Pirate Alley: A Novel (41 page)

Found him there. Dead. Chopped up pretty badly by shrapnel. Looked like an RPG warhead to me. The Sako was there, damaged. I scanned about with my penlight. Found six empty .338 Lapua cartridges lying near him in the dirt.

He hadn’t moved from this position after he started shooting. I told him to, but he didn’t.

I picked him up, got the corpse over my shoulder, managed to bend enough to snag the rifle and walked toward the plaza. I wasn’t leaving E.D. in Somalia. We could bury him back in the States.

I laid the body in the plaza. Had blood all over me, and I didn’t give a good goddamn. Blood everywhere on everything. My leg screamed.

I sat a while. Some marines came along with a body bag and took E.D.

They were bringing the prisoners in trucks. Marched them into the building. Other marines were carrying in armloads of weapons. Machine guns, AKs, RPG-7 launchers and bags of warheads.

I don’t know how many prisoners they put in there—at least fifty, maybe seventy-five. More or less. I wasn’t counting, and I don’t guess anyone else was.

The two Mossad agents showed up with one, a guy who had been shot through the lower body sideways, it looked like. He was obviously bleeding from a torso wound. The two Israeli agents were supporting his weight, but his feet were dragging along. So they had found the Palestinian bomber, al-Gaza.

They dragged the guy into the building.

One of the marines, a sergeant with lots of stripes, checked the prisoners as they were led out of the truck, or carried out. Some of them were bleeding from horrific wounds. I saw him pick out a few, and they were loaded into another truck.

Curious, I walked over. “You’re letting these guys go?”

“Kids. Got one who weighed sixty pounds and was just five feet tall.”

As I was standing there I saw a woman with an AK approach one of the vehicles. She came out from behind a pickup. How long she had been there I don’t know. A group of prisoners was being herded toward the building.

The marines tensed.

“Stand easy, men,” the sergeant said in his parade-ground voice, not shouting, but with a voice that cut through the noise.

The woman was perhaps middle-aged. She didn’t hesitate or break stride. She was staring at one Somali. She stopped about fifteen feet from him, lifted the AK and gave him a burst in the gut. Two Marines swung their weapons, ready to kill her, but the sergeant roared, “No.”

He walked slowly over to the woman, held out his hand, and she handed him the rifle. Then she turned and walked away, back toward the huts that comprised the town.

“What was that all about, Gunny?” one of the marines asked.

“God only knows,” the gunnery sergeant said. “Maybe he killed her man. Or raped her. Or raped her daughter. She figured he earned it. You people pick him up and carry him inside.”

The marines didn’t even check to see if the guy was dead. They carried him into the building and threw him on the floor.

“How’d you know she wouldn’t shoot our men?” I asked the sergeant.

“After three tours in Iraq and two in Afghanistan, you get a feel. The aggression, the bad vibes. I just knew.”

The thought crossed my mind that you only have to be wrong once to end up dead, but I kept my mouth shut.

The gunnery sergeant had some more to say in that gravelly, parade-ground voice. “These women have been taking shit from these ragheads all their lives. The times, they are a-changin’.”

I looked around for Grafton. Didn’t see him. Wandered into the lobby past the rows of prisoners lying on the floor trussed up with plastic ties and looked down the stairs. Heard a noise and saw Grafton coming up with the two Israelis.

He didn’t say anything. Just slapped me on the shoulder. Then he saw a young marine in battle dress standing there amid the prisoners lying on the floor, trussed up with plastic ties, tearing pages from a book. Maybe it was the Koran.

Grafton went over to him and took the book from his hands. Tossed it on the floor. “This isn’t good for your soul,” he said. He put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and guided him out. I followed him into the plaza.

He stood looking, watching the prisoners being marched in, the weapons being policed up. Marines were carrying them into the building by the armload, then hustling back for more.

An APC came down the hill from the fort and stopped in front of the lair. Four Royal Marines carried three wounded men from the APC into the building. Grafton nodded at one man who had apparently been shot through both knees. He was screaming as they toted him in, one holding his shoulders and one his ankles. “That’s the pirate that led the team that captured the
Sultan
. Killed some crewmen, threw the wounded overboard to drown, murdered several passengers.”

