for all he was worth. The door opened slowly against the inrush of water—it was surprisingly cold this far beneath the surface. The pressure increase was tremendous, and Ben felt the pain he experienced in diving to the bottom of a swimming pool, only far more intense. It was like knives jamming in his ears, and it was all he could do not to cry out. Ben got the door open enough and pulled himself through the opening. He immediately collided with something, a lifeline. He felt his way around it, pushed off the ship, and began swimming. One thousand one, one thousand two....
He could see light now, sunlight attenuated and blue-tinted through the water. One thousand nine, one thousand ten! He reached for and pulled the tab for the CO2 bottle and felt his vest inflate. It was pulling him up through the water. The stabbing pain in his ears was subsiding, replaced by the agonizing burning of his lungs. He knew he had to exhale, coming up from deep water, and started puffing air out his nose. The light got brighter, and he could now see the waves in the water as he looked upward. Then the light faded to gray and finally, black.
***********************
“Sir! Sir! Give me your hand!”
Ben opened his eyes and looked up in confusion. It was Lopez, reaching for him from the RHIB. Lee suddenly appeared beside Lopez and also reached for him. Ben put up his hand, then felt himself being pulled into the boat. He lay flat on his back, looking at the bright blue sky, and could hear Lee’s voice as the engine revved and the boat turned and sped toward Kauai.
“Kauai, Kauai-One. XO is aboard and alive, returning to ship. Have Doc meet us at the rail with oh-two. Over.”
It was hard to hear, and his ears hurt. What’s happening? What am I doing here? Gradually, his confusion receded, and he could remember. The ship, upside down, swimming out. In a sudden flash of panic, he brought his hand over and felt for the laptop—it was still there, pressed against his chest by the inflated vest. He tried to sit up, was overwhelmed by dizziness, and slumped.
“Stay flat, XO,” Lopez said as he rested his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “We’ll be on board the boat in a minute, and Doc can check you out.”
Ben looked at Lopez, whose face was a mask of concern, and tried to nod. They were pulling up to Kauai now, and Lopez left him to tend to the sea painter while Lee grabbed and slammed the crane fall onto the RHIB’s lift frame. Ben felt the boat lift from the water, and as it pulled even with the rail, Bondurant jumped in, and Ben was lifted out.
“Put him in the litter, John.” It was Bryant’s voice.
After being set down, Ben felt a plastic mask placed on his face and cool airflow. Someone was taking his pulse.
“OK, let’s get him to his room.” Bryant’s voice again.
Ben felt himself being lifted and carried in the litter. He looked over and saw Bryant walking beside him, holding the mask on his face. They entered the boat, and after a couple of quick turns, they were in his stateroom, and he was lifted onto his bed. “Doc, what’s happening to me?” Ben asked.
“You are pretty messed up from that deep dive of yours, XO. How do you feel?”
“Dizzy, and my ears hurt.”
“Yes, I’m not surprised. You had what is called an ascent blackout. You were unconscious when Lopez and Lee found you. It has to do with the partial pressure of oxygen in the blood decreasing as you ascend from deep water. As for your ears, you have two ear blocks from the pressure underwater. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen and might even be an eardrum rupture. That’s probably the source of your dizziness too. I’m confining you sick-in-quarters until a real doctor can see you in Gitmo.”
Guantanamo Bay, known as Gitmo, was the U.S. Naval Base on the island of Cuba and the closest resupply base for their operation in the Turks and Caicos. It would not be a long trip, only ten hours at their fast cruise speed of twenty-four knots. “Doc, where is the laptop I brought with me? It’s important.”
“Yes, we figured it had to be if you were willing to go down with the ship to get it. It’s right here on your desk.”
“Good, good,” Ben said, then frowned as the old worry kicked in. “Will this deep dive blackout affect, you know, the other thing?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know. I can tell you that the dizziness you are having now is far more likely from your inner ear mess than from your earlier injury, and that should mostly clear by tomorrow morning, as long as your eardrums aren’t perforated. But they’re going to have to do another no-shit neurological workup on you, I’m afraid.”
“I figured as much,” Ben said with sadness. He hated constantly hanging on the edge of losing his career.
“Try not to worry about it, XO. I can’t run the whole battery, but your pupillary response is fine, and you don’t have a headache or any other symptoms. As for your ears, I’d be worried if you had bleeding, but you don’t, so surgery probably won’t be necessary. No promises, though.”
“Yeah, there never are. Thanks, Doc.”
“Sure. Get some rest, sir,” Bryant said as he stood.
Ben drifted to sleep shortly after Bryant had left and was startled awake by a knock on his door. He glanced at the clock on his wall—16:15—over two hours had passed. “Come in,” Ben said.
Sam poked his head in and said, “How are you doing? Feel like talking?”
“Of course, sir.” Ben started to rise, then settled when Sam waved his hand. Sam came in, shut the door, and sat in Ben’s chair.
“You know, laddie, you really are doing your best to help me get over moving on from this job. If you weren’t flat on your ass right now, you’d be braced-up in my cabin,” Sam said with a warm smile. “Care to explain to me what you were thinking?”
“I’m sorry, sir. When I saw those women and what they were going through, I couldn’t let those bastards get away with it. I figured I’d grab some charts or logs or something, but the laptop was all I could find.”
“I saw those women too, and believe me, I’m as mad as you are. In fact, I’m glad I didn’t know it during the chase—I’d have been tempted to blow their asses away with the twenty-five. That said, your decision is worrisome. Tell me something: if you had been unable to go yourself, would you have sent Bondurant, Lee, or Lopez?”
Ben dropped his head. “No, I wouldn’t,” he admitted.
“Why not?” He continued as Ben stayed silent. “Never mind, the question was rhetorical. The answer is because gathering evidence, even in this case, was not worth risking their lives.” He paused for a second. “You took that decision out of my hands, but not the responsibility. Here’s some CO perspective for you. It would’ve been devastating enough to have had to make a condolence call after Barbello or the Aurora Mist. Can you imagine what it would have been like for me telling Victoria or your parents you died trying to recover a logbook?”
Ben looked Sam in the eyes and tried to think of something worthy of the remorse he was feeling. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”
Sam reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “I won’t say, ‘forget about it.’ Never forget about it. Let’s take the W and consider ourselves lucky.”
“Yes, sir. What’s the plan? I understand we’re headed for Gitmo.”
“Yes, we need to get those survivors some attention. There are no English speakers among them, and, near as we can tell, they’re from at least six different countries. Doc might be able to conn them through first aid and head calls with the German, Polish, and Czech he has, but he can’t conduct a proper interview, and we wouldn’t want him to, anyway.
“They have all been abused beyond human endurance sexually, psychologically, even hygienically. They’re all scared shitless of any male right now. Thank God for Haley—she was spot on about a female face being therapeutic. She’s keeping things calm on the messdeck right now. When we get to Gitmo, we’ll hand them off to the people who can give them the proper care first and gather the facts later.
“As for you, the flight surgeon down there will also give you a going-over.”
“Well, at least I didn’t have to be medevac-ed off again.”
“Not an option. Doc said any flight would blow out your eardrums if they aren’t already. You’re on the slow boat for the rest of this trip.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, that laptop is generating interest. We will be met at Gitmo by our buddies in the DIA, who will take possession.
“Pete Simmons again?”
“No, I’m happy to say we will not be renewing our acquaintance. Somebody named Frankle.”
“Art Frankle?”
“I guess. His name is listed as Arthur.”
“Yeah, that’s Art. I met him on the Resolution Key op. You’ll like him—very by-the-book.”
“That will be nice for a change.” Sam stood. “You rest easy. If you need anything, let me know.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
