Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel)

by R. E. McDermott

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kyung Yang No. 173

  Arabian Sea

  Dugan picked his way across the canted upper deck of the engine room by the light of his headlamp, trailed by Woody and the Korean chief engineer. They moved cautiously over the tilted grating, watching their footing and holding on to piping and equipment to steady themselves. Dugan started down a stairway to the next level, the descent made difficult by the heavy starboard list tilting the already steep stairway at a crazy angle. He stepped off the stairway at the next level down and illuminated the ladder treads for Woody and the Korean to descend.

  “Ain’t as bad as I figured,” Woody said to Dugan when all three were at the bottom. “The generator flat is above the water, and”—he examined the space below in the light of his headlamp—”only the lower level flooded above the deck plates, and just on the starboard side.” He played his light over the partially submerged electric motors of two pumps and turned to the Korean. “What those pumps?” he shouted.

  The little Korean frowned, then seemed to understand. “They are bilge pumps,” he yelled back. “And I am Korean, not deaf.”

  Dugan suppressed a smile and interjected himself into the conversation. “What else is under, Chief?”

  The Korean played his light over the water below, where the tops of electric motors showed in scattered places like small islands. “Both bilge pumps, ballast pump, sanitary pumps, cooling-water pump, refrigeration plant for fish hold”—he ticked them off on his fingers—”motors all gone.”

  “Well, we won’t get any motors out here. How about work-arounds?” Dugan asked.

  The chief nodded as he considered the possibilities. “General-service pump has bilge suction and crossover to ballast system. Can maybe make temporary hookup and use fire pump for cooling water, sanitary, and ballast. Reefer plant …” He shrugged.

  “Yeah, I don’t reckon y’all will be needing the reefer plant since the first RPG went into the fish hold,” Woody said.

  “What about the main engine?” Dugan asked. “Did the water rise high enough to get into the sump?”

  The Korean shook his head. “I check before. Water not rise to shaft seal. I pull oil sample already. No water.”

  Dugan nodded. “Then it’s just a matter of getting her patched up and pumped out. What do you think, Woody?”

  Woody scratched his chin. “Well, best not to run them generators with this kind of list. We need to get her back up a bit straighter first. I saw two or three Wilden pumps in the foc’sle store on Marie Floyd, and y’all have some on your ship too. We can bring both ships right up alongside and drop air hoses down to run the pumps. We’ll rig a couple of mattresses over the holes on the outside of the hull to slow down the water.” He looked down at the water. “Ain’t that much volume, so she should pump out pretty fast. We’ll list her to port and get the holes out of the water and patch ‘em best we can—doublers or cement boxes, or both. Won’t be pretty, but she’ll be tight.”

  “How long?” Dugan asked.

  Woody sighed. “It’s still the middle of the damn night and we ain’t even finished with Pacific Endeavor, so which one do you want first?”

  “I want them both first,” Dugan said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Woody said. He looked at the Korean. “Can your men tend the pumps and rig the piping crossovers?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said.

  Woody turned back to Dugan. “OK, we’ll see what we can do. Maybe noon.”

  M/T Marie Floyd

  Arabian Sea

  “You told me noon,” Dugan said, looking at his watch.

  “I told you maybe noon,” Woody replied. “And now I’m tellin’ you fifteen hundred for sure. And you’re damned lucky to get that.”

  “All right, all right,” Dugan said. “Sorry to lean on you, but we need to get moving as soon as possible.”

  “Get moving where, is the question.” Blake stared across the mess-room table at Dugan. “Why the hell are you taking off for parts unknown in a Korean fishing boat?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Dugan said. “It’s something I have to do and this was the only way I could figure to do it without slowing our operation down. As soon as you show up off Harardheere, you can demand that they stop executing hostages or threaten to match the executions man for man, but they won’t believe it until they see what you’ve got. It’s going to take you four and a half days to get there as it is, and I don’t want to add any time to that.”

  “I understand that part,” Blake said. “What I don’t understand is why you’re going and how you intend to join back up with us.”

