The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  That wasn’t going to happen again on his watch. That pirate rushed in, and he paid the price. Burke knew he should explain that to Sgt Dailey, to drive it into his head. And maybe he would later, when things faded a bit. But for now, he thought it better for there to have been a weapon, one lost in the firing.

  “I guess that could’ve happened. I was pretty pumped up, so I was just reacting.”

  “And that reaction was the right one. If you hadn’t, you might have lost some of your squad. Ya done good, there, partner,” he said, that last line in an exaggerated drawl.

  Sgt Dailey looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

  “Thanks staff sergeant. I guess I knew that, but I just wanted to be sure, you know?”

  “Well, now you’re sure. And you’re keeping me from my last two sets. You should join me sometime for those. It’ll give you a chest that might actually attract the senoritas.”

  “OK, OK, next time, I’ll join you. Not that I need any help with the ladies, mind you.”

  Both men laughed as they moved back to the flight deck. Sgt Dailey went below, and Burke went to attack his last two sets.

  Chapter 15

  The same afternoon

  Aboard and unnamed fishing vessel

  “Do you know what I’d like right now?” he asked Bong. “A big scoop of Coldstone chocolate, with raspberries and sprinkles.”

  “What’s Coldstone?” asked Bong as he lay back on one of the drier stretches of the deck.

  “You don’t know Coldstone Creamery? It’s only the best ice cream in the world! And you get to put any topping on it you want.”

  “Nope, we don’t have any in Ilocos.”

  “But you’ve been to Manila, and they have one in Makati. And I know they have them in some of the ports we’ve pulled into,” Craig protested.

  “Nope. Never been to one. But for me, I could use beautiful Inihaw na Bangus right now, just like my Maravic makes.”

  Craig shuddered before replying, “Isn’t bangus fish?”

  “Yes, a fried fish, and this way is with tomatoes, onions, and siling pang-sinlgang. My Maravic makes it . . .”

  He didn’t complete the sentence, but brought his right hand up until the tips of his fingers touched his lips, then he swept the hand away, opening the fingers and making a smacking sound with his lips, like an overly-dramatic French chef.

  “You can think of fish now, in this stinking hold full of rotting bangus?”

  “This mess isn’t bangus. Bangus is a special fish, white and sweet. And it has to be fresh, the eyes still clear before you cook it,” Bong told him.

  “Still, fish is fish, and I’ve had about my fill of it. I’m not sure I ever want to eat fish again.”

  Bong merely harrumphed. Actually, Craig had to admit that the horrible stench had gotten better, or more probably, his nose had just gotten more used to it. Maybe his nose had just been burned out. Instead of the gut-wrenching, nauseating stink of rotten fish, the smell was more of a pervasive miasma that hovered around—not slapping him across the face, but still a definite presence.

  The slime was still pretty bad, though. Craig had found an old piece of cardboard with which he shoved part of the mess of fish aside, using the cardboard like in ice scraper. It was here where the two men lay, trying to keep out of contact with the rotting pile of fish. As the small boat rocked in the seas, though, hunks of fish would slide down the pile and invade their space.

  Craig was grateful that Bong was conscious, though. He had come to their second day in the vessel. He wasn’t moving much as moving hurt. But mentally, he seemed like the old Bong. Craig knew he must have some internal damage, but that would have to wait until later to be addressed. Hopefully, that was. Hopefully they would be released soon and able to get him to a doctor.

  The fishing boat’s engine suddenly slowed down and the boat started to rock a bit more. One of the cylinders was pretty obviously missing, so Craig didn’t take too much notice until a rope ladder was thrown into the hold and two of their captors climbed down. No one else had been in the hold after the two of them had been put inside, so this was new and potentially threatening. Craig stood up, putting himself between the two men and Bong.

  When they got to the bottom, their disgust at the stench was obvious. The young guy, the same one who had first watched over Craig pulled his raggedy t-shirt up and over his nose. Despite the situation, Craig had to smile. That t-shirt gas mask wasn’t going to do him any good.

  That smile faded as both men pulled out wicked–looking blades.

  Was this the end? Now, after all this?

  The older guy looked Craig right in the eyes. He held the knife up to his own throat, put his other hand over his mouth before lowering it a bit and saying the one English word, “No.” He then shook the knife at Craig, pretty much ignoring Bong, who was still lying on the deck, but watching intently.

  The older man told the young guy something, and the young guy waded into the pile of fish, shoving them to each side like Moses parting the Red Sea. He seemed to be searching for something, but the tricky light evidently caused some problems. A head poked down into the hatch and a voice yelled out, but the older guy just muttered and waved his knife back towards the hatch.

  Suddenly, the young guy found whatever he was looking for and called out, shifting his t-shirt off his mouth for a second to yell before pulling it back up. He almost gagged, but he reached down and pulled on a small string. To Craig’s surprise the string was attached to a plank, and the plank came up revealing the bilges. The older guy motioned with the knife for Craig to join the younger guy. As Craig hesitantly took a few steps forward, the guy kicked Bong, yelling and motioning for him to move, too. Bong slowly got up and staggered forward before Craig put an arm under his arm and around his back to assist. It was only about 3 or 4 steps, but he wasn’t sure Bong could make it on the slime covered deck before falling and hurting himself even more.

