by Brad Thor
Flashing Sanchez and Kass the thumbs-up, Harvath took point and led the men up the stairwell.
They were about to crest the fourth story landing, when Harvath heard voices and signaled for his team to freeze. It sounded like at least three men, and they were arguing in Somali. Over what, Harvath had no idea, but it was an opportunity they weren’t likely to get again.
He gestured quickly to Sanchez and Kass as to what he wanted. When they nodded in return, Harvath led them onto the landing and stopped.
Taking a deep breath, he counted to three, exhaled, and spun out into the hall.
Less than twenty feet away, three of the pirates were squatting on the floor, playing a traditional Somali board game called Shax. Harvath drilled all three of them with two shots apiece. Six rounds in less than two seconds. None of the men even had a chance to reach for the rifles propped up against the wall behind them.
Two doors down, the team found the crew being kept in a recreation room. There was only one pirate with them, and Harvath nailed him with two shots to the chest and one to the head.
While Kass stood guard at the door, Harvath and Sanchez assessed the hostages and then identified each of them via the photographs they had been issued. The dead navigator’s photo was X’d out. Part of their assignment, though, was to secure his body for repatriation, but they could do that later. Right now, they needed to make sure every crew member was present and accounted for. They weren’t. One was missing.
“Where’s your captain?” Harvath asked.
The ship’s engineer, who spoke English with a thick Greek accent, replied, “They took him.”
“Took him where?”
“Off the ship.”
Harvath looked at the engineer more intently. “When?”
“After the first rescue attempt,” the Greek replied.
“Son of a—” began Sanchez, but Harvath interrupted him. His anten-nae were up. The team had been discovered before even getting close to the ship. They had been lucky to escape with their lives.
“How do you know about any rescue attempt?” Harvath asked.
“Mukami told me.”
“Who’s Mukami?”
“He’s their engineer from Kenya. The pirates brought him to captain the ship. There have been some mechanical issues. He asked me to help.
He speaks English.”
“And while working together, that’s when he told you about the rescue?”
The Greek nodded.
“Did he tell you where they took your captain?”
“To the pirates’ port.”
“Where specifically in the port?”
The Greek shrugged. “He just said the captain was their insurance policy against another rescue attempt and that the pirates took him to their village.”
This was beyond bad. The owners of the Sienna Star had been very clear. Harvath and his team were to not only rescue the tanker, but the entire crew. That most definitely included the captain.
Right now, though, Harvath had a bigger headache. There were still two levels above them that needed to be cleared and their occupants dealt with. He rapidly interviewed the Greek for any useful intelligence he had on who occupied the floors above them.
Based on what the man had seen, it sounded like there were only three pirates remaining, including their leader, a young man named Abuukar.
The Greek claimed he was easy to spot because he spoke English and, unlike the other Somalis, wore a New York Mets cap instead of a turban.
He had appropriated the captain’s quarters for himself, as well as the large desk on the bridge, from which he could place satellite phone calls and handle all the ransom negotiations with the shipping company.
Harvath was confident he would recognize the pirate simply from his voice. He had been played recordings of the young man’s phone call.
Abuukar was not only arrogant, but particularly sadistic in what he had threatened to do to the crew if his demands were not met. He was the reason that the Sienna Star’s owners had decided to redouble their efforts to have their ship recaptured. They had made it quite clear that no tears would be shed if Abuukar never left the supertanker alive. According to the Greek, it was Abuukar who had pulled the trigger and murdered the Sienna Star’s navigator.
As the crew members all had prior military service, Harvath chose the first three who stood up, and handed them the AK-47s taken from the dead pirates in the hallway. He then left them under Kass’s command as he and Sanchez made their way to the stairs.
They found two more Somalis on the next level, eating. Harvath shot one and Sanchez the other. If the Greek engineer was right, that left only Abuukar and Mukami, who should be on the bridge at the very top level.
There were multiple ways to access the bridge, and Harvath decided that he and Sanchez should split up. From the level they were on, Sanchez could step outside and take one of two metal staircases leading to the deck wrapping around the bridge. Harvath would come up via an interior staircase. Synchronizing their assault, they inserted fresh magazines into their weapons and parted ways.
Harvath moved quickly down the hallway and into the stairwell. Once Sanchez was in place, he transmitted three quick clicks over his radio. It was time to hit the bridge.
Harvath crept silently up the remaining stairs. Reaching for the bridge hatch, he tested to make sure it was unlocked and then whispered the command to launch the assault, “Go!”
Pulling the door open, he button-hooked onto the bridge, sweeping his weapon from side to side, taking in everything all at once.
He ID’d both Mukami, the Kenyan engineer, and Abuukar, the Somali pirate.
Sanchez came exploding through the door on the port navigation deck as Harvath advanced on Abuukar, yelling, “Drop the weapon! Do it now!”
As the Somali fumbled to pick up his AK, Harvath splintered the desk he was sitting at with rounds from his MP7. “Hands up!” he yelled. “Do it now! Do it now!”
Slowly, Abuukar complied.
“If you fail to follow any of my orders, I will kill you,” said Harvath.
“Do you understand? If so, nod your head.”
Abuukar nodded.
“Keep your hands in the air and stand up. Do it now!”
Abuukar did as he was told.
