A man down the table looked doubtful. “So you say. But we’re warriors, not merchants. We already have other tankers, and we’ve always ransomed them in the past. What’s so special about these?”
Idiot! Zahra struggled to hide his contempt.
“Those are crude tankers,” he said. “Their cargo is useless to anyone lacking the means to refine the crude. These are product tankers, full of premium gasoline. It’s as good as cash.”
“The ships and captives are here, within easy reach,” said one of the others. “We greatly outnumber these Liberians. Why negotiate at all? Why not just take the hostages and the ships?”
Zahra could no longer hide his exasperation. “With what? A collection of khat-chewing holders? These Liberians have over a hundred of our best attackers, and the Russian assault after the drillship sinking wiped out over forty more. Must I remind you that only one mother ship survived that attack with a few men left alive? We hardly have enough experienced men left to conduct normal operations against single unarmed ships, and only then if we combine forces. We have nowhere near the necessary firepower to successfully attack targets defended by armed Russians!”
“I still say they’re bluffing,” came a reply from down the table, and the group once again dissolved in chaos, each man shouting his opinion to be heard above the melee. Zahra shook his head in disgust.
“Have you confirmed the cargos, Zahra?”
The voice was hardly above normal speaking level, yet it was heard through the commotion. The others fell silent and turned to the speaker. Gutaale was at least a decade older than the others, and universally respected—and feared.
“Have you confirmed the cargos, Zahra?” he repeated.
“Yes, Gutaale,” Zahra said. “Several of my men have lived in Europe and worked as seamen on tankers, and the Liberians allowed us to inspect the ships. My men confirm that they are both full of gasoline.”
“And whoever these Liberians are, doesn’t it seem strange they have such a fortune in gasoline to trade? Something doesn’t seem right to me,” Gutaale said.
Zahra suppressed a smile. If he could win Gutaale over, the others would fall in line, and the man was asking the very questions he’d asked himself.
“Nor to me, Gutaale. At least at first. But things became clear during negotiations. Blake wouldn’t answer that question, but this Dugan isn’t quite so clever. He let a few things slip and Omar, my interpreter, was able to pick up on them. Between us, we pieced things together,” Zahra said. “The tankers are both old, near the end of their lives. The cargoes belong to major oil companies, and the oil majors self-insure their cargo. I think these Liberians just diverted the tankers here to use the cargo as trade goods. They will, of course, claim that they were hijacked by pirates and that they were only able to negotiate the release of the crews. The ship insurers will be happy to get off by paying scrap value for the two old tankers, and the oil companies will be stuck with the bill for the gasoline.” Zahra paused, his admiration obvious. “It’s quite clever.”
“And quite obvious,” Gutaale said. “There’ll be repercussions.”
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” Zahra said. “Repercussions from whom?”
He ticked off points on his fingers.
“All our captives will be released, so the great humanitarian issue is solved. With the captives out of the equation, pressure will be off the various governments. Maintaining the anti-pirate force is expensive, and I suspect they’ll all jump at the chance to reduce their naval presence. Will the insurers complain? I don’t think so. No hostages reduces the pressure on everyone. They’ll let things calm down a bit, and in a few months start very low-key talks about payments to release the remaining ships.
“This is not a bad deal,” Zahra continued. “Everyone is a winner except the oil companies, and how much sympathy can they expect? In three months’ time, everyone will go back to ignoring poor, benighted, lawless Somalia. Then we do what we want.”
Gutaale stared at Zahra. Zahra held his breath, then heaved an inward sigh as the corners of the older man’s mouth twitched upward in a smile.
“You have it all figured out, Zahra,” Gutaale said. “Exactly what is it that ‘we’ want to do?”
Zahra smiled back. “Organize, innovate, train, upgrade our equipment, and a dozen other things!” His voice grew excited as he warmed to the subject. “Just think of it Gutaale,” he said. “This is the first time we will have such a sum all together. We have a chance to combine forces and use it wisely. Night-vision equipment. Remote-controlled drones to extend our search areas. Better, bigger, faster boats with better radar and evasion capabilities. Training to teach us to use it all. Intelligence assets in the world’s shipping centers. The list is long,” Zahra said, “and all possible with this influx of money.”
