The Devil's Waters (17 page)

CMA CGN Valnea
Gulf of Aden

LB lowered himself by a series of levels and ladders. Surrounded by steel, he became conscious of every noise he made, boots on the rungs, Bojan’s jangling gun, his breathing. His combat sense told him to sneak down until he knew what he was headed into.

Reaching the bottom of the hold, he gazed into a vast honeycomb. The size and complexity of the ship belowdecks stunned LB. The diffuse glow from his flashlight did not reach its limits. But only strides away from the bottom of his ladder, on the canyon floor, two rows of railroad cars looked puny and alone.

Here were the first of the
Valnea
’s secrets.

When Major Torres sent him on this mission, she hadn’t counted on pirates, gunplay, a saboteur. If LB’s life and the safety of others were at risk, he needed to find out everything he could about the terrain, the players, and the stakes.

Time for curiosity. If he got in trouble for it later, that’d be good news. He’d be alive for it.

The first line of nine railcars supported long, rounded cargos covered by tied-down tarpaulins. The nine beds in the second row held rectangular loads, also hidden by tarps. LB crept to the nearest car. When he was standing close, the shipment no longer appeared small. It dwarfed him.

He sliced his knife across the tarp, cutting a slash big enough to stick in his head and flashlight.

“Holy…” LB clamped his teeth, or he might shout.

He trained his flashlight along the frost-colored fuselage of an unmanned aerial vehicle. The drone’s long wings lay bound to its sides. Inert and dismantled, the thing still looked deadly and blindly robotic. He’d seen plenty of UAVs on runways in Afghanistan. Always they gave him the same chill, knowing and disliking what they were, drone hunter-killers, the faceless future of warfare.

He scanned the colossal length of the plane, not recognizing the shape. This was no Predator or Reaper. It wasn’t American.

On one wing, close to the root, his light passed over a label. LB withdrew his head, shielding the flashlight. He moved to cut another slit in the tarp.

He aimed the light to read the label. IAI. Israeli Aircraft Industry.

LB sliced into the eight other tarps in line. He found identical UAVs.

Why were Israeli drones being shipped to Lebanon?

He cut through the tarps on all the railcars in the second row. The first four held CCS mobile bunkers. These were hardened nerve centers, C4I stations for command, control, communications, computers, and intelligence. The last five cars were packed with ground radar arrays, aerostat dirigibles, remote video terminals—every persistent surveillance sensor an army needed for detection, identification, and targeting.

Like the drones, all of it was Israeli.

This didn’t add up. Israel shared a border with Lebanon. If all this heavy hardware was bound for Beirut, why not ship it overland a hundred miles instead of loading it onto a freighter in one of the remotest reaches of the world, Vladivostok?

As he stared at the radar arrays under his flashlight, a few bits and pieces of this mystery ship began to fit for LB.

Why did the
Valnea
run empty, except for these railcars, for ten thousand miles?

Simple. She was calling into only one port. This wasn’t a commercial voyage but a charter, meant to ferry the drones and electronics straight to Beirut.

Then why load up so far out of the way in a far corner of Russia? And why protect the drones with Bojan?

The obvious reason was secrecy. This shipment wasn’t just sensitive. It was probably illegal. The customer was bound to be on a UN watch list. Russia couldn’t ship military technology this advanced to just anybody. In the Middle East, that list of banned parties was long, and it included Lebanon. The
Valnea
’s cranes would let her unload the drones anywhere along the Lebanese coast, self-sufficient and secretive.

To pull it off, the ship needed a captain who wouldn’t pry. Drozdov was perfect, an experienced but retread officer who would shut his mouth and click his heels to get back on his feet. The rest of the crew would follow his orders. Drozdov seemed angry with himself, and his ship, for it.

The size and expense of the operation were considerable. Drones, C4I stations, and battlefield radars would easily top several billion dollars. Major Torres had been real clear that LB should keep his nose out of exactly where he’d stuck it. This indicated pressure from above. That spelled government—LB’s government.

So Russia, the United States, and Israel were in bed together. That put a lot of horsepower in play. Who else?

