by James Hunt
“No! No lights!”
“If I can’t see a swell coming, then we run the risk of capsizing! If you’re worried about getting caught, no one is going to stop us in this storm.” Dylan’s wet shirt clung to his chest with an icy grip, the rain soaking him through to the bone. The wind sent rain droplets speeding through the broken windows, which stung his exposed face and arms. The pirate finally nodded, and Dylan flicked the light switches and grabbed the spotlight attached to the roof of the wheelhouse, which he could operate with the handle that jutted down just above his head.
Dylan rotated the beam of light, bringing it onto the waves and rolling seas. He turned the wheel hard right, avoiding a swell that threatened to knock them sideways. “Hold on!” Gravity pulled them backward as the vessel pushed its way up the side of the wave. The boat creaked and strained and crawled to a stop as they reached the crest.
Dylan jammed the throttle down harder, giving the ship the needed boost to peak over the wave and slam onto the choppy waters below. He wiped the rain from his eyes, looking for any more rogues that threatened to take him out. A hand gripped his shoulder, and he ripped it off, only to find that it was Mark. “Captain! The gear’s tied down, but we lost a lot of line.”
“You and Billy get below and grab the life vests. I don’t know how much worse this storm is going to get or when it plans on stopping.”
Mark nodded and then carefully descended the ladder of the wheelhouse, almost falling into the ocean a few times before he made it to the deck. Dylan looked back at the pirate, drenched from head to toe but still gripping his pistol. Lightning flashed in the reflection of his eyes. He kept that scowl, watching Dylan’s every movement, the same granite expression that he’d had since they boarded his ship. In that moment, the finalization washed over Dylan: the pirate truly did not care whether he lived or died, so long as his mission was complete.
Dylan continued the push forward through the storm, the rain and waves peaking after an hour of battling. He felt his body sag from fatigue as the raging downpour turned into a light rain that pattered the windows and deck of his ship. The waves calmed, and the lightning and thunder that had done their best to crush them turned into nothing more than echoes in the distance. Water sloshed back and forth in the wheelhouse, and Mark and Billy used the bilge pump to help clear it out.
With the storm safely behind them, the pirate forced Dylan to turn the ship’s lights back off. “You’re good at what you do. My thanks.”
“Keep it.” The thought of it disgusted Dylan, but he didn’t do it for them. Billy and Mark were still alive, and he’d be damned if he let any more of his crew members die because of his decision making.
Dylan checked his watch, and the clock face read 5:00 a.m. They had less than ninety minutes before the sunrise. “When we make it to the shoreline, I won’t be able to take you all the way to land.”
“What?”
“The location you showed me.” Dylan jammed his finger into the soaking-wet map. “The waters are too shallow for my boat to make it all the way to shore.”
The pirate yelled through the open window, and after a few short commands, one of the men descended into the fish cellar and emerged with a radio. He extended the antenna and tuned the dial to whatever frequency his comrades on the other end were listening to. A few minutes later, he was in communication and then yelled something back up to their leader. “Keep course. We’ll have a boat come and meet you in the deeper waters.”
The rest of the trip was uneventful. Fatigue and the fact that everyone was soaked to the bone seemed to have leeched everyone’s remaining energy. But once the shoreline was in view, the pirates’ energies resurged, and Dylan became painfully aware of what would happen to them once the pirates had completed their mission.
“Slow,” the pirate said, holding the gun to the back of Dylan’s neck.
Dylan brought the ship to an idle and kept the lights off as instructed. Two of the pirates down on the deck kept a lookout for whatever dinghy was meeting them. If Dylan was going to get himself and his crew out of this alive, then he’d need to do it quickly. The nearest port was thirty minutes north. If he timed it right, he might be able to get both him and his crew there safely.
The pirates on the bow started shouting as they heard the light rumble of the outboard engine from the smaller vessel heading to meet them. They gave a quick flash of their lights, and Dylan was ordered to do the same. He cut the engines, and the ship coasted until the small sixteen-foot boat, captained by similar-looking men with rifles and pistols, pulled up on their port side.
