The Devil's Waters

by David L. Robbins

  Yusuf drew his head around the corner.

  “Speak your mind.”

  “I asked what sort of men these were. Perhaps they’re not men at all.”

  “Cousin, they are soldiers.”

  “They are shaitann. You saw how they kill. You see how they cannot be killed. The jinn that brought them to the ship, we saw it go. Why bring them here? So we can all die at their hands? I cannot believe that. Allah has another reason.”

  Suleiman was not wild, not afraid. He’d always been Yusuf’s bedrock, wise because he was older, far-seeing, devout, braver. These fighters in the corridor were men; Yusuf would not give up that belief to turn them into jinn like Suleiman. But he accepted, too, that he did not know this breed of man. Were there demons inside them? It made no difference. Could just three of them kill Yusuf, Suleiman, Guleed, all the Somalis left alive on this evil ship? Without question. They’d already killed half. Could they be stopped?

  Yusuf raised a hand to say he had no time to consider Allah’s reasons. He was interrupted by more gunfire from Jama, who must be shocked as well to find the soldiers still alive.

  “Hear me,” Suleiman insisted.

  “Speak. ”

  Suleiman hooked a thumb around the corner, into the corridor. “Men or shaitann, we are no match for them.”

  “We have the hostages.”

  “And we had twenty-three men to defend them. Now we have thirteen. Perhaps fewer—we cannot know standing here.”

  “True.”

  “They know we have the hostages. They came anyway. They do not care, or they do not fear us. Either way, we will all die at their hands if we do nothing more than duck and shoot back. These are powerful fighters. Think who fights for us. Jama is a coward; Guleed is a boy. We have one chance, cousin.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Answer me, truly.”

  “Yes.”

  “If these soldiers are men, do you think we can beat them?”

  Yusuf had no need to consider. “No.”

  “And if they are spirits, then they were brought to this ship by the hand of God. To you and me, Yusuf, to test us. I believe it in my soul. It is kaafir not to believe it.”

  “Test us for what?”

  Suleiman shot a finger toward the dark bow, at more sounds of gunfire from Jama and his aimless rifles.

  “Men or demons, they can be killed. But only by the faithful. That is our test. Will we trust in Allah? He has guided us all our lives to this fight, our final one together. You yourself have said so, we will quit after this.” Suleiman grinned, golden. “Will we stride forward, to live or die in faith? Or will we hide on this ship until we are found, until we are shamed enough to only die?”

  Another lull arose from the gunfighting around the steel corner. Suleiman continued with his hand resting on Yusuf’s great shoulder, as it had rested so many times.

  “On the beach. Madoowbe’s blood disappeared, you recall? He was a hooyadis. You and I, when have we ever hidden? Never. If we are to leave our blood, let it be on Allah’s hands. It will not disappear there.”

  Yusuf mirrored his cousin’s gesture, lapping his palm behind Suleiman’s long neck.

  “What if you’re wrong? What if they are not shaitann, just men?”

  Suleiman pouted his lower lip over his beard. “You and I will die by the deeds of men. But if we have faith, they will talk about us for a while, at least. Eh? That’s something.”

  Suleiman let his weapon hang by its strap. He took Yusuf into an embrace.

  “Ha cabsan, cousin.” Don’t be afraid.

  They released each other quickly when more bursts of gunfire beckoned them.

  Yusuf led along the starboard rail. The moon had risen enough to light their way past spilled Darood blood.

  Chapter 39

  LB could not draw a breath.

  The explosion had knocked the wind out of him. The pressure drove his eyeballs back in his head, his tongue down his throat; every joint ached from the flattening blast.

  Wally lay across his back, motionless.

  LB struggled to keep his wits, gasping, deaf from the ringing in his ears. He pushed against the deck, shoving himself up. Wally slid off, heavy. LB rolled over, blinking into the moonlit whorls.

  He snatched a trickle of air, gagging and coughing until his airway opened enough to sit up.

  His left calf stung. LB probed inside the ripped pants leg to pull out fingers tipped with crimson. He flexed his boot, testing the leg. It would hold and hurt.

