Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel)

by R. E. McDermott

  “No!” said a voice behind him. He snapped his head around to see Dugan crouched in the door to the wheelhouse.

  “What is problem, Dyed?” Borgdanov said. “Piraty are in range of our jammers now, but if we move out of jammer range and leave them with communications, they will call other pirates. One RPG in wheelhouse will knock out radios.”

  “And kill some innocent fishermen in the bargain,” Dugan said. “You know they make hostages of the crews of the vessels they hijack as mother ships.”

  Borgdanov shrugged. “This may be true, but we cannot leave them with communications.”

  “There are probably half a dozen sat-phones on that boat in addition to the radios,” Dugan said. “Even if you take out the radios, we can’t cut their communications, short of boarding and destroying their individual sat-phones. Do you think that’s likely to happen without at least some of your guys taking a bullet?”

  The Russian looked down at the fishing boat, where the pirates still outnumbered his combined force at least three to one.

  “Nyet, but what will we do?”

  “Do you think they’ve used up all their RPGs?”

  “Da, otherwise I think they would still be using them.”

  Dugan crept up beside the Russian, keeping his head down as he approached the edge of the deck. “Then I think we should just sit tight, stay close with our heads down, and wait until they’re ready for us to rescue them,” he said.

  Borgdanov looked skeptical. “That was not plan.”

  “Plans change,” Dugan said, leaning over to peek at the fishing boat, already listing to starboard as water gushed into the holes in her hull. “Besides, we can’t be sure of knocking out all communications without unacceptable risks, so dealing with this bunch here and now is the best option, even if it does cost us time. If we leave them behind and they do sic other pirates on us, losing time may be the least of our problems. Let’s bag this bunch as quickly as possible and head for the coast.”

  Borgdanov followed his gaze. “Maybe you are right, Dyed.”

  Dugan gave a resigned nod. The delay from being right might cost another innocent seaman his life.

  M/T Pacific Endurance

  Arabian Sea

  “Well, they’re stubborn, I’ll give them that,” Dugan said to Borgdanov. “I figured when we put Marie Floyd up close and personal on the opposite side of them, they’d get the message and give up.”

  Marie Floyd had arrived an hour or so after the gunfight with the pirates. Unable to communicate because of the jamming, Blake had come aboard Pacific Endurance via Zodiac to confer with Dugan and Borgdanov. They’d attempted to intimidate the pirates by having Blake move Marie Floyd to the other side of the crippled Kyung Yang No. 173, boxing her in and towering over her, but too far away for the pirates to attempt a boarding of either tanker.

  The fishing boat was listing badly to starboard, her engine room flooded. But her condition had stabilized, and she appeared in no immediate danger of sinking. Far from surrendering, the pirates were using the captive crewmen of the Kyung Yang No. 173 as human shields. The helpless South Koreans were tied to the handrails, four on each side of the fishing boat, with a pirate under cover in the house behind them, ready to fire from his protected position and kill the hostages at the first sign of attack from either tanker.

  “These piraty think they are untouchable as long as they have hostages,” said Borgdanov. “And everyone plays their game. Is for this reason they become so strong, da? Maybe better we just sink them with grenades and RPGs. Is bad to lose these eight fishermen, but how many more fishermen do we save if we kill so many pirates?”

  “Christ! So we just bomb the hell out them, sink them, and leave? Is that your idea of a friggin’ plan?” Dugan asked.

  “This is big delay, and we have primary mission. But”—Borgdanov shrugged—”you are boss. If you say wait, we wait.”

  “Maybe I can negotiate—”

  “Dyed, I’m sorry, but this is bad idea. Is obvious you are American.”

  “So what?” asked Dugan.

  “So they know you are concerned about hostages and they will drag out negotiation forever, hoping their comrades will come looking for them. I think is better if I negotiate.”

  It was Dugan’s turn to shrug. “Well, I can’t deny you seem to be pretty good at dealing with these assholes. What do you have in mind?”

  Borgdanov grinned. “Nothing complicated. Simple plan is always best, da?”

