Pirate Alley: A Novel (3 page)

Last night he greeted the sisters, Irene and Suzanne, by name, and the Denver radio talk-show host, Mike Rosen, a genial, intelligent man with the demeanor of a college professor in mufti. The Americans liked to be called by their first names, so Arch Penney obliged. “Keith, Dilma, Ari, Buck, Chad, Chuck, Betty, Toby, Obed…”

Then there was Meyer Brown, a sixty-something retiree on the make, if Arch’s instincts were right. What he didn’t know was that Irene and Suzanne called Brown “Putty,” since he had made a remark at the bar last night that set them giggling. “I’m just putty in a woman’s hands, although everything I have isn’t all putty.”

Brown apparently had an American woman, Nora, in his sights. Nora’s daughter was nowhere to be seen. Brown was hovering over Nora, trying to keep his eyes off the striking cleavage, and entertaining her with stories of his many adventures.

The North African, Mohammed Atom, was reading something and studiously avoiding his fellow passengers, so Arch passed him with only a head nod, which Atom didn’t return. Penney knew Atom’s reputation, that he was an arms dealer to rebels all over the Middle East, including al Qaeda, although no one had yet caught him with enough evidence to prosecute.

This was, Arch Penney thought, a typical passenger list for this time of year. Almost no children and many gray heads.

This morning there were only three exercise nuts on the upper deck, jogging to burn off alcohol and last night’s gourmet feast. Penney completed his circuit, greeting the crewmen he met by name, running his eye over everything, and headed for the bridge, where he found his first officer had things well in hand, just as Penney knew he would. The chief officer was Harry Zopp, from South Africa. It was, Penney thought, just a matter of time before Zopp got his own ship.

“Captain,” Zopp said respectfully.

“Harry. How goes it?”

“We’re smack in the middle of the northern eastbound traffic lane. We’re five miles behind an empty tanker, matching his speed, which is thirteen knots. Six other ships on the radar, closest point of approach will be four thousand yards.”

“Fishing boats?”

“Fifteen.”

“How are the engineers coming on repairing that evaporator?”

“Expect to be finished by noon, sir.”

“Where and when do you expect to pass this tanker that’s ahead of us?” The
Sultan
couldn’t remain on schedule if she loafed along at thirteen knots for more than a few hours.

Zopp told him, referring to the chart and the radar screen.

Arch Penney nodded his approval.

Zopp handed the captain three sheets of paper stapled together. Today’s Somali Pirate Update from the NATO shipping center. The captain took the time to read every word.

“November 15, Somali Basin. Latitude 07 01 S, Longitude 041 22 E. Alert Number 165/2011. Warning—Warning—Warning—At 0403 UTC November 15 a merchant vessel is currently under attack by pirates in the above position.

“Alert Number 164/2011.” The position followed. “A Pirate Action Group consisting of 2 x skiff with 5 POB, weapons and ladders reported in the above position.”

There was more, two pages of it. Arch Penney read every entry, taking the time to refer to the chart to check the various positions.

“The murdering bastards are busier than they were last month,” Zopp remarked. “The international task force has a chopper patrolling this sea lane this morning. He went over about twenty minutes ago, heading northeast, probably to check out the
Stella Maris.
” The
Stella Maris
was another cruise ship, one that had sailed from Doha and was on its way to the Suez Canal, backtracking the route just traveled by the
Sultan.
They were scheduled to pass each other this morning.

Penney nodded and handed the report back without comment. He went out onto the open wing of the bridge to catch a few moments of peace before the passengers all woke up and the day really got under way. There was a high overcast and a nice breeze from the west. This time of year the wind wasn’t warm, but it was very dry.

Novembers had wonderful reputations for perfect weather in the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden. The summer monsoon was over, and the heat of the deserts to both sides was beginning to dissipate. Truly, the Red Sea was something special. Without a river running into it carrying silt and debris, it was the cleanest ocean on earth, with clear water and hundreds of coral reefs.

The Gulf of Aden, however, was another matter. This was merely an arm of the Indian Ocean. Windy and choppy this morning.

Captain Penney drew in a deep breath of the wind off the Arabian Peninsula. Clean and dry. “Pure,” the Arabs liked to say, “like Islam.” Penney thought the desert wind smelled empty, like nothing at all. As he stood there, he watched a freighter with rusty sides pass his ship to port on its way into the Red Sea.

