The Devil's Waters (32 page)

LB did not have his NVGs down, so he did not see the pirate who shot Sandoval.

The bark of a Kalashnikov knocked Sandoval backward. More automatic rounds clanged against the steel around them. Wally dove for the deck. LB stayed on his feet to whirl and answer with a burst over their heads, but Jamie on his two bad wheels couldn’t get down fast enough. LB couldn’t pull the trigger, so took a knee. Sandoval tried to sit up, one-handing his M4, but Wally pulled him back down.

LB knelt to clamp a hand over the fresh hole in Sandoval’s left shoulder, then pulled his goggles down, surveying the corridor. The gunfire had been only a burst. The long alley showed green and clear.

Sandoval gritted his teeth under the pressure of LB’s palm over the wound.

LB asked, “What happened?”

“Son of a bitch dropped down out of nowhere.” Pained, Sandoval hissed, “
Hijo de puta.
”

Jamie was on the deck now, his face as wrenched as Sandoval’s. Wally climbed to his feet, goggles down, swinging his weapon front and back to guard both directions.

LB pulled his hand away for a quick look at Sandoval’s wound. The bullet had entered at the top of the chest; it might have nicked the collar bone. No exit wound—the round had stayed inside Sandoval. He needed a bandage and pain meds from their rucks stashed outside the bridge. And evac. They all did.

LB checked his watch: 0149. Twenty-one minutes.

“There’s time.” He told Jamie to give Wally his NVGs. The young PJ detached the goggles from his helmet and tossed them over. “Sandy, sit up now.” LB helped Sandoval grunt his way to a sitting position. He arranged Jamie and Sandoval back-to-back, M4s up, facing fore and aft.

Wally finished clipping the night goggles to his helmet. He said, “We got about three minutes.”

“It won’t take that long.” LB lowered his goggles.

He led the way up the ladder. On the white expanse, LB crouched to protect Wally’s approach, scanning the breadth of the cargo deck. No glow rose above the southern horizon; Somalia was mostly an unlit land. Moon and stars were enough to paint the rows of gates and crisscrossing cables with an emerald clarity. Nothing of the steel field moved. The thing that did move was human.

The cargo deck presented the same obstacles to this pirate that it did to LB, designed to strap down containers, not for a stroll. The pirate struggled to make progress. He was headed toward the bow to lay another ambush, this time from behind the wounded PJs in the corridor. To do this, he had to climb, drop, run, and climb again.

LB and Wally crept sideways to the center of the deck, keeping low. The distance to the scrambling pirate was no more than fifty meters. Wally braced his carbine against a pillar. In LB’s goggles, Wally’s thin green laser landed on the pirate’s moving back. It wasn’t a broad back; this was not the Somali who killed Robey. There was no sign of that one anywhere up here. Just this one, thin pirate alone.

Wally waited seconds for a clear shot, then took it. The gun’s suppression tube coughed; no thunder for this death. The Somali heaved forward, slammed against the steel gate he was halfway up, then slid to the deck out of sight.

Wally lowered the M4, confident in the shot. He strode forward. LB stopped him.

“You go get Sandoval and Jamie headed to the bridge. I’ll do it. Then I’ll catch up to you.”

Wally raised his NVGs. “Tell me something.”

LB took one more look at the cluttered distance between them and the downed pirate. He lifted his own goggles. “Tell you what?”

“When we were in South America. Those missions I jump-mastered for you my last year at the academy. They weren’t just recon.”

“No. They were black ops.”

“I’ve never seen you kill anybody the way you knifed that pirate on the bow.”

“There a problem?”

“You’ve done that before.”

“You were a kid back then.”

“I stopped being a kid pretty quick. You helped with that.”

“Look, I know why you need to talk. I do. But not right now, okay?” LB said again, “I got this one.”

Wally nodded. “Okay. Later.”

LB dropped the NVGs over his eyes. Wally headed for the ladder down to the port corridor.

LB stood above the pirate, who lay with hands spread as if in welcome. The Kalashnikov was underneath him. Shot in the back, the Somali had rolled over to die faceup.

Wally’s bullet had exited through the sternum, dead center in the torso. The pirate’s eyes followed LB’s last step over him.

LB lowered the Zastava’s muzzle against the pirate’s heart.

Blood dribbled from the corner of the Somali’s mouth. The man’s voice was thickened, his life draining into his throat. He spoke through spattered gold teeth.

