War Lord (36 page)

The extinguisher stopped gushing just as a grenade rolled across the floor of the bridge. It stopped rolling. I dived under the foam as the thing went off and sent shrapnel pinging and clattering into the walls and ceiling around me. Two men raced in behind the detonation, screaming and yelling and firing indiscriminately. I felt around on the floor till I found what I was looking for. I came up on one knee, a big blob of foam armed with the Desert Eagle. The two men gaped wide-eyed at the massive hand cannon pointed at them. Single shots accompanied by a gout of flame jumped from the weapon’s muzzle and large caliber rounds hit like runaway streetcars, slamming them into the steel and glass wall at their backs. I’d seen what death looked like enough times not to bother checking pulses.

Blood from my wounded leg was turning the foam on the floor red and pink. I stood up, popped my head around the corner to get a look at the doors at opposite ends of the bridge and see what was coming next. There were scorched bodies and blood and little pools of fire still burning here and there, and the air was filling with foul-smelling black soot. I couldn’t see anyone moving but there had to be Somalis still alive on the ship. It wouldn’t be long before they regrouped and had another go at dislodging me. They’d have to – I was in control of where their dirty bomb was going.

I unwound the scarf that was still around my neck and used it as a tourniquet, tying it just below the knee. I couldn’t see what was going on back there on my calf, though the blood wasn’t spurting out, so a main artery hadn’t been hit. The tourniquet seemed to cut the blood loss some. Didn’t do much for the pain, though. Putting some weight on my foot I tried to lift my heel . . . Jesus. I braced my hand against the wall to steady myself and waited for the rush of pain to subside a little. Walking would be tough; running was out.

I went over and collected the Atchisson from the floor, keeping an eye on both doors. The shotgun had stopped burning, but I could feel the heat of the handgrip through the foam-soaked shooter’s gloves. I checked the drum. Five shells, all scorched pretty bad. Could I trust them? No, maybe not. I dropped the weapon on the floor.

I limped out into the wing closest to the sleeping cabin to see if anyone was moving down on the deck. Flipping down the NVG lenses I got an eyeful of foam so I wiped it away and readjusted the lenses. Nothing appeared to be moving in Kermit world. But then a loud bang sounded, followed by a rattle, and I turned just in time to see a lifeboat slide down its rails and disappear from view over the side. Rats leaving the ship. I hoped that was all of them. I hoped they wouldn’t call for reinforcements. I hoped someone would wake me from this nightmare soon.

One round remained in the Desert Eagle. I recovered the .38 from the floor. Wet and foamy, the handgrip had swollen to twice its previous width. The piece of crap would be impossible to aim and I trusted it less than the Atchisson, so I tossed it back into the suds on the floor. Next stop, the radar room. In here, little appeared to be damaged, the focus of the attack having been my position in the cabin. The feed from the MSTAR had been rendered useless, however, the hardware out on the wings reduced to junk by grenade shrapnel, gunfire and stray shotgun pellets. But the ship’s radar was functioning just fine, and the screen showed that the
African Spirit
was on a course tracking the coastline. It showed that we were about twenty-five miles out to sea in international waters, south of the Kenya/Somalia border.

The room was full of radio and satellite comms gear. There were also two Toshiba laptops connected to a black sealed unit, a single small green LED on top indicating that it was on. I opened the laptops. Both appeared to be running diagnostics on either themselves or the sealed unit, except for a window on one of the screens with a countdown timer that read two hours thirty-five minutes, followed by seconds and also hundredths of a second, which suggested something different, as did the words at the top of the window that read
Run time
. From my rough calculation, Randy’s timetable had the bomb going off in around forty-eight hours. His clock and the one I was looking at didn’t tally. Maybe von Weiss had brought the operation forward, or Sweetwater had miscalculated. Maybe the watch he wore to replace the one he’d given the guy who’d ended up fish food in northern Australia was running a little slow. Whatever, it appeared that we were getting close to showtime.

I pressed the on/off button on the laptop’s keyboard, just in case disarming the thing was that easy. Another window appeared with the word
Warning!
flashing within it, and below that:
Power loss will cause instant detonation.
The cold feeling that comes with a need to sit on the head again flushed through my system. The situation was clear. Around two and a half hours till this bomb went off – or sooner if I tried to mess with it.

