Syren's Song: A Connor Stark Novel

Naval Institute Press

291 Wood Road

Annapolis, MD 21402

© 2015 by Claude Berube

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Berube, Claude G.

Syren’s song: a Connor Stark novel / Claude Berube.

1 online resource.

Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

ISBN 978-1-61251-914-2

I. Title.

PS3602.E7693

813’.6—dc23

2015024855

Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

232221201918171615987654321

First printing

Book design and composition: David Alcorn, Alcorn Publication Design

IN MEMORY OF

JIM ST. JOHN AND JACKIE PASCARELLA

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

Break, break, break

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Contents

Acronyms

Part I

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 6

Day 7

Part II

Day 8

Day 9

Day 11

Day 12

Day 13

Day 14

Part III

Day 15

Day 16

Day 17

Day 18

Day 33

Acknowledgement

About the Author

ACRONYMS

PART I

DAY 1

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka

The sun is setting. Maybe they won’t come. Maybe they lied, the younger naval officer said to his admiral.

No. They have never lied before, the admiral said wearily.

They will attack. He turned his pipe upside down and tapped out the ashes against the steel railing of the bridge wing. The embers fizzled into the calm water below. The Sri Lankan admiral had taken every precaution possible in the eighteen hours since the warning had been issued. The notice had been short, clear, and concise: Our fleet will attack your ports tomorrow.

Like his counterparts to the south in Galle and in the west coast port of Colombo, he took immediate action, closing the harbor of Trincomalee, Sri Lanka’s northeasternmost naval port. Safely sealed inside were scores of small boats, several fishing vessels undergoing repair, and a few sailboats fitted out for global cruising with navigational radar and small, wind-powered generators attached to the stern. These were likely Western retirees fulfilling a life dream to sail the world. He had often seen their like sailing around the Bay of Bengal, intent on their pleasure and oblivious to danger. Some had even defied warnings in the western Indian Ocean during the height of the Somali piracy attacks and had been captured and ransomed; a few were killed. The admiral viewed their irresponsibility as the arrogance of a fading Western culture. They expected the world to be theirs—free of the dangers others had to face daily. The Westerners’ elegant sailboats were easy to distinguish from the local sailboats that dotted the second largest natural harbor in the world.

The harbor—and northeastern Sri Lanka in general—had long been under the influence of Europeans, but the region was on the cusp of a major change. It was the admiral’s job to prepare Trincomalee for that change as Chinese workers cleared hundreds of acres for a major new shipping terminal. His staff had only two days before given him the itinerary for a series of meetings between representatives of Sri Lanka and China to determine how security would be established and maintained. They had not even had the first introductory meeting.

He looked around the vast harbor, focusing on the piers where several merchant ships remained, denied departure from the harbor. The shipping companies were outraged about his decision; every unnecessary day in port meant a loss in profits. A dozen more inbound merchant ships, mostly freighters, had chosen to wait out the threat by anchoring outside the harbor. The Sri Lankan government had issued an advisory to all vessels approaching the nation’s ports of the threat, but many fishing boats, trawlers, and merchant ships had continued on course for Trincomalee. Each would have to be inspected before they were allowed to enter the harbor, but he had too few ships and men to adequately search them. They would simply have to wait outside until the threat ended.

Three of the smaller patrol craft in his squadron maneuvered back and forth along the five-hundred-yard-wide harbor opening. The admiral had ordered one of his Sa’ar 4–class boats to remain on station half a mile outside the harbor entrance while his own ship, SLNS Sayura, operated with the patrol craft. His helicopters remained on standby. He knew this enemy and the type of ships they had used in the past, and he had defeated them then. No invaders would enter Trincomalee on his watch.

The cloudbank behind him blazed orange and then faded to pink as the sun sank behind the hillside. His tension grew. Without the defensive advantage of daylight, his men would have to be extra vigilant for craft approaching the harbor. But the admiral still had four technological advantages: the surface ship radar on each of his squadron’s vessels, the patrol planes circling above, the new networked communications that had been installed on each of his ships, and advanced onboard computers. A small guerilla force seeking to enter and destroy the harbor simply could not overcome those modern advantages.

The admiral walked inside the pilothouse and checked the radar screen. The surface contacts outside the harbor continued to approach Trincomalee. Probably fishing boats and freighters expecting to unload and pick up cargo. A pattern emerged on the screen—two distinct lines of contacts, one ship behind the other, following the traditional shipping lanes and anticipating the course corrections at the first markers for the channel. On the bridge-to-bridge radio he heard the captain of his outermost ship calling to the merchant captains and advising them where to anchor. The dots that were the freighters separated and slowed. Other contacts approached the harbor more chaotically—fishermen avoiding the larger freighters as they returned home, as they and their fathers and their fathers’ fathers had done for hundreds of years. Somewhere out there or beyond, the insurgents were preparing their attack.