  Borgdanov moved to the handrail at the edge of A-deck, the lowest deck on Pacific Endurance where he still enjoyed a height advantage over any place on the fishing vessel. He appeared to those below him like a man looking down on them from the edge of a cliff, a commanding figure despite the white flag in his hand.

  “I want to talk,” Borgdanov called down. “Summon your leader.”

  A thin Somali of medium height stepped out of the wheelhouse and looked up.

  “I am the leader. What do you want?” shouted the man.

  Borgdanov shrugged. “I want you to surrender. Lay down arms and you will be treated fairly and your wounded will get medical attention.”

  “I don’t think so,” the pirate replied in British-accented English, nodding to the South Koreans tied to the rail. “Perhaps you’ve noticed we have hostages. It will go badly for them if you attack us, but you can save them all if you’re prepared to be reasonable and let us go.”

  Borgdanov snorted. “Well, you are big comedian, I think. How do you suppose that will happen?”

  “Give us one of your ships and six crewmen to run it. Move everyone else to the other ship. We will give you two hostages as a show of good faith as soon as we see you moving your men to the second ship. After we’ve boarded the ship and confirmed the six crewmen you leave behind can run it and that no one else is hiding aboard, we’ll release the remaining six hostages. Then we go our separate ways.”

  “And if I refuse?” Borgdanov asked.

  “Then we will begin executing the hostages,” the pirate said, making a show of looking at his watch. “You have one hour.”

  Borgdanov stroked his chin, as if considering the proposal, then responded. “Thank you for generous offer of one hour to consider, but is not necessary. Ilya!” he called back over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the pirate.

  Sergeant Ilya Denosovitch and three other Russians herded two dozen Somalis to the rail, including the three captured earlier in the day. All were naked, with duct tape over their eyes and mouths and hands bound before them with plastic ties.

  Borgdanov suppressed a smile at the look of shock on the head pirate’s face.

  “You see,” he said, “I think you have good idea to shoot hostages. Is very clear what you intend. Anybody can understand. So. I think I do the same, da? But I am more generous. You have eight, so I decided twenty-four—three to one. Is bargain, da? And by the way, these piraty are spares. I have plenty more. So please”—Borgdanov gestured to the pirate leader—”you go first. I insist.”

  The pirate stood motionless and speechless until Borgdanov continued. “OK. OK. I know is difficult to start sometime. I go first.”

  Borgdanov grabbed the pirate nearest him at the rail and threw him to the deck. The pirate fell out of sight of the fishing boat and the Russian unholstered a Makarov pistol and fired down at the deck three times. There was an angry cry from the pirates on the fishing boat and weapons rose, stopped halfway up by an urgent order from the pirate leader as he stared at the guns of the other Russians, all targeting him.

  Borgdanov nodded to the Russian sergeant, who helped him lift the executed captive and hurl his body over the rail, into the sea. The body splashed down face-up and floated a moment before slipping below the clear water, staring up at the world he was leaving behind.

  “Now please. Go ahead,” called Borgdanov. “Execute hostage. We do not have all day, I am afraid. Ahh, but where are my manners? You were so nice to tell me your plan, so I should tell you mine
before we continue, da? Is very simple. You kill those hostages and I kill all the rest of these fellows here, and then we get this silly kill-the-hostage game out of way, da? Then we finish blowing up your ship with RPGs and we pick up whoever can swim. Then we kill them. Not fast like bullet, but slow like hot steel rod in ass and things like that. Not everybody, of course. Maybe two or three we leave alive to tell others is not good thing to fuck with Russians.” Borgdanov shook his head, feigning sadness. “But you, my friend, I am sorry to say, will not be one who lives. You are leader, so leader must become example. You I will sit on steel deck naked and stomp your balls flat with my heel, then I will tear off your head and piss in the hole.” Borgdanov smiled. “Is quite easy to tear off head, especially skinny little fellow like you. Now—any questions?”

  The pirate leader licked his lips. He tried to speak twice before anything came out of his mouth. “If … if we surrender, how do we know you won’t do that anyway?”