Arch finally walked inside the bridge and took a careful look at the radar picture. He spent a few minutes discussing traffic with his first officer.

The radar was always full of contacts; avoiding collisions required the most careful diligence. Harry Zopp was up to the task, Penney knew. He trusted him. Still, he was the captain, legally, morally and ethically responsible for this ship and the lives of everyone aboard her, so he monitored the bridge team in narrow waters, mentally weighing every decision, every order.

Fortunately they were out of the Bab al Mandeb, so the
Sultan
had more room to maneuver. Not only did the bridge team need to avoid other ships and fishing boats, they needed to be able to outrun and outmaneuver pirate skiffs.

When Harry Zopp had passed the tanker ahead of them and the
Sultan
was steaming northeastward at nineteen knots, paralleling the coast of Yemen, Arch Penney went below to have breakfast with his wife.

*   *   *

“She’s up to nineteen knots now,” the voice on Mustafa’s radio said. “Should meet the other ship in forty-one minutes.”

Mustafa typed the new coordinates into his GPS. The speed increase meant he was going to be a few minutes late. Just a little. He jammed the throttles forward and adjusted his course.

The men heard the change in the engine’s song and felt the prop bite deeper into the sea. They hung on tightly and ignored the spray coming over the bow when the boat nosed into a swell. Their eyes were on the horizon. Soon.

*   *   *

Suzanne’s husband was dead and Irene wished hers were, so they escaped Denver four times a year by going on ocean cruises. This late-autumn cruise from Istanbul to Doha was their thirteenth. Everyone they met on the
Sultan
tried to think up something witty to say when that number came up in conversation. Actually, comparing numbers of cruises was a popular topic of conversation among the passengers, most of whom, if they were to be believed, spent a significant portion of their lives leisurely sailing from port to port, seeing the planet on a floating luxury hotel.

“I’ve gained four pounds already,” Irene remarked to her sister as they surveyed the choices on the breakfast buffet.

“The ship’s paper says Denver is getting an early winter storm,” Suzanne remarked, because she didn’t want to discuss her weight, which was ten pounds more than Irene’s. After all, the price of the cruise was all-inclusive, so the gourmet food was already paid for; why not eat it? Indeed, so were the drinks. After loading her plate with eggs Benedict, extra ham, a few potatoes, a slice of tomato and just a taste of smoked salmon, Suzanne helped herself to a Mimosa—after all, a little champagne with the orange juice wouldn’t hurt much, would it?—and followed Irene across the dining room to a door that led to the porch overlooking the wake. The table they normally sat at for breakfast was empty, so they seated themselves. The waiter came over immediately, and Irene ordered coffee.

“Oooh,” whispered Irene, staring back through the window at the buffet line, “there’s Warren Bass and his new trophy wife.”

Suzanne eyed the skinny fifty-something babe with obviously fake tits who came in with Bass. He was, Suzanne knew, a Texas oil mogul. Rumor had it the woman with him was his fourth or fifth wife. Her name was Theodolinda, and she said everyone called her “Dol.” Bass was in his mid-seventies, with a full mane of gray hair, which he brushed straight back. He sported a matching mustache in a tanned, lined face. His hair stood up in the back, giving him a comb that reminded Suzanne of a woodpecker.

“She’s had some plastic surgery,” Irene said, scrutinizing Dol Bass, who was helping herself to one little spoonful of scrambled eggs.

“Liposuction, too, probably.”

“I watched her at dinner last night. She didn’t eat four bites.”

“One of those, eh?”

“A gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.”

“You need a set of tits like that,” Suzanne remarked.

“Right.”

“I’m thinking of getting a set when I get home,” Suzanne continued. “My Christmas present to myself. D’s, I think.”

“Look, there’s Atomic Man.” Sure enough, Mohammed Atom, accent on the first vowel, came strolling into the lounge. He was wearing a blue blazer, a shirt and tie, gray trousers with a knife-edge crease and polished loafers. “He’s from somewhere in Africa, I think. Stole a pile of money from the starving masses and now rides around enjoying it.”

After Atom had seated himself several chairs away on the porch and ordered coffee, the sisters saw Mike Rosen working his way through the breakfast line. He was about five feet nine inches tall, reasonably thin and relatively good-looking. An economist by trade, he held forth on a Denver talk radio station for three hours every morning. He sat down at the table between Irene and Suzanne and the Basses. Irene heard him order coffee from the waiter.

