The Devil's Waters (14 page)

“I’m going.”

“Where?”

“To get my gun back from Bojan.”

“He will not give it to you. He has orders.”

“Then give him different orders.”

“Bojan does not work for me on this ship of wonders.”

LB stepped back from the console. He flung both arms over his head, swung a boot at his own frustration, infuriated and diminished. “Shit,” he barked through clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch.”

“Yes!” Drozdov sang. “Yes, Sergeant. That’s the spirit!”

Pirate skiffs

Gulf of Aden

Yusuf raised
a fist.

In the center, Suleiman did the same. To his right, young Guleed hoisted his balled hand.

The three cousins stood in the bows of three black skiffs lashed together. They signaled to one another: Courage.

The boats idled their engines. Along with Yusuf and Guleed in the left and right skiffs, one helmsman and one gunner waited in each. Seventeen more pirates crowded behind Suleiman, standing in the bow of the middle skiff. All were armed with Kalashnikov rifles. A dozen rocket-propelled grenade launchers were secured to the floorboards of each of the three skiffs, along with rope ladders and new aluminum grappling hooks tied to long tethers. At Yusuf’s feet lay two hundred meters of coiled hemp rope. The line ran past Suleiman in the middle to an equal coil at Guleed’s bare feet.

Every eye was turned to the enormous bow of the freighter bearing down on them. Yusuf could not understand why the
Valnea
moved so slowly. A vessel of this class was capable of twenty-five knots, even more running empty. The ship wasn’t in a convoy; she ran alone. Why? Was she wounded? Was this a trap? Yusuf had
brooded over these questions, moving to stay in the freighter’s path, skulking to spring his own trap. He had no more time to ponder; the white steaming light on her forward mast charged closer, high in the air like an approaching comet.

Over the skiff’s VHF radio, the freighter repeated its hail on Channel 16. The voice was very matter-of-fact. “Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel,
CMA CGN Valnea
. Please respond.”

Yusuf said, “Cut that off.”

Water sprayed off the huge bulbous bow that would ram them in another thirty seconds. With the immense ship almost on top of them, her twelve knots didn’t seem so sluggish to Yusuf. The noise of the bow cutting through the water and the rumble of the propeller beneath the surface vibrated under his soles. He held his fist higher, to be seen by his men in the dim light. Twenty-three narrow Darood faces locked on him. Yusuf looked once to the stars—still a moonless night—to take a bit of peace with him into the hijacking.

The freighter charged so close that it blocked the stars to the east, and the walls of the hull echoed the splashing, bulbous bow. Yusuf nodded to his two kinsmen. He dropped his fist.

Instantly, the lines tying the skiffs together were let go. The trio of helmsmen blared their engines. Yusuf and Guleed peeled away left and right, playing out the coiled rope between them, straining to hold the line taut above the water. Suleiman’s skiff dodged left, barely escaping the slicing bow, almost swamped by the ship’s wash. Suleiman’s helmsman quickly regained control. Hugging the
Valnea
’s painted skirt, the skiff slowed, slipping along the hull back toward the stern and out of sight.

Yusuf’s and Guleed’s skiffs sped just ahead of the bulbous bow, avoiding the wake that nearly tipped Suleiman. The cousins leaned against the rope, stretching it above the surface. The bulb rose three meters out of the breaking water, over their heads. When Suleiman had first told Yusuf of this tactic weeks ago, it had sounded like an excellent ploy, a way to fool the ship and its armed
guards. Now, attempting it, Yusuf wasn’t so confident. He was more sure with an RPG in his hands against a Goliath freighter than with a rope.

Both helmsmen nudged the cousins as close to the dripping steel as they dared. The surge and sound of the freighter here at the leading edge were overwhelming, so much force split the sea. Yusuf bellowed to Guleed, “Ready?” The boy could not possibly hear over the roaring water and skiff engines, but Guleed jerked his head to show that he knew what Yusuf wanted.

Yusuf gave his helmsman the order, and Guleed did the same. Both skiffs, twenty meters apart, eased their throttles to let the
Valnea
creep slightly ahead. The cousins yanked hard on the rope, nearing the nose of the bulbous bow. If the line hit the water, the freighter would run over it, Yusuf would have to cut the rope, and this tactic would fail. Then they’d untie the rocket launchers and hail the ship with threats. With grappling hooks and ladders, they’d attempt to board, the more usual tactic of Somali piracy. If the armed guards resisted, Yusuf, Guleed, and Suleiman in their skiffs would harass and beat the ship until she submitted, or until the pirates managed to board under fire, a violent and deadly option.