They cast lines and tied them off on the cleats. Dylan was escorted down the steps and placed with Billy and Mark in the cabin. Both of them were still soggy from the storm. Billy looked like he was about to fall asleep, while Mark still had a fire stoked in him and looked as though he could set fire to any man he stared at for too long. “You two all right?”
Billy gave a sleepy nod, but Mark didn’t break his stare on the pirates. One man was left to guard them while the rest of the pirates moved whatever gear they stored below. Dylan heard the splash of the anchor and the thump of boots along the deck. The sounds continued for a while and then finally stopped as their leader shouted something down into the cabin for their captor to hear. He answered, and then the rumble of the smaller boat’s engine sounded. A few seconds later, a second guard came down to join his comrade, and both men took turns aiming their pistols over Dylan, Mark, and Billy’s heads.
With the rest of the pirates gone and two left to guard Dylan, Mark, and Billy, he realized that the small boat must not have had enough room to carry all of their gear. The pirates would need to make another trip.
Right now they were two hundred yards from the shore. It’d take the pirates at least five minutes for the trip, and just as long to unload whatever they had, then five minutes for the journey back, perhaps shorter since they weren’t so heavy.
Dylan’s eyes roamed the cabin, trying to catch anything in his peripherals that he could use, while keeping a watchful eye on the fingers curled over gun triggers. The two pirates watched them like hawks, and each moment that passed was one less second they could be using to get away. “You speak English?”
Neither man responded. Mark finally broke his gaze on the pirates and turned to Dylan. Billy awoke from his fatigued stupor. “Hey!” Dylan shouted, triggering the pirate’s foreign dialect and the barrel of his rifle to be shoved in his cheek. Dylan shoved the rifle’s barrel away from his face, but the pirate still kept a bead on him. Dylan forced the adrenaline coursing through his body to stop his muscles from trembling, and he gritted his teeth. “I know you can understand me, you piece of shit.”
The pirate grabbed Dylan by the collar and flung him across the inside of the cabin. He smacked into one of the cabinets, and plates and utensils spilled out. Mark and Billy jerked from their seats, but the pirate’s comrade kept them at bay.
Dylan fumbled his hands to try and grab a fork that had fallen to the floor. When the pirate lunged for Dylan again, he jammed the fork’s prongs into the side of the pirate’s neck. Blood spurted over Dylan’s fingers as the pirate squirmed and flailed. The pirate’s comrade aimed the rifle at Dylan’s head, and just before he squeezed the trigger, Mark barreled into him, sending the bullet off kilter and into the cabin’s wall. Dylan repeatedly jammed the fork into the pirate’s flesh, each new set of holes provoking fresh blood. More gunshots fired down the cabin hallway, where Mark had tackled the pirate and Billy had gone to help him.
The pirate Dylan had stabbed twitched, and the struggle slowly faded from his face as Dylan dropped the bloodied fork and pushed the dead body off him. He picked up the pirate’s rifle and stumbled into the hallway, where Mark rested on top of the pirate’s comrade, and Billy was slowly picking him up off the dead body.
“Mark!” Dylan rushed to help the first mate off the floor. Mark clutched his stomach, his hand covering a bloodied wound.
“Son of a bitc
h shot me.” Mark groaned as Billy and Dylan helped him to the seats by the kitchen table.
Dylan ripped the hole wider in Mark’s shirt to examine the wound underneath then checked his back. “No exit wound. Just hang on, Mark.” He grabbed some cloths and pressed them firmly over the wound. “Keep pressure on it. Billy, with me.”
The two rushed up the cabin steps and onto the dock. In the distance, he could hear the boat turning around. “They heard the gunshots! Pull up the anchor, now!” Dylan climbed the rungs of the ladder two at a time. He skidded to a stop, his feet almost sliding out from under him. He gripped the wheel for support, and the blood from his hands smeared against the old polished wood.
“Anchor’s up!” Billy shouted.
Bullets peppered what was left of the shattered wheelhouse. Dylan ducked, cranking the engine to life as he did. He pushed the throttle down, and the boat jerked forward, gunshots continuing to thunder behind them. Dylan straightened the wheel, and when he looked up, the pirate’s boat was right alongside them, firing into his ship’s hull.
