The Devil's Waters

by David L. Robbins

“Nicholas is going to send lifeboats. Find life jackets and put ’em on. We’ll send the crew down to you. Get them into the rafts. Watch your asses till we’re off this ship.”

  Wally turned for the staircase. He couldn’t trust the elevator, not with the ship going under. No telling when the power was going to cut out.

  Doc stopped him. “Wally.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “Let me grab a rifle. I can head back to the bow, stay out of sight until Raage lets her go. I can put a bullet into that fucker and get LB out of there.”

  Wally came down the few stairs he’d climbed to rest a hand on Doc’s shoulder. He spoke mildly.

  “I already thought of that. Raage kept my NVGs; he’ll be watching. You and I both know he’ll cut her throat if he sees anything he doesn’t like.”

  Doc opened his mouth to argue. Wally cut him off.

  “This ship is going down. I want my men off it. LB made the right call. He can do this. I know he can. So do you.”

  Wally turned for the staircase. With the slow tilting of the ship, the steps grew steeper as he labored up the six flights. The wounds in his back and legs almost tripped him several times. Out on the water, an acre of froth bubbled around the settling hull from a breach somewhere below the waterline.

  Wally radioed Jamie on the port wing that he was coming up.

  Reaching the bridge, Wally caught his breath. The lights had been turned on inside the pilothouse. The carnage and destruction made for a grim scene. The crew had dragged the two murdered hostages away from the windshield to lay beside Drozdov below the chart table. Four dead Somalis had been hauled out to the starboard wing. Trails of blood crisscrossed the floor, which sparkled with shattered glass. The crew had gotten on their feet now, still huddled, except for the fat Russian with the chest wound. While Wally watched from the doorway, Dow and a Filipino hoisted the Russian by the arms to skid him away to the chart table beside his crewmates. Another red track marred the floor.

  The chief engineer, Razvan, stood at the dash, palms planted in front of a computer screen. He wheeled on Wally approaching.

  “Captain. We are listing two percent by the stern. My engine room is flooding. Explain.”

  “She’s sinking.”

  The engineer stabbed a finger at his screens. “Yes! This I know!”

  “Call the warship. Alert them we need assistance for evacuation.”

  “This has been done. I must ask you.”

  “What?”

  “Who has done this?” The Romanian’s tone turned belligerent. “You? America? Did you decide to hide your secrets?”

  “The pirates did it.”

  “Pirates? I think America. Grisha with bullet in chest, he tells us before dying. Everything! The machines, Iran, the pirates, and Iris Cherlina.”

  Wally grabbed the engineer by the lapel. “Come here.”

  Razvan stumbled behind him. Wally dragged him through the shot-up door onto the port wing.

  Wally jammed the engineer into a steel corner. He sent Jamie with his two bandaged thighs to find Sandoval and get him down the stairs.

  Wally took his hand off the engineer. Razvan lost his bellicosity, cowed now by the bloodied soldier pressing him.

  Wally drew his words out slowly. “What did he tell you?” He laid a finger into the engineer’s chest as if pushing Play.

  Razvan sputtered a fast story about Iris Cherlina, the Chechen Mafia, Somali Sunnis, the accident on board the Valnea, and Yusuf Raage. Iran was to receive an illegal shipment of electronics from America, Israel, and Russia. Iris Cherlina had made up her mind to stop it. She’d sabotaged the ship and arranged to have it hijacked and exposed to the world.

  When Razvan was done, Wally yanked again on the engineer’s shirt. “Listen to me good. You tell your crew that no one says a thing about any of that, to anyone. They stop talking about it right now, even to each other. You understand?”

  “Understood.” Wally let him go. Razvan collected himself. “Captain.”

  “What?”

  “Is it true?”

  “I don’t know. And trust me, you don’t want to know. Let it go.”

  “Did you blow up my ship?”

  “No. We didn’t. The pirates did.”

  “This makes sense to you?”

  “Shut up.”

  Razvan recognized the end of this discussion. “I will arrange crew to evacuate.”

  Wally asked, “How long until she sinks?”

  “Hard to know. At rate of incline, I suppose thirty, forty minutes. The first half will take the most time. Once bow is in the air, the rest, pff, five minutes.”

