The Devil's Waters

by David L. Robbins

  “That ship,” Drozdov said. “It has disappeared.”

  LB asked, “What the hell? Did we hit it?”

  Grisha stopped hailing the mystery vessel. The VHF microphone hovered at his lips. “I felt nothing.”

  “It was not radar shadow,” Drozdov said. “It moved to stay in our way.”

  LB agreed. “I saw it. Dead ahead.”

  “Steady on.” Drozdov gestured to the second mate, who had both hands on the tiny wheel. In the captain’s lap, the walkie-talkie squawked.

  “Bojan here.”

  Drozdov answered. “We have possible intruder off the bow. Perhaps a collision.”

  Bojan paused before replying. “Which is it?”

  “I don’t know. I expect you to tell me. Out.”

  Drozdov set the walkie-talkie aside. “Sergeant, Grisha. Man the searchlights. Find that boat. Wreckage, something.”

  LB rushed to the left wing, Grisha ran right. Throwing open the chocks on the watertight portal, LB raced to the tip of the wing. He flicked the switch on the back of the spotlight. The beam came alive, aimed into the open air.

  The searchlight, bulky and powerful, needed both hands to swing. Heat off the bulb sizzled inside the round casing. LB aimed forward to the bow, then out to sea in case of flotsam or survivors. Finding nothing but foam and black swells, he played the light down the side of the freighter.

  Froth sparkled on the water, sea mist drifted through the beam. No evidence of a ship entered the circle of the spotlight—nothing, until he aimed straight down. There, nine stories below, an intact wooden skiff hugged the Valnea’s hull.

  In the boat stood one black man gripping a Kalashnikov, another with an RPG across his shoulder. A third sat behind the wheel. The skiff, long and sleek, looked fast, with twin outboards.

  Why only three men?

  They were armed men. The big one with the submachine gun made the point by raising his muzzle at the searchlight. The gun flashed and chattered. Bullets struck sparks around LB. The pirate missed the light but beat the steel close enough to make LB dive out of the way.

  “Son of a bitch!” Staying low, he skittered for the wheelhouse. Flinging open the door, he shouted, “Pirates!”

  Across the pilothouse, Grisha crawled in, hollering at Drozdov from his hands and knees. “Three pirates! They’re shooting!”

  LB ducked in the doorway. “Same here.”

  “That’s all? Six pirates?”

  “You come count ’em.”

  Drozdov beckoned to them both. “Inside.” A young officer and a Filipino crewman darted to replace them at the searchlights.

  LB moved behind Drozdov, and Grisha skittered into the second seat.

  “General alarm,” Drozdov ordered. Grisha flipped a switch on the console. A bell rang through the freighter. Above the bridge, the ship’s whistle blew. Seven short bursts, then a long blast. In two corners of the wheelhouse, red lights flashed.

  “Helm, evasive maneuvers.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The Russian manning the wheel spun hard left. Valnea responded ponderously, taking a long moment to urge her massive girth into the turn. Once the pivot began, she proved nimble, surprising LB, banking enough to make him brace against Drozdov’s chair. Outside the wide windshield, the starlit horizon tilted. The earsplitting alarm cycle began again.

  “Grisha?”

  “Captain.”

  “Activate SSAS.”

  “Aye.”

  The first mate reached under the radar dashboard to push a hidden button.

  LB asked Drozdov, “What’s that?”

  “Ship security alarm. Now home office and warships in area know we are under pirate attack. We have sent position, speed, and course.”

  “What about the crew?”

  “They have orders to barricade themselves in engine room. Crew will not fight; it is not job of seamen. If we see pirates climbing on board, that is where we will go. You will make sure the wounded are moved properly. We will deny the pirates hostages and leave the heroics to Bojan and the warships. That is their pay. We have ours.”

  “What about Iris Cherlina?”

  “She has heard the alarm. I expect her any minute.”

  Drozdov took up the walkie-talkie. “Bojan, Bojan. Bridge.”

  “Go, bridge.”

  “We have two pirate skiffs. One port, another starboard. Three men each. They are armed.”

  “I see them.”

  “Mr. Bojan, I want to be plain. I insist there be no shooting, repeat, no shooting without my permission, or unless they shoot at you and your men. I have alerted warships. They will send assistance. We need only fend off the pirates until then. If pirates attempt to board, I will activate fire hoses. We will reserve lethal response for last resort. Do you understand?”