Who was getting the shipment? Too soon to know. Chances were, the stuff wasn’t destined for poor Lebanon, not for $5 billion anyway. Because it was being delivered in secret, the customer was somebody who could afford it but couldn’t get military hardware like this above the table.

No surprise. Prisoners, technology, weapons, information; this sort of back-door, black-op swap was done all the time between nations who were at each other’s throats in public, in each other’s pockets under the table.

What was at stake this time? What was being traded for drones and radar? Surely more than just money.

Also too soon to know.

Just as vital to LB’s survival: Who on board the
Valnea
was trying to stop it? Who had the know-how, motive, access, and sheer stones?

If the saboteur’s purpose was to keep the ship from reaching Beirut, why foul just one piston? Why not pull a bunch of fuses and shut down the whole engine?

LB clicked off the flashlight, closing the flap he’d cut into the last tarp. He scratched his ear, mulling all this over.

What if the intent wasn’t to stop the ship? What if the saboteur wanted only to slow her?

Why? To delay arrival in Beirut?

But if the point was to get to Lebanon later, the sabotage could have been done anytime over the past two weeks. Why wait ten thousand miles to do it here, in the middle of the Gulf of Aden, pirate central?

Drozdov said someone had slowed the ship so she could be hijacked. Someone on this ship was working with the pirates. If this was true, incredible. Again, why? Who?

Too many open-ended questions. LB centered on the one thing he could be sure of. Drozdov was dead on. Very powerful interests had a lot to lose here. If the
Valnea
got hijacked and her secrets hauled into the light of day by a bunch of ragtag Somalis waving AK-47s, heads would roll in Tel Aviv, Washington, and Moscow.

Drozdov had sent the signal that the ship was under attack. Now that pirates were aboard, someone, somewhere, was sure to come gunning to get the
Valnea
back. Maybe if Drozdov and his crew made it to the engine room, that American warship could drop a marine assault team on board. To keep that from happening, the pirates would have to get their hands on a hostage. They needed Iris Cherlina. As soon as they checked the ship’s manifest, they’d know she was on board and at large.

What role did she play in all this? Iris claimed to be an electrophysicist. She likely hadn’t been lying—who picks that for a fake career? But how did that figure in with several billion dollars’ worth of illegally transported military electronics? Iris, the drones, and the radar were all bound for Beirut. How was she linked to the big undercover deal in the belly of this ship?

He hoped she had nothing to do with any of it, and in the same moment cut that wish loose as foolish. Iris Cherlina was plenty good-looking. She’d played up to him to chump him. Drozdov called her a liar. Plainly the captain was right. If there were vast amounts of money involved, as she claimed, Iris was likely in this mess up to her pretty ears. Along with who else on board?

In the middle of all this uncertainty, one fact stood rock solid. If the
Valnea
wasn’t freed by someone in the next several hours, she’d be anchored off the Somali coast by sunup. After that, no one would get her back, not before the pirates stamped her secrets all over the world’s front page.

If LB wanted answers, and he did, he needed to find Iris Cherlina. He was going to ask her one more time what she was doing on this ship.

He headed for the bow and the muffled light.

The ship’s crew huddled beneath the long windshield in the ship’s bridge. The Filipino deckhands sat one way, legs crossed under them. The taller Western officers sat with knees pulled to their chests. The Serb guards hunkered beside their wounded, bandaged comrade, who lay on his back, his head in one of their laps.

Suleiman read names aloud from the ship’s crew list. Guleed guarded the sailors with his Kalashnikov, waving it slowly back and forth across them. The rest of Yusuf’s men had been given thirty minutes to loot the crew’s quarters, before they would take up positions around the freighter, guarding her beam, bow, and stern.

Suleiman mangled many of the Filipino and Slavic names. As he worked down the list, some crewmen did not know to raise their hands. Suleiman’s voice rose in frustration when a hand did not go up with every name. Yusuf quietly reminded his cousin to stay calm; they were in control, and anger did not help the situation.

Drozdov sat stiff in his captain’s chair, Yusuf beside him in the copilot’s seat. Outside the windshield, behind the crew’s heads, a searchlight from the warship’s helicopter washed back and forth across the broad cargo deck. The
Valnea
drove ahead at twelve knots, on autopilot for the Somali coast and Qandala eighty miles off.