  They got to the open deck and peered inside. If the hold itself was vile, the bilge was hell incarnate. Not only was the black water oily and as noxious as water could be after years without cleaning, but the rotting fish liquids had dripped in, making a soup that was everything evil. Craig’s heart dropped.

  The older guy gave Craig a small shove, motioning for him to get into the bilge. He started to protest, but the guy reversed the knife and slammed the hilt into his head, almost knocking him out. Craig had no choice but to step down, then help Bong down as well. He stood there, ankle deep in the fluid, looking hopefully up at the man as if this was far enough. The man raised the knife again as a reply.

  Craig slowly kneeled before laying down in the mess. The putrid, viscous fluid felt almost alive, like it was creeping over his skin. Craig couldn’t help it—he heaved into the mess. If anything, his vomit only made things better, diluting the truly horrible things in the, well, he couldn’t even call it water anymore. Whatever it was, then.

  To Craig’s surprise, the younger guy clamored in after them. He motioned for Craig and Bong to lie together, asshole to belly button. Then he got down and lay in back of Craig, reaching over him with his knife so the blade was against both his and Bong’s neck at the same time. The message was pretty clear

  The older guy replaced the board, leaving them in close-to-darkness. Craig was grateful for the chinks which let a little light in until the other guy started shoving rotten fish back over their entrance, and liquefied fish began to drip down onto his face. He started to cough when the blade pressed deeper against his neck. He took the hint and suppressed it.

  The ship’s engines cut off, and the boat began to rock in the swells. That caused the bilge water to lap back and forth in small waves, splashing as each wave hit their prone bodies. The three of them lay together like sardines, and Craig wondered what was going on. Had they reached port?

  A thump alongside the starboard side of the boat seemed to confirm this for a moment, but then they wouldn’t still be rocking. They must be being boarded.
Heavily accented voices drifted in through the hatch to the hold confirming the boarding. Craig could not make out much of what was being said, but he could pick out a few words of English. Heavy footsteps pounded above them.

  “What is this?” a better-defined voice reached them.

  Craig knew that someone was looking into the hold. He contemplated yelling out, but the knife pressed ever-so-slightly harder against his neck.

  “No ice. No ice. Fish bad,” answered a Somali-accented voice.

  The first voiced yelled out in another language, probably Eastern European, possibly asking for instructions. Craig didn’t know what he wanted. Did he want the man to come down and search the hold? If he discovered Bong and him, would there be a firefight? Would the two of them make it out alive? Or should the man just leave them there, still captive, but safe for the moment?

  A muffled voice seem to answer back. There was a moment of silence, and Craig could picture a sailor, peering into the hold. With the horrid smell and vile condition of the hold, no sane man would want to enter it. But would duty overcome disgust?

  Evidently not. Nothing more was heard coming in through the hatch. There was more clumping about above them, but after another five or ten minutes, that stopped as well. The fishing boat’s engines picked up and the boat started moving out. Craig still didn’t know if he should have felt relief or disappointment.

  The young man holding the knife relaxed, removing it from around the two captives. He hit the board above them with the heel of one hand, but the cramped quarters kept him from putting any force into it. He tried to shift his position so he could force the board up with his back, and in doing so, scored a cut at the base of Craig’s neck and shoulder. Craig cried out in both pain and shock.

  “Waan ka xumahay,” or maybe “wan ka zumahay,” the young man cried out, dropping the knife into the filth.

  He put his hands down and pushed, lifting the boards up with his back, liquefying fish sliding around and falling into the bilge. He pulled Craig up, then looked at the blood flowing down and staining his shirt.

  “Waan ka zumahay,” he said again, with a note of what sure sounded like regret.

  Was he apologizing? That seemed ironic to Craig. He reached up to feel the cut, which wasn’t actually that deep, but burned like hell. Craig figured that infection was a far greater risk than any actual damage made by the knife.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he told the young pirate.

  That almost made him laugh despite his situation. He had just been cut by a, yes, by an actual cutthroat pirate, and he would probably get infected, and he was telling the kid not to worry? He shrugged and reached down to help Bong up thinking about the strange, strange world into which he had gotten himself.

  Chapter 16

  Hobyo, Somalia

  Two days later

  Maslax Kusow sipped his shah adays and sighed with contentment. This was his favorite place for drinking the spiced tea, even better than what his wife made, not that he would ever tell her that. The shop put just the right amount of cardamom—not too much, not too little—and not enough black pepper to drown out the other flavors.

  Maslax was “working.” Oh, he had never really held a normal job, one that lasted more than a week or two. Maslax scrounged, connived, sweated when he had to—anything to make a bit of money. “Legality” was not something that overly concerned him. His work often straddled that fine line of what was officially encouraged by the government and what was done by the many minions surviving on the streets of Hobyo. Sometimes, those government officials who publically supported law and order were the very same ones who hired Maslax for tasks that were at odds with their public stances.