  “I will protect this ship, Captain.”

  “See that you do only that, Mr. Bojan. You know my mind on this.”

  “I do.”

  “Bridge out.”

  The captain set the walkie-talkie down hard. The helmsman continued to drive the Valnea into her sharp left-hand pirouette. When Drozdov turned to LB, he had to look uphill. He shook his head in small tremors. He let slip a short, rueful laugh.

  “There are only six pirates. This seems infantile.”

  “These guys are probably chewing on a pound of qaat. They haven’t got a clue what they’re doing. They didn’t look very clever.”

  “Perhaps. Do you know why I will not allow Bojan to shoot them? Not unless they set foot on my ship. Grisha, you understand.”

  From his chair beside Drozdov, the portly mate dipped his head, knowing and saddened by it.

  “I can guess,” LB said. “But tell me.”

  The captain poked a finger into his own chest. “I have been the guest of Somali pirates before. I did not have a good visit. Because of that time, I want two things very much right now. A drink of vodka and revenge. Dat’ pizdy. To beat the shit out of someone. Both would feel very nice to me. And the desire for them would become addiction again. I do not like being prisoner of anything. So I will not drink. I will not hate. And I will not kill unless there is no other way. This emblem on your arm, sergeant. I think you have made this choice yourself.”

  “Not the drinking part. But yeah. I have.”

  The general alarm completed its third circuit. Drozdov cut it off. “Everyone knows.”

  The loudspeaker in the dash crackled. A hail came through. “CMA CGN Valnea, CMA CGN Valnea. Coalition American warship USS Nicholas. Do you copy? Over.”

  Drozdov snatched the microphone from Grisha. To LB, he whispered, “Your countrymen.” He clicked the talk button. “Nicholas, Valnea. Captain Drozdov. Go.”

  “Captain, we’re received a distress signal from your vessel. Are you under attack?”

  “Nicholas, yes. Two skiffs, six pirates. Armed and firing on my ship. No injuries.”

  “Have they boarded?”

  “Negative. They have made no attempt yet. They are staying alongside. I cannot outrun them; we have damaged engine. Twelve knots top speed. Taking evasive maneuvers. Can you send help? Over.”

  “Valnea. I’ll have a chopper in the air in five minutes. ETA your position twenty minutes. We are turning your way. ETA my vessel at your position one hour. Copy?”

  “Nicholas, yes.”

  “Hold ’em off, Skipper. Cavalry’s coming. We will monitor this channel. Out.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Valnea out.”

  Drozdov communicated this development to Bojan. The Serb guard had both skiffs under observation. “The Somalis,” Bojan said, “they are like children. They are intoxicated. We will watch them until the American helicopter comes. They will turn and run.”

  Grisha widened the sweep on one radar screen, locating USS Nicholas thirty-three miles to the west. The warship’s radar signature showed Nicholas already pointing east, sprinting to the rescue.

  Drozdov’s helmsman twisted the small steering wheel to the
right. The deck evened out, then began its tilt in the opposite direction as the hull swung into a zigzag.

  LB analyzed the situation. A couple of skiffs cruising at Valnea’s sides. Six pirates. A few wild potshots at the searchlights. The pirates had RPGs but hadn’t used them. No effort to toss up grapnels or mount ladders. Attacking just after dusk. And that odd tactic of waiting in the freighter’s path, skiffs lashed together to look like a single ship on the radar. Then splitting up at the last second to fake a collision, an attack Drozdov had never seen before. Were these Somalis so high on qaat they couldn’t mount a proper hijacking, as Bojan implied? Why were they just hanging out alongside the ship’s hull? What was the purpose? Confusion? Stalling?

  Ah, hell.

  Stalling.

  LB grabbed the walkie-talkie off the console. Drozdov shot him a raised eyebrow.

  “Bojan, Bojan. Sergeant DiNardo.”

  The Serb swiftly answered. “Sergeant, this is private communication with captain only.”

  “Shut up, Bojan. Listen to me. Those two skiffs might be a distraction. Repeat, they might be a distraction. There could be another boat. Go look for it.”

  At this, Drozdov’s chin fell to his chest. He lapped a hand over his brow, muttering, “Dolboyob.” LB knew this one, too. Stupid.