Dylan turned the wheel hard left, knocking the small vessel back, and the driver veered out of their path, but one of the pirates leapt over the edge of the boat, onto the side of a cargo hold. “Billy! Cut the cargo rope off!” Dylan accelerated the boat and maxed out the engines at thirty knots then slid back down the wheelhouse ladder to help Billy.
The pirate swung the barrel of his rifle over the side of the boat and fired blindly, blanketing the boat deck with lead and tearing holes into crates, the hull, and equipment. Billy ducked behind a cluster of buoys while Dylan stayed behind the cover of the wheelhouse on the opposite side. The firing stopped, and when Dylan poked his head around, he saw the pirate swing his leg over the edge of the hull. Dylan sprinted toward him, and just before the pirate could fire the rifle, Dylan shoved him back over the side. The pirate grabbed the sleeve of Dylan’s shirt on the way down, bringing Dylan off the side of the boat with him.
The two men clung to the cargo net as waves of salt water washed over them, the boat still plowing forward. The pirate aimed the rifle, and Dylan kicked it away, losing his grip with his left hand and almost falling from the net. The rifle splashed into the water, and Dylan saw the smaller sixteen footer struggle to keep up with them. The pirate pulled a knife and sliced open a cut on Dylan’s arm before he could move out of the way.
Gunfire broke though the sprays of water puffed from the ocean as the small vessel tried to chase them. The pirate swung his knife violently at Dylan, who kept trying to pull himself up the net, struggling against the chop of the waves. Dylan finally caught the pirate’s arm, locking it under his own, and slammed his forehead into the pirate’s nose. The blade splashed into the ocean, and Dylan flung the man from the net in his disoriented state and watched his body skip across the water.
“Captain!” Billy peered over the side of the boat and extended his hand. Dylan reached for it but slipped, due to the beads of water slick on his arm. “C’mon, Captain!” Dylan lunged again, and this time the hold stuck, but a loud whistling came through the air, and then the water erupted into an explosion five feet from where Dylan struggled to reenter the boat, sending up a geyser twelve feet high.
The explosion left a ringing in Dylan’s ears, and he almost pulled Billy over the side with him but managed to keep his footing and flopped onto the deck.
Dylan caught his breath and checked his arm as another explosion rocked the stern on the starboard side of the ship. Dylan rolled to his stomach and pushed himself up, blood streaming down the side of his arm. He looked behind to see the pirate’s craft struggling to keep up, launching mortars from the ship’s bow. “Billy, get below into the cabin with Mark, now!”
Another long whistling sounded as Dylan rushed back up to the wheelhouse, and the mortar explosion rocked the port side of the boat, this one close enough to shift the vessel right, turning them back around to their captors.
Dylan reached for the wheel, straightening them out, and then swerved left, trying to give the pirates a harder target to hit. He spun the wheel back and forth in sharp turns, the movements causing the cut on his arm to gush more blood. The throttle was maxed out. Dylan checked behind him, and a mortar exploded directly behind the boat, sending a shockwave through the vessel.
A few more sporadic gunshots, and Dylan watched the pirates swerve off, giving up their pursuit, the small vessel no longer able to keep pace. Dylan collapsed on the wheel, his own weight crushing him. With the adrenaline subsiding, he suddenly became painfully aware of the burning sensation in his left arm. He ripped off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding. “Billy! How’s Mark?”
“He’s okay! A little lightheaded, but he’s still breathing!”
Dylan let out a sigh and checked the water-and-blood-soaked map on the console’s dash. He adjusted their heading to the northwest and set them on course for the nearest marina. He made Billy give him constant updates on Mark’s condition, but when Billy started screaming that Mark wasn’t breathing anymore, he rushed down to the cabin, leaving the ship on its speedy course to the harbor.
“He just passed out!” Billy screamed, holding Mark’s head with his own two hands.
“Help me get him on his back,” Dylan said, grabbing hold of Mark’s legs. The two men laid him flat on the floor, and Dylan checked Mark’s airway passage. Once it was clear, Dylan opened Mark’s mouth and applied two breaths then placed his hands on the man’s sternum and pumped fifteen compressions. The boat rocked and bumped along the waves, making it difficult for him to keep a steady hand. “C’mon, Mark.” He checked for his breathing again; still nothing. Two more puffs of air followed by fifteen compressions, then two more and another fifteen, then again, and again, and again.
