“But what of the hostages?” asked the man.
Ahmed looked up at the flying bridge, relieved to see the bosun standing there, the collar around his neck and chains draped around his wrists to give the impression he was restrained. “We still have three collared hostages to discourage the infidels. Move all the rest into the officers’ mess before you disperse on the main deck, then block the doors from the outside. Leave one guard.”
The pirates looked confused.
“Move!” Ahmed shouted, and the three took off down the stairway.
Chapter Twenty-One
M/T Luther Hurd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia
Ahmed waited until the pirates were two decks below before he raced back up the stairs to the flying bridge.
“Release the others,” he said to the bosun. “I’ll help the chief.”
Milam was steadying himself on the handrail as he climbed to his feet. Ahmed grabbed his other arm to assist him. Milam jerked away.
“Special Forces, huh. You took your own sweet time gettin’ in the game,” Milam snarled. “Don’t you think you could have let us know?”
Ahmed shook his head. “I was already suspect because I’m American. Having you all hate me was the best cover. But things are about to get very interesting, so make up your mind if you believe me or not. If you won’t let me save you, I’m sure as hell going to save myself.”
Milam glared at Ahmed, then nodded, as the bosun and his newly freed shipmates gathered round.
“Where’s the captain?” Milam asked.
“Diriyi, the one you call Toothless, zapped me with a stun gun and took her ashore,” Ahmed said. “I couldn’t stop him. When you’re all safe, I’ll go after her.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I expect a SEAL team from the Carney will be arriving soon,” Ahmed said. “But the original plan won’t work. I’ve decoyed the pirates away for the moment. I’ll free the rest of the crew, and I want you to take them and escape in the free-fall lifeboat. The pirates are all watching out at sea, awaiting attack. They won’t be looking up. If you board quietly, the launch will catch them by surprise. You should meet SEALs coming over water. Tell them there are no hostages left aboard.”
“What about you?” Milam asked.
“I can take care of myself,” Ahmed said.
“Why trust this son of a bitch?” Stan Jones demanded. “All we have is his word the captain’s not onboard. I say we search for her before we take off in a lifeboat.”
“Look, Stan,” Milam said, “Lynda and I talked about this. I don’t think—”
“Sorry, Chief,” Jones said, taking a step toward him. “It’s not your call. With Lynda gone, I’m the acting captain, and I—”
The sap came out of Ahmed’s pocket and struck the back of Jones’s head so fast it was almost a blur, toppling him. On Ahmed’s right, he caught movement from the corner of his eye and ducked a retaliatory swing from the bosun, the big man’s fist striking air where Ahmed’s head had been. Ahmed danced away, his hand on his Glock as a warning.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Milam demanded.
“Because we don’t have time for a debate,” Ahmed said. “Decide if you’re in or out. Right now. Or I go my own way.”
Milam looked at the others, then nodded. “OK, we’re in. What should we do?”
“Go to the lifeboat, as quietly as possible. Get it ready to drop, and wait. I’ll take care of the guard and lead the rest of the crew to the boat.”
“They won’t trust you,” Milam said. “I’ll come with you.” He turned. “Joe, can you and Boats get Stan to the boat while I go with Traito—the sergeant.”
The two nodded, and Ahmed watched as they began to help a now-conscious Jones to his feet. Ahmed motioned for Milam to follow and moved to the stairs.
Ahmed stopped at his cabin on C-deck, then raced down to A-deck, Milam in tow. He left Milam in the central stairwell and walked down the passageway to the officers’ mess. The single guard in the passageway glanced at the pillow wrapped around Ahmed’s right hand, held there with his left.
“Did you injure yourself—”
The Glock spoke twice, its bark reduced to dull thuds by the pillow. The guard collapsed, his AK clattering to the deck. Ahmed picked up the assault rifle and called down the passageway to Milam.
With the whole crew together for the first time since capture, the atmosphere in the crowded officers’ mess was tense. Milam was besieged with questions—faster than he could answer them, each louder than the last.
“Quiet!” he yelled, repeating the order several times before it took. “I don’t have time to explain, but we’re getting out of here. Right now I need everyone to just shut the hell up and listen to me. Got that?”
There were murmurs and nods of assent as he continued.
“First, I need a headcount,” he said, looking around until he spotted Dave Jergens, the chief steward. “Dave?”
“I did a count when they put us together, Chief,” he said. “Eighteen. Everyone’s here, except the four of y’all they pulled out of here earlier and the bosun.”
Milam nodded. “All of those are accounted for. Now listen, we’re going to the lifeboat and everyone has to—”
“Why are you doing this? Where’s Captain Arnett?” the steward asked.
Milam hesitated. “They took her ashore.”
His announcement was met with shocked silence, and he continued before the crew had time to digest the news. “But there’s nothing we can do about that. We got one chance to get out of here, and not much time to do it. We’re going to move out of here and back to the lifeboat. No talking. No noise. We’ll launch the boat and head toward the navy ships.”
“How?” a seaman asked. “There’s friggin’ pirates all over the ship. Even if we get the boat in the water, it ain’t exactly a speedboat. They’ll blow the hell out of us before we get a hundred yards.”
“We’ll have a little help,” Milam said, opening the door and motioning to Ahmed.
There was a low collective snarl. “That friggin’ Traitor,” said someone.
“Not exactly,” Milam said. “Meet Sergeant Ahmed, US Army Special Forces.”
At Ahmed’s suggestion, the men left their shoes in the mess room, and followed Milam single file up the stairwell to D-deck. The elevated exterior catwalk to the top of the machinery casing was exposed, in full view of the pirates on the main deck below should they look up. Milam crept across in stocking feet, hoping like hell they wouldn’t.