Yusuf pulled hard against the rope, hoping Suleiman’s gambit worked.

Mist off the bow clouded his vision. With no free hand to wipe his eyes, his tunic soaked, he lost focus. The line took slack and bounced on the surface, almost snagging under the bow. Yusuf and opposite him Guleed leaned back with all their strength to lift the rope free.

Yusuf’s hands burned around the thick hemp. The pain honed his will. He jutted his chin at his helmsman to ease the skiff’s speed a little more, to touch the rope to the front of the bulb. Opposite him, Guleed disappeared behind the bow and spray.

Yusuf hauled on the line through the assault of water, the bounding of the skiff over the chop. Slowly, the rope neared the bulb
until it touched its tip. Now the trick was to lift the rope over the bulb to bridle
Valnea
so they could ride her.

Yusuf nodded to his clansman at the wheel. He envisioned Guleed on the right side of the ship doing the same, nudging closer.

The skiff angled in, shortening the distance to the colossal hull. Yusuf raised the rope high over his head. The wash from the bulb splattered his eyes, and he blinked fast to clear his vision. The helmsman fought to keep the skiff steady so Yusuf might not lose his balance.

Yusuf let a meter of slack into the rope; at the same moment, he flicked his arms and wrist to send a loop into the line. He tried this several times, hoping to nurse the rope to the top of the rounded bulb. Yusuf stumbled to his knees, unable to use his hands to catch himself.

“Closer!” he yelled to the helmsman. The man shook his head, afraid to take on more of the ship’s wake. The other in the skiff, the gunner, leaped to shove the frightened driver away. He took hold of the wheel and throttle. Like all the pirates in Yusuf’s crew, he, too, was a man of the sea. The displaced one took a seat at the center of the skiff, angry.

The rope stayed bent over the bow’s bulbous nose. Leaning against the line, Yusuf moved to the bow of the skiff. He climbed onto the short crossbeam, lifting his arms as high as he could. This risked a slip off the skiff shimmying on the
Valnea
’s wake, the deluge of spray shoving him off his perch. To fall in the dark water would be to drown, sucked under the freighter, chopped by the propeller. To fail to take this ship would be to invite another visit from Sheikh Robow, only a slightly better fate.

Yusuf raised his arms their highest. He pulled against the rope, sensing Guleed on the other end in the same struggle. He wavered on the bow, unable to hold his stance on the shuddering skiff, in the cataract all around him.

The disgraced pirate, the displaced one, leaped forward to wrap his arms around Yusuf’s knees, propping him in place.

“Take it!” the man shouted.

With his stance steadied, Yusuf snapped
the rope upward as hard as he could. A ripple whipped into the line; when it reached the bow, the rope slid upward.

Yusuf had snared the
Valnea.

Keeping pressure on the line, he stepped down to cleat the rope at the skiff’s bow. On the starboard side of the freighter, Guleed would be doing the same. Yusuf gripped the shoulders of the pirate who’d held him, turned him, and put him back behind the skiff’s wheel, redeemed. The gunner, no longer at the helm, scrambled to untie a rocket launcher from the floorboards.

The skiff bled off speed, letting the freighter pull ahead while the coils of rope slithered into the water. The side of the skiff skimmed against the ship’s hull, gliding backward beneath the giant white letters CMA CGM. No more than a minute had passed since the start of the attack. No reaction had come from the
Valnea
. If Suleiman’s plan was working, the ship’s captain hadn’t yet figured out where they were.

The long rope continued to spiral into the gulf as the bow gained distance forward. With his Kalashnikov, Yusuf scanned the freighter’s rail far above, three stories high, ready to discourage anyone who might gaze down. The night’s calm, barely begun, remained unbroken by the
Valnea
.

After one more tense minute, the skiff had slipped 150 meters astern of the ship’s bow. The vessel remained silent and dark, no lights or alarms. The last of the rope skipped overboard. Instantly the line jumped out of the gulf, taut between the two skiffs, looped across the ship’s nose. Yusuf’s helmsman idled the twin outboards, leaving only the freighter’s deep drone and hissing wake. Yusuf and Guleed were now being towed by the freighter, running at her sides like jackals. The
Valnea
could not outsprint them or shake them off.