Chatter came through a small radio speaker. The radio!
Duh
. Perhaps I could send out a warning for shipping to keep clear. I snatched the microphone off its mount, depressed the
send
button on the side and said, ‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is
African Spirit
,
African Spirit
, around twenty-three nautical miles abeam northern Kenya. Anyone receiving? Over.’

Nothing.

I checked the frequency – it was fine – then repeated the call three times and got three nothings. Perhaps they didn’t say ‘Mayday’ when ships were in trouble, or perhaps there was something else more fundamental amiss. I played with the
send
switch on the microphone. Depressing it didn’t cut in on any external messages or make any sound through the speakers – not even a click. It felt dead. Unauthorized radio transmissions were probably considered no-nos by the computers and their little black unit.

I went to the helm on the bridge, the wood-spoked steel wheel. The ship was making sixteen knots on a heading of thirty-four degrees – a lot of knots for an old tub. Assuming a constant speed since leaving Dar, the
African Spirit
would’ve covered a distance of a little over three hundred and thirty nautical miles. A light on the small control panel indicated that the autopilot was on. Would the computers allow me to take the ship off autopilot? I flicked the switch and the light went off. Yes, they would. So manual course corrections were permissible. Okay, now I had control of the ship. Only, where was I going to take this bucket of poison? I figured the
Enterprise
had to be somewhere to seaward, so heading east wasn’t on the dance card. I switched the autopilot back on and the light on the panel lit up. I had to find an answer down in the hold, some way to defuse the situation before I did anything else. I hobbled on over to the wing on the other side of the bridge, closest to the cabin. The carnage out there was as horrific as anything I’d ever seen, but I didn’t dwell on it. The cards I’d been dealt had given me no choice but to go ballistic. The salt-laced wind out on the wing was fresh and strong, blowing hard from the west southwest – roughly from the direction of land. I pumped a few lungfuls in and out to clear my head, then turned down the passageway where three large lumps dotted the floor, Somalis gunned down by the Atchisson. I hobbled down and confirmed all three were dead, and relieved one of his FN. Checking the mag, I found just one round, with another in the chamber. Between the three corpses I recovered a measly eight rounds altogether.

My leg was giving me some issues. The wound was still oozing blood, though the rate had slowed. I loosened the tourniquet for a few seconds, then tightened it again. Making my way back down through the superstructure, the going wasn’t so bad. I took the ladders in two steps, gripping the rails with my hands and sliding like I’d seen sailors do. Coming back up wouldn’t be so easy.

I reached the hold without incident. Opening the bulkhead revealed a sea of blinking green LEDs in the darkness. The engine hummed loudly through the hull, a trace of gasoline fumes competing with the smell of bunker oil. I headed for the walkway down the side and dragged my leg toward the bow. The W80 was still where I’d last seen it, mounted on the rig with that elongated box welded to its side. I stopped by the table where I’d seen the Iranians hunched over laptops. Those computers had gone. Cables linked the weapon and the explosives attached to the fuel drums to a stack of black boxes with LEDs – relays, probably, to those Toshibas in the radar room. I resisted the temptation to empty a few rounds into those black boxes, the risk of detonating the weapon if I messed with the system still fresh in my mind. Pulling the plug’s not an option, Cooper, I told myself – unless you’re happy to have your atoms scrambled.

I yanked the detcord from two of the barrels, but it was solidly attached and didn’t come away easy. There were a lot of barrels. Too many.

I went over to the raised platform and climbed the stepladder up to the weapon. The rig was specially made from heavy-gauge steel covered in congealed foam, which I figured was probably fire-resistant. The bomb itself was mounted in some kind of gimbal secured to the rig with titanium bolts. It occurred to me that being close to the weapon wasn’t smart either. The men I’d seen working up here had been wearing NBC suits; for all I knew the breached W80 was spewing neutrons that were quietly broiling bits of my body I was fond of – my testicles, for example. The thought stopped me mid-climb. Really, there was nothing I was going to be able to do up there unless I found a big red emergency stop button on the side of the weapon. Unlikely.

I stepped back down onto the deck, feeling defeated. The program was running and I could do one-fifth of fuck-all to stop it. And then it started to rain. I glanced up at the sky – it was cloudless, oddly full of rain and bright NVG-enhanced starlight. The rain burned my skin, because it wasn’t water coming down but a fine mist of gasoline. The mist was spraying from nozzles attached to plastic pipes running up the side of the hull. Some of them also spanned the openings overhead. Tracing one of those pipes, I found it led to an electric pump attached to a cluster of drums. Investigating a little farther, I found a lot of these pumps. Jesus, the hold was filling with an explosive mixture of atomized gasoline. The damn countdown had started.

