The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  Jonah stripped off his hood to reveal a sharp face, newly cut short hair, and a closely trimmed blonde beard to top his tall but still-thin, muscled frame.

  “Last chance to call it off, Doc,” he said. “Ditch the guns, jump overboard, and we haven’t done anything that can’t be walked back with a sincere apology and a good lawyer.”

  “Thank you for the consideration, Mr. Blackwell,” Dr. Nassiri said with a grim smile. “But my commitment to see this through remains unchanged.” He stripped off his hood as well, revealing tussled black hair that framed his dark eyes and classically handsome features.

  “We’re stealing a yacht together,” Jonah said with a laugh, slapping the doctor on the back. “If that doesn’t put us on a first-name basis, I don’t know what will. Call me Jonah.”

  “I suppose it goes without saying that I have much more to lose than you,” Dr. Nassiri said, intentionally refusing the familiarity.

  “If you say so.”

  Dr. Nassiri had known full well that his mission would likely require some bending of the rules, but he hadn’t truly come to terms with the magnitude of the criminality until he had slipped into his wetsuit and slid into the dark Mediterranean Sea. Since removing Jonah from Prison 14, the doctor had come to realize that the American was the type who figured any problem that couldn’t be solved with a sledgehammer, could be solved with two sledgehammers or a roll of det cord. Dr. Nassiri knew Jonah wasn’t a criminal, not in the traditional sense, but despite his protests, Jonah appeared quite comfortable with the criminality at hand. And the more at ease Jonah was, the more Dr. Nassiri ached to get the whole thing over with, salvage what he could of his mother’s research, find her body, and take her home. And then to return to his real life.

  The doctor busied himself with his duffel, removing two massive cubes of shrink-wrapped euros. Jonah looked over his shoulder as the doctor handled the 500-euro notes, the chosen vehicle of international financial smugglers. The sum total of the Nassiri family fortune and a decade of savings, it amounted to more than a million euros.

  A strange enterprise, this, thought Dr. Nassiri. Stealing a yacht while bringing enough money to charter one free and clear.

  “See something you like, Mr. Blackwell?” asked the doctor, feeling Jonah’s eyes on his money.

  “Yeah, I’m looking at your money.”

  “It’d be easy,” said Dr. Nassiri. “You have me dead to rights with that German pistol of yours. You could end this fool’s errand right now.”

  “Don’t tempt me. And the story about your mom better not be bullshit.”

  The doctor sighed and stood up. Jonah followed him to the bridge, both abandoning the money in the center of the foyer.

  “Go secure that cash,” said Jonah. “I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if it’s not just laying around. Oh, and your cousin? I think he’s going to be butthurt if he doesn’t get the chance to blow someone away.”

  “Don’t worry about Youssef,” said Dr. Nassiri. He stuffed the Euros back in the duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “I remind you that he can handle himself, thank you.”

  The doctor followed as Jonah led the way back up to the bridge. He was not disappointed in the layout of the command compartment—three leather bound racing seats, futuristic joysticks, monitors, and control panels surrounded by steep-angled windows, none of which would have been out of place on a sci-fi movie set.

  Dr. Nassiri knocked on one of the side windows, getting Buzz’s attention, who then relinquished his position on deck and entered through a side door.

  “We’re drifting away from the dock,” said Buzz. “It’s time to deal with the crew.” With that pronouncement, Buzz chambered a round to his ridiculous assault rifle for effect. Jonah scowled, and Dr. Nassiri joined him in the displeasure. The doctor didn’t like the idea of killing anyone, and certainly not over a yacht.

  “Cousin Hassan, you take a position on the bridge,” said Buzz. “Blackwell and I will take the crew quarters one at a time. He’ll cover the door while I subdue and zip tie the crew. We’re outnumbered here—so don’t take shit. Somebody yells, somebody resists, put them down quick, move on.”

  Jonah stopped paying attention and began scanning the lengthy control board, brushing against the custommilled aluminum buttons with outstretched fingers.

  “Now after we take the first room, some of them may get wise and—Blackwell, am I fucking boring you here?”