“We’ve made good money in the past,” Gutaale said.
“Yes. A million here, five million there,” Zahra said. “All divided and spent foolishly. How many times have you seen the fools we employ crowd the khat market, waving fistfuls of hundred-dollar bills? We can do better. We must.”
“What do you propose?” Gutaale asked.
“To make the deal,” Zahra said. “I say we give them all the captive seamen, and negotiate for the remaining ships. We may get something for the ships from the insurers in a few months when things calm down a bit. In the meantime, we do nothing but acquire new equipment, train, and put our intelligence assets in place. The men we get back from the Liberians will be the core of our force, and they’ll know how they were captured and how to develop countermeasures. When we launch again in six or eight months, we’ll use our intelligence nets to select our targets carefully. Rather than scooping up every poxy fishing boat or rusty Greek freighter carrying cement, we’ll focus on high-value targets—loaded tankers and container ships, or perhaps passenger vessels.” Zahra paused, as if thinking. “Yes,” he said, “particularly passenger vessels. We can use the fanatics’ trick and get people onboard ahead of time. If we make the very first capture of our new venture a passenger vessel, we’ll have tremendous leverage. Think of having over a thousand European hostages!”
“Which it seems to me,” Gutaale said, “would eventually bring back the warships and put us in a situation very similar to where we are now.”
“Agreed,” Zahra said. “But the key word is eventually. It’ll take a year or more before we get to that point, and by that time, we’ll have bought our way into what passes for a government here.” He smiled and looked around the table. “We can all be ministers of something or other, and work diligently to free the hostages from the horrible pirates—in exchange, of course, for a sizable aid package from the Western powers.”
Gutaale leaned back in his chair and nodded. “All right, Zahra,” he said. “You’ve convinced me.” He looked around the table. “Does anyone disagree?”
No one spoke.
“Very well, Zahra,” Gutaale said. “Make your deal with these Liberians.”
M/T Marie Floyd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia
Dugan walked across the main deck to where Blake stood staring out at the M/T Luther Hurd, anchored in the shadow of USS Carney.
“How are your people, Vince?” he asked.
“Looks like they’re both going to be OK,” Blake said. “The navy’s evacuating them to Bahrain for further evaluation, then they’ll fly them home. Looks like Stan may heal faster than Lynda, but the doc on the Carney said she might be able to avoid surgery and get by with physical therapy.”
Dugan nodded. “How about you? What’re your plans?”
“I’ll take the Luther Hurd on to Diego Garcia,” Blake said. “Hanley leaned on some politicians who leaned on the navy, and they’re flying some replacement crew out via Bahrain also. We’ll tag along a few hours behind Carney until we get in chopper range.” Blake looked a question at Dugan. “But I don’t think you came up here to discuss my travel plans. What’s u
p?”
Dugan grinned. “I just got off the phone with our new buddy Omar. Hook, line, and friggin’ sinker! They bought the whole story.”
“Terrific! You were smart to let them keep some of the ships. They think they got the best end of the deal. The crews are the issue.”
Farther down the deck, Woody emerged from a ballast tank manhole and began to pull a cutting-torch hose from the tank and coil it on deck. He was finished by the time Dugan and Blake reached him.
“What’s up?” Woody asked.
“You tell me,” Dugan said. “How are the ballast-tank bulkheads coming?”
“Finished,” Woody said.
“And the engine room?”
“Let’s just cut to the chase, Dugan,” Woody said. “I said ‘finished.’ That means every damn watertight bulkhead on this ship is like Swiss cheese.”
“OK. How about the jammers and the li—”
“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, Dugan! You sure you ain’t related to Hanley? You could be twins separated at birth.”
Dugan opened his mouth to protest, but Woody cut him off. “Every single thing on your list is finished. Here on Marie Floyd, and over on Pacific Endurance too.”
