The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  “He’s saved all of us,” said the doctor.

  “But you,” said Dalmar. “I do not particularly like you. You are not my friend, but you are my brother. Your mother’s blood flows through my veins, just as it flows through yours. We are family now. You are brother Doctor Hassan Nassiri. I am brother Dread Pirate Dalmar Abdi. Our mother has been killed by our sworn enemy.”

  “I’ve never had a brother before.” The pirate’s statement was so bold, so genuine, Hassan could do little but accept it at face value.

  “I have spoken with Jonah,” announced Dalmar, reaching across the assault rifle to clasp Hassan’s hands in his own. “He has agreed to bring me home to my soldiers. There is much to do, much planning to be prepared if my friend needs me in the battle of Bettencourt.”

  “I will be sad to see you go,” Hassan said, his hands bound by the pirate’s. “Asalaam alaykum … and safe journeys.”

  “I wish peace upon you as well,” said Dalmar. “But there is little peace in my country. My friend is taking me to the fishing grounds of another dear and trusted friend. I will find my men there. But as my time with my friend and brother draws short, I find myself troubled.”

  “Troubled? How?”

  “Brother Hassan the Butcher, I have come to a crossroads. I am a man who has outlived his purpose. I am not a revolutionary, I am a fox. I love to play this ancient game of hide and seek—deadly as it may be. But the game’s rules are always set by the hyena. When the fox becomes too much trouble, the fox is called jihadist, terrorist. Illegitimate for rule, even after victory on the battlefield. For even if the fox expels or defeats the hyena, the world will shun the fox.”

  “What should the fox do?”

  “The fox should die honorably. I vowed I would never outlive what little good I have done with my life.”

  “And what of Jonah? And myself? How do we fit into this ancient game of fox and hyena?”

  “This I do not know,” admitted Dalmar. “I think Jonah is a man who will only play a game by his own rules. But he is no hyena. And this changes everything.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Enough with this idleness.” Dalmar released Hassan’s hands and slapped his thighs, abruptly ending the musings. “We are speaking like two old women. The Russian—find out if he likes me. Will you do that for me, brother?”

  “Vitaly?” Hassan asked, taken aback. “I guess I can ask,” he said, despite having absolutely no idea how to broker such a request.

  “Good!” The pirate smiled mischievously. “He is very beautiful, you think so? Maybe he would make the fox happy.”

  A pirate who asks before the taking, thought Hassan. Hardly a blood-thirsty brigand. Perhaps they weren’t so different after all.

  “Everyone assemble in the command compartment,” crackled Jonah’s voice over the intercom.

  Hassan sat up in his bunk, but an overwhelming pall of grief prevented him from moving any further. Passing by, Dalmar extended his hand, pointing at the doctor with a single extended index finger.

  “Come with me, my brother,” he ordered.

  The pair made their way into the command compartment, joined by Alexis from the engine room. Vitaly sat down at a central computer console and the others crowded around him. Jonah pushed his way to the center of the pack.

  “This,” Jonah began, pointing to plans of Anconia Island on the screen, “is the Bettencorps fortress.”

  Dalmar snickered. “And the thermal exhaust port is the key to the fortress.”

  “Thermal exhaust port? I don’t get it,” said Hassan.

  “It’s a Star Wars joke,” Alexis said without looking at the doctor.

  “Anconia Island is a massive, heavily fortified, heavily reinforced target,” Jonah went on. “She’s built off the same underpinnings as North Sea oil platforms, designed to take typhoons and tsunami alike. We could ram her with the Scorpion at full speed and it wouldn’t so much as knock a pen off Charles Bettencourt’s desk.”

  “Please say ramming Anconia is not plan,” said Vitaly.

  “It’s not the plan,” said Jonah. “In fact, I’d like everybody to hear your plan.”

  Vitaly looked around and cleared his throat. “This based on talk with captain,” he said. “We think Bettencorps jettison chemical weapons in water, this is source of red tide. Source of problem Fatima find. Problem she die for.”

  “He’s turned the Arabian Sea into a sacrifice zone,” said Hassan. “Killing nearly all multicellular sea life in the dumping grounds and harming coastal peoples, as you witnessed.”

