by Pat Connid
This big, gorgeous creampuff in front of me? Down in one shot from the rocket launcher, I guessed. It didn’t seem likely anything called the Princess of the Sea would be armored for high seas combat.
And the pirate captain was getting more agitated.
Up ahead, a splash caught my attention, and I saw that one of the lifeboats had been cut away and had fallen to the water below. Then another. Someone on the cruise ship was dropping whatever treasure they had in lifeboats to the sea below.
One of the pirates raised a fist in the air, turned back, and smiled wide at the captain. Gesturing toward the little boats, I guessed he was shouting something about moving forward to grab what had been dropped.
The captain didn’t appear as eager. Still, he edged the boat forward very slowly.
A third lifeboat fell and, inching a little into the light, I could see several crew members loading a fourth. Maybe we’d avoided the ultimate confrontation. It looked as though the cruise ship was complying with demands. Maybe there’d be time to cross over to the other ship.
Another burst of words from the creampuff, which was cut off by the pirate captain. My French was coming back to me, slowly, and I could hear the Guinean captain say something about time. Vite, allons! “Move faster,” or something like that.
One of the pirates complained, pointing to the lifeboats slowly drifting away and, again, the captain growled off mic. This time I heard the word morte among others.
Admittedly, my French was rusty—nearly rusted shut—and only recently putting my audio recall to the test, it was coming back, but slowly. Despite that, I instantly remembered the word “morte”: dead. And, even though confidence in my elementary language studies was low, I was pretty sure, as the hairs on the back of my neck stood erect, that in the collection of words I’d heard meant “dead” was soon going to apply to the big creampuff of steel and cocktail glasses in front of me.
They’d get the crew to drop the all the lifeboats, full of whatever valuables they could find and, I guessed (but felt I was right) that they were going to “kill the ship” after that.
Without lifeboats to save them after rockets had punched holes in their hull, the end result was clear: No witnesses. No one to describe the attackers or their gunboat.
At the bow of the ship, three stories up, a number of tuxedoed men had walked toward the railing, shouting down at those on my boat. Porters dressed in white tried to call them but, the pirate captain ignored it. To him, they were already dead.
How many people on a ship like that? Five hundred? A thousand?
And with the lifeboats now floating treasure chests, these people were going to perish in the waters off the African coast.
Turning my head, I was a little surprised to be standing next to the crate, having apparently taken some steps back toward the darkness.
I’d moved, but don’t remember doing it.
Then… a growing hollow, like a cold burn, began to fester in the top of my stomach.
It felt similar to what one might feel the moment before jumping from a bridge with a bungee cord wrapped to their ankles. Or the second before stepping out the plane door, with only a parachute (and tandem rainbow-diver) strapped to your back.
Now, let’s be clear.
If I had to take the stand in some surprising, spiritual courtroom—with little concern about the truth, the whole truth and nothing but because they’d already know—I couldn’t honestly describe myself as a good, altruistic person.
But there were no apparent connecting dots that could possibly explain why I was about to do what I was about to do.
In truth, I can say—and this is the guy in me, admittedly—I hadn’t really thought about it very much.
I guess it’s a bit like the story you read about the dude in Brooklyn who’s in traction because a group of assholes in the subway were messing with some woman and he found himself—inexplicably—standing up, banging the biggest guy on the shoulder… surprised as much as anyone when these words came out of his mouth, “Back off.”
I’m not a psychologist.
Nor am I some anthropologist.
Or whatever.
But we, humankind, are a destructive species (did you see The Fifth Element? That designation almost ended us!).
So how have we—us, all of us—with bombs that would vaporize us a thousand times over made it this far?
How did that happen?
My best guess—and I can only guess— it’s because one guy was there… and you can credit/blame God or Buddha or evolution or collective viewings of School House Rock— but in history’s secret ultimate moments, one guy… the last guy you’d ever expect… stepped up into whatever vortex of hell had twisted in front of him and despite all odds, he said:
“Back off.”
Whatever process that is… it probably had something to do with why my right hand was gripping a grenade, the thumb of my left hand wrapped through the pin.
I took one quick glance to the ship, then back at the pirates crawling anxiously around the front of the ship, guns pressed to their shoulders. From here, I could see the sweaty sheen on the back of the asshole captain’s bald head.
He turned slightly.
Back off…
And I pulled away the metal ring and dropped the potato-sized time bomb in the crate full of weapons.
… asshole.
I’m not much of a swimmer. And I really didn’t know how long it takes for a grenade to explode. But I leapt off the side of that boat, into the midnight black of the ocean, with everything that my battered thighs and swollen testicles could give me.
But seconds away from splashdown, the silent roar of heat snuck up behind me before I even registered the blast, the shock wave launched me horizontal across the water, sending me flipping end over end until I finally dropped, cracking then breaking the cold, dark window of the sea, while the sky above me became a sheet of flame against the gorgeous, gorgeous night sky.