Dozens of voices began crowding the radio waves. One belonged to the captain of SLNS Nandimithra. Freighter captains began to chatter. Then the fishermen chimed in. Too many voices. Music began to play over someone’s open microphone. The cacophony continued to rise until individual voices were no longer recognizable. The admiral lifted the binoculars hanging around his neck and focused on the three smaller patrol craft to ensure their guns were manned, then turned to the sailor manning the onboard communications terminal. Are we up on chat with the squadron? he asked, referring to the instant messaging system in the combat information center.

Yes, Admiral, the sailor quickly replied.

"Pull Nandimithra back to the harbor entrance and have her take up station one hundred yards to our starboard."

Aye, sir. The sailor quickly typed the command.

The admiral turned down the volume on the radio. In the sudden quiet he heard a sound through the open hatch. He stepped onto the bridge wing to listen, his aide dutifully following. The harbor around him was as eerily silent as the radio channel was disturbingly dissonant. On land, he knew, the army was patrolling the streets and the citizens had been directed to remain in their homes. Then he heard it again. A bell tolled slowly into the silence, the sound echoing across the calm water of the harbor. The bell became louder, calling out a warning in the waning light. He lifted his binoculars again and scanned the shoreline, stopping at Konesar Malai, a hill overlooking the harbor. He knew only one structure with a bell in that vicinity—the Koneswaram Kovil Hindu temple, a two-thousand-year-old landmark dating back to the Pandyan Kingdom. A faint light appeared in the bell tower. He needed to contact his army counterpart now to tell him to investigate the tower, but as he was about to reenter the bridge his aide grabbed him by the arm, normally an inexcusable offense.

Admiral, what is that? the aide asked, pointing toward the moored sailboats.

The admiral let his binoculars fall as he squinted toward one of the boats. A tiny star appeared atop the mainmast of one of the sailboats and then shot up into the sky, followed by a thin plume of smoke. Seven more stars appeared on seven more masts. One after the other they exploded into blue-green fireworks that blinded the crew manning the .50-caliber weapons and sparkled as they drifted down toward the water. And then again silence. He raced back into the bridge towing his aide, who was still clinging to his arm in shock.

Sailor, he said, approaching the communications terminal, tell the squadron— He stopped as he noticed the sailor furiously pounding keys, yelling something into his mike. What is it?

Sir, I am sorry, but we’re having difficulty. The chat room just went dead. I’m trying to reestablish contact, but nothing is working.

The admiral noticed something else. The radio was now silent as well. Who turned off the radio? he barked. No one responded. He turned up the volume, but there was nothing. He picked up the mike himself and called to one of his ships. Nothing.

Another sailor slammed his fist on the radar console.

What now? the admiral asked.

Sir, it’s not working. I can’t see anything on the radar. We’ve lost all contacts.

And then the admiral realized that every technological advantage he had relied on to defend the harbor was gone and there was little he could do. The Sea Tigers were coming, just as they said they would.

Highland Maritime Defense Training Facility, Scotland

Connor Stark sucked air into his lungs, recognizing that he was at the point of exhaustion and unable to react in time to deflect the next blow. He had held off his opponent for nearly four minutes, an unheard of feat. Martial arts battles were usually over in less than a minute. The blows had to be quick, the counterblows even quicker. The slightest mistake could mean death. Stark had an inch in height over his opponent and a longer reach, but he was a few years older and an eternity slower. The man he faced had spent most of his life honing his skills as a fighter. Beads of sweat glistened on the man’s dark, bald head as he himself began to strain from the effort. Onlookers formed a ring around them. Stark heard a few taking bets; most of the money was on his opponent.

Both men took a step backward to rest a moment and gain enough strength for one last melee that would determine the victor. Neither took his eyes off the other. A glance down or away or even an eye blink could determine who won. But Stark was tired, and his head drooped just long enough for the other man to seize the advantage.

The man rapidly took two steps forward and hit Stark with a left uppercut and a quick right jab. Blood poured from Stark’s nose and a cut near his right eye. The man followed up by tackling Stark and taking him to the ground. He kneeled on Stark’s chest, grabbed the neck of Stark’s t-shirt with his left hand, and cocked his right arm for the final blow. He paused when Stark managed to open his left eye.

Stark summoned the strength to whisper up to his victorious opponent: Had enough, Gunny?