  “My mother came to believe Bettencorp was dumping illegal germs and chemicals from a long-defunct Soviet weapons program. Something she called the Dead Hand.”

  “Somebody’s certainly dumping seriously bad shit in the area,” said Jonah. “Not run of the mill industrial waste. The leaky barrels on the beach and sick people I heard about from Burhaan, the fisherman who rescued Klea and me, also seem to confirm it.” He gestured toward the computer screen. “Vitaly and I have been analyzing the Scorpion’s computer systems And while they don’t directly confirm the dumping activities, it turns out the computers reveal a lot more about Anconia Island and her operations than would first appear.”

  “Like what?” asked Alexis.

  “You look now.” The Russian flicked open a menu, displaying a rotating 3D display of Anconia Island. He zoomed in on a massive support pillar at the end of the floating runway. The virtual camera broke through the pillar’s skin, revealing a massive high-security server farm within.

  “If dumping records anywhere, it here,” said Vitaly.

  “So we need to steal the records. Without that data, anything we say will be unfounded,” Hassan mumbled.

  “How does this work?” asked Alexis. “How do we even find what we’re looking for? What are we supposed to do when we find it, carry the servers out by hand? There must be two hundred!”

  “You think analog,” said Vitaly with a smile. “We live in digital world. This is clever bit. In examination, I come across many orphan algorithms. I believe Scorpion software basically same as Anconia Island.”

  “So we have a stripped down version of the same operational software,” said Jonah. “Rather than taking the useless code out, the original designers just disabled the unused sections.”

  “That’s where I find heel of Achilles.” Vitaly looked up, beaming.

  “The thermal exhaust port,” Dalmar boomed again. “Key to destroying the Death Star.”

  Vitaly nodded at Dalmar and went on. “Key to everything is catastrophic power loss event,” continued Vitaly. “Or if computer system think Anconia Island has catastrophic power loss event. All of island will shut off computer terminals and switch to emergency battery backup. Then island uses dedicated satellite system to copy all data to remote server farm.”

  “For backup and safekeeping,” added Jonah.

  “So?” said Alexis.

  “Weak point!”Vitaly exclaimed. “I know all confusing—all talk of thermal port, heels of Achilles.”

  “Jonah, spell it out for us,” Hassan said.

  “Okay.” Jonah took a deep breath. “I sneak aboard Anconia Island. I break into the server room. I tell the computer system that there is a catastrophic power loss. But when the servers back themselves up at the remote site, we will divert the data stream to servers of our choosing.”

  “We have servers?” asked Hassan.

  “We don’t need servers of our own,” said Jonah, grinning. “This is where it gets good. Activist and environmental organizations have established drop-box servers for corporate and governmental whistleblowers. Anyone can dump data into these, but nobody can access the information but the recipient. Not all of them will be able to process a high-speed mega-data-dump like this, but all it takes is one. So a bunch of Greenpeace types pick through the data, find the disposal records, and the secret goes worldwide. We can provide a little hand holding if necessary, but believe me—the data dump will arou
se curiosity. I’m sure many have their suspicions about Anconia Island already.”

  “I’m stuck on the part where we go back to Anconia Island,” said Alexis. “Aren’t we running from those guys?”

  “That’s the easy part,” said Jonah. “We follow a resupply ship straight in. It will completely mask our signature. Vitaly, you think you can handle that?”

  “Is no problem,” said Vitaly with a smirk. “Easy peasy for number one pilot Vitaly.”

  “Good, I like easy peasy,” said Jonah. “We’ll briefly surface next to the jetway a couple of hours before sunrise. I’ll wear mercenary clothes and use our dead sub captain’s security badge to let myself into the server farm. With a little luck, it’ll just be a matter of walking in, loading Vitaly’s hack and walking right back out again.”

  “You won’t be alone,” Hassan said. “I’m coming with you.”

  “I hate to be the one who keeps pointing out all the obvious flaws in this amazing plan,” said Alexis. “But what if the security badge doesn’t work? Or if Vitaly’s code doesn’t work?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jonah with a shrug. “We’ll probably end up getting shot.”

