by Michael Cole
Lisa slowly touched the chopper down, allowing Rick and Forster to set foot on the pavement. Forster let go, and immediately saw Nelson approaching.
“Oh, thank God, Julie…you’re alright.” he said. She ran to him, hugging him tightly and pressing her lips to his. “OH!” he groaned. Forster pulled back, remembering his cracked ribs.
“Oh, shit! I’m sorry,” she said.
“Eh, don’t mention it,” he said, embracing her with another kiss.
Lisa switched the rotors off and quickly climbed out of the helicopter, embracing Rick in a similar manner.
“You’re crazy,” she said.
“Yeah, well…” he kissed her again.
The four of them walked out of the lot, passing a dumbfounded William Felt, who stood silent as he gazed upon the ruins of his resort. Several cars arrived, unloading a flood of reporters who came rushing around them. Forster and Nelson ignored the questions, using his injury as their excuse to hurry through the crowd. As they walked, Forster looked to the clear sky and thought of her father. For the first time, she felt he was smiling down at her.
Rick and Lisa kept pace behind them. Reporters bombarded them with questions, most of which they ignored. Suddenly, one reporter raised her hand and pointed at him.
“I know you! You’re Rick Napier!” she said. Rick stopped at the mention of his name. The reporter continued, “You were the one who spoke about the creature attack at Mako’s Center three years ago!”
“Wasn’t that a hoax?” another reporter asked.
The first reporter spoke louder. “You being here…as this strange shark attacks the island…it can’t be a coincidence.” Rick looked around. To his surprise, the crowd had quieted down, waiting for him to speak. He looked back at the female reporter. She awaited his response. “Well?”
He thought of his friends at home. He thought of the lost sailors in the bay. The world deserved to know the truth.
“It’s all true,” he said. “All of it. The hybridizations, the cover-ups, it all happened.”
The press erupted with questions and comments, many labeling the group as heroes. With his arm around Lisa, Rick followed Forster and Nelson out of the lot. Cameras flashed, and questions hollered.
The dark-haired reporter shouted over the others.
“Rick Napier, could there be any more hybrids out there?!”
The crowd eventually spread out all over the area, turning their attention toward surviving victims and military officials. That final question repeated itself in Rick’s mind. As it did Lisa’s. As it did Nelson’s. As it did Forster’s.
Did we get all of them?
All four of them turned their eyes toward the view of the ocean. The Atlantic was blue and calm, reaching out for eternity. It seemed so peaceful.
Deceptively peaceful.
The End
Read on for a free sample of MEGA
Chapter One: Pirates
Saltwater sprayed Abshir’s face again and again, as the skiff sped across the choppy waves of the Indian Ocean, but he barely noticed the saline annoyance. His worry was what the water was doing to the AK-47 clutched in a grip that could crush rock. Only hours earlier, his father had placed the rifle in his hands, wishing him well on his first true run, as they stood on the deck of his father’s ship.
“You will do your tribe proud today,” Daacad Khalid Shimbir said as he handed the rifle over. “Keep ever watchful. Do you know what to ask?”
“Where is the control room? How many men are on this ship? Do you have weapons? Where are the weapons?” Abshir responded.
“That is good, that is good,” Daacad laughed, patting his son on the shoulder. “You leave a boy, but come back a man. What do you watch for, never turning your eye?”
“The horizon,” Abshir said. “I look for a ship. I yell when I see one.”
“And then you listen to Kaafi,” Daacad said, “you do what he says.”
“Yes,” Abshir nodded, “I will honor you, father.”
“Yes,” Daacad nodded, “you will.”
The wind turned and the waves came at the skiff from the other side, an occurrence the men expected. Kaafi, the oldest and most experienced at nineteen, looked back at Najiib who was manning the rudder. Only a year older than Abshir, Najiib had been on seven runs and was the best with the motor by far. He had a knack for reading the water and his smile told Kaafi that all was fine, even as the large raft started to rock dangerously to one side.
“Hold steady!” Tarabi shouted, the fourth and last member of the pirate raiding party. “Don’t you know how to steer?”
