The Devil's Waters

by David L. Robbins

  Yusuf Raage shook his head to clear it. He squared off against LB, working his knife in small pendular movements, deciding how to attack.

  The pirate strode forward. LB thrust out his bare hands to defend. Yusuf’s tunic hung soggy with blood from the hole in his side. The man should have been on his last legs. He wasn’t.

  LB retreated, needing to buy seconds.

  The Somali lowered his head, preparing another charge.

  “Come, Sergeant. We don’t have much time, either of us. Let’s decide things.”

  LB lacked anything to say. He retreated another step. His boot landed in water, what he was waiting for.

  Yusuf lunged. LB twisted sideways, parrying the thrust slowed by the onrushing, foaming gulf instantly around their ankles. He spun past Yusuf before he felt the sting of another cut, across his right forearm. LB worked his fingers, again testing to see how much he had left. No cords were severed in the arm, but he bled from one more gash.

  In the instant Yusuf took to set himself for a last rush at LB, the chilly gulf rose to their waists. Valnea burbled, emptying herself as she dropped away below their feet. Yusuf surged at LB.

  The pirate whipped the knife wildly and missed, hindered by the flooding waters. LB saw his one chance and sprang. He leaped at Yusuf before the pirate could swing his right arm back. He wrapped the big Somali in a bear hug, trapping Yusuf’s arm and the knife between them. The water climbed to their chests. LB linked hands around Yusuf Raage and squeezed with the last of his strength.

  The flood reached LB’s shoulders; foam licked his chin. The pirate bellowed in anger, that he could not shake LB loose. In seconds the deck slid away beneath their feet. The two floated, locked together.

  The pirate’s eyes and mouth widened with fury. LB answered with a deep breath before his head sank underwater.

  Yusuf Raage kicked madly to raise his own head above the surface for one sharp gasp. LB held tight, weighing the pirate down. His own arms would fail in the next few moments. His wounds pained him enough that he could not fully feel his clasp around Yusuf. If the pirate got loose, they were in close quarters, Yusuf could stab him. One more good cut would likely be the end.

  The bow slid away around them. LB kicked once with Yusuf to lift both their heads above water. The pirate, surprised, gulped air greedily. LB filled his own lungs.

  The port windlass sank to his left. Without easing his clinch around Yusuf, LB lashed out a leg at the receding machine. The toe of his boot caught inside a link of the thick anchor chain. LB was hauled under, dragging Yusuf Raage down with him.

  The pirate fought with everything he had left. He pricked at LB’s hip with the trapped knife, but could stab only nicks. LB rode the freighter deeper, eyes open and blurry in the salt gulf. The Somali thrashed, panicked and gaping. He worked his mouth for air that was not there while the growing depth swallowed the last of the thin light. LB clutched the pirate hard, keeping his ear pressed to the Somali’s chest. He staved off his pains, fought for focus, and preserved his air.

  Yusuf Raage writhed inside LB’s grasp, his throat uttered muffled cries. With no notion of how deep the Valnea had towed them, LB pulled his boot out of the chain. The tip of the great bow slipped past in the dark, sucking at them as it disappeared.

  Yusuf shuddered again. His head jerked in every direction, confounded and desperate. LB held tight until the pirate shook a last time, became sluggish, then went limp.

  LB pushed the corpse away, weightless into the ghostly, tranquil water. The two drifted above the last groans of the freighter falling invisibly below them. Yusuf Raage, spread-eagled, receded into the dark.

  LB followed bubbles fleeing the ship to show him the direction to the surface, but could only use his right arm to swim. His left shoulder was done.

  His depth was unknown. LB kept his upward rhythm steady, expelling small breaths as he ascended. His lungs shrank, squeezing out every bit of oxygen to keep him conscious. He made his mission in the world as narrow as possible, to swim, stay alive, fight his own screaming body. Years of training lined up in his head to tell him he could do this. Memory added its images, a decade of jungle warfare, dozens of combat rescues, natural disasters, frightful conditions, always against odds. He’d done tough things in his life so that some would die and many others would live. Now was his time, LB, to take another stroke and kick upward, stroke and kick again, so that he could live.