“What…what is your name?”

“LB.”

The pirate hacked weakly, swallowed once. “That is an odd name for a demon.”

LB fingered the trigger. “You should never have come on this ship, pal.”

The Somali nodded against the steel deck. “At the end, even enemies agree.”

“You say so.”

The big Zastava roared into the pirate’s heart.

LB caught up with Wally, Jamie, and Sandoval at the base of the port external stairs. LB’s calf pulsed. Blood warmed one boot.

Sandoval looked rough. His left arm dangled uselessly, but he held his M4 out and ready with his right. Jamie could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

LB said to Wally, “Neither of these guys can make it on the steps. Send them up in the elevator. It stops one floor below the bridge. They can backstop the inside stairwell.”

Wally answered with a wan smile. LB had made no mention of the pirate on the cargo deck. That told Wally the job was done.

“All right. Jamie, Sandy, do it. We’ll get you wrapped up soon as we secure the bridge.”

“Don’t worry about us, Captain.” The two PJs propped each other up enough to hobble toward the superstructure. “Send ’em our way.”

Wally took the lead up the staircases, LB close on his heels. LB couldn’t count the number of rips in the back of Wally’s uniform and vest. For their wounds, neither could muster much stealth, all four of their boots scuffing the steel steps.

As they reached the fourth landing, Doc called on the radio. “I hear you coming.”

LB answered, “Right below you. Portside stairs.”

Wally read the time: “Oh-one fifty-two.”

“We’ll make it.”

They mounted the last steps, crouching onto the wing. Doc squatted below the pilothouse door, NVGs down to keep track of the pirates inside. Big Quincy knelt, ready with his M4. Doc gave LB a thumbs-up. After a quick look at the two of them, Quincy scrambled for his med ruck, stacked in a corner alongside a dead pirate. Wally’s calling card marked the body, two black punctures in the chest.

In seconds, Quincy bound LB’s right calf in gauze, then started on Wally’s left biceps. The big PJ’s eyes widened over Wally’s shredded back. “What the fuck did you do?”

The pain in LB’s leg lulled to a throb under the gauze wrap. He gestured to his own eyes, then to the bridge, asking Doc to take one last look inside the windows. Doc inched his goggles above the bottom of the dark pane, peered in, then just as slowly slid down the door. He reported over the radio.

“Six targets inside. Another one must’ve snuck in from the back door. He’s a big one. They’re all on their feet. Two on this side, three on the other, and the one jumpy little guy’s still pacing between them. The hostages are crowded under the windshield. All guns are on them. How you want to play it, Captain?”

Wally worked his bandaged arm. “Like before. On my mark, Doc and Mouse open both doors. Quincy and Dow toss flash-bangs. When they blow, Quincy, Doc, LB, and me assault the bridge. Mouse and Dow backstop the starboard wing. Sandoval, Jamie, copy?”

“Juggler, go.”

“You both in position on the floor below?”

“Roger.”

“You cover the back door. After the bridge is secure, we’ll alert
Nicholas
and get that drone to stand down. Then we’ll mop up. Assault team, listen up. This is vital. Mind the hostages. But taking the bridge is our priority. Move fast, shoot to kill. Confirm.”

Quincy rounded an okay sign. Doc shook his head and spoke on the freq for the team to hear.

“I got to say something.”

“Go.”

“It’s not the same as before. The pirates know something’s up now. The second we toss in canisters, what if someone in there panics and pulls a trigger? It might turn into a slaughter before we can stop it.”

LB checked his watch: 0154, sixteen minutes left. He readied the Zastava.

Doc finished. “I just wanted to say it, that this could go bad fast. We’re all thinking it.”

“Thanks, Doc. Everybody. On my mark.”

LB thumbed his talk button. “Captain.”

Wally gazed at LB through his NVGs. He lowered his head. The radio caught Wally’s exasperated sigh before he said, “What?”

LB lifted his hands off the Serb gun. “I got another idea.”

When the elevator opened at F deck, Yusuf leaped out. He swept the hall with the Kalashnikov, taking nothing for granted on this ship. Satisfied, he climbed the last flight of stairs to the bridge. He pushed the door open carefully, calling out in English.

“Guleed, it’s Yusuf.”

The young Darood was the first to spin his gun to Yusuf’s voice. His eyes were white and wild when Yusuf approached through the dark.