  “And the answers are, I can’t tell you and I don’t know,” Dugan said. “And if I don’t get to Harardheere, it doesn’t matter. You know the plan. Start without me. Getting our captives there and setting up the deal is the important thing.” Dugan looked at Woody. “And speaking of that, you know what you have left to do, right?”

  “Well, I thought I did until you explained it to me ten times, but now I’m all fucked-up,” Woody said.

  Dugan turned red and Woody raised his hands in a calm-down gesture. “Yes, I got it down. The tank mods are already finished on Marie Floyd, so I can put everybody on finishing up Pacific Endurance. Don’t worry.”

  Dugan nodded, mollified, and Woody continued. “But I’ll tell you something else, for whatever it’s worth. I don’t know where the hell you’re headed, but I’ll be damned if I’d sail off with those Koreans without someone to watch my back. That chief’s OK, but I think Captain Kwok just wants to get the hell out of Dodge, and if you think he’s gonna cooperate when it’s just you and him and his crew, you might want to rethink that. As soon as you have a difference of opinion, I reckon you’re either gonna become a passenger or be dumped over the side.”

  Dugan nodded. “I was thinking the same thing myself.”

  Vince Blake stood on the port bridge wing of the Marie Floyd staring down at the Kyung Yang No. 173 as she got underway. Dugan and the three Russians waved up at him from the afterdeck and Blake returned the wave, as the fishing boat slipped from between the two ships and headed east.

  Blake waved across to the captain of Pacific Endeavor and got a nod in reply, then started the agreed upon separation maneuver.

  “Dead slow ahead,” he called into the wheelhouse.

  “Dead slow ahead, aye,” parroted the third mate.

  “Rudder amidships,” he called.

  “Rudder amidships, aye,” the helmsman confirmed.

  He stood watching on the bridge wing until he was well clear of the other ship, then set the new course and began to gradually increase speed, knowing Pacific Endeavor would soon fall in a mile away on his port beam. There would be no intentional slow steaming now, not that it mattered much. Two tired old tankers near the end of their economic life weren’t greyhounds of the sea, but he hoped they could maintain thirteen knots. Four and a half days at that speed—and five lives.

  An hour later and at full sea speed, he let his mind wander to the Luther Hurd, and Lynda Arnett, and Jim Milam, and the rest of the crew. He wondered again if he was doing the right thing, and then suppressed those doubts. If he could do nothing for his own crew, at least he could help others. He glanced at the digital readout of the speed log and nodded. Thirteen-point-two knots. Not bad.

  On a whim, he walked to the console, picked up the phone, and hit a preselect.

  “Engine Room, Chief speaking,” a voice answered.

  “This is the old girl’s last run, Chief,” Blake said. “I’d like all she’s got.”

  Blake listened patiently to a long tale about exhaust temperatures, overload protector settings, and a variety of other things about which he knew little as he awaited the words he knew were coming.

  “… but I’ll see what I can do,” the chief said.

  “Thanks, Chief. I appreciate it,” Blake said, before cradling the phone.

  Five minutes later, he smiled as he watched t
he RPM indicator creep up, and the speed log output move to thirteen-point-eight knots. If they could pick up a favorable current, they might beat his ETA. Four lives lost was better than five.

  M/T Luther Hurd

  At anchor

  Harardheere, Somalia

  Gaal adjusted the explosive collar around the chief engineer’s neck, preparing him for his turn as display hostage. Milam glared at him, his hatred palpable. Gaal had insisted that he and Diriyi take over the tasks of changing the collars, citing his concern that the rest of the holders were so perpetually stoned on khat that they risked blowing themselves and the hostages up. Diriyi had acquiesced reluctantly, feeling the task was beneath him. Sensing that, Gaal had assumed most of the work himself, and the hostages grew to hate him even more.

  Gaal pulled the last strap tight and nodded to a waiting pirate, who came over and jerked his head toward the door. The chief engineer started his trek up to the flying bridge, the exercise now routine. Gaal ignored the glares of the other hostages and fell in behind the chief and his guard, and followed them into the passageway and up the central stairs. He exited the stairwell at D-deck and walked a dozen steps down the passageway to the captain’s office, and entered without knocking.