Blake laughed, reducing Dugan’s indignation to a sheepish grin.
“OK, OK,” Dugan said. “Pack up and get your boys over to the Carney.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” Woody said, “me and the boys will ride on Luther Hurd with Andrei and his guys till Bahrain.”
“Andrei? You mean Borgdanov? The same guy you said you’d never be bass-fishing buddies with?”
“He ain’t half bad,” Woody said grudgingly. “For a foreigner, I mean.”
Dugan laughed, then stroked his chin. “Not a bad idea. We’ll have the Russians with us here on Marie Floyd right up to the last minute, but if Zahra gets any cute ideas, having you and your boys with your M-4s close by will be good backup.”
M/T Marie Floyd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia
Dugan stood with Blake near the accommodation ladder. Borgdanov and his black-clad Russians surrounded them facing outward, a threatening counterbalance to the fifty-strong contingent of the twelve clan leaders farther down the deck. The pirate presence was growing, as pirates released from their holding cells joined their leaders on deck.
But quantity didn’t trump quality. Only the pirates who boarded with the clan leaders were armed, and even if they outnumbered the Russians more than four to one, the result of any firefight was far from certain. The Russians’ superior weapons, body armor, and fire discipline made them formidable adversaries, and no pirate was eager to deal with them, despite the numerical imbalance.
By agreement, Dugan and Blake stayed aboard—hostages until the exchange was complete. It had begun early in the morning, starting with the release of Phoenix Lynx and her surviving crew, followed by release of the captive ships in the out ports. The freed vessels carried not only their own crews but those of ships Dugan allowed the pirates to keep. Each vessel released was met by a warship from the Western powers, and the identity of each hostage confirmed against a master list. When all the hostages were verified safe, Carney relayed the news to Dugan and escorted Phoenix Lynx a safe distance away. They waited now, out of sight just over the horizon.
Blake glanced nervously over the side, to where Luther Hurd rode at anchor, a half mile away. “I feel a bit naked without Carney in sight.”
Dugan shook his head. “I had to lean on Ward to get them to leave in the first place. If we can’t see them, they can’t see us. Plausible deniability. Besides, Carney’s skipper already has his neck stretched out a bit by talking the SEALs into forgetting those boats.”
Blake nodded and glanced down over the rail at two big high-speed Zodiacs tethered to the small landing at the bottom of the accommodation ladder. They rode there among half a dozen empty pirate launches of assorted shapes and sizes, clustered around the little landing like nursing piglets.
Dugan turned. “Well, we always knew this would be the tricky part,” he said to Borgdanov. “Recommendations?”
“They will not attack until after we go down, I think,” Borgdanov said. “I stay on top with six men while Ilya takes six more down ladder and prepares boats, da? Dyed, you and Captain Blake go with Ilya. When all is ready in the boats, Ilya signals me and we come down very fast, while Ilya and his men keep weapons pointed up at edge of the main deck. If any piraty leans over the main deck to shoot, Ilya’s men kill him. Then we escape. Simple plan, da?”
“Sounds simple,” Dugan said, hoping it would be.
“Good,” Borgdanov said, and barked orders. The sergeant nodded and motioned Dugan and Blake to the ladder, then followed with his six men. Dugan moved down the sloping aluminum steps and into the first Zodiac, and Blake moved into the second. They fired up the outboards, as the Russians divided themselves between the two boats and trained their assault rifles up at the rail. The sergeant gave a sharp whistle and the remaining Russians rushed down, Borgdanov in the rear. By prearrangement, the second group also divided, filling both boats to capacity. The last Russian to board each boat cast off the lines, and Dugan and Blake backed the boats out of the cluster. Dugan looked up at the sergeant’s shout.
Half a dozen pirates reached the rail, forced back by Russian fire. All the Russians targeted the rail, except Borgdanov and the sergeant, who were pulling the pins on grenades and tossing them into the pirate boats.
“GO! GO! GO! Dyed!” screamed Borgdanov, as he and the sergeant finished and raised their weapons to target the rail.