Chapter Seventeen
Titan’s Empress: Ship Captain’s Log for 28 April:
The sum of today’s events will be detailed at an inquiry when we once again reach Lisbon. However, we’ll stop in Casablanca so that those who are done with sailing for the moment—and I can’t say I would blame them—can get off and find alternate manners of travel.
We’d been warned of the possibility of pirates in the waters off the west coast of the African continent, but there were also reports that the coastal areas were being protected by not only the Americans but a number of AU vessels, as well.
So, it came as a surprise when at 10:42 pm local time we had been sided up by what turned out to be a pirate gunship with approximately five crew members aboard.
Previously, there had been some success using the audio repellent device, a painful burst of sound directed toward assailants, but as these were armed with missiles, it seemed a maneuver like that may simply provoke them.
Within the first sixty seconds of the evening’s encounter, we’d suffered a hail of gunfire and the radio tower had been destroyed.
Our attackers were Guinean, French-speaking, but that is not a language neither me nor any of my crew are entirely fluent in.
A passenger offered assistance and helped with translation.
We were complying to their demands, loading up the lifeboats with valuables, whatever we could get our hands on, tearing anything shiny from the walls of the staterooms and sending the boats adrift in the sea.
But then, something extraordinary happened. I, myself, am not a very religious man, but I admit here—and possibly only here—that I had begun praying for the safety of not only those in my charge but those who’d joined my crew as passengers on my ship. I couldn’t help but feel some turn or choice I’d made led us to this encounter.
Just as we were giving our attackers what they needed, in hopes they’d leave us now that they had a large share of valuables—the ship, our attackers, exploded in a brilliant fireball, like a star in the sky had su
ddenly slipped from its tether and dropped to the water’s surface.
In an instant, a crew of pirates that I felt could conceivably end the lives of myself and the other 823 aboard were gone. Vaporized.
I can’t explain how this fortune came to pass. And I certainly don’t plan on telling the Council that God stepped in and protected those aboard my vessel because of my whimpers for help.
But one moment the pirates were there, arrogantly waving their weapons, and ten seconds later they were not.
The wreckage burned brilliantly for about a quarter of an hour, and I moved the ship about a mile out to avoid it. It took about two hours to collect the lifeboats we’d dropped, returning the bounty to its rightful places.
We are now heading toward a dock in the Moroccan city and, once there, a crew of engineers will inspect the vessel for hull breach from the artillery fire we sustained early in the confrontation with the now-dead pirates.
I’m very happy to report that there were zero casualties aside from a number of passengers who’d suffered the mildest of anxiety symptoms, one Belgian gentleman complaining of chest pains.
It is worth noting, however, in the fracas, a passenger who appears to be American, fell overboard and had to be rescued by my crew. For sure, a fall off any of our decks would be traumatic, from that height… but his injures, I would say, were rather… comprehensive.
His hands, while cleaned by the ocean waters, they were cut along the palm. And the back of his wrists were burnt rather bad. This latter, I suppose, could have been a result of the exploding pirate ship, some fuel on the water, but I can’t be sure.
The oddest part—however, it may be no odder than the entire evening— is that this passenger could not tell us who he was, explaining to my crew that he’d had some sort of head trauma and couldn’t remember his own name.
The registered American passengers aboard—all 27 of them—are being interviewed to see if they are familiar with this guest, so we could find a name and return him to friend or family. But, so far, those efforts have proven fruitless.
On a lighter note, in the past several hours the American has proven to be a favorite of the crew, finding him most amusing. He can’t remember his name but seems to have no trouble remembering a variety of rather off-color anecdotes and jokes.
We would like to determine who this man is so that we might return him to his home or friends, so that we know he is safe.
Also, a name would be helpful because he’s begun to run a tab up at the bar that is, frankly, one that I don’t want to see go unpaid.
Chapter Eighteen
I’d been on deck, staring at the horizon when the city of Casablanca began to ease out of the water. A large part of me was desperate to get back onto dry land and one more step back home. Another part of me, also quite large (as previously noted: I’m a rather large, at least at the midsection, so thus am made up of other large, worrisome bits), was frantically trying to gel some sort of plan to get off the boat and not get turned over to local authorities.
As the image of the skyline asserted itself; my mind began to simmer with the words from a Cobb Country, Georgia library tape I’d listened to detailing religious architecture. Some part of me saddened, missing my former ear bud buddy, although this part was a somewhat smaller part than the two aforementioned large parts, so it doesn’t really warrant thorough examination.
Then from my vantage point, leaning against the rail as others were hustling around me preparing for the long-awaited docking, I could see the world’s tallest minaret sprout and ripen just beyond the shoreline. The mosque and its courtyard could hold about a hundred thousand worshippers, and its completion had been timed for the Moroccan king’s sixtieth birthday.
Good to know.
I’m not terribly familiar with the world’s religions, but, whereas in Western culture (at least Western consumer culture) a celebratory gift for a sixtieth anniversary is diamonds, rather expensive, it appears, in at least one Eastern tradition, that anniversary’s gift is a collection of granite and marble fashioned into the shape of a giant house of worship capable of housing the residents of a small city. Though, my guess, the rest of us working stiffs will likely stick with the eCard (something with a funny, obnoxious animation deploring how, with age, the former soft things have become rigid or hard and the former hard things, soft and unpopular).