  Borgdanov inclined his head toward the Somali captives that lined the rail. “You do not. But if I executed captives, why are these fellows still alive? I will turn you over to proper authorities unless something forces me to do otherwise, like problem we have here.”

  “Do we have your word?”

  “No,” said Borgdanov. “But I will give you my word that if you don’t surrender within sixty seconds and stop wasting my time, I will kill you.”

  The pirate leader swallowed hard, then laid his assault rifle on the deck and raised his hands.

  Dugan stood with Woody out of sight of the pirates and watched the Russians push the Somalis to the rail. He flinched when Borgdanov unexpectedly threw a pirate to the deck beside the corpse of the man that had died earlier in the stairwell and then put three bullets in the dead man. The corpse was flying over the side before he figured it out. He was still scratching his head when the pirates surrendered minutes later.

  “Sure didn’t see that one coming,” he said.

  Beside him, Woody was equally impressed. “I’ll be damned if I ain’t getting to kinda like the commie bastard.”

  M/T Pacific Endurance

  Arabian Sea

  “One hundred and sixteen,” Dugan said, looking down at the list. “With at least a half dozen from every major pirate clan. We’ll divide them up evenly, and as soon as Woody can get us patched up, I think we’re ready to head for Somalia.”

  “How are the four wounded pirates doing?” Blake asked.

  Borgdanov shrugged. “Not so bad. Ilya is cross-trained as combat medic and is very good. He says no problem. All wounds are in arms or legs. I think these piraty were shot by Woody’s men. My men never miss kill shot.”

  Beside him, Woody bristled. “Screw you, Ivan. My boys—”

  Borgdanov laughed. “Is joke, little man. I think you must … how do you say … lighten up, da?”

  Woody looked somewhat mollified and was about to speak when Dugan changed the subject. “What about repairs, Woody? When can we get underway?”

  Woody shot a stream of tobacco juice over the rail and into the sea, and looked up as if he were envisioning the repair process.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Nothing much we can do about the starboard lifeboat or the bridge wing. The RPG took out the starboard navigation light, but I got Junior riggin’ up a temporary. Doubt it’ll meet regulations, but at least she’ll show a green light. One of the RPGs blowed a hole in number-five starboard ballast tank, but she’s way above the waterline and hit between frames. That ain’t much of a problem—most of the steel just peeled back, but it’s still attached. We can close up the hole by heating and hammering it back in place, then we’ll throw a doubler plate on the inside and weld it up. It’ll be a beat-to-fit, paint-to-match homeward-bound job, but it’ll do.” Woody paused. “The biggest delay’s gonna be the after peak tank. A hit right at the waterline took out a chunk of one of the frames. That ain’t quite as easy to fix with what we got onboard. Lucky the water didn’t quite make it up to the safe room.”

  “So where do we stand on that?” Dugan asked.

  Woody shrugged. “The captain’s ballasting to give us a port list so we can get the hole on the starboard side out of the water and have a better look at it. I’m thinking the quickest way is to just weld a light plate over the outside and box around the hole on the inside of the tank. We can put a bunch of scrap metal in the box for reinforcement and tack-weld it all together, then fill the whole damn thing with concrete.” Woody looked over at Blake. “I called Edgar over on Marie Floyd. He told me there’s a bunch of sacks of Speed Crete up in the foc’sle storeroom.” Woody smiled. “I figured there would be. If Ray Hanley’s gettin’ ready to scrap a ship, I reckon a good supply of cement has been standard supply onboard a few years.”

  “No comment,” Blake said, and Woody laughed.

  “What about the monitors?” Dugan asked. “We’re out of the pirate-hunting business for now, but that doesn’t mean we won’t run into some. If so, I’d still like to be able to steer from the safe room.”

  “The fiber optics is OK,” Woody said. “The monitors themselves got a shaking—more than they could tolerate, I reckon. I got the boys stealing the TVs out of the officer and crew lounges. I think we can jury-rig somethin’ up.”

  “Good,” Dugan said. “Which brings me back to, how long?”