  Diriyi was on the sofa, staring at his sat-phone on the coffee table in front of him. He looked up as Gaal entered. “I think something is wrong,” he said. “Mukhtar should have called hours ago.”

  Gaal shrugged and dropped into the easy chair across from Diriyi. “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “Maybe he’s having trouble with his phone.”

  “No. There are other phones, and he’s eager to confirm the naval vessels are still in place watching us,” Diriyi said. “Also, he knows I’m eager to know when he’s done, so we may finish our business and leave. Things have been greatly complicated by Zahra and those other fools and their executions.”

  “Don’t worry, Diriyi,” Gaal said. “I know the Americans. They’re single-minded and focused on us. They’ll do nothing unless we provoke them by executing our hostages. They care nothing for the others.”

  Diriyi looked unconvinced. “Perhaps,” he said. “But all the same, I wish Zahra and those other idiots had not complicated the situation. What can they be thinking?”

  M/T Phoenix Lynx

  At anchor

  Harardheere, Somalia

  “A mother ship?” Zahra asked. “You’re sure? Maybe it’s just late checking in.”

  “I don’t think so,” Omar said. “No one has heard from them in over two days. And she vanished in the same area as all the rest.”

  “How many now?”

  “All the bands are reporting disappearances. Over a hundred now, I think,” Omar said. “Do you think it’s the work of Mukhtar and his fanatics?”

  “Who else? The naval forces are eager to show the world how effective they are. If they’d done it, they’d trumpet the news.” Zahra shook his head. “No. The only ones who might do this secretly are the fanatics. What’s our man on the drillship say? If Mukhtar is targeting us, he should know.”

  “His report is long overdue,” Omar said. “I fear he’s been discovered. What should we do?”

  Zahra said nothing for a moment. “How close is our remaining mother ship?”

  Omar shrugged. “At her speed, perhaps three days from the drillship. Less, of course, for the launches she supports.”

  “And the other bands?” Zahra asked.

  “More or less all at the same distance, but some have faster mother ships. Why? What’re you thinking?”

  “That there’s little point in wandering around aimlessly to be picked off by Mukhtar at his leisure,” Zahra said. “If we combine forces, perhaps we can end his interference once and for all.”

  Omar stroked his beard, then nodded. “It might work. We could rendezvous at sea and pick the two fastest mother ships to carry the men, then use them to support a larger force of attack boats. It’ll take a little time to organize, but we could strike by surprise and overwhelm him.”

  Zahra smiled and reached for his phone. “I know it’ll work. I’ll confer with the leaders of the other bands. I think it’s time we pay Mukhtar a little visit. And while we’re at it, we can relieve him of his treasure.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kyung Yang No. 173

  Arabian Sea

  “You same pirate, Dugan,” Captain Kwok said, glaring across the small wheelhouse of Kyung Yang No. 173. “Pirates take ship. You take ship.” He shifted his gaze to include Borgdanov. “Somalis. You. Commie friends. All same. All pirate.”

  “I am not Communist. I am independent contractor,” Borgdanov said, earning himself an even harder glare from the Korean.

  “We did salvage your vessel, Captain Kwok,” Dugan said.

  That seemed to stoke the fires of the little Korean’s anger even hotter.

  “YOU SHOOT HOLES IN SHIP! NO HOLES! NO NEED SALVAGE!” he shouted, before spitting out a stream of Korean that Dugan was just as glad he didn’t understand. Kwok returned to English. “First port, you see! I file charges. You big pirate!”

  Dugan lost it. “File whatever you damn please. You looked plenty happy for our help when we untied you from that handrail, as I recall.”

  Kwok clamped his mouth shut and ignored Dugan to stare out at the sunlit sea. Sergeant Denosovitch came up the interior stairway and into the wheelhouse to relieve Borgdanov, and Dugan motioned for the major to follow and headed out of the wheelhouse to the aft deck of the fishing boat.

  “Thank you for agreeing to come, Andrei,” Dugan said. “I know it’s not what you signed on for.”