  Beside him, Wally had been shredded. The rear of his camos was in tatters, bare skin and razor cuts showing through a dozen slits in the legs and sleeves. The nape of his neck bled, striped and raw. The armor plates in his vest peered through the clawed web-bing. Ribbons of haze rose off him.

  LB flipped him over. Wally’s eyelids flickered. LB slapped his cheek.

  “Wake up, hoss.”

  Wally snorted, eyes batted open. Still woozy, LB gripped the Zastava, climbing to his knees. Jamie knelt, already alert. His head and gun pivoted to protect them front and rear. The young PJ had weathered the blast better than Wally. He, too, steamed smoke.

  Someone yelled through the cotton in LB’s ear. Jamie’s lips were taut; Wally busied himself merging back into consciousness.

  “What the fuck was that?” Doc shouted over the radio. “Juggler, LB! Respond!”

  Jamie answered before LB could think to thumb the talk toggle.

  “RPG.”

  “Shit. Sit rep.”

  LB jumped in. “We’re okay. Wally took the worst, but he’s coming around.”

  LB surveyed the corridor in the dim light. The blast had scored the metal overhang ten feet forward of their position, frying the paint off the metal roof, wall, and deck. If the rocket had struck directly over their heads, it would have made grease marks of all three of them.

  “I’m around.” Wally fought to his knees. His graveled voice revealed the pain he was in. He raised his M4 into position and turned his NVGs in the direction of the grenade. Before saying another word, Wally fired a half dozen rounds into the departing mist.

  “Son of a bitch,” LB whispered in admiration.

  Wally shook his head to clear it. “Doc,” he rasped, “what’ve you got?”

  “We heard the explosion. The targets on the bridge must’ve seen it. They’re riled up, waving their guns around.”

  “Hostages?”

  “No one’s been hurt. Looks like the pirates inside are waiting for someone to tell ’em what to do.”

  “You secure?”

  “Roger. I think they’re too scared to come outside. What’s the plan?”

  “Hold one.”

  “Roger.”

  Wally shouted over his shoulder louder than he needed. “Jamie? Can you go?”

  Jamie belted out, “Roger, sir.”

  “LB?”

  “Good to go.”

  “All right. Before they load up another rocket, we got to move forward.”

  Wally peeled off his helmet and goggles. LB strapped them on. He dropped the NVGs over his eyes to look toward the stern. Forty yards ahead, two pirates jutted out their heads and Kalashnikovs. Jamie fired a few potshots to keep them out of the corridor.

  LB took a pair of flashbang canisters from Jamie.

  “Are they bunched up?”

  Jamie nodded. “Yeah. They’re taking turns shooting at us. They’re ducked in that alley under the crane. Reloading, cover me.” LB brought the Zastava to bear while Jamie replaced his spent magazine with a fresh one.

  The passageway was too narrow to try flinging a pair of flashbangs all the way to the pirates. If LB hit a pillar or threw the wrong distance, they’d be wasted, and they had only two.

  He leaned in close to Jamie. “I’ll crawl as far as I can. You keep their heads down. After I get in range, you get ready to run. When they blow, you and me take ’em.”

  Jamie rattled his head without looking at LB.

  “N
o. I go. I’m wearing armor.”

  “And I spent ten years crawling though jungles. You got a bum leg, and you’re a better shot than me.”

  “You got a bum leg, too.”

  “Shut up. Cover my ass and come when I call.”

  LB rapped a fist on Jamie’s shoulder to seal his words, and to tell the boy he was a damn fine man.

  “Juggler. We’re ready.”

  Wally hailed Doc on the radio.

  Doc answered. “Go.”

  “We’re going to move on the pirates between us and you. It’s oh–one forty. Listen to me. If we’re not standing next to you by oh–one fifty-five, you assault the bridge. Be sure to call the PRCC the second you secure it.”

  “Roger.”

  “We’ll take out as many targets as we can. You may have to clean up after us.”

  “Wally, Jesus.”

  “Press the mission.”

  “Roger.”

  LB lifted the NVGs to get a clear look at Wally. The wan light and Wally’s dozen wounds drained his color. His bare head was tousled, unlike him. The M4 seemed weighty in his hands. Wally’s eyes carried the fight.