  “I got Edgar and his boys coming over to give us a hand,” Woody said. “I figure twelve, maybe fourteen hours.” He looked past Dugan at an approaching figure who stopped several feet away, intent on catching Woody’s eye but seemingly reluctant to intrude on the conversation. Woody shifted his stance so the man was no longer in his line of sight and lowered his voice.

  “That is,” he said, “if you can keep that damn Korean off my ass. Somehow he figured out I’m the go-to guy for repairs, and he’s been followin’ me all over the damn ship. I can’t seem to shake him.”

  Dugan took a quick glance at the Korean, then turned back to Woody.

  “What’s he want?”

  “Best I can tell, he wants me to patch up the Ding Dong 173, or whatever he calls that tub, so he can go back to fishing.” Woody gave Dugan a hard look. “I take it you ain’t told him he’s now officially a passenger.”

  Dugan smiled. “Captain Kwok’s understanding of English seems to deteriorate rapidly when the discussion turns to something he doesn’t want to hear. Just keep politely ignoring him. I’m sure it will sink in sooner or later.”

  “For the last time, Jesse, no!” Dugan said into the sat-phone, so forcefully Ward figured he might have been able to hear him even without a phone. “I got guys working over the side in the dark with flashlights, trying to get out of here as soon as possible for Somalia. I’m sure as hell not going to burn a day going in the opposite direction and then a day coming back to do a drive-by oil spill in the middle of the night. You’ll have to think of something else.”

  “I have no one else,” Ward said.

  “You’ve got navy ships, and helicopters, and jets, and all sorts of resources you could use for—”

  “All the ships are too far away and way too obvious, as is a military chopper. I told you, I can’t risk alerting the terrorists. If there is something going on and they think we’re on to them, they could scramble with—” Ward caught himself. “Well, it would just be very bad, that’s all. I need you to do this for me. Trust me, OK?”

  “Two days’ delay means two more dead hostages,” Dugan said. “I’m sorry, pal, but I need more than ‘trust me’ if I’m going to carry that on my conscience.”

  “Tom,” Ward said, “if I don’t get some intel on this drillship, and soon, we both might have a lot more than two lives on our consciences.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ward hesitated. The story was so fantastic he was having trouble convincing any of his own superiors it was anything but a fairy tale. He hoped he could be more convincing with Dugan. He took a deep breath and began.

  Five minutes lat
er Dugan had stopped pacing the main deck and stood motionless, the phone pressed to his ear.

  “Jesus Christ!” he whispered into the phone. “That … that can’t be true, Jesse. How could anyone … I mean … do you believe this?”

  “I don’t know what I believe, but I don’t think Imamura was lying, if that’s what you mean. We have to at least check it out.”

  “But why us?” Dugan asked. “We’re a day away, and even if you don’t have any navy ships close enough, a chopper from a navy ship or ashore would—”

  “Make them suspicious as hell,” Ward said. “I can’t put a chopper over them until I’m ready to set it down on her helideck with an assault force, and I’ve got no grounds to board her at the moment. Not without further confirmation.” Ward hesitated. “But it goes beyond that, Tom. The few people above me in the food chain I’ve talked to about this think I’m nuts, but they didn’t sit there with Imamura. I need more proof before I’m likely to get much support for going after an American drillship chartered by a well-connected foreign ally, engaged in an outwardly legal activity in international waters. And the satellite imagery of the drillship pretty much shows business as usual. I need an excuse for getting closer—one that won’t make al-Shabaab take the virus, assuming they have it, and run.”

  “For all you know, they already have,” Dugan said.

  “I don’t think so. We’ve had the drillship under constant satellite surveillance. There have been no boats or chopper flights from the drillship since then. There’s a fishing boat tied up alongside, which is a bit suspicious in itself, but not illegal. We think that’s how Mukhtar got there, but it hasn’t left the side of the drillship. Whatever was there is still there.”

  Dugan fell silent, considering what he’d just learned.

  “Tom?”

  “Oh! Sorry, Jesse,” Dugan said. “I was just trying to come up with a plan. We have a few hours before we finish here. Let me think things over and get back to you.”

  “All right. But call me as soon as you can.”

  “Will do, pal,” Dugan replied, and hung up to resume pacing the deck.