Yusuf did not have to wait longer for the freighter’s reply. A searchlight flared from the port wing. The beam scanned forward to the bow, then out to sea, until it panned
down the long hull to find Yusuf standing in his skiff. The light warmed his neck.

The vibrations of the great freighter trembled against Yusuf’s little boat, pressed to her ribs; her engine and propeller throbbed into the skiff’s wooden frame. The
Valnea
bellowed at Yusuf, glared at him with one hot white eye, demanding he release her. Instead, Yusuf loosed a half dozen rounds toward the searchlight, though he had no chance of hitting it, just to fix the attention of the sailor manning it. Beside Yusuf, the gunner lifted an RPG, aimed at the wing where the light streamed down. Yusuf waved him off. The
Valnea
had not fired on them. The rockets were to be used only then.

Overhead, a klaxon rang. The skiff squealed, tilting away from the ship. Yusuf and the gunner quickly sat, hanging on to keep from being pitched overboard. The
Valnea
reared out of the water, lifting herself, the helmsman gunning his engines to free the skiff from the rolling leviathan.

The
Valnea
careened sharply to the left toward Yusuf, turning as though to address him, to say what Suleiman had said weeks ago.

Let this go, cousin.

The helmsman could not budge the skiff; one of the propellers was lifted out of the water.

Yusuf reached out to stroke the freighter’s rising steel torso.

“
Maya
,” he told her. No.

CMA CGM Valnea

Gulf of Aden

On the radar
sweep, the
Valnea
’s large blip swallowed the smaller signature lying in its path.

“That ship,” Drozdov said. “It has disappeared.”

LB asked, “What the hell? Did we hit it?”

Grisha stopped hailing the mystery vessel. The VHF microphone hovered at his lips. “I felt nothing.”

“It was not radar shadow,” Drozdov said. “It moved to stay in our way.”

LB agreed. “I saw it. Dead ahead.”

“Steady on.” Drozdov gestured to the second mate, who had both hands on the tiny wheel. In the captain’s lap, the walkie-talkie squawked.

“Bojan here.”

Drozdov answered. “We have possible intruder off the bow. Perhaps a collision.”

Bojan paused before replying. “Which is it?”

“I don’t know. I expect you to tell me. Out.”

Drozdov set the walkie-talkie aside. “Sergeant, Grisha. Man the searchlights. Find that boat. Wreckage, something.”

LB rushed
to the left wing, Grisha ran right. Throwing open the chocks on the watertight portal, LB raced to the tip of the wing. He flicked the switch on the back of the spotlight. The beam came alive, aimed into the open air.

The searchlight, bulky and powerful, needed both hands to swing. Heat off the bulb sizzled inside the round casing. LB aimed forward to the bow, then out to sea in case of flotsam or survivors. Finding nothing but foam and black swells, he played the light down the side of the freighter.

Froth sparkled on the water, sea mist drifted through the beam. No evidence of a ship entered the circle of the spotlight—nothing, until he aimed straight down. There, nine stories below, an intact wooden skiff hugged the
Valnea
’s hull.

In the boat stood one black man gripping a Kalashnikov, another with an RPG across his shoulder. A third sat behind the wheel. The skiff, long and sleek, looked fast, with twin outboards.

Why only three men?

They were armed men. The big one with the submachine gun made the point by raising his muzzle at the searchlight. The gun flashed and chattered. Bullets struck sparks around LB. The pirate missed the light but beat the steel close enough to make LB dive out of the way.

“Son of a bitch!” Staying low, he skittered for the wheelhouse. Flinging open the door, he shouted, “Pirates!”

Across the pilothouse, Grisha crawled in, hollering at Drozdov from his hands and knees. “Three pirates! They’re shooting!”

LB ducked in the doorway. “Same here.”

“That’s all? Six pirates?”

“You come count ’em.”

Drozdov beckoned to them both. “Inside.” A young officer and a Filipino crewman darted to replace them at the searchlights.

LB moved behind Drozdov, and Grisha skittered into the second seat.

“General
alarm,” Drozdov ordered. Grisha flipped a switch on the console. A bell rang through the freighter. Above the bridge, the ship’s whistle blew. Seven short bursts, then a long blast. In two corners of the wheelhouse, red lights flashed.

“Helm, evasive maneuvers.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The Russian manning the wheel spun hard left.
Valnea
responded ponderously, taking a long moment to urge her massive girth into the turn. Once the pivot began, she proved nimble, surprising LB, banking enough to make him brace against Drozdov’s chair. Outside the wide windshield, the starlit horizon tilted. The earsplitting alarm cycle began again.