Suleiman closed the manifest. Every crewman, officer, and guard had been accounted for, including the pair in the infirmary. The only name unanswered was Iris Cherlina, the passenger. She hid somewhere in the dark crevices of the ship. Iris Cherlina was not worth sending men to look for her.

Yusuf hoped she stayed out of sight the rest of the night. He didn’t need the distraction of his men being around a foreign woman. They were
rer manjo
, good seamen and pirates. But they were mostly poor Somali men, and a man’s poverty rarely remained in his pocket. It wore down his soul. Yusuf could not guarantee her safety.

A woman would be useful, but not now. Later, in the ransom negotiations.

“Captain.”

Drozdov turned a weary head. The man had collapsed into himself in the ten minutes Yusuf had been on board. His face, pocked and weary, looked like a moonstone.

“Yes.”

“Hail the warship. Tell them to recall their helicopter. Or I will shoot a hostage under that searchlight.”

Drozdov did not move. “Is that how it will be? Everything you want you will get, or you will shoot a hostage?”

Yusuf took the VHF microphone from the dash. He held it out to Drozdov.

“Help me get through the next seven hours, Captain. We can judge each other another time.”

The
Valnea
’s crew beneath the flashing windows watched their captain refuse to take the microphone. One, a heavyset officer, unfolded from the floor. He raised both hands to tell Guleed that he was no threat, that he wanted to come forward.

Drozdov waved the officer down. Lethargic, as though moving through water, he took the microphone.

“USS
Nicholas
, USS
Nicholas
.
CMA CGN Valnea
.”

The loudspeaker piped. “
Valnea.
Coalition warship USS
Nicholas.
What is your status? Over.”

“Captain, we have pirates on board. They have taken ship and have my crew hostage. The pirates demand you to recall your helicopter.” Drozdov spoke directly to Yusuf, a seething wince of his eyes. “They will shoot a hostage.”

“Roger that,
Valnea
.”

Yusuf took back the microphone. He held it until the spotlight washing over the freighter shut off and the helicopter’s blinking lights moved away west, back to the warship that was visible on both the radar and the dark horizon.

“
Valnea
. Is the pirate captain nearby?”

Yusuf brought the mike to his lips.

“This is he.”

“Sir, you speak English?”

“Very well.”

“Sir, do not harm any hostages. We have complied.”

“Thank you. Captain, what is your name?”

“Goldberg, sir.”

“Captain Goldberg. I have two more demands. First, keep your vessel at least five miles away from me at all times. Do you understand?”

“Affirmative.”

“Next. I want you to send a skiff alongside my starboard beam. I want no more than two men in it. Unarmed.”

“Sir, I can’t promise that.”

Yusuf spoke facing Drozdov.

“I have wounded on board, Captain. I don’t have time to care for them. You will take them off my hands. I have hostages enough.”

“Sir, I have the safety of my own crew to look out for. You understand. I need a guarantee.”

“You have my word, Captain. Your people will not be harmed.”

“All right, I’ll have to accept that. We’ll reach your position in fifteen minutes.”

“Good.”

“If you cut your speed, we can make that ten.”

“Fifteen will be fine.
Valnea
out.”

The Russian strapped to the backboard cursed from the moment he was carried out of the infirmary to the main deck. Suleiman, still impatient and anxious, pressed the barrel of his pistol into the grousing Russian’s groin where the urine bag attached. This shut him up.

The scalded boy was bundled into a bedsheet like a hammock and hoisted outdoors. The pirates pitied his condition, blistered and moaning, conscious enough to be in agony. They tried to be careful hefting him down the long, lowered gangway.

At the bottom of the stairs, waiting on the platform, Yusuf stood in the same spot where his skiff had ridden beside the
Valnea
’s great flank. He bathed again in the warm searchlight from above. Foam licked his bare feet skimming just above the water. Along the starboard rail three stories up, all the hostages stood in line, including Captain Drozdov. Behind them, a dozen Darood held Kalashnikovs.