Najiib ignored him, as most did, and just looked ahead at the clear horizon. At seventeen, Tarabi was a monster and still growing. His neck was as thick as Abshir’s thigh, his arms and legs like small trees. His deep, black skin shined in the midday sun, showing the intense definition of his muscles. For a people that were primarily long and lanky, Tarabi was an anomaly; one that Daacad had wasted no time in recruiting. If he hadn’t, then one of the other tribal gangs would have. But Daacad had seen the intimidation potential of having a young man Tarabi’s size armed with an RPG-7 sitting in a skiff as they pulled alongside a target vessel.
“There!” Abshir said, his eyes catching sight of a vessel far off. “Do you see?”
Kaafi did see. He raised his binoculars and his lips peeled back in what others called his death grin; his ability to smile had left him years ago. “Good eyes. Container ship.”
“What flag?” Tarabi asked. “American? Is it American?”
To capture an American ship, or one with an American crew, was the ultimate goal. They could ransom the crew for three to four times the amount of a European crew. Although an American crew would mean possible interference by the US Navy, but that was something they were willing to risk. And why were they out in the Indian Ocean, miles from the coast of Somalia’s Puntland region, instead of up by the Gulf of Aden and the many more ships that traveled through there?
The Gulf of Aden had been over pirated and was patrolled by the international members of the Combined Task Forces and Operation Atalanta. Too many gangs had taken too many chances, ruining a good thing for everyone. This was why Daacad had always kept operations close to Hilweyne on the coast of the Mudug region of Somalia. It was hundreds of miles south of the gulf, and despite the highly public taking of the Maersk Alabama and subsequent killing of the pirates by US Navy SEALs in 2009, it had always been a lucrative territory. It presented its own issues such as erratic weather and choppier seas, but on the whole, it was an area pirates dreamed of. And Daacad had no plans on relinquishing a single bit of control.
Abshir thought of his father and about how proud he would be if they could pull off an attack his first time out. His clansmen and fellow pirates would hail him. It would be known that he was worthy to take over for his father when the time came.
The smile on Abshir’s face amused Kaafi, for he’d seen it many times on the faces of young, inexperienced pirates. He knew it would last until they got close to the ship. The size of the vessel would wipe that smile right off. And what they might be forced to do once on the ship, would keep that smile away permanently. His had never returned.
“You do not show fear,” Kaafi shouted at the young men, “you make them show fear. You make them wet themselves when we come aboard. The first one to resist gets hit.” Kaafi pantomimed with the butt of his own AK-47. “The second one to resist gets shot. Anyone with a weapon gets shot. Do not hesitate. Shoot. Aim for the belly. It may not kill them and their cries for mercy will keep the others in line. Do you hear what I say?”
They all nodded as adrenaline started to pump through their systems. The minutes it took to close in on the ship were the longest minutes of Abshir’s life. The ship grew larger and larger as they grew closer. Once they were less than a couple hundred yards away, the ship’s claxons started to blare, warning the crew that an attack was coming.
The clock began to tick.
It was assumed someo
ne from the ship would send out a distress call to the nearest Task Force vessel, but Daacad had already done his research and knew the closest vessel was more than four-hundred miles away. It would take that vessel a minimum of eight hours at flank speed to reach them. And they would have things well under control within eight hours. The plan was to hijack the ship, steam it close to Daacad’s mother ship where they’d take the ship’s crew, and exchange it for a full crew of his own. The container ship would be steamed down the Somali coast to a port that he controlled, while the crew would be taken back to his base in Hilweyne. The ship’s cargo would be sold and the crew would be ransomed.
His father’s plan in mind, Abshir’s finger twitched near the trigger of his AK-47. The container ship was massive and even if it held nothing but grains, it would be worth millions. The crew would be worth almost as much; as he spotted the German flag flying from a pole above what he assumed was the bridge. They wouldn’t fetch the same price as Americans, but close enough.