  “Then get moving. Can your men carry the bodies?”

  “Yes. But Captain, not the Somalis.”

  “Yes. The Somalis.”

  Razvan turned to his duties with a mutter: “Du-te dracului.”

  A hundred yards off the Valnea’s port side, the warship eased into place, sweeping her searchlight down the freighter’s hull. The first lifeboats arrived. Before going back into the bridge, Wally cast his eyes far forward to the bow. He could not make out LB and the pirate under the steaming light; the last cargo gates blocked his view. In his imagination, LB sat quiet, the way he always did before a mission.

  The crew were strong, carting the nine corpses down the staircases. Drozdov and the pair of dead Filipinos were carried across the shoulders of unwounded sailors, then traded off as fatigue set in. The five dead Somalis were thin, bony men. Dow carried the machine-gunned boy. Grisha was the only burden too heavy to be taken away alone; three Filipinos hefted him. The crew said not a word leaving the ship, stalwart bearing their dead and their killers. Wally wanted to relieve the chief engineer carrying Drozdov, take the captain across his own shoulders. But his wounds vexed him, and his hands needed to be on a weapon until all were safely off the ship.

  By the time they reached the main deck, the freighter’s pitch was clearly accelerating. The floor sloped badly toward the stern, and each moment brought the bubbling water closer to the super-structure. Quincy and Doc handed out life vests from a locker to every crewman and PJ. Vests were secured on each corpse. Two at a time, the crew leaped over the side, followed down by the spotlight from Nicholas. Three rescue craft from the frigate hauled the sailors aboard. The warship had divers in the water to assist. Dow and Mouse stepped up to help drop the corpses to them.

  The PJs waited until one last crewman remained on the ship, the body of Drozdov. They gave the captain the honor of letting him stay to the end, then released him into the night air. His corpse did not bob up quickly but stayed underwater for long seconds, perhaps caught in the drag of the great hull slipping below the surface. The spotlight found him in the froth, face-down, as if watching his ship slide away.

  Fitz eased the RAMZ into place below the PJs. Wally teamed the wounded with the unhurt. Sandoval jumped with Mouse, Jamie with Doc, Quincy with Dow. Below, Fitz helped each over the side. Robey’s body lay curled in the bow.

  Wally was poised with the toes of his boots over the edge, the team waiting below. Nicholas’s spotlight hit him. He felt like he’d been through a grinder, his uniform full of holes. In the searchlight, his hands appeared washed out.

  Deep inside the ship, a giant fist seemed to beat once against the hull, followed by a trailing groan. The next moment, the emergency lights around Wally extinguished. Far forward, the steaming light on its tower snuffed. All the power on Valnea was finished.

  “Good luck,” Wally said to LB. He stepped into the air, to plunge in the spotlight away from the Valnea.

  The salty gulf was an instant sting in his many wounds, then a soothing, cooling stroke. Fitz motored to him quickly, and Quincy hauled him in.

  Wally arranged himself on the inflated edge. Robey had the bow to himself; the PJs kept toward the stern. Away from the freighter now, the big ship’s backward slide into the deep was even more dramatic. She retreated into an acre-wide skirt of bubbles and white roiled water.

&n
bsp; Fitz pivoted the Zodiac in the spotlight cast down by the Nicholas, powering for the warship. Wally stood dripping as the inflatable swung alongside the lowered gangway platform. Before stepping out of the raft, he reached down for Jamie.

  “Come on.”

  The young PJ leaned away from Wally’s outstretched hand.

  “Not till we find LB.”

  Sandoval and Quincy, the other wounded PJs, nodded in agreement.

  Wally stepped onto the platform by himself. “Okay. Stay on the water till you recover LB. And the woman, Iris Cherlina.”

  Doc said, “Roger.” Fitz motored away, back into the spume rising from the sinking freighter.

  A contingent of armed marines met Wally at the top of the gangway. A sergeant approached to salute.

  “An honor, sir.”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Captain Goldberg would like to see you on the bridge.”

  Wally motioned the guards onward.

  The marines led him inside the superstructure. Wally climbed the stairs slowly. The guards were patient with him. Goldberg waited out on the port catwalk, watching the Valnea.