“HANG ON!” Dugan screamed, as he spun the boat around and hit full throttle, and Blake followed suit. Heavily loaded, the boats bucked in the water and bogged down as the propellers cavitated, but almost simultaneously Dugan and Blake realized their mistake and backed off the throttles a bit. In seconds, the boats were up and planing across the water, as Dugan felt the concussion of the grenade blasts on his back and heard the earsplitting explosions.
The pirates aboard Marie Floyd rushed back to the rail, pouring wild, undisciplined fire after the boats, joined by freed pirates on the deck of the nearby Pacific Endurance. But the boats were already difficult targets—too difficult for the marksmanship of the pirates.
Borgdanov pointed to the Marie Floyd, where three pirate launches clustered unharmed at the bottom of her accommodation ladder. Dugan shrugged.
“We’ll just have to let those go,” Dugan yelled over the noise of the outboard. “They’re all stirred up now. If we go back to toss grenades in those boats, someone might get killed.”
Borgdanov smiled. “We do not have to return,” he yelled back. “Just because piraty are terrible shots, does not mean we are. Stop. I think we are safe here.”
Dugan cut power to an idle, and the boat drifted to a stop. Blake did the same and the boats drifted together, the powerful outboards muttering.
“Just as well,” Dugan said. “I wasn’t going to go much farther anyway. I’m not totally sure of the range of the remotes.”
Borgdanov nodded, then shouted orders to his men. The Russians opened fire on the distant boats, a steady rat-tat-tat of aimed three-round bursts from a dozen weapons. In minutes, the three pirate boats were riddled with holes and sinking. Dugan opened his mouth to congratulate Borgdanov on his men’s marksmanship, but was distracted by an unexpected vibration from his pocket.
M/T Marie Floyd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia
Omar stayed to one side and tried to make himself small as Zahra paced the deck and screamed curses after the fleeing Liberians.
“Those steaming piles of goat dung have the effrontery to betray me?” Zahra screamed. “To shoot my men and destroy my boats? They’ve reneged on the agreement, and we’ll bring boats from ashore and hunt down this Luther Hurd! She can’t outrun us! We’ll blow them up and sink them all, and if the navy ships come back, we’ll claim it has nothing to do with us! Tanke
rs blow up all the time.”
Omar didn’t think it wise to point out that their men had been shooting at the Russians first.
“Omar!” Zahra screamed, and Omar scurried over.
“Call this Dugan on the cell phone you gave him for the negotiations. I want to let him know he’s about to die so he can enjoy the anticipation,” Zahra said.
“But Zahra—”
“DO IT!” Zahra screamed, and Omar pulled out his phone and hit a preset.
After a moment, Omar took the phone from his ear and spoke. “I have him, Zahra,” he said.
“Good,” Zahra said. “Tell him that he’ll soon be dead.”
Omar nodded and spoke into the phone, then looked back at Zahra.
“And now ask him if he knows what I’ll soon be doing,” Zahra commanded, preparing to launch into a long description of the slow torture he intended to inflict on Dugan and all his men.
Omar translated Zahra’s words, and listened to the phone a moment. His face took on a strange expression, then morphed into a fearful look as Zahra continued.
“Tell him I’ll—”
“I … I can’t tell him anything, Zahra. He hung up.”
“WHAT? He just hung up? What did he say?”
“Well, after I asked him if he knew what you’d be doing, he said … he said …”
“Out with it, you fool! What did he say!”
Omar was trembling now. “He … he said, ‘I suggest the backstroke,’ and then he hung up,” Omar said.
Zodiacs
Harardheere, Somalia
“—suggest the backstroke,” Dugan said, then tossed the phone over the side. “Let’s do it,” he shouted across to Blake in the next boat.
Blake fished a small electronic device from his pocket and flipped up the guard over the single button. He thumbed the button and multiple explosions bloomed along the hulls of both Marie Floyd and Pacific Endurance, well below their waterlines. They caused small but obvious boils of white water, sending spray into the air as dull thumps echoed across the sea.
Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel) Page 27