Chapter 20

The SV Flint gathered her chicks. Every sailor on every boat and every crew member on every ship had watched the video of the 57 foot catamaran.

“This is what might happen if your boat or ship gets taken,” said the Chief in charge of the viewings.

“Might?” asked a fat 60 year old. “Not WILL?”

“Any one who isn’t ransomed, is a liability ... they eat ... and Somalia can’t feed her people ... do you think they’ll feed you?”

“It looks terrible ... but you should smell it.” I said. “The smell is unbelievable.”

“They won’t do that to me ... I’m important,” said the fat guy.

“Most of the bodies were branded before they were raped. A christian cross over the heart.”

“They won’t ... not to me,” he said again.

The real problem wasn’t him ... it was the five boats backing him. There were six pissed off boat owners when the 64 wouldn’t guard just them.

“We’re not in the states ... I’m taking care of the majority,” said 64. (The commanding officer is sometimes referred to by the ship name or number.)

When the first boat hit the hundred mile offshore line, I called every boat to tighten up. Cassie went up the mast and the armaments radar went active. Cassie was better than radar ... she knew friend from foe. She also knew shapes ... a recreational sailboat ... mono or multi ... looks different than an outboard powered launch full of RPG and AK carrying thugs.

That’s when the six non joiners took the initiative and separated from the convoy.

Since pre-established protocol demanded that everyone stay to seaward of the hundred mile line ... the uncooperative boats had to sail ahead, astern or closer to shore than the main group. They chose closer.

Our M30 106.7 mm heavy mortars had a range of 4 and a quarter miles. We spent a good portion of the night illuminating the ‘runaways’ with parachute flares ... until the group moved closer inshore. ‘To get away from our interference,’ or so they complained by radio.

We never saw the people again. The boats? A custom catamaran is a custom boat ... no matter what you do ... they have a look and profile ... unless the hulls are stripped and an entire new superstructure is built on the hulls. That would cost almost as much as a new boat. New papers are easy to come by. Corrupt officials and sailing in a local area will keep the ‘new’ boat out of the news.

But ... new money wants old money to know, “WE have a new boat.” Eventually, the boat gets photographed and that means social media.

The pirates did not fare well with the our boats. Flint is not official ... the State Department can disavow our actions.

DDG64 has to bring pirates to court. Justice is required.

Flint? Nope. And we had an ever present reminder. A reminder of just what kind of justice “They” practiced. Trolling for sharks is not a deterrent but it sure gets rid of the evidence. The Gulf of Aden from Cape Guardafui to Bab-el-Mandeb Strait is shark territory ... not as wicked as the Red Sea but the sharks are plentiful. The Red Sea shark is long, lean and alert to disturbed water ... don’t fall overboard. Of course ... this is all supposition and easily denied.

None of it is true ... I swear. You can suppose ... but I couldn’t say.

Fiction. Simple fiction.

They disposed of the six inshore yachts during the night and came for us at dawn. Sure the mortars have a range of 4 and a quarter miles ... visibility from the deck is 2.3 miles ... but WE have Cassie and Cassie has range finding binoculars. A couple of ranging shots with target shells and the next were phosphorus air bursts. Phosphorous burns through gas tanks in seconds ... skin too. Our gyroscopic mortar bases allowed us to be reasonably accurate. Burning gasoline spreads on the surface ... if the phosphorus didn’t burn you ... the flaming gas would. Stubborn pirates were assaulted with RPG’s and radar directed 30 mm cannon rounds.

We were hoping for a lesson ... didn’t get it. No survivors.