  Goldberg offered a hand. “Captain.” He shot a glance over his shoulder at the dark freighter a hundred yards off. Her bow rose above the waterline, the bulb fully visible.

  “Makes no sense,” Goldberg said, “sinking a ship like that. Pirates.”

  “None.”

  Goldberg surveyed Wally. “You okay, Captain?”

  “I could use a day off, thanks.”

  The warship’s spotlight swept the dark waters between the two hulls. The light found the PJs in their Zodiac, plying the foam around the disappearing freighter.

  Goldberg turned on Wally. “Captain, why are your men still on the water? Is everyone off that boat?”

  “Dismiss your guards, Captain.”

  Goldberg sent the pair of marines off the catwalk.

  “All right. What’s going on?”

  Wally pointed midship at the big spotlight. “I need you to turn that off, sir. And I need you to back away one mile.”

  “Do what?”

  Wally asked, “Sir, what are your orders?”

  “Once your men are on board, I’m to put a total blackout on you. You’ll have no contact with any of my crew. I’ll post guards outside your quarters. I apologize. I reckon it’s not the welcome you were looking for.”

  “I understand. Start the blackout now. Cut off that light. Everything that happens on that ship is classified.”

  As Wally finished speaking, the searchlight slid up the freighter’s exposed hull. The beam scanned the blank, falling face of the cargo deck. It snagged on a lone figure running downhill along the starboard corridor. The beam followed Iris Cherlina over the rail, her quick drop into the foam. Fitz wheeled the Zodiac around to fish her out of the water.

  “Hold it,” Goldberg said. “Are there more survivors on board?”

  “No, sir. There are not.”

  Goldberg hesitated, going against his instincts.

  “Sir, do it now.”

  Goldberg snatched up an intercom phone. “Bridge, kill the spotlight.”

  The beam shut down. In the returned darkness, the Valnea receded into a skirt of pale water, gasping as she sank. From this distance, her backward slide was plain. She reared her head as the stern disappeared, dragged down by propeller, engine, and the inrushing void. Water reached the base of the superstructure, flowed up the corridors. Two life rafts had already popped to the surface, inflating automatically. The Valnea screeched, echoing in her filling hold.

  Goldberg spoke into the intercom. “Helm, hold distance of one mile from that ship.” He hung up. Wally thanked him. Goldberg raised a silencing hand.

  “Don’t say any more to me, Captain. Stay here as long as you need. I’ll have your marine escort waiting inside.”

  Goldberg entered the bridge. Wally set elbows on the rail, watching the Valnea rise and recede. He took off his helmet to let the breeze cool his wet hair.

  Iris Cherlina was safe. On the lifting bow, the battle had begun.

  Chapter 54

  CMA CGN Valnea

  Gulf of Aden

  LB squatted on his heels, facing Yusuf Raage and Iris ten yards away. The pirate kept a big arm around the woman’s waist, knife under her chin. She was clever enough not to wriggle or speak. He hunkered his great frame behind her in case Wally had sent back a sniper. Every few minutes, Yusuf lifted the NVGs to scan the ship. LB watched, tapping the blade of his knife into his palm.

  Minute by minute, Yusuf rose higher, riding the rearing bow. He kicked off his sandals for the better grip of bare feet. He dragged Iris closer to the port hawser so he could brace one leg against it. LB kept low to hold his position.

  Behind him, the navy frigate idled. Rescue craft shuttled back and forth while the freighter’s crew and his PJs abandoned ship. With a thud in the steel underfoot, the steaming light overhead fizzled out. The Valnea’s engine room was flooded now, her power gone. The moving searchlight off the frigate became the only illumination, making the shadows on the bow shiver and stretch.

  For long, silent minutes, LB and Yusuf pondered each other. Yusuf stared down from white eyes. LB read nothing in those eyes and gave the same back. He was afraid for his life, but he had been so before. He rapped the blade against his hand over and over to keep his mind away from it. Iris Cherlina needed rescue, Yusuf had been ordered killed, and LB was well trained to do both. He centered himself there.

  The deck rose to a precarious tilt, the freighter straining and croaking as she stood herself on end. Far below on the water, unseen, all the rescue craft were done except one. A lone out-board cruised alongside the Valnea’s hull. That would be Fitz.