  To his salt-stung eyes, the water began to lighten. This meant starlight, moonlight, nearing the surface. LB released breath, bottoming out, easing for the last time the blaze in his lungs.

  He swam as hard as he could. Behind this last push for the surface, he had nothing. Panic tripped inside his chest, his thoughts clouded. His mouth opened to draw an airless breath.

  He pushed through the panic as if it were more water. On the other side, LB found calm.

  He’d done his job, a proud thing. But he was alone, the place a PJ should never be.

  LB stopped kicking. He floated, gazing up at the rippling surface he could not reach.

  With his finished strength he made a last sound, a whimper.

  The water hushed.

  In a span of time he could not name, the silence lingered, but did not last. An outboard engine roared past just above him. The dappled surface overhead did not stay smooth; a shallow hull cut a pale, fast swath through it.

  His team was searching for him.

  He was not alone.

  LB, emptied, kicked one more time. It did not lift his head into the air. He kicked again, bringing both dead arms into a truly final, sweeping pull upward.

  He broke the surface.

  His mouth gaped to inhale the entire night. Salt water spilled down his throat with the air. He coughed, gasped, his limbs flailing to keep him afloat. A flashlight beam found him, splashing, barking coughs. The RAMZ pivoted and sped his way.

  LB trod water until Fitz motored beside him. Every one of his wounds throbbed now that he was safe, and his pulse banged in his temples. LB was glad for the night; he didn’t need to know how red the water was around him.

  Mouse lent a hand to haul him into the Zodiac. LB kicked onto the side of the raft, but stopped before he swung his legs on board. Robey’s corpse lay in the bow, facing away from him.

  The team waited. Soaked Iris Cherlina prodded, “LB? Are you all right?”

  He slumped back into the water. Fair was fair. LB had been the one rescued.

  He gripped a rubber handle with his left hand. The ride to the frigate was less than a mile.

  Quincy shook his head. “What the hell. Come on, man. You haven’t had enough?”

  LB said to Fitz, “Not too fast, okay?”

  Chapter 55

  On board the USS Nicholas

  Gulf of Aden

  Mouse and Dow, the best stitch men in the unit, closed wounds. They handled Quincy and Jamie first, and then Mouse worked on Wally’s biceps and back. Dow took an hour to close LB’s calf with eight stitches, his shoulder with eight, and his right forearm with five. Sandoval spent two hours in the ship’s surgical suite having his bullet removed. In the early morning he was returned by marines on a stretcher, semiconscious. Iris Cherlina was nowhere to be seen; after giving LB a peck on the cheek once they were on board Nicholas, she was escorted away by her own set of marines.

  The PJs slept into the late afternoon, when guards brought them a late lunch. Captain Goldberg had had their uniforms washed, and the marines handed these over with the food. The team marveled at the number of holes in Wally’s tunic and pants. Mouse came up with a new call sign for him, Dartboard. Doc changed everyone’s bandages.

  LB finally had a chance to examine the team’s wounds. Jamie hobbled around with holes in both thighs. Quincy and Wally wore slings, as did LB. Sandoval’s chest was wrapped, and he was kept sedated. Robey had been bagged and laid in the ship’s cold storage locker. Doc, Mouse, Fitz, and Dow were unscathed.

  At 1700 hours, Nicholas docked at the naval
pier in Djibouti. A half dozen marines escorted the PJs on deck. The rail was cleared of sailors when they stepped under a blue sky. Captain Goldberg greeted them alone. At the bottom of the gangplank, another bunch of marines waited on the quay with three Land Rovers.

  Wally shook the captain’s hand, then led the PJs off the ship. LB brought up the rear. Even laundered and rested, the team looked beat to hell, blood still on their boots. LB’s pride swelled when the hard-jawed marines held the doors to the Land Rovers open for them. Limping, wincing, and wrapped, the PJs helped each other into the vehicles. Robey would come later in a hearse.

  No one spoke. Wally had laid down the law—no talking about the mission, even among themselves, until the debriefing. In the front passenger seat, Wally slid on his sunglasses for the ride through town to the camp.