  LB grinned. “You’re such an asshole.”

  “At least that’s not my call sign.”

  “Fair point. See you in a few.”

  “Roger.”

  LB clicked the NVGs into place. He put his belly to the cool deck, the Zastava across his back. In each hand he gripped a canister. He wriggled forward. Moonlight washed the empty corridor.

  He scrabbled ten feet, calf aching. One pirate held out the branch of a hand and a Kalashnikov without exposing his head, to squeeze off another loud, blazing burst. Bullets whizzed over LB, bouncing off the metal wall and ceiling, green tracers in the goggles. Jamie returned fire, striking emerald sparks inches from the Somali’s wrist. The pirate reeled the gun back in.

  LB hailed on the radio, “All good?”

  Jamie answered, “Other leg. Damn it.”

  LB made up his mind. They couldn’t stand another RPG blast, or more wild bullets. The next volley from an AK could finish one or all of them any second.

  He’d gotten a good look at the location and distance of the pirates. He squirmed as fast as he could ten more yards. The slice in his calf stabbed at him.

  “Jamie.”

  “Go.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I dunno. I’m pretty cut up.”

  “All right. Stay back. I got this. Juggler, watch our six.”

  “Will do.”

  LB lifted the NVGs to get better depth perception. He had to toss them straight down the middle of the narrow corridor.

  If the flashbangs were on target, the four pirates would be blinded and stunned. If not, LB was about to rush into four Kalashnikovs by himself. He wasn’t sure he could do this alone. He was certain only that he had to.

  He’d done dangerous things before. He would’ve liked a moment to pause and rank this one. Somewhere near the top.

  One lesson LB had learned from every cliffhanger moment in his life, this one, too: don’t hesitate.

  He curled a finger inside the primary pin on the first canister.

  “On my mark.”

  The VHF screeched.

  “Break, break! Hold!”

  Who was this on the team freq? LB’s hearing, still stuffed by the RPG, stopped him from recognizing the voice that urged, “LB, where are you?”

  “Twenty yards from the pirates, toward the bow. Who is this?”

  “Robey. Stay low, all of you. Close your eyes. Now.”

  Robey! What was he doing here? He was in the RAMZ. With no time for questions, LB crammed his face into the crook of his arm.

  Ahead, the tinny sound of rolling metal squealed down the corridor floor. The blast shivered the deck under LB, followed instantly by another.

  Lifting his eyes out of his elbow, he dropped the NVGs into place to see through the swelling, roiling cloud. Two sleek green figures ran into the smoke, low and fast. They rounded the steel corner to the crane where the pirates had holed up. Three, four, five blinks of light pulsed inside the fog, matched by gunfire reports. One thin image, a pirate, staggered into the corridor. With another flicker on the mist, one more pop, he collapsed.

  LB took his finger from his own grenade. He struggled to his feet, the Zastava ready in his hands.

  Smoke boiled in the passageway. Through the NVGs, a bare-headed and muscular soldier stepped around the corner, lowered the muzzle of his rifle to the torso of the downed pirate, and pegged two rounds into him, like Wally.

  Robey turned his way.

  “Hey, LB. You fucking see me now?”

  LB dragged his bad leg behind him to go give the young CRO in a wetsuit a bear hug. He shouted into the shifting haze, “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Robey held his position inside the smoke, swinging his M4 back and forth.

  “Been monitoring your comm from the RAMZ. Me and Sandoval climbed into the pirate skiffs and up the rope ladders. Saw a few dead targets.”

  From behind, Wally called out, “You secure?”

  Robey answered, “Secure, sir.”

  Sandoval, a lean Latino, jogged out of the haze, past LB with a hand slap. He went straight to Jamie to pull the boy’s arm across his shoulders and help him limp forward. Torn and wobbly, Wally backpedaled, still guarding their six.

  LB lifted the night goggles to check his watch: 0143. They had time to reach the bridge, and, with Robey and Sandoval on board, extra firepower to take it.