  There it was—the American had found whatever he’d been looking for. Jonah cleared his throat and pressed a shipwide intercom.

  “Captain to the bridge, Captain to the bridge,” said Jonah into the intercom.

  “Are you fucking insane?” snarled Buzz.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Dr. Nassiri, horrified. This was the moment he’d dreaded—the moment when Jonah Blackwell betrayed them. It was too perfect. Dr. Nassiri kicked himself, realizing he’d allowed Jonah to set up every aspect of the operation.

  “Chill out,” said Jonah. “Especially you, Buzz. Go stand in the corner and put your rifle away, you’re embarrassing yourself. Just stand there and look scary or something. And for fucks sake, lower that muzzle and don’t shoot anybody.”

  Dr. Nassiri was too baffled to even react. Realizing he was now bound to Jonah’s plan, Buzz angrily lowered his assault rifle.

  Jonah leaned across the control panels and picked up a pair of Leica binoculars from the dash. Looking out, it appeared that the tide was pulling them out to sea faster than he’d expected. They were now nearly a hundred and fifty meters from the dock. Security personnel milled around the empty berth, confused. Some of them waved or radioed to the patrol boats, but there was no coordination and the zodiacs had not yet mobilized after the drifting yacht.

  Footsteps sounded from behind the trio. Jonah lingered on the binoculars for a few extra moments before putting them down and turning around. A befuddled captain stood in the entrance to the yacht’s bridge wearing a white terrycloth robe. His charge adrift and his bridge occupied by wetsuit-clad strangers had temporarily paralyzed his faculties. The white-bearded captain stood still at first, silent, before composing himself just enough to demand answers.

  “What is this?” he shouted. “Who are you people?”

  Jonah plastered a giant smile on his face and walked up to the captain.

  “We’re from Global Repossession,” said Jonah, openly grinning as he gave the bullshit story. “So nice to meet you, Captain … ?”

  “Robinson.”

  “Captain Robinson, a real pleasure. Always wish it was under different circumstances. I’m Jonah Blackwell, and I’d like to introduce you to my team, Hassan and Youssef Nassiri, the two gentlemen behind me.”

  Jonah snuck a glance to see how the doctor and his cousin would react to the use of their real names. He was not disappointed; Dr. Nassiri’s was rigid with utter horror and Buzz looked angry enough to snap Jonah in half where he stood.

  “Now I don’t know if you’re in the loop on this,” continued Jonah, “but the owner of this vessel is about eight months behind on payments, forcing the Royal Bahamian Bank to issue a repossession order. They subcontracted the job to Global Repossession, my employer.”

  “But—” sputtered the captain.

  “Nobody told you? Well, I’m afraid that’s more the rule than the exception, captain. As I’m sure you’re aware, once I’ve taken position on the bridge with a valid repossession order, I’ve established mastership of this vessel.”

  “This cannot—”

  “I think you’ll find all the paperwork in order,” said Jonah. He reached inside his wetsuit and produced a thick stack of soggy, dripping, illegible paperwork and slapped it on the chart table. The captain looked as if he’d just been handed a soiled diaper. He grimaced as he picked at the water-soaked documents with two pinched fingers.

  “All is in order?” asked the captain, reluctant to examine the documents himself.

  “Subcontracting agreement, master
ship order, ship’s papers with updated ownership and licensing documentation, the works,” answered Jonah.

  “Well …,” Captain Robinson said, begrudgingly resigning himself to the inevitable.

  “The good news—well, not good news for the owner, but good news for you—is that the Royal Bahamian Bank has already found a potential buyer out of Dubai. This goes down smoothly and there’s a good chance you’ll be retaining this post. If you’re interested, of course.”

  “I suppose—”

  “But short-term, we’ve got a situation to deal with. I need the crew dressed and at muster stations in five minutes. I need everybody on the ships’ launch and back in Malta. I’ll take the Conqueror to Gibraltar to work out the last of the paperwork. Hopefully we can smooth things out to fly the crew there to meet the new owners. Sound like a plan?”

  The captain crossed his arms, uncrossed them, and crossed them again.