Nah. I have a couple rounds left in me, Skipper, responded the recently retired Marine before releasing Stark’s shirt and letting him slump back to the mat. Four minutes, seventeen seconds, Gunny Willis said, looking at the clock in the training room. Way too long. We’ll work on your stamina more, but you have got to finish a fight a lot quicker than that, especially if you’re fighting a young’un. I know you’ve been in a few scraps, but you’ve been lucky.

At this moment Stark didn’t feel lucky. So what’s your recommendation of the day? he asked.

Get help.

Thanks a lot, Gunny.

I’m serious, Skipper. Nothing wrong with bringing a knife or a few other aids to a fight.

The team’s medic approached Stark with a towel to wipe away the blood and then helped him stagger over to a chair so he could repair the damage to Stark’s face. When he had finished, Stark slumped over, still breathing heavily, and waited for his heart rate to slow. The employees of Highland Maritime Defense who had watched the session exchanged a few pounds or euros to settle their bets and returned to their own workouts. The old man had heart, they knew, but heart alone wouldn’t necessarily win a fight—especially against the gunny.

When Stark rose to leave, the men stopped what they were doing and in one voice began to recite Saint Barton’s Ode. Stark had said it once after a particularly grueling training session, and Willis, the firm’s training officer, had instituted it as their mantra. I am hurt, they all said in unison, but I am not slain. I will lay me down and bleed awhile, then I’ll rise to fight again.

The medic checked Stark’s eyes with a flashlight, found nothing alarming, and released him to return to town. A couple of the firm’s employees—a former SEAL and a former Royal Marine—accepted Stark’s invitation for a ride back from the island, which served as both Highland Maritime’s headquarters and its training site. The only signs of habitation visible as they walked across the small, windswept island were the five piers and a shooting range, gymnasium, classroom, office, and dormitory compound. The three boarded Stark’s 345 Conquest Whaler, and Stark took the helm as the others cast off.

Stark had founded Highland Maritime Defense a few years before as an arm of his friend Bill Maddox’s firm to provide security for its construction teams in high-threat regions. Highland Maritime had since grown into one of the world’s premier private security firms. Stark had modeled its operations on the French Foreign Legion, a multinational group with a rigid code of conduct, rather than the fly-by-night private security companies that had emerged from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. The world was becoming a far more dangerous place as Western navies ceded their traditional roles on the high seas. Highland Maritime was there to stabilize situations where it could.

The three Mercury outboards roared as the Whaler passed two of Highland’s training craft. His passengers took seats in the cabin and settled in with a deck of cards to pass the time. As the boat reached the last channel marker, Stark eased the throttles forward, keeping an eye out for other boats and bad weather, always a possibility in this part of the world despite the clear late-afternoon sky. Stark looked at his watch as the boat slowly gained speed through the calm seas. He had made this run enough times in various weather conditions to know that if boat traffic remained light he could cross the ten miles of ocean and be tied up in Ullapool within thirty minutes.

Stark squinted as he searched for potential hazards in the water, relying on his left eye because Doc had put a couple of stitches above his right eyebrow after the training session. Maggie was certain to notice, and he began to wish he had remained in the Highland dormitory for the next couple of nights.

Stark throttled back as the Whaler approached several sailboats moored in the harbor; the engines eased from a roar to a gentle hum. The men on the decks of the fishing boats stopped their work and waved as he passed. He made the final turn into the line of slips, reversing the engines as he passed his own slip and spinning the wheel just enough to get the boat lined up. His passengers came out of the cabin and positioned themselves on each side as Stark edged the boat forward and let momentum bring it in. The men grabbed the lines and tied them to the appropriate cleats, then took their overnight bags, thanked Stark, and made their way into town.

Stark secured the Whaler in its slip and grabbed his own backpack, then set it and himself down, suddenly exhausted as the day’s training caught up with him. He was already sore. That would get worse, he knew. He tried to remember how effortless training had seemed back when he competed for the U.S. Olympic pentathlon team. But that was more than twenty-five years ago. He hated growing old, but the alternative wasn’t exactly attractive. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he listened to the harbor. The gentle slap of water against hulls and the squeaking of wet lines were the only sounds he heard. Few tourists ventured to picturesque Ullapool in winter. The peace and the cold sea air rejuvenated him enough to stand and walk the hundred yards to the Friar John Cor pub across the road from the dock.

The door creaked as he opened it. The pub, as usual, was full of locals. Mack was behind the bar chatting with a couple of regulars as they watched a football game on the overhead television screen. Maggie was at a table taking an order from a customer. She turned her head toward the creaking door and smiled at Stark. The smile faded when her eyes drifted to his wounds. She turned back to the customer and then moved toward the kitchen, keeping her back to Stark. As she passed the bar she told the bartender sharply: Mack, get ’im a Talisker and throw it in his face. Mack poured the Talisker and was about to dutifully comply when Stark shot him the look; Mack thought better of it and drank the whisky himself.