“Take three steps to your left, away from the desk. Do it now!” Harvath commanded.
Once Harvath had the Somali where he wanted him, he directed the pirate to assume an arrest posture, with legs spread, bent at the waist, weight on the balls of his feet, and arms out and swept back like an air-plane. Sanchez ordered Mukami to do the same.
“If either of you make even the slightest move, you will be killed. Do you understand?”
When both of them nodded, Harvath signaled for Sanchez to secure his weapon and then step in and FlexCuff each of the men.
Removing the Somali’s AK-47, Harvath sat Abuukar back down at the desk as Sanchez took Mukami to the other side of the bridge.
“How many men do you have on board with you?” Harvath asked.
Without hesitation, the pirate proclaimed, “Fifty!”
Harvath smiled and struck him with an open-handed slap, knocking the Mets cap from his head. The blow stung and brought tears to the man’s eyes.
“Let’s try again,” said Harvath. “How many men?”
“Twenty,” replied Abuukar, until he saw Harvath begin to draw his hand back. “Nine. I have nine men with me,” he corrected.
Harvath was adept at reading microexpressions, what poker players often referred to as “tells.” A microexpression was a subtle facial cue that indicated when a person was under stress either from lying or because of an intent to do harm. Harvath now had a baseline with which to read the Somali.
Activating his radio, he gave Kass a quick update and suggested he take two of the crew to retrieve Dean and begin tending to his injuries.
Then, turning back to Abuukar, he asked, “Where’s the ship’s captain?”
&
nbsp; “We have him someplace safe.”
Harvath didn’t like that answer. Grabbing the Somali by the back of his neck, he slammed his head forward into the table.
There was the crack of cartilage as the pirate’s nose broke. Blood began to flow, staining his shirt. Harvath grabbed him by his collar and righted him in the chair.
He had interrogated plenty of very bad people over the course of his career and, in some extreme cases, had even tortured people. He had never lost any sleep over it, though, and no matter what road this particular interrogation took, he wouldn’t lose sleep over it either. That was because Abuukar wasn’t just a pirate; he was a murderer. He had murdered a man with a wife and two children for no other reason than to send a message. Harvath was considering returning the favor, but not until he had squeezed every last drop of information he could from the pirate.
Harvath spoke slowly and deliberately. “Where is the captain?”
The Somali still appeared dazed from having his head slammed into the desk and could only mumble. Harvath leaned in to better hear what the man was saying. He’d made it only halfway when he realized his mistake.
Abuukar reared his head back and spat a frothy mix of blood and sa-liva, narrowly missing Harvath’s face by only a fraction of an inch.
Harvath hated spitters. Normally, he would have knocked a guy out for doing that, but not this time. The last thing in the world he had any intention of touching without a ten-foot pole and a level-four hot-zone suit was a bleeding Somali.
Harvath found a roll of duct tape in one of the desk drawers and used it, along with the pirate’s New York Mets cap, to fashion an improvised spit shield and secure it over the man’s face.
“Now, you either tell me where the captain is, or I’m going to tie a rope around your neck and feed you to the sharks. Your choice.”
The arrogant Somali was indignant, and his eyes burned into Harvath’s like two hot coals.
Harvath stared right back, never once averting his gaze.
“I know where he is,” the Kenyan suddenly offered from the other side of the bridge.
Harvath looked at him and then back at the Somali pirate. “Does he?”
he asked. He could see the distress in the pirate’s face and it made him smile. Using the duct tape to secure the Somali to his chair, he stated,
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
As Harvath walked across the bridge, Abuukar yelled threats at Mukami from behind his spit shield, chronicling what would happen to him if he revealed anything at all.
Harvath wasted no time. “Where’s the captain?”
“They took him to port,” the Kenyan engineer replied.
“We already know that. Tell me something we don’t know.”
“The pirates have a house. It is surrounded by a high wall. That’s where they’re keeping him.”
“Do you know where this house is?”
Mukami nodded.
“Will you take us to it?”
“Do you promise not to kill me?”
Harvath nodded.
“Will you pay me?”
The man was pushing his luck, but Harvath wasn’t averse to making a deal. “If you cooperate, I think that could be arranged.”
“We will need a smaller boat. This ship will not fit in their port. It is much too big.”
Harvath had no intention of taking the Sienna Star any closer to the Somali coastline.
“Do you have other men with you?” Mukami continued. “Other men with guns?”
“Why?”
“A small boat is coming out from the port tonight bringing supplies. My cousin is supposed to relieve me. He will be on it. If you and your men can take that boat, we can get you into the port.”
“And to where the captain is?”
Mukami nodded, and Harvath searched his face for any sign that he wasn’t telling the truth. He couldn’t detect one.
“Do we have an agreement?” the Kenyan asked.
Harvath looked at his watch. The resupply boat was going to arrive soon, and when it did, they’d not only have to be in position, they’d have to have their entire plan of attack ready.
Everything was picking up speed. When things moved this fast, that was when mistakes were made and people got killed.
A member of his team was already injured, and now Harvath was considering sailing right into the middle of a hornet’s nest. The one thing he had going for him, though, was that sailing straight into the hornet’s nest was the last thing the pirates would ever expect.
* * *
Don’t miss a minute of the action. The story continues in Brad Thor’s pulse-pounding thriller HIDDEN ORDER.
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