I
got out of there as quick as I could, but by the time I reached the hatch separating the hold from the superstructure I was soaked through with gasoline, choking on it, spitting it out. The stuff was burning my eyes, nose and throat, stinging the burns on my arms and neck. I dragged myself up the ladders and tried to think about what I could do. The best I could come up with was to change course, bring the ship around one-eighty degrees. Maybe the answer lay in the opposite heading to the one programmed into the autopilot.

On the way to the bridge, I stopped by a dead Somali wearing a scarf. I took it off him and used it to wipe the gas off my face, hair and forearms. A satellite phone was lying in pieces in the pool of blood beside him. Shit, I could’ve used that phone.

Standing up, I checked the surroundings. It was then that I noticed an oil fire burning in a fifty-five-gallon drum down on the stern, sending up a column of smoke that probably trailed behind the ship for miles. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? Probably the fact that it had been night had something to do with it. But now the sky had lightened out to the east. Within half an hour, it’d be full daylight. Looked like another perfect tropical day on the way – blue sky, fresh winds, mushroom cloud.

When I arrived back at the wing, another surprise greeted me: a voice. The wind made it impossible to hear exactly what was being said, but someone was on the bridge. I drew the Desert Eagle, released the safety and then stole a quick glance around the edge of the door. Nothing. The wheelhouse area was empty, just as I’d left it. But someone was talking. And he was in the radio room, sending a radio transmission. I stepped into the bridge, out of the wind, got down low, crept forward and heard an African-accented voice say, ‘. . . we are sinking by the stern following echo romeo fire. Require urgent assistance. Crew taking to the boats.’

There was a pause of around five seconds. I tensed, got ready to move, then the message repeated, ‘This is MV
African Spirit
, one forty-nine zero three south, forty-one fifty-two eleven east. SOS. We are sinking by the stern following echo romeo fire. Require urgent assistance. Crew taking to the boats.’

Second time around sounded identical to the first transmission – no difference at all in the wording, the inflection or the tone. I edged along the wall and peeked around the corner. The radar room was empty. The message was a pre-recorded duck call. So this was how they were gonna pull it off. The oil fire off the stern was part of it, probably detonated by an ignition device remotely activated by the Toshiba twins. And when the assistance hurrying to the rescue was nice and close, where Ed Dyson predicted the best results – downwind – this big dirty bomb would detonate.

Now that I knew
how
von Weiss and the White brothers intended to pull off their attack on US naval assets, I could also come up with a plan for a counterattack. I grabbed the latest weather information off the radar display. The wind was out of the southwest at eighteen knots. If the
African Spirit
was roughly in position now to cause the most potential damage, then what were probably the targets –
Enterprise
,
Leyte Gulf
and possibly other ships assigned to Task Force 151 – were currently lying just over the horizon to the northeast. So it followed that the best course of action was to take this tub to a place where there was a chance the winds were blowing onshore. In short, the only option I had was to drive this tub onto the beach. From memory, there wasn’t much in the way of habitation in this part of the world – no coastal towns or villages. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure about that, though, so it was a gamble, but the only other option I could see was to find a life ring and jump.

I made the decision quickly – holstered the Desert Eagle in my belt, hopped to the control panel, flicked the switch disengaging the autopilot and spun the remaining spoke in the wheel counterclockwise. The ship immediately responded, leaning to the right as it carved a wide arc to the left, the spherical compass mounted overhead on the ceiling bobbing and rotating in its bath, coming onto a roughly west-northwest heading.

‘Step back from the helm!’ demanded a voice suddenly from out of nowhere.

The unexpected intrusion made me jump. Je-
sus
! I turned and saw Charles White. The fucker had come back and brought a small posse with him.
The damn satellite phone –
a call must have been made. He stepped through the scorched and battered door armed with an FN, and one of his bodyguards and a Somali squeezed through behind him.

‘An’ I thought von Weiss was jerkin’ me off, man,’ said White. ‘I remember yo’ ass from the Congo. It was
you
, wasn’t it
?
An’ you wuz down in the hold, snoopin’ around. It’s Cooper, right, asshole?’