“Grisha?”

“Captain.”

“Activate SSAS.”

“Aye.”

The first mate reached under the radar dashboard to push a hidden button.

LB asked Drozdov, “What’s that?”

“Ship security alarm. Now home office and warships in area know we are under pirate attack. We have sent position, speed, and course.”

“What about the crew?”

“They have orders to barricade themselves in engine room. Crew will not fight; it is not job of seamen. If we see pirates climbing on board, that is where we will go. You will make sure the wounded are moved properly. We will deny the pirates hostages and leave the heroics to Bojan and the warships. That is their pay. We have ours.”

“What about Iris Cherlina?”

“She has heard the alarm. I expect her any minute.”

Drozdov took up the walkie-talkie. “Bojan, Bojan. Bridge.”

“Go, bridge.”

“We have two pirate skiffs. One port, another starboard. Three men each. They are armed.”

“I see them.”

“Mr. Bojan, I want
to be plain. I insist there be no shooting, repeat, no shooting without my permission, or unless they shoot at you and your men. I have alerted warships. They will send assistance. We need only fend off the pirates until then. If pirates attempt to board, I will activate fire hoses. We will reserve lethal response for last resort. Do you understand?”

“I will protect this ship, Captain.”

“See that you do only that, Mr. Bojan. You know my mind on this.”

“I do.”

“Bridge out.”

The captain set the walkie-talkie down hard. The helmsman continued to drive the
Valnea
into her sharp left-hand pirouette. When Drozdov turned to LB, he had to look uphill. He shook his head in small tremors. He let slip a short, rueful laugh.

“There are only six pirates. This seems infantile.”

“These guys are probably chewing on a pound of
qaat
. They haven’t got a clue what they’re doing. They didn’t look very clever.”

“Perhaps. Do you know why I will not allow Bojan to shoot them? Not unless they set foot on my ship. Grisha, you understand.”

From his chair beside Drozdov, the portly mate dipped his head, knowing and saddened by it.

“I can guess,” LB said. “But tell me.”

The captain poked a finger into his own chest. “I have been the guest of Somali pirates before. I did not have a good visit. Because of that time, I want two things very much right now. A drink of vodka and revenge.
Dat’ pizdy
. To beat the shit out of someone. Both would feel very nice to me. And the desire for them would become addiction again. I do not like being prisoner of anything. So I will not drink. I will not hate. And I will not kill unless there is no other way. This emblem on your arm, sergeant. I think you have made this choice yourself.”

“Not the drinking part. But yeah.
I have.”

The general alarm completed its third circuit. Drozdov cut it off. “Everyone knows.”

The loudspeaker in the dash crackled. A hail came through. “
CMA CGN Valnea
,
CMA CGN Valnea
. Coalition American warship USS
Nicholas
. Do you copy? Over.”

Drozdov snatched the microphone from Grisha. To LB, he whispered, “Your countrymen.” He clicked the talk button. “
Nicholas
,
Valnea
. Captain Drozdov. Go.”

“Captain, we’re received a distress signal from your vessel. Are you under attack?”

“
Nicholas
, yes. Two skiffs, six pirates. Armed and firing on my ship. No injuries.”

“Have they boarded?”

“Negative. They have made no attempt yet. They are staying alongside. I cannot outrun them; we have damaged engine. Twelve knots top speed. Taking evasive maneuvers. Can you send help? Over.”

“
Valnea
. I’ll have a chopper in the air in five minutes. ETA your position twenty minutes. We are turning your way. ETA my vessel at your position one hour. Copy?”

“
Nicholas
, yes.”

“Hold ’em off, Skipper. Cavalry’s coming. We will monitor this channel. Out.”

“Thank you, Captain.
Valnea
out.”

Drozdov communicated this development to Bojan. The Serb guard had both skiffs under observation. “The Somalis,” Bojan said, “they are like children. They are intoxicated. We will watch them until the American helicopter comes. They will turn and run.”

Grisha widened the sweep on one radar screen, locating USS
Nicholas
thirty-three miles to the west. The warship’s radar signature showed
Nicholas
already pointing east, sprinting to the rescue.

Drozdov’s helmsman twisted
the small steering wheel to the right. The deck evened out, then began its tilt in the opposite direction as the hull swung into a zigzag.