  “It’s your bridge, Captain,” said Jonah. He saluted the captain, standing at attention, waiting for him to act. Dr. Nassiri and Buzz awkwardly followed, botching the salutes in their haste. Jonah quickly motioned for the cousins to put their hands down. Dr. Nassiri complied, embarrassed.

  The captain sighed, adjusted his terrycloth robe, and stepped up to the control panel. The moment his back was turned, Jonah rested his palm on the pistol. Dr. Nassiri had the distinct impression the American was ready to club the captain should he raise an alarm.

  The captain stepped up to the intercom, switched the knob to general broadcast.

  “Crew of the Conqueror, crew of the Conqueror, this is a general alarm,” he began.

  Jonah silently unholstered the pistol, preparing for the unexpected. He hesitated, waiting to hear the captain’s next words.

  “Please muster at the rear launch. Wear your emergency gear and bring all personal effects and medications necessary for the next seventy-two hours.”

  Jonah reholstered and concealed the gun, both he and Dr. Nassiri sighing in relief. Buzz still looked like he could pop a blood vessel.

  “Sorry I can’t allow you to pack larger bags,” said Jonah. “Can’t have the crew taking the silverware, can we? I promise we’ll catalog everything and get it to the owners. I will personally supervise the process to make sure it gets done right.”

  “This isn’t the first yacht I’ve had repossessed from underneath me,” said the captain. “I understand you can’t just have us walk away with all the table settings and artwork.”

  “Well, maybe a few spoons,” cracked Jonah. Both he and the captain shared a congenial laugh.

  The captain exited the bridge and went below. Jonah and Dr. Nassiri looked at each other.

  “So you think he believes it?” whispered Dr. Nassiri.

  “As long as he doesn’t look too closely at the documents I gave him,” mumbled Jonah. “Stay on the bridge. I’m going to supervise the exit of the crew.”

  On the rear deck, the well-trained crew collected by the ship’s single launch boat. Several stewards, two cooks, the engineer, and officers prepped the craft for deployment. The vessel would be crowded but serviceable. Twenty-two feet of carbon fiber and polished aluminum, she was custom-designed to complement her mothership. The crew of the Conqueror boarded and Jonah began the automated launch sequence. Two large winches slowly rose from their hidden compartments in the deck, lowering the lifeboat over the side and into the ocean by two thin woven-steel cables.

  The now-former captain of the Conqueror unrolled the soggy documents into his hands and absentmindedly examined them. He started slowly at first, and then rapidly, angrily shuffled through the papers.

  “These … these … are menus!” he shouted at Jonah from across the narrow chasm.

  Jonah pressed the emergency release and the tender dropped the last four and a half feet into the waves, knocking every crewman to the deck as the launch splashed down in the ocean. Jonah sprinted back to the bridge, took the center console and began the engine startup sequence.

  “That was somewhat brilliant,” said Dr. Nassiri grudgingly as he took the chair to Jonah’s left.

  “Yeah, never steal something with a gun that you can steal with paperwork,” said Jonah. “Buzz, how are we doing here?”

  Buzz peered through the Leica binoculars and looked at the dock. “It’s getting busy,” he said. “A yellow Lamborghini has arrived at the Conqueror’s berth. Looks like the driver is doing a lot of pointing and shouting.”

  “That would be the owner,” said Jonah. “He always had a thing for Italian supercars. And shouting.”

  Dr. Nassiri picked up a second pair of binoculars and took a look for himself. “Is he supposed to be that orange?” he asked, referring to the former CEO’s obnoxious fake tan.

  “You’re the doctor, you tell me.”

  “Security personnel are boarding the patrol boats,” said Dr. Nassiri. “I believe it is likely that the captain has radioed for assistance.”

  “We’re running out of time,” added Buzz with a snarl. “This wouldn’t be a problem if they were all zip tied below decks.”

  “Still not a problem,” said Jonah. “I just have to bypass the security lockout.” His fingers danced across the console, pulling up systems schematics across the screens. “Too bad … I really wanted to see the expression on his face when I stole his boat.”