Bathed in the spotlight, Yusuf could not see far over the black gulf or any stars. The turning of the freighter’s screw, the hiss of the wake—these blotted out other sounds. He did not hear the warship’s inflatable raft arrive out of the darkness until it had motored very close, blinking a flashlight only fifty yards away. This worried him, that the American boat could approach so near without discovery, without even trying to be stealthy. What if this had been a raid? Wasn’t the plodding
Valnea
just as vulnerable to commandos as it had been to Yusuf’s pirates?

Seven hours to Qandala.

The beam shifted away from Yusuf to the closing raft. As Yusuf had ordered, only two sailors manned the craft. They held no weapons. The one at the helm was dressed in camouflage and body armor, probably an American marine. The sailor in the bow wore a naval officer’s uniform.

The raft motored alongside. The officer tossed a painter caught by Suleiman, who tied it off. The marine stood, a big man, showing empty hands, then tied a stern line to snug the raft close. The officer, well tanned with an older seaman’s creases, saluted.

He asked, “Permission to come aboard?”

Yusuf reached down to help him onto the platform.

“
Salaamu alaykum
.”

The American held on to Yusuf’s offered hand to shake it. “I’m Captain Goldberg, USS
Nicholas
.”

“Yusuf Raage. Thank you for coming personally, Captain.”

“We got ourselves a situation here. Maybe we can figure it out, the two of us.”

“First, the wounded. Please take them aboard.”

“Aye, sir.”

Goldberg motioned for his hefty marine to help load the two injured Russians. The burned and bandaged boy on the sheet was placed gingerly into the raft. His eyes were open, round as coins, his pain easy to see. The one strapped to the backboard grabbed his testicles to shake them at the pirates handing him over, shouting, “
Poshol nahuj
!”

Yusuf said to the captain, “As I said, I haven’t the time.”

“I understand. Can I have a private word with you?”

Goldberg took a step closer to Yusuf. Suleiman set a hand on the pistol stuffed in his waistband. The marine, even unarmed, rose in the stern of the raft.

“I would keep my distance, Captain. My cousin is very protective.”

“I still need that private word.”

Yusuf gestured for his six pirates who’d hauled the Russians down the gangway to climb back to the deck. Suleiman held his ground.

“Speak.”

“All right. Listen, I don’t know what’s on this ship, and I don’t want to know. But you kicked a hornets’ nest when you took it. My phone has not stopped ringing. And the calls I’m getting are from very important people in my government. Very. Military and civilian both, if you get my drift.”

“Make your point, Captain.”

“I’m telling you to walk away. No harm done. Get back in your skiffs and go hijack yourself another freighter. You got my word: I’ll wave and let you go. See you another time. But not this time. This is bigger than you want and more than you can handle. That’s a heads-up for your own good.”

“For my good.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yusuf turned to his cousin, listening behind him. Suleiman kept his face blank, out of deference for Yusuf as leader. Both knew the American had just spoken everything on Suleiman’s mind.

Yusuf lapped a hand behind his kinsman’s neck. He squeezed in fondness and loyalty. His cousin would share whatever fate was his; that was their long-standing pact.

Yusuf raised his hand high into the spotlight. At the signal, the beam swept away, plunging the platform and raft into darkness. The light leaped up the
Valnea
’s tall hull, to the hostages gathered along the starboard rail.

Guleed’s single gunshot clapped loud enough to be heard at the bottom of the gangway. One hostage went limp; arms and shoulders flopped overboard until the legs were lifted from behind, dumping the black-clad body into the air. The searchlight followed the long, awkward somersault into the water.

The corpse splashed into the wake, then bobbed to the surface facedown. This was the large guard, the one wounded during the taking of the ship. The searchlight stayed on the body surging past the platform, beneath Yusuf’s bare feet, under the gaze of the warship captain. The body drifted quickly behind in pinkening foam, swallowed into the indifferent gulf.

Yusuf spoke to the side of the captain’s head. “The man was an armed guard. He shot one of my clansmen.”

Goldberg pivoted slowly to glare at Yusuf. He barely hid his anger.

“When your phone rings again, Captain, tell them if anyone attacks this ship, I will kill every hostage. You asked for the guarantee of Yusuf Raage. Tell them you have it.”

Suleiman did not lift his hand from his weapon until the American had stepped into the raft, slipped the lines, and motored away with the wounded. The spotlight tracked the boat deep into the night, until it became small and the beam blinked off.