  “Great back-up plan.” She looked at Hassan and back to Jonah. “Okay, let’s go expose this bastard,” said Alexis. “Or get Jonah and Hassan shot.”

  “Or both,” Vitaly said with a grim laugh. “Both always possibility. Doctor save my life, but Jonah worst captain ever.”

  Jonah stood on the deck of the surfaced Scorpion with Dalmar and his crew, watching as a rusted-out pirate mothership drifted closer. The approaching vessel was in bad shape. Maybe a lifetime ago it was a pleasure yacht, but now it was a chopped-down, welded-over Frankenstein with years of rust running down every scupper. How the pirates even kept it running was beyond Jonah’s imagination.

  The maroon waters around them stank of death. Pools of blood-red algae bloomed, discoloring the sea itself. Poisons had leached into the schools of fish, suffocating them. Their silvery, bloated corpses dotted the water like stars in an endless sky. Jonah coughed and his eyes watered—the smell was unbearable.

  Beside him lay three black body bags filled with frozen corpses and the sheet-wrapped body of Professor Fatima Nassiri. Hassan knelt down beside the cotton-encased body, placing a hand on his mother’s shrouded shoulder.

  “I’m impressed you didn’t need a radio to find your fighters,” Jonah said to Dalmar as he pointed towards the fishing boat.

  “A radio is not necessary,” replied Dalmar. “Not when you know the ways of the sea and the ways of men.”

  The pirate ship gently bumped against the hull of the submarine as dozens of unsmiling men leaned over the railings, ancient rifles and RPG’s sloppily slung over shoulders.

  Dalmar waved and greeted them in the local language, then pointed to the stitched up wound on his neck. Several men nodded and then tossed bow and stern mooring lines to Alexis and Vitaly, who secured the pirate vessel alongside.

  “I regret I will not accompany you on your infiltration,” said Dalmar, watching as a boy rolled a boarding ladder over the side.

  “Me too,” said Jonah. “What do you think of our odds of survival?”

  Dalmar’s eyes flickered over Jonah’s crew and landed on Vitaly, locking their gazes long enough for the Russian to blush and answer with a sly smile.

  Did I miss something between those two? Jonah thought.

  The pirate turned his gaze back to Jonah. “When you fight such men, you must welcome death.”

  Shit. He’s not giving us even odds. Jonah sighed and nodded, acknowledging the grim appraisal.

  Two pirates dropped down the boarding ladder, shirtless men holding the aluminum-and-wood frame in place with their own body weight. One of the men against the railing waved his arms and started speaking the rapid-fire local dialect. Dalmar responded in kind, and for the first time, the pirates at the railing broke out into smiles and uneasy chuckles.

  “He said they missed me!” exclaimed Dalmar as he stepped onto the ladder. “They thought I was dead. But nothing can kill Dread Pirate Dalmar Abdi!”

  “Any news of Klea?” asked Jonah.

  Dalmar looked up and asked his men. Several shook their heads. Dalmar shrugged. There was no message to translate.

  “Tell your men we wish we could show them more hospitality,” said Jonah, gesturing to the four bodies on the deck. “But they’ve arrived just in time for a funeral detail.”

  “We understand,” said Dalmar. “We have seen much death as well.”

  Beside them, Hassan busied himself by attaching roping chains and other weights to the feet of the body bags. Finishing, he stood up.

  “I believe we’re ready to bury the bodies of the mercenaries,” said Hassan. “Anyone want to say anything?”

  “Good riddance,” said Alexis.

  “I say something,” said Vitaly, stepping forward. He bowed his head and cleared his throat, hands folded in front of him.

  “Go ahead,” said Jonah, nodding as everyone circled around the three black body bags. When Vitaly began to speak, Dalmar stepped off the ladder to stand beside him.

  “You have died,” began Vitaly. “Captain Jonah killed you. But that does not mean he think you bad men. Some of you my friends and I am very sad you dead. There many reason for soldiers to come to far side of world. Together we did bad things, but some of us did bad things because we know nothing else. And for many soldiers, war never stop, even if fighting stop. May you find peace in death you not find in life.”