  Squalid, crowded Djibouti slipped past. Skinny boys in T-shirts and sandals sat on broken walls and curbs where old women struggled under the burdens of baskets. Men loitered around garages and shops, girls hurried in shawls and long direh dresses. The streets were crowded with cars and vendors, slowing the convoy. LB didn’t mind. This late-day bustle was the life of the real world, not the long, awful night behind him. He was glad to be stuck in traffic. He wanted to pat the annoyed marine driver on the shoulder, tell him things were all right. Instead, he put his arm around Jamie, beside him.

  At Lemonnier, the Land Rovers passed quickly through the checkpoints and blast walls. They headed straight for the Barn. There the camp CO, Colonel McElroy, held open the chain-link fence, saluting to greet the arriving team. He closed the gate behind the vehicles and did not come in.

  More armed marines were stationed outside the Barn. Wally led the PJs inside, into quarantine.

  The Barn was locked down, marines at every door. The rest of the Fifty-Eighth RQS—unit, the SERE guys, chute riggers, med logistics team, intel specialist—all were missing. A cold-cut buffet had been spread on the long rigging table, nine cots with fresh linens set up on the concrete floor. Doc shuffled to his locker, put his wedding ring back on, then climbed to his tent on the high shelf. LB couldn’t make it up the ladder, so he collapsed on a cot.

  Fitz and Mouse played Ping-Pong until Doc shouted down for them to shut up.

  Wally found a folded note sitting under his Air Force Academy ring in his locker. He lay gingerly on the cot next to LB and handed it over. Major Torres had scribbled the word “Dinner.”

  Camp Lemonnier

  Djibouti

  The PJs spent another night in isolation. In the morning, the marines escorted them to the head, stood outside the shower room, and afterward carted a hot breakfast into the Barn. Doc worked with Dow and Quincy, assembling new med rucks to replace the ones that had sunk. LB and Wally left their cots for pancakes, ate, then got back in them.

  At noon, the marines let in a wiry man with a crew cut and civilian clothes. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, no tie, khakis, and a blue blazer. The clothes fit as if issued to him. He doffed the jacket, entering the air-conditioned space, stood at a distance from the reclining PJs, and seemed to await a greeting. He had the veins in his forearms of a hard-ass and wore a fat gold ring. LB took a guess, got to his feet, and shouted, “Ten-hut!”

  The PJs stood at attention; Sandoval was the slowest to rise. LB was right. The man was brass. He strode into their midst with the air of command. Doc clambered down the ladder.

  “At ease, men.”

  Wally strode forward. “Captain Wallace Bloom, sir.”

  “Major General Raymond Piper, US Army.” The general offered the hand with the West Point ring on it. Wally took it left-handed because of his sling. “Captain, can we take this into the briefing room?”

  “Yes, sir. Let’s go, everybody.”

  Wally led Piper to the doorway of the room. The general nodded approvingly at the bandaged, limping PJ team filing past. Wally closed the door when all were seated on the sofa and tiers. He sat beside LB at the rear, leaving the front to the army man.

  “Gentlemen, I bring you the thanks of a grateful president. He’s relieved like the rest of us that you made it back. That was a tough job, and you were up to it. The president sends his condolences for your injuries, especially for the loss of Lieutenant Robey, as do I. I understand he was a hell of a young officer.”

  “Saved my life,” Jamie said in the front row.

  Thinking of the averted Predator, LB offered, “Probably saved all of ours.”

  From the back, Quincy said, “Hoo-ya.”

  Piper liked that. “You bet, son.” The general tugged at his own civilian shirt. “Sorry about being out of uniform. My bag didn’t make it out of Ramstein. I didn’t wait for it; I was in a hurry to get here.”

  Piper clapped hands, the niceties out of the way.

  “I’m chief of staff for General Madson, CO of AFRICOM. Captain Bloom, the two of you have spoken.”

  Wally answered, “Yes, sir.” LB poked him in the leg, impressed.