  Bojan snapped his response. “I have situation under control, Sergeant. Bojan out.”

  The Serb would not answer LB’s hail. He tossed the walkie-talkie to Grisha.

  “Keep calling him. Tell him I’m on my way.”

  Drozdov said, “Go quickly.”

  LB broke downhill for the left wing. Exiting the portal, he snared a flashlight and made his way down the rail to the Filipino manning the spotlight. The lit-up pirate skiff far below no longer snugged against the great hull but kept pace twenty yards off. LB instructed the Filipino crew to wait one minute, then take the searchlight beam off the skiff and move it forward along the hull, then back.

  He flung himself at the exterior stairs.

  LB could not fly down the six staircases. The Valnea tilted harder as she curved to the right, making the stairs treacherous. He moved as fast as he could, suspecting that every tick of the clock worked for the pirates.

  Bojan greeted him at the last step. The Serb held his Zastava M21 ready at his waist. Behind him, the white girder of light from the wing shone down.

  “Go inside, Sergeant.”

  “Look.” LB showed the flashlight. “I’m unarmed, thanks to you. I just need to see something up close. I think we’re being deked.”

  “I do not know this word.”

  “Fooled, Bojan. Tricked. I don’t think these pirates are children. I’m betting they’ve got another skiff. Let me take one look.”

  “You are medic. Please restrict your efforts to that.”

  Ten years in Special Forces; LB wanted to bellow this in the Serb’s face. Instead, he said again, “One look.”

  “One. Then back to the infirmary.”

  LB leaned over the port rail, flicking on the flashlight. The skiff held its position off the hull, pacing the freighter’s speed exactly. The pirates made no menacing moves at the Valnea, only gazed into the dazzling searchlight with weapons up. No one fired. It looked like a standoff. LB feared it was not.

  The Valnea’s big searchlight panned forward as instructed to the ship’s bow. No more boats lurked in the darkness against the hull where they might hide too close to reflect on Valnea’s radar.

  Something stirred in the foam beside the hull. A slash broke the water, then dipped back into the black gulf, splashed again, skipped, and disappeared.

  The searchlight returned to the skiff. There it was, a rope faring off the bow into the dark water.

  LB’s balance shifted as Valnea continued her careening course, swaying back to her left. As the ship rose into the turn, the pirate skiff closed the distance to the hull.

  LB bolted from the rail, downhill across the ship’s beam to starboard. Behind him, Bojan ran, shouting.

  Reaching the gunwale, LB looked down behind the flashlight before the guard on starboard could intercept him. Another rope ran forward off this spotlighted skiff’s sharp bow. The long boat angled away from the hull just as the skiff on the opposite side bore in.

  Bojan caught up. LB whirled on him.

  “I got to go forward.”

  “Inside.” Bojan motioned to his arriving guard. “Take him inside.”

  “Listen to me. We’re on the same team here. Come with me. I got a hunch.”

  Bojan moved closer. “Take your hunch and your ass inside, Sergeant.”

  LB raised a hand into Bojan’s chest to stop the big man from laying hands on him first.

  “Or what?”

  “For your own safety.”

  LB dropped the hand. He backed away.

  “Yeah. That’s not really what PJs do.”

  He spun on his boots, breaking into a sprint through the corridor. Bojan cursed and followed him, as LB wanted.

  LB dashed into the dark and slanting companionway, dodging the many steel pillars, ladders, hydrants, and lashings in the way. While not nimble, LB was faster than the Serb with the heavy Zastava bouncing against his chest. He did not slow for the full length of the Valnea, did not look back at Bojan or over the night sea. LB ran flat out until he popped from beneath the long overhang, onto the bow, and under the first stars.

  Weaving quickly between fat hawsers, he rushed to the tip of the bow. Leaning out with the glowing flashlight in hand, LB found what he’d come looking for.

  Bojan grabbed him by the collar to yank him backward.

  “Before you say anything”—LB held the flashlight out to the panting Serb—“take a look.”

  “I will”—Bojan mustered the breath to finish his threat—”put you in brig.”

  “Look first. Then brig.”

  Bojan slung the Zastava over his heaving shoulders. LB bent over the rail to watch him train the flashlight on the rope looped around the Valnea’s nose above her giant bow bulb. The Serb played the beam left and right, following the cord along both sides until it disappeared into the breaking water.