“Maybe we should take him back to the States. The defense lawyers would love you for it.”

Jake Grafton made a rude noise. “His pirating days are over,” he muttered. Then he turned to me. “Tommy, you did well. I thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hitch a ride up to the airport. Get all your guys. Keep them alert, guarding the planes. Then put them on the last plane out. You, too.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be along after a while. Gotta make sure we get all the hostages out of that fortress. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked off to talk to a knot of marines. I called Willis on the net, told him E.D. wasn’t coming, and relayed Grafton’s order that the CIA team was to be on the last plane.

Then I started walking up the hill toward the fortress. My leg needed some exercise to work the soreness out.

*   *   *

It was almost dawn when the last of the
Sultan
’s crew were evacuated. I was sitting with my back against the parapet of the roof when Captain Penney and a few of his officers boarded the last chopper to the airport. The Italian and BBC news crews were already aboard. At the last minute Ben and Zahra, the two Mossad agents, came over with Mohammed Atom, who had his hands cuffed with a plastic tie behind his back. They put him on, then climbed aboard after him.

Ricardo refused to go. I saw that he was shaking his head violently, and strolled near enough to hear the argument over the noise from the helo’s idling engines. “There is another story here. What about the people of Eyl, after the battle is over? I am staying to do this story.”

“We aren’t keeping a plane at the airport to wait for you.”

“I understand. I absolve you of all responsibility. My cameraman and I will find our own way home.”

“Jesus, you are a stubborn son of a bitch. There’s dozens, maybe hundreds of those murderous Shabab assholes out there in the brush. They’d love nothing more than to do you, just for the fun of it.”

“This is my job,” Ricardo said heroically.

The loadmaster threw up his hands and waved to the chopper. It lifted off, and we were swamped with silence.

I headed down the stairs. Walked through the fortress one last time—a few of the emergency lanterns from the ship were still lit, but mainly the place was dark. A rat shot through the beam of my penlight. I suspected the locals would mine the trash when the sun came up.

I left the fort, waved to a Royal Marine standing at the entrance with his weapon cradled in his arms and started hiking for town. The U.S. Marines were still there, though most of the fires had burned themselves out. A couple of APCs had their headlights and spotlights on, lighting up the plaza.

Willis Coffey called me on the net. He was a happy fellow. “We’re ready to get aboard this last plane, Tommy. Where are you, dude?”

“Go on. I’ll catch a ride with the marines. See you in Langley.”

He didn’t argue. “Adios, amigo,” he said.

I turned off the com unit and stuffed it and the headset in my backpack.

When the sun came up, the marines started to pull out. Machine guns were broken down, packed up. Ammo stowed in boxes. Water cans picked up and stowed in the APCs. Then the SEALs and marines piled in, and they headed off up or down the beach to the landing craft that were waiting to take them back to the ships.

A U.S. Navy destroyer was anchored near the
Sultan,
and small boats were coming and going. They were going to tow her away, I thought.

Jake Grafton was still in the plaza, standing beside an APC, a commandeered pickup and some marines. One of the marines was a captain.

Grafton asked him, “Did you get all those people evacuated from those huts?” He nodded toward the village.

“Yes, sir. Made them walk at least a mile. Some of the old women and kids we gave rides to.”

“How many rations did you leave?”

“Two pallets, sir. One of rice, beans, canned meat, juice, lots of stuff from the ship. The other was MREs.”

Grafton eyed me. “I thought I told you to take a plane.”

“I disobeyed orders. Thought I’d ride along with you. Wheedle some leave out of you, maybe a pay raise while you’re so full of cheer and love for your fellow man.”

He merely nodded and climbed into the truck’s passenger seat. One of the marines got behind the wheel, and two jumped in the back. I didn’t jump, not with my leg. I eased myself aboard and swung my sore leg in.

The APC preceded us. We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when we saw Ricardo and his cameraman hiking our way, waving their arms.