Suzanne looked at her watch. “Thirty seconds … a minute … ninety seconds…”

Just before the second hand showed two minutes, Nora Neidlinger and her daughter, Juliet, came out of the dining room, looked around and zeroed in on the talk-show host. They brought their plates over, and he stood and graciously invited them to join him.

The daughter was addicted to hats with wide brims, which she liked to shape so that the brim hid half her face. Her long brown hair swept down her back. Nora, on the other hand, wore her hair relatively short, the better to showcase her striking features, which people noticed when they tore their eyes from her surgically enhanced figure.

“Double D’s,” Suzanne whispered to Irene. “Mine will be a bit more modest.”

“That’s wise, dear. After all, you have to carry them around.”

The swirling sea breeze played with the brim of Juliet’s hat. She adjusted it.

When Rosen nodded at Nora, she smiled and held his eyes.

“Ten bucks she lands him before Doha,” Suzanne murmured to Irene.

“No bet,” Irene shot back and glanced around for a waiter.

Rosen was making conversation with Nora and Juliet; Suzanne and Irene couldn’t help but overhear. “Did you take the tour to Luxor?”

“Oh, yes,” Nora said and began discussing the bus ride from Al Qusayr and the ancient monuments by the Nile.

It was all very pleasant, with the blue sea and the light wind off Arabia and the sun shining down.

Irene winked at Suzanne and asked the waiter for more coffee. Suzanne ordered another Mimosa.

*   *   *

Harry Zopp glanced at the surface radar—and was surprised to see four small targets approaching from the south. They were on a collision course and closing. He picked up the closed circuit telephone, which rang in the captain’s stateroom.

“Pirates, I think,” Harry Zopp said. “Maybe fifteen minutes out.”

“Radio the navy and activate the boarding prevention plan,” Captain Arch Penney ordered, then added, “I’ll be right up.”

Zopp dialed the preset radio frequency into the box in front of him and picked up the handset. “Red Ryder, Red Ryder, this is
Sultan of the Seas
.”

“This is Red Ryder. Go ahead,
Sultan.
”

“Looks as if we have four high-speed boats approaching from the south on a course to intercept us. About fourteen minutes out. Over.”

“We’ll get the chopper headed your way. Nearest surface warship is seventy miles northeast of you.”

Two hours, Harry Zopp thought. He used the intercom to call the bosun. “Activate the boarding prevention plan. Pirates less than fifteen minutes away.”

Zopp walked out on the starboard wing of the bridge with his binoculars. He was standing there trying to spot the boats on the horizon when Captain Penney joined him.

“Just got a glimpse of one of them,” Zopp said. “Radar says they are making thirty knots.”

The captain told the helmsman, “All engines ahead full.” Full speed for the
Sultan
was thirty-one knots, but with the pirate boats on the starboard quarter, there was no way he was going to outrun them on this heading. He went inside the bridge and looked at the moving map display on the GPS. He was twenty miles offshore. If he turned tail to the pirates, he would be heading toward Yemen. He could buy some time, but he couldn’t sail through sand and stone.

Penney glanced again at the radar. He could see the symbol for the
Stella Maris,
fifteen miles ahead. She would pass down his left side if he kept on this course. “Come left ten degrees,” Penney told the helmsman. This course would take him very near to the
Stella Maris.
He picked up the radio handset and dialed in the proper frequency, then called
Stella Maris.
Better tell her captain what was going on.

That was when he got a bad shock. The voice of the
Stella Maris
’s captain rang in his ears. “
Stella Maris
is under attack by pirate boats, apparently from Yemen. Three of them. They are shooting up the ship. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!”

*   *   *

Lieutenant de vaisseau
Gilbert Louceck surveyed the instruments in the cockpit of his Panther helicopter and checked the radar distance readout to the ship currently under attack, eighteen miles from the Yemen coast. In his headset he could hear the captain of the ship calling Mayday in English, and the controller aboard the French destroyer talking to him in French. Long ago he had learned to sort all these voices out. His copilot was answering the controller just now, giving him a range and how many minutes they were from the ship under attack, the
Stella Maris.
Ten miles to go. A little less than five minutes.