  “Impossible.”

  LB patted the big guard on the back to return standing on the deck.

  “You get it now? That’s why they were waiting in front of us. One skiff on each side—they let us go right between them. They strung that rope around the ship’s nose. Drozdov is zigzagging, but all he’s doing is flinging them around. We’re not gonna shake these guys.”

  “We are towing them.” The Serb bared his teeth. “Sranje,” he cursed, then lifted his chin to LB to say, Go a head, speak.

  “They’re not trying to climb up. They’re not shooting. Those two pirate skiffs are keeping our attention on them, that’s all. There’s another boat.“

  Bojan curled his upper lip, an angry, sour face. He thrust LB the flashlight, burdened enough with the Zastava. “Sergeant, come.” Bojan rammed a finger toward the port corridor. “The stern.”

  Bojan took off barreling through the narrow companionway, twisting his shoulders to fit. LB reached instinctively for the M4 that was not strapped across his shoulder.

  The two bolted single file. The unlit passage tilted more with Drozdov’s useless evasion, making both men balance against the rail as they ran. Bojan jangled with weapons, LB’s jump boots clomped.

  Somali pirates. LB had always considered them the same way Bojan described them, as ignorant and rash, not much more than simpleton villagers with guns. He had to rethink that now. From the look of things, these guys were clever. And no question, they had balls. But what were they after—why so much trouble and violence? What was inside this damned ship?

  LB had no time to mull this over, darting behind Bojan down the hard corridor. The big Serb, already winded from chasing LB to the bow, couldn’t keep the pace for long. He reached the ladder below the forward crane before slowing to a jogging walk.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

&nbs
p; With that, LB dodged around Bojan, who did not move to stop him. He ran the rest of the way to the stern, rounding the last steel corner to the fantail. He bent over the rail, catching his breath. The wake behind the Valnea was intense, choppy, ghostly. One black-painted skiff crowded with dark men joggled on the foam.

  Bojan skidded to a stop beside him. He looked, then spat over the rail at the pirates.

  “So. No brig for you, Sergeant.”

  Two thin men wearing loose white tunics and Kalashnikovs across their backs worked their way up a pair of rope ladders strung from grapnels. The hooks had been flung over the rail of the mooring deck below, fifteen feet closer to the water. The Somalis were only a few rungs from boarding the freighter.

  Bojan braced the stock of the Zastava under his armpit.

  “You have knife?”

  LB was already on the move. He sprang for the down staircase, hopping for a moment to grab the four-inch blade out of the sheath around his calf. Behind him, Bojan ran uphill to the center of the rail, directly above the rope ladders. He halted and fired a burst. LB couldn’t gauge the result, already lunging the first steps down to the mooring deck to slash away the ropes. This close, the Serb had to hit somebody. The answering blast of bullets halted LB on the stairs. Bojan stood as if in the center of fireworks, sparks and ricochets in the steel all around him. He jerked, raked by many rounds. Bojan staggered from the rail, then stepped up to fire another volley. More bullets answered from below, another corona of sparks lit him up. Bojan stumbled backward, the Zastava too high when he pulled the trigger again. He fired uselessly over the gulf, then collapsed against the wall.

  LB reversed, vaulting back to Bojan. The slumped Serb held up a shaking hand to stop him. LB ignored it. He skidded to his knees at the guard’s side.

  Blood dribbled from the corners of the big man’s mouth. Pale skin and wet wounds peeked through a half-dozen rips in his sweater. He breathed with a grating noise, the holes in his chest burbling. One squeeze of his hand in LB’s came strong and pained.

  “Uh-oh,” Bojan wheezed.

  “We gotta get you out of here.”

  “Too late. Here.” Bojan unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. He handed it quavering to LB. “Warn Drozdov.”

  LB stuffed the radio in his vest, then lifted the Zastava’s strap from around Bojan’s shoulders to loop it over his own. He raced through his options. He could trade shots with the pirates scrambling on board, probably take a few rounds himself, and die next to Bojan. He could run for the other two guards or wait to see if they heard the gunfire and ran this way. In either case, by the time LB managed to mount any kind of defense, a dozen pirates would already be over the rail below and spreading over the ship. This would become a running firefight against superior numbers on a roller-coaster deck. Or he could get Bojan to safety, warn the captain, and rescue the wounded, plus maybe his own neck.