Najiib turned the skiff parallel with the container ship, making sure not to get caught in the wake of the massive boat. Kaafi raised a bullhorn to his mouth and announced, “You will stop! Stop this ship! You will be boarded! Do not resist or you will die! Do not touch your weapons, or you will all die!”
Far above, heads and faces peered over the side and Tarabi waved his RPG about, showing them that he could blow a hole in the hull of the ship if they did not comply. Many of the heads ducked back, but some still watched as Tarabi aimed the RPG at them and put his eye to the sight. That sent them scurrying back from the rail.
“Lower your ladders!” Kaafi ordered. “Do not make me ask again,” he looked over his shoulder at Tarabi, “or my friend will sink you!”
Just as Kaafi was about to get impatient, three ladders were dropped down. Kaafi motioned for Abshir to go first. The boy slung his rifle and took hold of the ladder, careful not to lose his footing and fall into the churning waters. If he did, he’d be lost forever, pushed under by the wake of the ship and more than likely, shredded by the huge aft propellers. Abshir climbed as fast as he could, finally getting to the top and over the rail. Kaafi waited for the sign and when it came, he took the RPG from Tarabi and nodded for him to follow. The large young man made it up the ladder in a third of the time it took Abshir and his scrawny arms.
“You follow as soon as I am up top,” Kaafi said to Najiib. “Let the skiff go. It will be destroyed under this ship and no evidence will be left.”
Najiib nodded, even though he didn’t need Kaafi to say anything; it was not his first run and he was well aware of the procedure. But Kaafi was in charge.
He timed the jump perfectly. He positioned the skiff next to the ladder so all he had to do was grab it as soon as he let go of the rudder. With all his strength, Najiib hauled himself up the ladder as the skiff became submerged and then lost. He didn’t even give it a second glance as he adjusted his AK-47 and climbed up to join his compatriots.
The others were already moving the plan along as Najiib climbed over the rail and stepped onto the deck. Men held their hands up in the air as Kaafi and Tarabi shouted at them to keep moving and take them to the bridge. He knew Kaafi would rest control of the ship from the captain quickly and then steer towards the rendezvous point. In less than an hour, they’d switch out the crew and then be on their way to the secure port.
“We are to move aft and go below deck,” Abshir said. “Find the engine room and make sure no crew is there to shut down the engines.”
“Yes, I know,” Najiib said, struggling to keep the annoyance from his voice. He was supposed to pilot the ship once the crew was handed over to Daacad, and resented that the man’s son was ordering him around like he was the rookie, instead of Abshir.
“Yes,” Abshir nodded, “then let us go.”
Najiib waited, and then started to laugh. “Aft is that way,” he smiled, realizing his resentment was misplaced; the boy was no threat. “Follow me.”
Abshir looked over his shoulder at the many huge containers that were stacked row after row upon the deck of the ship, then hurried and followed Najiib aft and to a large hatch that led below deck. It took them a few moments for their eyes to adjust, as they moved into almost total darkness.
“They have cut the main power,” Najiib smiled as he pulled a small flashlight from his belt. “But there will be backup power keeping the navigation, communication, and ventilation systems going. Not to worry, I will get this up and going soon. Then we will have full power and can take the ship where we want.”
The engine room was several decks down, and Abshir was sweating and out of breath by the time they worked open the hatch and stepped into a cramped, hot room. It smelled of grease and ozone, making Abshir’s nose twitch. He tried to stifle it, but the sneeze couldn’t be held back. His head rocked forward as he let loose, and he sneezed so loud that he almost didn’t hear the gunshot. Sparks flew out against the wall right where his head had been.
But as he felt heat sear the side of his face, he realized someone was still shooting at them. He ran to the side, opening fire with his AK-47, shooting randomly into the engine room.
“Stop that!” Najiib shouted. “You’ll kill us both!”
Another shot rang out and it was almost impossible to tell where it came from, as the entire room echoed with the ear splitting bang. Najiib waved his hand, gesturing for Abshir to crouch low. He did and tried to see under the machinery that ran the ship. There, across the room, deep in shadow, but just at the edge of Najiib’s flashlight, was a pair of boots.