It had been near a full-day of keeping up the bump-on-the-head guy routine, and the captain seemed to be getting a little wary of it. I was invited to sit at his table earlier that morning for breakfast, and he hammered me with questions about anything I could remember.
Made for a very uncomfortable breakfast. Had it not been for the seriously excellent strawberry waffles it would have been a total loss.
As we eased into port, a little man in a white jacket asked me to follow him as the rest of my seafaring journey would be embarked upon while inside my small cabin. I didn’t entirely mind: the previous night’s the bath I’d taken, drained, and taken again was the best thing to happen to me in recent memory.
As I fumbled around the small suite the following morning, Morocco growing larger in my port window, my mind fell back to the task of finding a way off the ship that did not involve restraints.
It was explained this way: the crew would wait until all the other passengers had disembarked—whose ever bag was left, that would be me. Identity solved, they’d call my family.
This was not explained to me but I’d inferred: When they realized I was not on the boat when it had originally departed they’d call Interpol.
So, I had about an hour or two to get away.
The young, drunk couple from across the hall burst into the hallway, arguing ferociously, again, and once the squabbling began to dim as they left the ship, I hopped into their room and dialed their cabin’s phone.
Pavan peppered me with frantic questions, which, for the time being, went unanswered.
“Couple hundred years ago,” I said instead, taking in the view of the approaching city, “This was a pirates’ port. Not officially, mind you. They didn’t put it in the Chamber of Commerce literature, I’m guessing. But pirates would send raiding parties out from here. Home base.”
“And it’s where Bogart had a bar,” Pavan added in his worldly knowledge to the conversation. “That’s pretty cool, too. You should find it. They probably like Americans there.”
The port reminded in some ways of the Port of Los Angeles. Clean, efficient. I wondered if there was a man, like my eighteen-wheelin’ friend Abe, who was out there going through his driving ritual as he headed deeper into the continent, hauling a load of camel pelts and black tar heroin.
Sometimes when working through a problem, I vocalize everything. For one, of course, it helps me remember my own thoughts much better. For two, it’s like a doctor plodding through a differential diagnosis. The catch, I suppose, is that I’m not a doctor. And don’t have a degree. And not necessarily very good at working a differential.
I said to Pavan, still on my pirate differential: “The Portuguese, neighbors to the north, they weren’t big fans of the high seas hijinks, so they thrashed the city. Built a military fortress and named it ‘white house.’ It’s still Casablanca today.”
“That on one of the tapes I gave you?”
“Nah, I actually knew that one before. Read it in Reader’s Digest at the free clinic a couple years back.”
“Dexter… dude, you’re in Casablanca. That’s kinda fucked up.”
“Well said, learn-ed sir.”
“So whaddya going to do? This guy’s gonna kill you if this keeps up, man.”
He was right, of course. I’d used a small withdrawal for the van, but it was time to take advantage of my meager resources.
“Time to tap into the savings account. I’ll have to slip the boat and make my way over to the American consulate here because my new scary friend didn’t pack a passport for me.”
“He is not a nice guy, this we know.”
&
nbsp; “But, when I get home, if you don’t mind being Kato for a little while longer—“
“Yes!”
“—we’re going to take a trip to Nashville and talk to some folks.”
“Who?”
THE THIRTY-SIX HOURS of connecting flights home gave me plenty of time to think.
Regardless of whether I’d taken the path he’d laid out for me or another, the Mentor was going to be looking for me after my return home. The little excursions he’d been planning for me were getting increasingly dangerous, so who knew what was in store for me next. Maybe next time, my morning would consist of sunbathing nude on the launch pad during a shuttle lift-off. Or I might be slathered in barbeque sauce and tossed in a lion’s den. The only thing for certain—this wasn’t going to be over until he decided it was over.
Before getting back to Georgia, I’d spent another day at the American consulate in Casablanca. First, my mind raced with the various stories I could concoct to bluff my way back home but, ultimately, it crossed my mind that getting busted with some bullshit story in a foreign country with no I.D. and no record of my flight to Casablanca... I told them the truth.
“You told them about him?” Pavan asked.
“No, I left that part out.”
“Wha... what part did you leave in, then?”
“That I went to sleep at Doc’s and woke up on another continent, tied up and being held, it seemed for ransom,” I said. “If I’d said anything about The Mentor, suddenly there’s a huge kidnapping investigation, and I’m going through mug shot books for the rest of my natural life.”
We grabbed a couple of beers out of his dad’s fridge and put them into a green knapsack, a remnant of Pavan’s high school days. I knew where my head would meet the pillow that night but didn’t discuss it with Pavan yet.
“They called up Doc and talked to him and, hell you know how crazed that dude is, but he confirmed my story and anything beyond that, they brushed off to him sounding like a total loon. A quick check to see if anyone fitting my description had committed any crimes locally, I satisfied my tab on the ship with a draw out of my savings and they put together some temporary I.D. for me. Took a flight home.”