  “I assure you, its quite apoplectic,” said Dr. Nassiri dryly. Neither one of the Nassiri cousins could tear their eyes away from the binoculars and the mobilizing security forces.

  The engines sputtered, turned over, and stopped.

  “Shit,” said Jonah. The computer had locked him out again and automatically cut the engines. He tried pushing through another subroutine, searching for a back door into the core systems.

  “We are now dangerously low on time,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Are you certain you can do this?”

  “I can do this,” said Jonah through gritted teeth. There it was—the software back door. The console in front of him lit up like a Christmas tree, a thousand individual indicator lights flicking to life at once. The engines roared, nearly knocking Buzz over as the entire yacht jolted forward. Jonah throttled up, breathing life into the massive machine. She was a thing of beauty, surging forward, slowly at first, the powerful engines kicking out a churning wake almost as long as the ship herself. The patrol boats were blinded by the spray, knocking into one another behind the speeding yacht.

  Dr. Nassiri clapped a hand on Jonah’s back, smiling with the pure pleasure of escape and success—and relief. Jonah couldn’t help himself. With his hand on the tiller of the most beautiful ship he’d ever had the pleasure of stealing, he grinned from ear to ear.

  The indicators passed fifty knots, then sixty, before topping out almost to eighty. Even the untrained ear could hear the engines singing in beautiful harmony and rhythm, perfectly tuned, precisely attenuated for the task at hand. The howling engines drowned out all else but the starry night sky as Malta disappeared behind them.

  “So tell me, what did you have against her previous owner?” asked the doctor.

  “That’s a story for another day,” answered Jonah.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dr. Nassiri hung from the back deck of the Conqueror on an improvised climber’s harness, swaying as the ship cut through the tranquil blue waters of the eastern Mediterranean. He leaned back, bracing his feet against the stern, closing his eyes as he allowed his face to soak up the sunlight. A bundle of steel wool swung from a string, attached to his belt loop. Combined with a carefully applied series of caustic chemicals, he’d found the wool more than adequate in removing the namesake Conqueror from the stern of the yacht. The next task was infinitely more pleasing, painting a new name with a set of artist’s oils.

  Despite the rocking of the yacht, he found his surgeon’s hand well equipped for the task. Shirtless, he moved with the waves as he held the rope with one hand and painted with the other, using the inside of his free forearm to dab off drips from the brush. He h
adn’t painted anything in years, despite the deeply loved pastime. Appropriate for a surgeon, he preferred nudes from life, his brush deliberately reproducing the human beauty of anatomical musculature.

  Jonah and Youssef were in another section of the ship, disguising it further for the eventual passage through the Suez Canal. The labor required whiting out an entire row of glass windows with thick marine paint, removing distinctive superstructure indicators and disabling the marine transponder. Between the disguise and false paperwork, Jonah believed they’d have the cover necessary to pass through the Suez Canal and into the Indian Ocean.

  When Dr. Nassiri expressed his concerns, Jonah said it would have worked a couple of years ago. He couldn’t say for certain now.

  “The worst they can do is throw us in prison,” Jonah had said, laughing. “Status quo for me.”

  It was then that Dr. Nassiri decided he’d rename the megayacht Fool’s Errand. Maddeningly, Jonah’s alpha-male swagger actually worked on Youssef. The soldier started following the disagreeable American around like a lost puppy. Youssef delighted in the fact that Jonah actually called him “Buzz,” a nickname first given to his cousin by an American training officer.

  Dr. Nassiri found the nickname deeply shameful to his family, an affront to both his culture and his cousin’s dignity. The nickname had not been ordained with affection. Youssef earned it during a morning engagement drill when, returning from a piss, he’d managed to entangle a rat’s nest of pubic hair into the zipper of his combat trousers. The resulting yelp had alerted opponents to his team’s position, losing the exercise and earning him a vicious beating by his own team. Both ailments sent him to the infirmary, whereupon the American training officer took one look and dryly told him to “buzz that shit,” to prevent a reoccurrence.

  A series of ringing shotgun blasts rattled Dr. Nassiri’s thoughts, shaking him out of his gloomy reflection. He froze.