Abshir smiled and took aim, laying the AK-47 almost flat on the floor. He pulled the trigger and a man screamed, falling flat so Abshir could look directly into his eyes.
“Finish him,” Najiib said, “we’ll take his corpse up top as an example.”
“No! Wait!” the man screamed, but Abshir did not hesitate. All he could think about was the approval of his father. The man’s head was ripped apart, a third of it becoming spray against the iron and steel of the room.
“I will have this going soon,” Najiib said. “Can you drag him up?”
“I will try,” Abshir said as he slung his rifle and made his way to the far side of the room and the bloody corpse.
The man held a 9mm pistol in one hand and something else in the other. Abshir couldn’t see what it was in the darkness, so he hooked his hands under the man’s arms and began to drag. It was a considerable effort to get the man out of the engine room, and Abshir sighed heavily at the thought of dragging the corpse all the way up to the upper deck. But to quit would be shameful, so he pushed on.
Nearly exhausted, his muscles burning, Abshir finally stepped out into sunlight. He pulled the corpse partially out of the hatch, and then collapsed to the hot steel of the deck, his chest heaving from the exertion. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun, letting the heat he had known his whole life invigorate him. He was not one of those people that needed shade, or needed the coolness of artificial air. He loved the sun and the smell of the sea. He was right at home.
After a few moments rest, Abshir opened his eyes and looked at the man’s body. He reached out and pried open the man’s hand, taking what was clutched inside. Abshir looked at it for a couple minutes as conflicting emotions warred inside him. Finally, he frowned and threw the object away, letting the breeze take it. As Abshir once again lifted the corpse and started to drag it towards the bridge, the thing the man had held –a photograph of him with a woman and two small children- floated through the air and out over the open sea.
“There you are, Abshir,” Kaafi said as the teen stepped onto the bridge, nearly collapsing from his exertion. “What do you have there?”
“An example,” Abshir said, yanking the corpse over the threshold of the bridge’s hatch, “for all to see.”
Tarabi laughed loudly and menaced the group of men seated on the deck in front of him. “See that? Do you? That will be you if you don’t cooperate? Now, how many more are o
n the ship? Where are the weapons?”
“Ich spreche kein English. Sprechen sie Deutsch?” a man seated in front of the others asked. “Sprechen sie Deustch, ja?”
“What is that?” Abshir asked. “German?”
“Ja,” the man nodded, “Deutsch. Ger-man.”
“Parlez-vous francais?” Kaafi asked. The man, the captain of the ship, shook his head sadly. “Nein?”
“Nein,” the captain replied.
“Do you speak this?” Tarabi asked, smashing a fist into the face of the man seated directly behind the captain. All of the men cried out in shock. “Yes?”
“Tarabi,” Kaafi warned, “you hit when I say so.”
“Yes,” Tarabi nodded, “I know.”
“Do it again,” Kaafi death grinned. Another man was hit. Kaafi grabbed the captain by his collar and pulled him across the bridge and into a corner, isolating him from the others. “You speak English. I know you do. I had to learn it and I know you learned it. All ships’ captains speak English.”
“Nein, nein,” the captain replied, shaking his head. “Ich sprechen---”
Kaafi slapped the man across the face, open handed like he’d slap a girl. He did it again and again until the man held up his hands, blood trickling from his lips and nose.
“Okay, okay, stop now, please,” the captain said. “Please, no more of the hitting.”
Kaafi laughed –a short, dark sound- and stepped back from the captain. “Good, now we are getting somewhere,” he said. He looked back at the other men and Tarabi. “Now you can tell me who my friend should kill first. Which one dies now?”
Tarabi pulled a long knife from his belt.
“Nein!” the captain shouted, holding out a hand. “No, please!”
“Then you do what we say and no tricks or lies, yes?” Kaafi asked. “Or they die. Understand?”
“Understand,” the captain nodded, “no tricks. No lies.”
“And you will call me captain, yes?” Kaafi asked.
“Ja,” the captain nodded, “Captain.”