  Oily haze clung in the passage. The quarter moonlight barely pierced its folds; the headwind was slow to push it away. Robey waited inside, defending the port rail until the wounded LB, Jamie, and Wally caught up.

  Twenty yards from Robey, LB stopped. A shade, like black lightning, flashed through the fog.

  Chapter 40

  Yusuf crept through a cloud, the steel deck beneath his sandals the only solid thing. Suleiman stayed close at his rear, Kalashnikov up. Yusuf slung his own rifle across his back to reach under his khameez for the knife.

  A body appeared at Yusuf’s feet. In the coiling mist he knelt and knew it to be Jama only because the man’s loose tunic had again slipped off his shoulder, showing one bullet hole through the heart. Yusuf’s next quiet strides revealed two more dead pirates, shot in the chest, too, and spreading black.

  Along the port rail ahead, voices shouted in English. They sounded not like spirits but Americans.

  Behind Yusuf, Suleiman muttered, “Allahu Akbar.” He raised his rifle to fire blindly at the voices. Yusuf pressed the barrel down, shaking his head.

  “Your shaitann,” he whispered close to his cousin’s ear, “can see through the fog. Stay here.”

  Quietly, Yusuf kicked out of his sandals. He rose to his bare toes and crouched, leading with the talon of the knife. His first steps gained him speed, silent on the pads of his feet as he charged through the cloud, low in the thickest part of the draining mist.

  A shadow stood at the port rail. Yusuf ran at it, rising in the last moment to deliver the hardest blow. He struck first with his shoulder, slamming the soldier against the rail, trapping his hands there and his weapon. Yusuf drove the blade into the soldier’s back, up to the onyx handle. The soldier wore only a rubber wetsuit. Staying away from the muzzle of the man’s gun, Yusuf gripped the wetsuit at the collar to slam his face against the wall, the knife still in him like a windup key. Yusuf yanked out the blade, buried it again into the upper back to strike at a lung or the heart. He pulled back his knife.

  Another shout entered the mist from the direction of the bow. Yusuf whirled, gripping the slumping body between him and the onrushing voice. A short gray silhouette ran down the port rail, shouting, jangling under a raised gun.

  With full fury, not faith, Yusuf lifted the soldier over the rail. He did not just release but flung the body out over the water. The American fell, dying too fast even to scream as he plummeted. Let the running soldier see the
first death on this ship in payment for Darood blood.

  Yusuf slipped away into the blowing mist.

  Chapter 41

  Before he could shout a warning or lower the NVGs, the stain in the smoke struck Robey with incredible speed. LB bolted into the haze.

  He ran full tilt with no clear shot, no infrared sight on the Zastava. LB got within twenty yards, close enough to see the hazy outline of the young CRO being bashed against the wall. LB screamed. The big Somali turned his way, holding the limp Robey as a shield between them. LB could not shoot.

  With seeming ease, the pirate heaved Robey over the rail. The young lieutenant didn’t yelp, only flopped in the air, unconscious or dead. Robey plunged out of sight. LB ran, firing the Zastava from the waist as the pirate darted away into the smoke. LB loosed another burst, the rounds hitting steel. LB bolted through the cloud to the other side, into the clear. He found no trace of the pirate.

  Sandoval, with NVGs down, ran out of the mist. Together with LB they swept their rifles into the darkness, at the blowing fog.

  Sandoval asked, “What the hell was that?”

  “A big fucking pirate threw LT off the ship.”

  Through the confusion, the pain in his calf, his worry and sudden sorrow over Robey, LB recalled that he’d seen that large Somali before, by flashlight with Drozdov, looking at the railgun. Iris had been right—LB should have shot the son of a bitch in the back.

  “Can you spot Robey?”

  Sandoval turned his night goggles overboard and behind the steaming ship.

  “Yeah, yeah. He’s still floating.”

  “Take the point. Get us back to the bridge.”

  “Roger that.”

  LB toggled his team radio. “Fitz, Fitz. LB. You copy?”

  “LB, Fitz. Go.”

  “Robey’s overboard, on port. He’s unconscious. His wetsuit’s keeping him on the surface. Find him.”

  From the bridge, Quincy broke in. “What, again?”