Stark turned away to hide his smile. In the two years he and Maggie had been together he had learned not to expect subtlety from her. She would make him suffer for this, but only because she cared for him.

Mullaitivu District, Sri Lanka

Son of a bitch, Melanie Arden groaned as she slid to a stop on the jungle floor. Walking along the unstable ridgeline hadn’t been the wisest thing to do after the recent rainfall. She had been trying to get a better view of the village, but five feet from the edge the dirt and mud gave way, taking her down thirty feet of hillside and sending her sliding and scraping against exposed roots. She lay there stunned for a few minutes. The birdcalls that usually filled the jungle had gone silent when she fell. After a brief interruption the birds picked up again, bringing Melanie back to her senses.

She stood up carefully and took stock. No pain in her ankles or legs, and both arms still worked. A few scrapes and cuts, but nothing serious, thank God. Her backpack was nearby, but one of the zippers had broken when she fell, releasing the pocket’s contents all the way down the hillside. She sighed when she recalled what had been in that pocket. The first aid kit was likely to be close to the top of the hill because it had been the last item she stowed. Holding onto roots and tree trunks Melanie carefully made her way back up the hill, picking up her things as she went and stuffing them in her cargo pockets. The wet soil gave way frequently beneath her feet.

It took her nearly fifteen minutes of repeated attempts to reach the top. The white first aid kit was easy to find. She brushed away some leaves and found her Swiss Army knife. A few MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—were below it. She pocketed the knife and then collected the kit and food, stuffing them hastily into the backpack.

Still dizzy from her fall, she rose and leaned against a tree as she tried to recall what else had been in that backpack pocket. The soil beneath the tree gave way, and she crashed down the slope to the bottom again. Unable to slow her slide this time, she tumbled head over heels the last ten feet and came to rest with her sternum against a medium-sized rock. Gasping for air, Melanie slowly rolled to one side, wrapped her arms around her midsection, and threw up the cold soup she had eaten just before she started on the path. She gingerly rose. You’ve been through worse, she told herself. There was no thought of turning back. This was something she had to do.

In her brief view of the village from the ridge she had spotted several dozen houses and a narrow river, but no people. It was still midmorning, and she decided to take time to rest before moving on. When she finally caught her breath, she opened the first aid kit and applied Neosporin to her larger abrasions, then covered them with gauze and secured them with bandages. She felt around her chest and knew from past experience as a rugby player that she hadn’t cracked any ribs. That was lucky. A couple of aspirin might help dull the pain of her injuries, but she knew it would be a couple of days before it went away.

Melanie started to reach around to the right side of her belt but stopped when pain lanced through her chest. Instead, she unbuckled her belt and pulled it around until one of her canteens was close enough to grab with minimal pain. She took a swig and then poured a little on her face and let it drip over her chin and chest. Moving as little as possible she checked the rest of the contents of the backpack. The camera and video recorder were still operational. The digital audio recorder also still worked; her extra set of clothes had cushioned them during the fall. Most of her batteries seemed to be secure. She repacked the backpack, redistributing the contents of the broken pocket.

A half hour later she felt rested enough to begin walking toward the village. Slipping her arms through the backpack straps, she again felt the sharp pain in her sternum but soldiered through it. She took a deep breath and began the march under clear skies and the midmorning sun.

She was still a few hundred yards away from the huts when she noticed the first sign that all was not well. This was a farming village. The sun was well above the mountain ridge to the east, and yet there were no animals in the pens and no people working in the fields. Even the skies were empty of birds.

Melanie approached the first home, a primitive shack, and knocked on the outer wall. Hello? she called out, coughing with the second syllable as her sternum demanded that she be more careful. She knocked again. Nothing. The door was ajar, so she pushed it inward and edged inside. She gagged when the stench hit her nostrils. Rotting food, unidentifiable now, sat on the table. To her left was an unmade bed. She pressed forward through the kitchen to a back room. This bedroom too was empty. There was nothing on the bed except old wrinkled sheets. She made her way back out and went to the next hut.

Melanie checked another dozen huts on her way to the center of the village. All were the same—empty houses, rotting food, dust, insects, and a few small rodents. But no people. This village of forty or so houses should have had about two hundred people. She took photographs of the empty homes and the ghost village.

One building—slightly larger and better kept—stood out among the others. It appeared to be some sort of community center, or as close to one as a village this size could muster. It had been ransacked, though she couldn’t imagine anyone finding much of value here. She left the building