  With that, Vitaly and Hassan slid the three bodies off the submarine’s deck, one after another. They each splashed into the water and disappeared into the depths in a cloud of expunging bubbles. The act felt sacrilegious, cruel, a debasement of the human body to consign it to such foul waters.

  “I don’t know if that was a eulogy or an exorcism,” Alexis mumbled.

  Hassan looked at his mother’s body, then to Jonah.

  “I know I’m supposed to say something,” he said, loud enough for the entire crew to hear. “But I can’t. And I can’t bury her with them. Not in these waters—they represent everything she lost her life fighting.”

  “Brother Hassan,” said Dalmar, stepping forward and wrapping a massive arm around the doctor’ shoulders. “Allow me to take our mother’s body. I will bury her to the customs of my tribe. She will be placed in consecrated ground forever facing the Holy City. I swear to you she will be honored as a beautiful Moroccan princess. My people will protect her grave and they will always welcome you as a clan elder.”

  “I’d … I’d like that,” whispered Hassan.

  The crew of the Scorpion surrounded Fatima’s body and slipped their hands underneath her wrapped form, raising her up. They silently carried her to the pirate vessel. Solemn pirates reached down and lifted Fatima the final few feet, laying her body on a low interior bench in the cool shade.

  Away from the others, Dalmar looked Jonah in the eyes and placed a hand on the American’s arm.

  “I must leave now, my friend,” said Dalmar. “May you be victorious in your quest. May you find success or die honorable deaths. And when you need your army, you will have it.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Anconia Island rose tall and proud into the moonlit night, skyscrapers jutting against the pinpricked fabric of the heavens. Far below the glass and steel buildings and their massive rising columns of supporting concrete and steel lurked the submarine Scorpion. Thirty feet beneath the surface and masked by the man-made island, Jonah felt nothing but confidence in their hiding place as he marched into the command compartment.

  “Captain’s naked,” said Vitaly, shielding his eyes as Jonah Blackwell strode in wearing nothing more than a tan and a large waterproof bag slung over one shoulder.

  “Again?” blurted Alexis.

  “What do you mean, again?” said Jonah.

  “Ha!” shouted Vitaly. “Alexis is Peeping Tina.”

  Jonah plopped the waterproof bag
onto the deck and sighed.

  “Fine!” said Vitaly, exasperated. “If nobody ask, Vitaly ask. Captain, why must you be naked?”

  “My Russian friend, I assure you there is a perfectly logical reason for being naked,” said Jonah, gesturing towards himself. “Our mission demands it. Indeed, this is tactical nudity.”

  Hassan stuck his head through the hatch, and glanced at the assembled crew.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Jonah. “Come on in!”

  “Jonah, I genuinely do not understand your orders.” Hassan stepped gingerly over the hatch threshold and into the command compartment, wearing nothing but a tea towel over his privates and a flush on his face.

  Alexis whistled and then looked behind her as if it wasn’t her.

  “Vitaly should get naked, too?” The helmsman pretended to begin unbuttoning his shirt. “Maybe this Vitaly-kind-of-party.”

  “Please don’t,” said Hassan with a groan.

  “Here’s the deal.” Jonah hefted the waterproof bag again and prepared to climb up to the lockout chamber. “We’re not going to surface the Scorpion. We’ll exit the lockout chamber, swim up through the water and sneak onto Anconia. Once we’re out of the water, we crack open this dry-bag and dress in mercenary clothing. Just like crossing the Rio Grande.”

  “I’m Moroccan,” said Hassan, playing indignant. “Not Mexican. And another thing—I understand the concept, but wearing nothing, not even a pair of underwear? What difference could a pair of underwear possibly make?”

  “I … didn’t think of that,” admitted Jonah.

  “Too late now!” Vitaly laughed. “We have seen yelda already.”

  “Guys!” said Jonah. “You’re thinking about this all wrong. Imagine you’re telling this story at a ritzy country club someday. Would you rather say you broke into a high-security facility, or that you broke into a high-security facility while buck-ass nekkid?”

  “It does have certain ring,” admitted Vitaly. “But what is club of country?”

  “Just be safe,” said Alexis. “Vitaly got us into the systems—I’ll be watching over Anconia’s internal security feed the whole time.”