My hand was still on the wheel spoke, the ship still coming around to its new heading. ‘Where’s the rest of your party?’ I asked.

He smirked. ‘One o’ me’s more than enough to take care o’ the likes o’ you, man.’ He raised the business end of the FN and pointed it at my face. ‘Now step the fuck back from the wheel, motherfucker,’ he repeated.

I did as I was told and took a step back. A small step.

‘Who do you work for? The Brits? CIA?’

‘Alabama Thornton.’

‘What . . . ? Who the fuck’s that?’

‘She’s a topless tall.’

‘What?’

‘A showgirl from Vegas.’

‘Don’t shit me, asshole. You CIA, man. Have to be.’

‘Insults will get you nowhere. What about Kim Petinski? You killed her, too?’

‘What do you think, dipshit?’

‘You’re not getting off this boat is what I think.’

He replied with a smile, shared with his bodyguard. ‘Tough talk for a fuck who’s walkin’ dead.’ He sniffed the air. ‘What’s that you wearin’, man? Eau de Fuckin’ Exxon?’ He laughed and took a cigarette from behind the ear of the Somali standing beside him and put it in his mouth. He snapped his fingers and the Somali passed him a gold Zippo.

‘Blowing this ship up with the nuke. What’s in it for you and your brother?’ I asked him.

‘Bin Laden gets a replacement.’ He sneered. ‘Mohammed Ali-Bakr al Mohammed, most audacious war lord who ever lived. And he’ll be in our pocket.’

‘Don’t bet on him living long,’ I said. ‘A hundred nukes gets you respect, one nuke just gets you assassinated.’

‘Let’s talk about killin’. You whacked one o’ mine up on Sugarloaf. Was you, right?’ He flicked back the Zippo’s lid and rolled the lighter along his thigh. Sparks and a flame jumped onto its wick. He brought the flame to the bent hand-rolled smoke between his lips, talking around it. ‘I figure you the one who pushed him off the mountain.’

I gave a shrug that partly said I had no idea what he was talking about and partly said fuck yeah.

‘In case yo’ wonderin’, yo’ English bitch gave that up before we snuffed her, while von Weiss watched me givin’ it to her in the ass.’ He tossed the lighter at me. It hit my leg, just above the knee. My world slowed. The flame found the gasoline soaked into my pants. It jumped and danced and expanded with excitement. It engulfed my leg, and then jumped to my other leg. It caught my webbing next and, within seconds, I was a torch. Heat exploded around me. Through the orange flames I saw Charles White laughing. My immolation was a joke and he was sharing it with his bodyguards and the Somalis. I shook my arm, tried to shake the flame off it, but it was glued to me. I took a step backward, then another, turned around and around, the heat unbearable. And then I ran, until I found myself in the cabin where I dived onto the floor, into the foam. The flames were snuffed out in an instant, choked by the chemicals. I rose up from the floor, covered in the stuff, and I was not happy. White was standing in front of me in the doorway. The smile died on his lips when I pulled the trigger on the Desert Eagle. A shot of yellow flame spewed from the barrel. An instant later, the .44 slug ripped the arm and shoulder clean out of his body. The force of the impact spun him around and I glimpsed his exposed heart beating in the raw hole where his arm and shoulder used to be.

The Somali was first to react. He raised the Atchisson AA-12 I’d discarded to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The shotgun barked and the Somali screamed as his hand blew off at the wrist. Half his face was also airborne as he fell to the floor, shrieking. The bodyguard and the remaining Somalis were going for their guns as I raised the .38 and started pulling the trigger again and again. The soggy, foamy weapon jumped around in my hand, but at the distance of a few feet not even this piece of shit could miss. It wasn’t a pretty handful of seconds, dum-dum rounds being about as anti-personnel as small-arms ammo gets.

Sometime during all the gunfire, the Somali with the missing hand and face stopped screaming. I hobbled over to the mess on the floor that was Charles White. He lay sprawled and bloody against the forward bulkhead. His eyelids fluttered open and his eyeballs rotated upward, attempting to focus on me. Okay, so I admit that killing him felt good, like a reward for effort. And the fact that he knew it was me who killed him – well, that just made the good feeling complete. The vacuum his death would create in von Weiss’s world would be filled pretty much instantly by some other piece of filth, but just at that moment I couldn’t care less. It was personal for me with Charles White. His eyelids and eyeballs went slack as his chest contracted and his dying breath wheezed from his slack mouth. I put a bullet in his ear to make doubly sure of it. And, yeah, if my calf had been up to it I’d have busted a move.