LB analyzed the situation. A couple of skiffs cruising at
Valnea
’s sides. Six pirates. A few wild potshots at the searchlights. The pirates had RPGs but hadn’t used them. No effort to toss up grapnels or mount ladders. Attacking just after dusk. And that odd tactic of waiting in the freighter’s path, skiffs lashed together to look like a single ship on the radar. Then splitting up at the last second to fake a collision, an attack Drozdov had never seen before. Were these Somalis so high on
qaat
they couldn’t mount a proper hijacking, as Bojan implied? Why were they just hanging out alongside the ship’s hull? What was the purpose? Confusion? Stalling?

Ah, hell.

Stalling.

LB grabbed the walkie-talkie off the console. Drozdov shot him a raised eyebrow.

“Bojan, Bojan. Sergeant DiNardo.”

The Serb swiftly answered. “Sergeant, this is private communication with captain only.”

“Shut up, Bojan. Listen to me. Those two skiffs might be a distraction. Repeat, they might be a distraction. There could be another boat. Go look for it.”

At this, Drozdov’s chin fell to his chest. He lapped a hand over his brow, muttering, “
Dolboyob
.” LB knew this one, too. Stupid.

Bojan snapped his response. “I have situation under control, Sergeant. Bojan out.”

The Serb would not answer LB’s hail. He tossed the walkie-talkie to Grisha.

“Keep calling him. Tell him I’m on my way.”

Drozdov said, “Go quickly.”

LB broke downhill for the left wing. Exiting the portal, he snared a flashlight and made his way down the rail to the Filipino manning the spotlight. The lit-up pirate skiff
far below no longer snugged against the great hull but kept pace twenty yards off. LB instructed the Filipino crew to wait one minute, then take the searchlight beam off the skiff and move it forward along the hull, then back.

He flung himself at the exterior stairs.

LB could not fly down the six staircases. The
Valnea
tilted harder as she curved to the right, making the stairs treacherous. He moved as fast as he could, suspecting that every tick of the clock worked for the pirates.

Bojan greeted him at the last step. The Serb held his Zastava M21 ready at his waist. Behind him, the white girder of light from the wing shone down.

“Go inside, Sergeant.”

“Look.” LB showed the flashlight. “I’m unarmed, thanks to you. I just need to see something up close. I think we’re being deked.”

“I do not know this word.”

“Fooled, Bojan. Tricked. I don’t think these pirates are children. I’m betting they’ve got another skiff. Let me take one look.”

“You are medic. Please restrict your efforts to that.”

Ten years in Special Forces; LB wanted to bellow this in the Serb’s face. Instead, he said again, “One look.”

“One. Then back to the infirmary.”

LB leaned over the port rail, flicking on the flashlight. The skiff held its position off the hull, pacing the freighter’s speed exactly. The pirates made no menacing moves at the
Valnea
, only gazed into the dazzling searchlight with weapons up. No one fired. It looked like a standoff. LB feared it was not.

The
Valnea
’s big searchlight panned forward as instructed to the ship’s bow. No more boats lurked in the darkness against the hull where they might hide too close to reflect on
Valnea
’s radar.

Something stirred in the foam beside the hull. A slash broke the water, then dipped back into the black gulf, splashed again, skipped, and disappeared.

The searchlight returned
to the skiff. There it was, a rope faring off the bow into the dark water.

LB’s balance shifted as
Valnea
continued her careening course, swaying back to her left. As the ship rose into the turn, the pirate skiff closed the distance to the hull.

LB bolted from the rail, downhill across the ship’s beam to starboard. Behind him, Bojan ran, shouting.

Reaching the gunwale, LB looked down behind the flashlight before the guard on starboard could intercept him. Another rope ran forward off this spotlighted skiff’s sharp bow. The long boat angled away from the hull just as the skiff on the opposite side bore in.

Bojan caught up. LB whirled on him.

“I got to go forward.”

“Inside.” Bojan motioned to his arriving guard. “Take him inside.”

“Listen to me. We’re on the same team here. Come with me. I got a hunch.”

Bojan moved closer. “Take your hunch and your ass inside, Sergeant.”

LB raised a hand into Bojan’s chest to stop the big man from laying hands on him first.

“Or what?”

“For your own safety.”

LB dropped the hand. He backed away.

“Yeah. That’s not really what PJs do.”

He spun on his boots, breaking into a sprint through the corridor. Bojan cursed and followed him, as LB wanted.