  The deck climbed faster. Gushing sounds crept up both corridors. The horizon behind Yusuf had disappeared; all that framed him were stars.

  Twenty minutes had passed since LB had last spoken. He rose from his crouch.

  “Let her go.”

  With no word, the pirate lowered the blade from Iris Cherlina’s throat. He unwound his arm from her waist to let her stumble away. LB caught her. Iris’s sudden arms around his neck almost pulled him backward. He steadied himself and tried to let her loose, but Iris clung.

  “Jump with me,” she said, pent-up fear in her voice.

  “Go on. Now.” LB pushed at her ribs to make her stand free. “Yes, Sergeant, jump.” Yusuf glared down from the height the dying ship gave him. “I will jump the other way. And damn you for a coward.”

  Iris tugged. “Don’t listen to him.”

  LB pushed her away. “I don’t give a fuck what he says.” He heard himself growl. Anger was no better than fear; he shut this down, too. “I got orders. That’s it. Now get off the ship.”

  LB put his back to Iris Cherlina. He sensed her suspended there a moment. Then, in his periphery, the frigate’s spotlight followed her along the starboard passage and over the rail. She splashed, the lone outboard motor revving to pluck her from the water. Yusuf kept looking down on LB, until the search beam went out.

  In the darkness, the warship rumbled and pulled away. Quickly, LB and Yusuf were left with only the sounds of creaks and bursting bubbles in the water.

  The slant had grown too steep to stand on the deck any longer. Yusuf climbed to the back of the port hawser. LB did the same on starboard. They faced each other three yards apart, knives in hand.

  A pillar of released air blew high beside the hull. The freighter belched and gulped, shuddering as she drowned. The top of the stern crane and the last of the superstructure went under. Water rushed across the cargo deck and lashing bridges, covering the base of the midship crane.

  Yusuf squared his big shoulders to LB, done with gazing at the black, claiming waters. He lifted his chin. Bloody and ragged, he reeked strength.

  “I am Harti, of the Darood.”

  LB had no idea how this ritual worked.

  “I’m from Vegas.”

  A grin sp
lit Yusuf’s face that was still there when he launched himself at LB.

  Thrusting out his knife, LB braced for the collision. In midair, the pirate slashed his own blade in a blurring arc. LB barely dodged, the pirate’s blade ripping through his sleeve. Yusuf’s shoulder caught LB by the hip, plowing him off the hawser. LB fell to the sloping deck, hacking as he tumbled. His knife sliced the back of the pirate’s leg.

  LB landed hard on his ribs. He slid down the deck toward the giant windlass, catching himself on the machine beneath the rusty anchor chain. He hung on, regaining his breath.

  Overhead, Yusuf dangled by a long, powerful arm from the hawser. Blood dripped off one bare heel. The Somali let go, bounding against the angled deck to land with knees bent on the great windlass, an act of incredible balance.

  LB scrabbled for a foothold. Again, the pirate considered him from above.

  More moans sobbed in the submerging ship; another fountain of air burst beside the hull. The bow had ridden high enough to cover the moon.

  Yusuf Raage jumped off the windlass, out of sight.

  Before LB could turn, a hand gripped his ankle. He was yanked backward to skid down the slope into shadow. On his back, he thudded against the wall at the base of the cargo deck. A snarling Yusuf Raage loomed over him.

  The pirate pounced. He raised his knife and dove, hammering the blade down at LB’s heart. LB heaved up an arm to deflect but could not push the blow completely aside. The pirate’s dagger raked his left shoulder, gashing the muscle. LB’s arm burned but stayed in the fight. He grabbed Yusuf’s wrist, forcing the knife against the wall. Yusuf coiled lower to snatch his arm out of LB’s wounded grasp. The Somali was immensely powerful; he jerked himself loose, but not quickly enough. LB drove his own blade into Yusuf’s exposed left side.

  The pirate leaped back with the blade still plunged in his torso. LB tried to hold on, but the knife yanked from his hand. The Somali reared up, reeling back another step. With a guttural rumble, he drew the blade out of his ribs, then hurled it away.

  LB scrambled to his feet. The dark ship had risen almost to vertical; the cargo wall beneath them had become their floor. LB’s left arm throbbed, sapping blood and strength with every second.