Next stop, the helm – what was left of it. There might be others returned to the ship making their way to the bridge. Outside, the sun was now over the horizon, the air noticeably warmer. My Seiko told me that we were well inside the last hour of Toshiba time. I checked the radar display and turned the spoke half a rotation to ensure I was taking the fastest route to the beach, ten miles ahead – around forty minutes away. It also told me there was a vessel in pursuit of the
African Spirit
and it was closing fast.

Jets screamed by, barely clearing the bridge. US Navy Super Hornets. They’d come from the south and were gone from view in seconds. The ship giving chase, the jets – shit, maybe that pre-recorded SOS was working. The aircraft passed by low overhead again, coming from behind the stern this time, and the shriek made the fluid in the overhead compass dance. I watched them scribe a tight turn off the bow, washing off speed. They continued the turn and I followed them through it until I lost them somewhere behind the ship, the view obscured by the superstructure. Seconds later they appeared again on a parallel course to the ship, their gear and flaps lowered, rocking their wings from side to side. Okay, so the Navy was aware of the engine fire and had answered the SOS. Most likely they or the ship in my six o’clock, or the
Enterprise
, or
Leyte Gulf
or any number of other Task Force 151 vessels out there were trying to contact me, but with the
African Spirit
’s comms rigged the way they were, it wasn’t being received and I couldn’t make any reciprocating calls even if I heard them.

The US Navy flew another circuit. When they came around again, I went out onto the wing, stopping to pull a ski mask and a rifle off one of the corpses. I put on the mask and waved the rifle over my head. I did that so the pilots would get a different picture to the one they’d been briefed on. They’d come to buzz a ship that had broadcast an SOS, and instead they’d find one occupied by pirates. I wasn’t sure how that would shake things up, but I was hoping for caution on the part of the Task Force. The aircraft finished their pass, went to afterburner and vanished so fast it was like matter transfer had been involved in their disappearance.

I stood on the bridge, watched the approaching coast and tried not to faint. I don’t know how long I stood there, listening to my breathing, my thoughts flicking between the violence of the night just past, of what had happened to Sweetwater and what might be happening to Petinski if she was still alive.

I don’t know what snapped me out of it, but when I did, the radar screen said the shoreline was less than ten nautical miles off the bow. It also showed that the vessel giving chase to the
African Spirit
had halved the distance and was now five nautical miles behind. It had to be doing thirty knots to our fourteen. It had to be military. I limped to the stern to see if I could get a visual. The column of black smoke off the stern stretched for miles, climbing high into a sky that was a clear bright blue. A fleck of gray sat on the horizon. It was too far away to get a fix on the type of ship. I swept the line separating sea from sky and saw four black specks above it, off to the northeast, closing the distance fast. Helicopters – Seahawks from the
Enterprise
or
Leyte Gulf
. They’d be overhead in three to five minutes and their crews would be confused about what was going on aboard the
Spirit
. A comment I’d made to White came to mind, the one about a hundred nukes getting you respect and so forth. Did I really think I was getting off this tub alive?

Heading back to the bridge, I stopped out on the other wing. A line of thick white clouds had settled over the shore and the color of the ocean was changing from deep blue to blue green as the seabed rose to the continental shelf. Checking my Seiko, the ship-bomb was programmed to blow in seventeen minutes. If I was still on board, I’d be aware of the detonation for perhaps a split second before the concussion and heat wave sent my ashes to hell. The
Spirit
would ground itself on a shoal or run up onto the beach at roughly the same time. The prevailing wind still seemed to be coming from the southwest. Maybe this little plan of mine was futile. Meanwhile, I’d seen no sign of anyone else on board. There were no more surprise guests. The ship was mine. I had no idea how to reset the autopilot, but the
Spirit
was pretty much going where it was pointed. But just to make sure, I took the singed scarf from around my neck and wrapped it around the remaining steering wheel spoke and tied it off so that it was jammed in position. The exposed skin on my arms and neck was throbbing. Blisters were forming. My calf was aching. There wasn’t much left to do, but some
khat
would sure be handy to help me get it done.