Afghanistan three years previously.
“Sir, I haven’t even started,” replied Mark Bradfield. “I better come in and bring my XO and his secretary with me. Because you are gonna need answers.”
General Lancaster really liked his chief of Naval Operations and he chuckled that deep confident laugh of his, the one that all his troops had loved at even the most diabolical briefings in Helmand Province, the one that implied, Take it easy, kid, we’ll be alright .
Big Zack was every inch the US warrior. An ex–West Pointer, he was enormously popular and he had political ambitions. Owing to his propensity to show total exasperation with lesser intellects, however, the popular view was that Zack would last about ten minutes in a diplomatic situation.
Still, there were those in the Pentagon who thought much the same about Admiral Mark Bradfield, but the truth was, if you really wanted to get something done, these two formed one hell of a starting point. It was common knowledge that Admiral Bradfield would himself become chairman of the Joint Chiefs when the fifty-four-year-old General Lancaster retired.
He led Jay Souchak and Mary-Ann into the inner sanctum of the Pentagon. The chairman immediately stood up and greeted Mary-Ann first, remembering her name with that unfailing certainty that had made him a prince among army commanders. Every soldier who fought under his command anywhere in the world thought he was General Lancaster’s best friend.
He was six feet four inches tall with neatly clipped, greying hair and very blue eyes. A New Englander and the son of a Connecticut timber
merchant, he had a deep voice and a slight air of irreverence about him. He was a man to whom others had naturally deferred throughout his career. If he’d not chosen a military career, his father would doubtless have employed him as a lumberjack.
“Okay, lay it on me,” said the general, reseating himself behind his vast antique desk. “No sugarcoating. I know it’s gonna be bad.”
“Sir,” said Admiral Bradfield, deferring to the chairman’s rank in front of the other two, “Somali pirates have just captured at gunpoint the USS Niagara Falls , an 18,000-ton aid ship in the India Ocean.”
“Is she still navy or under civilian command?”
“She’s still navy. But under permanent charter to USAID.”
“Does that let us off the hook?”
“Negative.”
Lieutenant Commander Souchak stepped in while the senior officers gathered their thoughts. “Sir, he said, “They’re asking 10 million dollars for her return. Her cargo’s worth well over $100 million, and the pirate chief intimated that there may have been casualties. He is of course threatening to shoot everyone if he doesn’t get his bread.”
“Better remind the little sonofabitch it’s not his bread right now. It’s ours. And he’s playing with fire. Mark, did you speak to the SEALs yet?”
“Not yet, sir. I thought we’d better have a strategy meeting first. Before we make definite decisions.”
“Well, we know the policy of the US military for the last thirty years since President Reagan: We never negotiate with terrorists, which is what these guys are. So I guess we better start thinking about an attack policy.”
“It’s not easy, sir,” said Mark Bradfield. “We do not have a Special Forces platoon anywhere near. There’s nothing at Diego Garcia or at our base in Djibouti. Nearest SEALs are in Bahrain and that’s 1,500 miles to the north. Also we don’t have a platform within a thousand miles of the goddamned ship, in any direction.”
“If we did, how would a rescue be attempted?”
“Well, I don’t think we could come in by sea and board the Niagara Falls . Too dangerous, and too hard to get covering fire. The guys would be sitting ducks climbing the hull. Carlow would never sanction it.
“So I guess we’d need to come in by air. That would require a big helo, probably a Chinook, plus a serious gunship to cover them while they
“Sir, I haven’t even started,” replied Mark Bradfield. “I better come in and bring my XO and his secretary with me. Because you are gonna need answers.”
General Lancaster really liked his chief of Naval Operations and he chuckled that deep confident laugh of his, the one that all his troops had loved at even the most diabolical briefings in Helmand Province, the one that implied, Take it easy, kid, we’ll be alright .
Big Zack was every inch the US warrior. An ex–West Pointer, he was enormously popular and he had political ambitions. Owing to his propensity to show total exasperation with lesser intellects, however, the popular view was that Zack would last about ten minutes in a diplomatic situation.
Still, there were those in the Pentagon who thought much the same about Admiral Mark Bradfield, but the truth was, if you really wanted to get something done, these two formed one hell of a starting point. It was common knowledge that Admiral Bradfield would himself become chairman of the Joint Chiefs when the fifty-four-year-old General Lancaster retired.
He led Jay Souchak and Mary-Ann into the inner sanctum of the Pentagon. The chairman immediately stood up and greeted Mary-Ann first, remembering her name with that unfailing certainty that had made him a prince among army commanders. Every soldier who fought under his command anywhere in the world thought he was General Lancaster’s best friend.
He was six feet four inches tall with neatly clipped, greying hair and very blue eyes. A New Englander and the son of a Connecticut timber
merchant, he had a deep voice and a slight air of irreverence about him. He was a man to whom others had naturally deferred throughout his career. If he’d not chosen a military career, his father would doubtless have employed him as a lumberjack.
“Okay, lay it on me,” said the general, reseating himself behind his vast antique desk. “No sugarcoating. I know it’s gonna be bad.”
“Sir,” said Admiral Bradfield, deferring to the chairman’s rank in front of the other two, “Somali pirates have just captured at gunpoint the USS Niagara Falls , an 18,000-ton aid ship in the India Ocean.”
“Is she still navy or under civilian command?”
“She’s still navy. But under permanent charter to USAID.”
“Does that let us off the hook?”
“Negative.”
Lieutenant Commander Souchak stepped in while the senior officers gathered their thoughts. “Sir, he said, “They’re asking 10 million dollars for her return. Her cargo’s worth well over $100 million, and the pirate chief intimated that there may have been casualties. He is of course threatening to shoot everyone if he doesn’t get his bread.”
“Better remind the little sonofabitch it’s not his bread right now. It’s ours. And he’s playing with fire. Mark, did you speak to the SEALs yet?”
“Not yet, sir. I thought we’d better have a strategy meeting first. Before we make definite decisions.”
“Well, we know the policy of the US military for the last thirty years since President Reagan: We never negotiate with terrorists, which is what these guys are. So I guess we better start thinking about an attack policy.”
“It’s not easy, sir,” said Mark Bradfield. “We do not have a Special Forces platoon anywhere near. There’s nothing at Diego Garcia or at our base in Djibouti. Nearest SEALs are in Bahrain and that’s 1,500 miles to the north. Also we don’t have a platform within a thousand miles of the goddamned ship, in any direction.”
“If we did, how would a rescue be attempted?”
“Well, I don’t think we could come in by sea and board the Niagara Falls . Too dangerous, and too hard to get covering fire. The guys would be sitting ducks climbing the hull. Carlow would never sanction it.
“So I guess we’d need to come in by air. That would require a big helo, probably a Chinook, plus a serious gunship to cover them while they
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