“What were those blasts?” Guleed urged. “What’s going on? Where’s Suleiman?”

“Soldiers.” Drozdov spoke from the middle of his sailors beneath the windshield. All the Russians and Filipinos sat upright around him. Drozdov got to his feet. Guleed threatened him with the rifle.

“I said no talking, old man. Sit down.”

“That is not you speaking, boy, is your gun. Step aside. Let the men talk.”

Guleed’s breathing accelerated, some action rising in him. Yusuf settled him with a strong hand to the shoulder, walking him away from the other guards.

“I will talk to the captain. Stay ready.” Yusuf lowered his voice. “He’s right. There are soldiers on board. We’re the only ones left.”

“What do you mean, the only ones?”

“There’s been fighting. We still control the hostages and the ship. We will make it if you keep your head. Yes?”

Guleed’s shoulder collapsed under Yusuf’s grip. “All dead?”

Suleiman is not dead, Yusuf wanted to say, but could not with certainty. “Don’t tell the others. Guard the hostages.” He motioned Drozdov away from the windshield.

The twin radar screens outlined the Somali coast thirty miles ahead. The ship’s speed and course kept steady. Yusuf waited for Drozdov in the dim glow from the dashboard. Guleed resumed his pacing. The other pirates jutted their guns at the hostages, unsure of what was happening, certain only that these captured sailors were their protection from it.

“All dead, indeed?” Drozdov asked.

“Fifteen of my men. Everywhere around the deck.”

“Surrender. You will live.”

Yusuf looked away from the pocked Russian to the bow, the far-off beacon on its mast.

“Minutes ago, my cousin told me we must fight.”

“And where is he now? One of the dead?”

“Careful, Captain.”

“
Da
.” Drozdov patted his arm. “Careful, Yusuf Raage.”

The Russian turned without being dismissed. He sat among his crew. The sailors on both sides whispered urgent questions. Drozdov waved them off.

Yusuf moved to the captain’s chair. He stood behind it, eyeing the dials and radar images of the dash. He was not master of the
Valnea.
He was a captive as much as Drozdov. Worse. He’d led fifteen clansmen who’d trusted him to their deaths. Before the sun rose there could be more.

In the heart of these thoughts, a soft whistle of wind tugged Yusuf’s attention to the port door. The Kalashnikov rattled into his hands. Guleed halted his frantic pacing.

The guard outside on the wing did not enter the bridge. The door opened only inches, then stopped.

Something dark skidded across the floor. Yusuf could not make it out clearly and in surprise could not jump away or shout a warning.

The thing struck his sandaled foot. Yusuf braced for an explosion. He tried to capture a last thought. He pictured his home, the view of the sea.

The rush of air quit, the port door shut. At Yusuf’s feet the small box did not explode. Yusuf’s unclenching was almost painful.

Yusuf added the guard on the port wing to the tally of dead.

He bent for the box. Guleed screamed to leave it alone. The other gunners around Guleed shoved their weapons into the hostages’ midst, yelling too. Yusuf out-bellowed them to be silent. They settled enough to be quietly tense, guns stirring among the hostages. Guleed’s pacing increased, back and forth across Drozdov and the cringing crew.

Yusuf lifted the walkie-talkie. He pressed the button to speak.

“Yes.”

“How good is your English?”

“Better than your Somali. Who is this?”

Outside the port door window, a flashlight struck. The beam played upward across a face made shadowy and otherworldly against the night.

“First Sergeant Gus DiNardo. United States Air Force. You?”

“Yusuf Raage.”

The garish head bobbed, the civil greeting of an enemy.

“We need to talk, Yusuf.”

With a sweeping hand, Yusuf motioned to the twenty-five hostages and five other armed men this sergeant surely knew about even if he could not see the gesture.

“Why?”

One by one, like lanterns, more faces materialized out of the black. Three soldiers emerged beside the sergeant, two others lit on the starboard wing.

So another guard lay dead.

“That’s why. And I got two more on the floor below you.”

Yusuf lowered the radio, then raised it. “Where is my cousin?”

“Gold teeth?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead.”

Yusuf fought against himself to hold his place inside the bridge, to not rush this soldier and drive his knife deep enough to feel the man’s heart stop on the blade.

The American said, “We need to talk fast.”

Yusuf returned the radio to his lips. “Of course, Sergeant. Come inside.”