“Dylan,” Billy said, placing his hand on Dylan’s shoulder.
“No.” Dylan shrugged Billy’s hand off. “He’s not dead. Not yet.” With each compression thrust into Mark’s chest, Dylan felt the crunch of his friend’s ribs. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He leaned down to Mark’s mouth and felt the light puff of air hit his cheek. “He’s breathing!”
Billy quickly jumped around to the opposite side and held Mark’s hand. Dylan grabbed Billy by the collar. “You check his breathing every twenty seconds, understand? If he stops again, do exactly what I did. Tilt his head back, open the airway, and breathe two long breaths. Got it?” Billy nodded.
The harbor lights were in view when Dylan made it back up to the wheelhouse and picked up the radio. “Harbormaster, this is Captain Dylan Turk. I need medical assistance at the docks immediately. I repeat, this is Captain Dylan Turk, and I have an injured man on board with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He has severe blood loss and is in need of an ambulance.”
The radio crackled, and a few seconds later the harbormaster came on line. “Copy that, Captain, we have notified the authorities, and we have an ambulance inbound.”
Dylan blew past the No Wake signs, keeping the ship at full throttle. The sun was still an hour from coming up, but the docks were already busy with fishermen stocking their boats with supplies, getting ready for their day at sea. Horns blared, and the dockworkers shouted at him to slow down as his wake rocked the boats still docked. Dylan eyed an open slip, and just before he crashed, he reversed the engines, coasting him into the slip and giving the dock only the slightest nudge. He tied a line off and rushed down to help Billy bring Mark up. He threw Mark’s left arm over his shoulder, and Billy grabbed the other side.
The cursing sailors stopped their shouting about Dylan’s speed at the sight of their bloodied arms and legs as they pulled Mark out of the cabin. “Give us a hand, will you?” The sailors immediately came to their aid, and Dylan heard the sirens from the ambulance up ahead. The paramedics met them on the dock with a stretcher, which they loaded Mark onto. Dylan turned back to Billy, who stood there slack-jawed, looking at the blood on his shirt and arms. “Billy, stay with th
e boat, okay? Call the police, and tell them what happened. I’m going with Mark to the hospital. I’ll call you when I can.”
Before Billy could say anything, Dylan was already down the dock, fighting with the paramedics to let him inside. “I’m his brother.” The small lie seemed to work, and the paramedic finally let him in. The ambulance sped off as Dylan watched the paramedics work on Mark, shoving tubes in his arms, placing an oxygen mask over his face. He’s going to make it. Dylan repeated that to himself like a mantra.
“Hey, how did this happen?” the paramedic asked.
It took a second for Dylan to retrace the events in his mind. Sitting there in the back of the ambulance, it seemed foreign. His mind blurred and flashed with everything that happened. “We were attacked. They… they tried to kill us.”
“Who?”
Dylan squinted his eyes shut, trying to remember the outline of their faces, the sounds of their voices, what they wore, what they said. He knew he’d have to tell the authorities. “They had guns... and... and something else.” He suddenly remembered them moving gear on his boat, gear which was still there. “Something bad.”
Chapter 4 – Saturday 6:00 a.m.
Kasaika’s men lifted the rest of the cargo into the back of the van then pushed the boats out to sea and watched them sink. Kasaika removed the soggy boots from his feet and dumped out the water inside. The thrusts were forceful, angry, as the sea water splashed onto the sand. He put his boots back on and climbed inside the passenger side.
The caravan of three vehicles traveled down the back roads, keeping off the highways and interstates, going out of their way to make sure they avoided any detection. Even sitting there in the van, Kasaika still couldn’t stop feeling the rock of the ocean waves. The week at sea refused to relinquish its hold on his mind, which only added to his distaste of the water.
Kasaika always believed the ocean was unstable, too fluid, easily bent to the will of whatever the user of the water wanted. The entire trip across the Atlantic, his legs and body yearned for the solid foundation of land. Men weren’t designed to live at sea.