Vic Socotra

13 April 2009

Easter Egg

(Partially Enclosed Lifeboat Similar to that from Maersk Alabama)

Richard Phillips is going to get the Easter Egg that his family told him they were saving for him. That was splendid news, and it came as I was rolling back from a jaunt over to the local pawnshop, something I should have done last year, when some of my stuff went missing and the Mayor of Big Pink reminded me that we are all our own detectives.

“I mean, really, you expect the overwhelmed Police to look for your stuff?” I shook my head in rueful agreement. There are too many pirates out there and no one can keep track of all of them The Mayor said: “Check the pawnshops. Maybe the stuff will turn up.”

I checked the other major loan operation on Saturday, and thought I would put the matter to rest. Why anyone would borrow my stuff and sell it right in the neighborhood is beyond me. The law says you are supposed to be able to trace these transactions, since the pawn industry is not supposed to act as fences for thieves.

That is unlike our financial industry, of course, where the banks and investment firms sell shady securities to the taxpayers.

I went on foot, since it was a drop-dead gorgeous Easter Sunday. I walked east on the Service drive that hugs Route 50, heading toward the Touchdown Jesus statue that towers in perpetual blessing toward the whizzing commuters at St. Thomas More Cathedral, and eventually up onto Glebe Road, where the pawnshop hugs the back of the Mr. Wash car care facility.

It was closed, of course, so the Broker could be with his family for the Easter Egg hunt. I reversed tracks, crossing Glebe again, and trudged west through the subsidized part of the Buckingham neighborhood. The 8a blocks are nicely done, and have gates set between the buildings to provide a modicum of security for the residents and their kids. The gates stood open, though, some jammed that way intentionally.

I had an assignment from the local paper to cover a local historical site, and had to stop and get my camera. I enjoy being a sort of Jimmy Olsen for the micro-paper. It is all pro-bono, of course, but that is the way a lot of things are going these days. I read about the micro e-journalism in the New York Times on-line this morning, which is free, and I cheerfully ignore their pathetic pop-up ads.

I understand they are going bankrupt or something, so I don’t know what we will do in the morning when it happens.

Anyway, I walked into Tunnel Eight to get my camera, anxious to get back outside. The radio mentioned that Phil and Tiger were making a charge at the Masters down in Augusta, burned the course up in the morning, but were falling short. And Richard Phillips was free.

The former was not enough to keep me in the house, and the news of the latter was doubtless incorrect, it being the first words heard. I went on about my affairs and got some great pictures of things that have improbably survived down through the centuries, even as the little farm plots of Colonial times were incorporated into the new District of Columbia, and then thrown back to Virginia, occupied by Yankees, and then subdivided and paved for the Commuters.

When I got back, the Green Jacket was being presented to a stocky Argentinean, and the real story of Captain Phillips was revealed.

It had been the frogmen, of course, that much was evident from the beginning, but there was a wrinkle to it. I listened to the press conference from Bahrain that laid out what had happened while I charred some dinner.

While I was off being Jimmy Olsen, I had imagined some cool scenarios. A Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, I thought, launched from a nuclear sub, hanging silent under the bobbing lifeboat, a whole team of frogmen suddenly popping up like corks around the partially-covered boat as brightly colored as an Easter Egg. Then, sudden action as they lobbed flash grenades into the craft to stun the pirates.

Not exactly. It was less and more dramatic than that.

Apparently the bad guys were getting hungry and thirsty, seas were rising, and they had permitted themselves to be put under tow by USS Bainbridge. You can understand their anxiety was rising. One of them had a gashed hand, suffered in the original take-down of the Maersk Alabama, and was aboard Bainbridge either for treatment or to negotiate terms.

The Admiral was a little fuzzy on that part, though what happened was not. Apparently the 200-ft towline had been cinched up over time, to a range of about 75-ft. The Bad guys were having a hard time dealing with the inevitable, since the asymmetric advantage they enjoyed was evaporating. All they had was Captain Phillips, and should he come to grief, there was no reason they would not be instantly vaporized.

The Americans were firm. There would be no ransom. The Pirates could live, if they surrendered, or not. Up to them.

The Frogmen on the fantail of Bainbridge are quite remarkable. Up to now, the conflict in Afghanistan has mostly been their war against the Taliban; Frogmen and Green Beanies deployed to fight it out on the mountain peaks on long patrols and from covered shooting locations. They are very, very good.

They might be the best warriors of their kind who have ever been.

The President had given the green light to the on-scene commander on Saturday, bless him, that if the hostage was in extremis action was pre-authorized.

The moment of frustration was reached, and three shots took out three pirates. Semi-inflatable boats were alongside the bobbing Easter Egg in a flash, and the Captain was untied and swiftly brought aboard Bainbridge for further transportation to USS Boxer, a fine amphibious ship I have spent some time on, with a hospital and medical staff intended to accommodate a small invasion.

The Captain will be back in Vermont in time to get his Easter Egg, and I am betting that no one has eaten the chocolate ears off the bunny.

There are some details to be sorted out; where the remains of the dead pirates are to be dispatched, and the ultimate disposition of the surviving one.

The frogmen will remain unidentified, though I have worked with their team before. Once, I inadvertently delivered a delegation of the Russian FSB to their east-coast compound, but that is another story altogether. I was in a thoroughly international mood as I shoveled dinner onto a plate.
As you can imagine, the pirate leadership is not happy. There are a dozen ships and two hundreds hostages in their clutches at the moment. They are vowing revenge and stuff, which could become unpleasant in the extreme.

An erstwhile Blackbeard named Abdullahi Lami managed to get word of his displeasure to the Associated Press from his stronghold in the central coastal area of the Somali coast. He reportedly said that “In the future, America will be the one mourning and crying.”

I am not sure he knows what he is getting into, since the frogmen operate perfectly well on all sorts of terrain. I have read about what happened to Blackbeard. He had a good, if limited, run. Were I Mr. Lami, I might keep my head down.

This morning it is good news. But I suppose we will just have to see what happens.

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