  “You’ll notice I came to debrief you alone. No intel officers, no note takers. You will not be dissecting the mission you just completed. You will not be searching for ways to do things better. Your mission to the Valnea is classified top secret. You will not from this day forward discuss the events of the last forty-eight hours with anyone. Absolutely no one. This includes each other. As far as you’re concerned, whatever you saw or think you saw on that freighter, you did not. Violations of this order will be considered treason against your country and will be punishable as such. This order comes directly from General Madson. Questions?”

  The PJs said in unison, “No, sir.”

  This wasn’t out of the ordinary. A lot of the rescues the PJs handled were classified affairs, black ops that went wrong. LB had known this operation would be branded off-limits, but he wasn’t looking for the order to come straight from a four-star, delivered by a two-star. The treason reminder seemed a little heavy-handed.

  “Anyone need to speak to a psychiatrist? No? All right, then. Gentlemen.” Piper hardened his stance to parade rest. “That is all. Good day.”

  The PJs stood, surprised collectively at the shortness of the debriefing and the rank of the officer who’d flown three thousand miles to say as little as Piper had. They left the room single file. Jamie, Sandoval, and Quincy would be on their way to the French hospital as soon as security around the Barn was lifted. LB, too.

  On the top row, LB and Wally hung back. Both waited to see if, in fact, that was all. Piper held his ground until the rest of the PJs were gone from the room. He shut the door behind them.

  The general crossed his arms. “Very clever. I assume this is First Sergeant DiNardo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I was going to talk to you two separately. But they told me you were a matched set.”

  Wally nodded. “Sir, the sergeant knows pretty much everything I do at this point.”

  “Down front, boys. Have a seat.”

  Wally and LB came down the tiers to the first row. Piper leaned against a table.

  “Captain Bloom. First let me say how proud I am of how you handled this job. This could have been a major fuckup. It was not. The United States owes a lot of that to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Sergeant DiNardo. The scalded cadet will be getting skin grafts compliments of the United States. And Nikita will make a full recovery from his back injury. He says to tell you oslayub. Yes, I know what that means.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, on to more important matters. Captain Bloom.”

  “Sir.”

  “General Madson gave you an order to terminate the pirate leader Yusuf Raage. I understand that was done by Sergeant DiNardo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That was not your directive, Captain. The order was yours.”

  LB raised a hand, not knowing what else to do. “Sir. If I may.”

  “You got something to add?”

  “Sir, by
the time we isolated Yusuf Raage, the captain here had already killed a dozen men on that ship. There was a hostage situation. Yusuf had Iris Cherlina.”

  “So I heard from Dr. Cherlina. She is a fan of yours, DiNardo.”

  LB pressed past this. “I’d killed Yusuf’s cousin. He demanded a trade, me for Iris. Wally was against it. I insisted.”

  Wally muttered, “To put it mildly.”

  Piper folded his arms. “Go on.”

  “I requested Captain Bloom give me the order to eliminate Yusuf Raage. It seemed the only way to save Iris, sir. That is what we do, you know.”

  “Keep the mild sarcasm in check, son.”

  “Yes, sir. The captain agreed. I stayed back. The team and Iris got off the ship. Me and Yusuf worked it out after that.”

  “Guns?”

  LB patted his sling. “Knives.”

  Piper ran a hand under his chin. Stubble from the long flight hissed in his fingers.

  “To rescue Dr. Cherlina, you stayed behind on a sinking ship for a knife fight with a Somali pirate.”

  LB shrugged. “Sir.”

  “That is a hell of a thing, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That was noble of you. I mean it. And a breach of duty. Did you have any idea of the number of orders you were violating to do that? General Madson’s and Captain Bloom’s? A goddamn knife fight.”

  “Yusuf Raage wasn’t the sort of man to do things from a distance. He had some guts.”

  “Are you implying something to me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, DiNardo. You like your rank?”

  “I don’t mind it, sir.”

  “Good. Then maybe you won’t mind this. You’re busted down to master sergeant.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “And why exactly is that?”

  “Because those men in the next room don’t follow me because of my rank.”

  “Probably true, son. Captain Bloom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m gonna let you keep your rank. For a long time.”

  “Understood, sir.”