The truck stopped, and he rushed over. Maybe he didn’t recognize Grafton, because he asked the buck sergeant driver, “Where are all the civilians?”

“I think they cleared out, sir.”

“But where?”

“I don’t know. Now you’d better get in the truck.”

“We’re not leaving,” Ricardo said flatly. “We’re the press, and we don’t take orders from anyone.”

The sergeant made a gesture with his hand at the two marines who were riding in the bed. They jumped off, picked up Ricardo bodily and threw him in the truck bed. The cameraman decided discretion was the better part of valor, hoisted his camera in, and climbed up under his own steam.

The truck rolled. We were up near the fortress when the truck stopped and Grafton got out. He was standing beside the truck, right beside me, and I think I was the only one who saw him pull something from his pocket. He fiddled with it for a moment, then pointed it at Ragnar’s lair.

The building exploded. The explosion started in the basement and just kept getting bigger and bigger, I guess as more and more of the PVV-5A and ammo and RPG warheads got involved. The noise and concussion felt like a punch, even at this distance. The fireball rose and turned into a mushroom cloud.

Grafton dropped the controller and climbed back into the truck. The sergeant started it moving. Everyone in the bed was looking at the still-growing cloud. The blast knocked down most of the shacks in Eyl. Little bits and pieces began raining from the sky. I covered my head with my hands.

As the truck topped the crest I got my last look. The breeze had moved some of the cloud to seaward. Ragnar’s lair was no longer there.

*   *   *

Mike Rosen was in
Sultan
’s e-com center typing, as usual, trying to get the events of the evening into e-mails. He had stopped and was sitting looking at the town of Eyl in the early-morning sun when Ragnar’s building went up in a cloud of smoke and fire. He watched it for a moment, typed out what he had just seen and hit
SEND
. Then he turned off his computer.

He went up on deck and watched the giant mushroom cloud drift toward the
Sultan
. Looked at the destroyer and the boats and saw that one of them was towing a hawser toward
Sultan.

An hour later the ship was free of her anchor and moving. Sailors were aboard on the bridge, using handheld radios to talk back and forth to each other and the destroyer,
Richard Ward.

Sultan
was turned toward the east and the destroyer towed her toward the open sea. Mike Rosen stood on the upper deck watching Africa slowly recede. An hour and a half later, all he could see in every direction was water, and some navy ships. High Noon joined him. Amazingly, his coat pockets were empty and he was drinking coffee from a ceramic cup.

“There’s coffee in the galley,” he said and leaned on the rail.

“Where’s your gin?”

“Oh, that. I poured gin on myself from time to time, but the bottles held mostly water.”

“Who do you work for? MI-6?”

Noon grinned. “Been in Africa over twenty years,” he mused. “Time to go home. Fact is, I think I’ve worn out my welcome.”

“What am I supposed to say when people ask me about that e-mail I sent Wednesday evening? How the Shabab was going to kill the pirates, steal the ransom and kill everyone in the fort.”

“Oh. Amazingly accurate prediction, that. True, even.”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you just say you overheard some people talking, and let it go at that?”

“The e-mails from the States had a lot to say about this Grafton fellow. That he was in charge of the rescue. You know him?”

Noon laughed.

“I was going to write a book about the
Sultan
’s capture, but I am rethinking that.”

Noon emptied the last of his coffee into the sea. The wind whipped the liquid away.

“The truth is, I don’t know very much.”

“Life’s like that. I could use some more coffee. Want some?”

They headed toward the galley.

“Fact is,” Rosen said, “I’ve been offered an hour show on a cable television news channel, five days a week. Big pay increase. I’m going to take it.”

“Congratulations. Something good came out of this mess, after all.” Noon took a deep breath of the sea air. “I always wanted to take a cruise.”

“Enjoy.”

“I intend to.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

I went back to the States via Rome. Got a room in a modest hotel and looked up Sophia Donatelli. She had a few days off, so we spent them seeing Rome. She knew it backwards and forwards. I liked her a lot. She liked me a lot, too. Say what you will about Italian politics, but the women there are the most beautiful in the world, and the food!