  He sipped his tea and watched the bustle that always surrounded the waterfront. Most of the people went about their daily routine in a vacuum, intent on whatever their current task was. Maslax was always aware of what others were doing, what they might be saying. Aside from the fact that in Maslax’s line of work, he had upset more than a few people, and it made sense to watch out for anyone wishing to extract a bit of revenge from his hide, a hide of which he was really quite fond, being aware of what was going on also presented opportunities. And finding those opportunities was something at which Maslax excelled.

  The morning sun beat down on the streets, and with no breeze coming off the ocean, the temperature was climbing. Maslax debated on calling it a morning and going home. But something kept him there. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he had played hunches before, and his hunches usually turned out to be right.

  He looked about trying to figure out just what had attracted the attention of his subconscious. Nothing really seemed to jump out at him, and that frustrated him. He prided himself on being a master of observation, but he just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

  His gaze drifted to the fishing boats, dhows, and pangas tied up at the piers. Nothing seemed to catch his eye at first, but suddenly, there it was. Several men were escorting two women in full burkas off an old fishing boat. He broke out into a smile.

  He had noted the boat pulling in earlier, but he realized now that no fish had been offloaded. Now, two Arab women were being helped off the boat, one being rather large and the other needing some assistance. Arabs were not uncommon in Hobyo, and many did wear full burkas. But why would two Arab women be on a fishing boat? And why the close escort?

  Truth be known, Maslax might have crewed on pirate pangas once or twice before. He had quit once the foreign navies had stepped up operations. He had no compunction against taking a ship, per se, but he did have an aversion on getting shot while doing it.

  But just because he might have pirated before, he felt no sense of loyalty to those who still did it. Maslax’s loyalty was to himself first, his family second, and this tribe third. He didn’t recognize the four men leading away the “women,” so in his mind, they were fair game.

  He signaled Jiinow, the shopkeeper, and got up. He had to move quickly, and Jiinow knew he would come back to pay for his tea. He pulled his beat-up Vespa back from the line of parked bikes, and got on, looking everywhere except at his targets. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them turn right and walk down the main street fronting the water. He turned his scooter around and followed them, keeping well back.

  One of the men had a firm grasp of the larger “woman’s” arm. If Maslax had any doubts before, they were gone. Men, especially non-Arab men, did not touch Arab women like that. He tried to keep from smiling as he puttered along well in back of the group.

  The turned right on the next side street. He took his time, not wanting to be spotted, and when he turned the corner as well, a moment of panic hit him. They were gone!

  The panic lasted only a moment, though. As he drove past a parked SUV, he caught sight of them inside. He kept going, then stopped ahead, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. The SUV started, pulled out onto the road, then passed him. He pulled back out and followed in trace.

  As long as the pirates kept inside the city, the crowded streets would keep the car slow and allow Maslax to keep up. If they got outside the city, his little Vespa did not have the oomph to follow. Finding them then would take some effort and expense.

  He was pleased, then, when after only five minutes or so, the car pulled into a courtyard. He couldn’t follow them in, but by stopping on the street outside, he could see them get out and manhandle their captives up the stairs to a second story door in the back.

  Maslax carefully pulled the filter off his cigarette and placed it in his pocket. For someone who had a flexible system of morals, he was very meticulous about littering. A man just does not leave his trash for others.

  He started his scooter back up and started to make his way to the north side of town. Maslax made his living by knowing things, and he knew of a foreigner, a Chinese man, who would pay for what Maslax had observed. Pay very well, in fact.

  Yes, this had been a very profitable morning.

  Chapter 17
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  Hobyo

  Even if he wasn’t going to admit it, Asad was glad to be back on solid ground. He was an inland boy, after all, the constant motion of the panga had been rough on him. The American ship had been better, but then they had transferred to that horrible fishing boat with the two prisoners. Asad was nominally Muslim. He prayed as required—at least when it was convenient. And he didn’t eat pork, not that there were many pigs back in Galinsoor. But he was pretty fastidious and embraced that aspect of Islamic law.

  That fishing boat was vile. The smell alone would make a normal man sick without even taking the constant rolling into account. And the odor! It was utterly unspeakable. How those two men could survive down there was beyond him.

  He had tried to stay on deck, near the bow, on the trip to port. He only went back to lower food and water to the prisoners, wondering how they could eat in that putrid mess. But the white guy had taken the food, and on the second day, when the other guy had awakened, both seemed to be eager to eat and drink. What made matters worse was that the hold not only had piles of rotten, decaying fish, but the two men had nowhere to piss or shit. They were lying in their own body wastes.

  When the foreign navy ship had appeared, Taban had ordered him down into the hold.

  “Make sure they keep quiet,” he had told him. “If you absolutely have to kill one of them to keep them quiet, do it, but try to keep at least the other alive for the ransom. But remember that it would be better to have no ransom but be free than to let those foreigners know we have the prisoners. So if you have to . . .” he went on, pulling an extended forefinger across his throat.