  Borgdanov shrugged. “After you explained situation, I cannot let you go off alone.” He grinned. “Ilya and I must keep you from trouble, da? And Corporal Anisimov, he likes the bonus. Besides, seems most difficult part is to get there.”

  “Yeah, Woody sure called that one right,” Dugan said. “Captain Kwok’s not a real happy camper.”

  Borgdanov nodded. “He is not so cooperative. But makes no difference, I think. We are four, and one of us can stay in wheelhouse to make sure boat stays on GPS track.” He looked out at the sea. “And weather is fine. How long do you think?”

  Dugan snorted. “Our tankers are speedboats next to this thing. I doubt she’ll make more than eight knots, maybe less with all the jury-rigging in the engine room. It’ll take us the better part of two days to get there.”

  “Good,” Borgdanov said. “Maybe we use time to figure out what we do when we arrive. You have plan?”

  Dugan shrugged. “Nothing firm. Plan A is to pretend to fish and get as close as we can without drawing attention. If we see anything suspicious, we pass it to Ward so he can convince people the threat is real. Assuming we don’t see anything Ward can use, plan B is to pump a bit of oil over in the middle of the night so it drifts down around the drillship, and then we’ll haul ass. Ward can use investigation of the oil spill as a pretext to get agents aboard for a closer look. Either way, when we’re done, we head back toward the tankers. Ward promised me to start a navy ship in this direction, and get close enough to meet us with a chopper en route. With a bit of luck, we should get to Harardheere not long after the tankers arrive.”

  Borgdanov nodded. “Do you think this virus is real, Dyed? It seems like fantastic story.”

  “Not a clue, but Ward is certainly taking it seriously.”

  Drillship Ocean Goliath

  Arabian Sea

  Mukhtar ignored his throbbing head as he watched the little ROV surface beside the ship. His men were working with the drillship crew now to supplement the work force and help hoist the craft back onboard. The men’s movements were dull and lethargic, almost as if they were moving in slow motion. Half the regular ship’s crew lay dead or dying in the crew lounge, and four of Mukhtar’s men lay with them.

  They all realized they were dying, but some undefinable will to live kept them moving, just as fear of Mukhtar drove them to their tasks. Just to be sure, he had t
wo loyal men stationed on the fishing boat. No one was leaving until he’d brought up all the cylinders, a task made more difficult as men dropped of the disease hourly.

  The revelation had come to him as the drillship crew began to sicken and die, starting with those who had survived the nerve-gas exposure. It was a miracle. In His great wisdom, Allah, blessed be His Name, had transformed the nerve gas into a deadly plague. Yawm ad-Din, the Day of Judgment, was at hand, and Allah had chosen Mukhtar as his instrument. The honor and responsibility were almost more than he could bear, but he would not fail!

  His initial actions had been correct. He’d isolated the infected men in the crew’s lounge, not realizing it was already too late, and spent the next four days scouring the sea floor to bring up every cylinder he could find. For what seemed the hundredth time, he debated leaving with what he had, and for the hundredth time he ignored the urge. He knew nothing about this new weapon, but sensed more was better than less, and he was determined to have it all.

  He watched impatiently as the ROV was hoisted aboard, and his dwindling work force started to transfer cylinders from the ROV into a half-filled cargo basket on deck. Another full basket sat nearby. When he was sure he had all the cylinders, he would hoist the baskets aboard the fishing boat with the ship’s crane. And then he would get God’s great cleansing plague ashore somewhere, Inshallah.

  M/T Luther Hurd

  At anchor

  Harardheere, Somalia

  Gaal’s eyes flew open as he heard the key in the lock of his cabin door. He feigned sleep as his hand sought the grip of the Glock beneath his pillow. He heard his door open and his hand tightened on the Glock.

  “Gaal,” called Diriyi’s voice. Gaal opened one eye and saw the Somali’s form silhouetted against the light of the passageway. He looked at his watch.

  “What do you want? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

  “Take the spare collars to the top of the wheelhouse, then join me in the officers’ mess room.”