On the top of the machinery casing, he peeked over the starboard rail. Two pirates sat on a set of mooring bits, AKs across their knees, as they chewed khat and chatted, the alarm of a few minutes before seemingly forgotten. Milam turned and motioned to Ahmed, crouched out of sight across the catwalk, and the next man started across.
Milam had half the crew crouching out of sight on the machinery casing when a young seaman’s sock snagged in the catwalk grating. The man finished the crossing in a stumbling run, his first unbalanced step on to the top of the machinery casing producing a dull but audible thump.
Milam took a quick peek over the rail. The pirates were looking up.
Ahmed crouched in the shadows of D-deck, listening to the pirates below.
“I tell you, I heard something.”
“Bah! You’re an old woman, jumping at shadows. Sit back down and have some khat.”
“Maybe you’re right. I can’t see a thing with these bloody lights glaring in my eyes anyway,” the first pirate said.
Ahmed crept to the edge of the deck and peeked over, seeing the pirate shading his eyes with his hand and peering upward. He watched as the man dropped his hand and returned to his seat on the mooring bit. The man looked around.
“I don’t like these lights. We’re exposed,” the pirate said.
“Relax,” the other pirate said. “The lights also show the hostages ready to lose their heads. The Americans won�
��t attack. Otherwise, they’d have come long ago.”
Ahmed moved back to his position, signaled Milam, and sent the next man across the catwalk. The rest followed at ten-second intervals, then Ahmed joined them. Getting into the free-fall lifeboat was a repeat of the catwalk exercise, requiring transit of another exposed walkway while pirates sat in plain sight on the stern two decks below. Milam stayed back this time, sending the men to the open rear door of the enclosed boat, where a recovered Stan Jones counted heads and ushered them into the boat. Milam sent the last man across and turned to Ahmed.
“The fools will be surprised,” Ahmed whispered. “But they’ll recover quickly. I’ll cover your escape, then go after the woman. I must find her soon, or she’s dead.”
Ahmed saw Milam swallow and extend his hand.
Ahmed took the offered hand and felt Milam’s hand tighten on his. “Get her back,” Milam said, his voice cracking.
“With the help of Allah, I will,” Ahmed replied. “But now you must go.” He glanced toward the lifeboat, where Jones stood in the open door beckoning Milam to come. “Tell Mr. Jones I’m sorry I struck him, and also to keep the boat going straight away from the ship. You need to get out of the light cast by the ship quickly.”
Milam nodded and gave Ahmed’s hand a final squeeze.
Ahmed watched Milam move into the lifeboat and swing the stern door shut quietly. He waited, knowing it would take a moment before Milam settled himself into a rear-facing seat and strapped himself in for the sudden deceleration when the lifeboat hit the water.
He surveyed the pirates on the main deck below while he waited. There were four on the stern, and the pair he’d overheard farther forward on the starboard side. No doubt there were more on the port side out of his direct line of sight, but that didn’t matter. They’d have to move into his field of fire to target the lifeboat and he’d have the advantage of surprise. He decided to let his first target be self-selecting. The pirate with the quickest reflexes would be the first to die. It seemed fair.
He’d no sooner made the decision than the lifeboat began to move, plunging over the side bow first. It struck the water at a sharp angle, submerged, then broke the surface some distance from the ship, the momentum of the dive carrying it away even before the engine cranked to hasten the progress. The pirate directly below Ahmed won the reaction-time lottery. His rifle was at his shoulder before Ahmed drilled him with a three-round burst in the back.
Ahmed shifted his aim to take out the second pirate of the pair, also before the man got off a shot, just as the second pair of pirates on the stern opened up on the lifeboat. But the boat was a moving target, and both pirates had their AKs on full automatic—noisy but inaccurate. Few of their bullets found a mark before their fusillade was cut short by two three-round bursts from Ahmed.
He ducked as a hail of fire ricocheted off the side of the machinery casing, well above his head, and realized he was taking fire from the two pirates on the starboard side. They were firing blind into the lights above them, and Ahmed fought his urge to flee and finished them with two aimed bursts.
He heard shouts coming from below him to starboard and spun, just as two more pirates rounded the machinery casing and rushed onto the stern. They froze, confused at the sight of their dead comrades, and Ahmed shot them down before they recovered. He looked out and saw the lifeboat, a dim patch of orange in the gloom now, and he turned to the deckhouse. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
US Navy SH-60 Sea Hawk
Airborne near Luther Hurd
Harardheere, Somalia
The SEAL lieutenant watched from the chopper as the free-fall lifeboat dived off the stern of Luther Hurd, followed by the flash of gunfire. He cursed under his breath as he saw what little was left of his rescue plan evaporate, along with plans B and C. All the plans called for Ahmed to get the hostages centralized in one room and the explosive collars neutralized before calling in a request for rescue along with the hostage location. Now, at least some of the hostages had escaped in the lifeboat. Or was it all of them? If not, where were the rest? And where the hell was Ahmed and why hadn’t he called? This was turning into a grade-A clusterfuck! He looked at the screen in front of him and the symbols of his two waterborne teams now closing on Luther Hurd. He keyed his mike and ordered one to hold its position and vectored the other toward the lifeboat. No way in hell was he going to charge in without at least some idea of what was going on.
Lifeboat
Harardheere, Somalia
Milam braced for impact as the boat dropped bow first into the sea. He felt the strange sensation as the boat plunged underwater before surfacing, followed by the rumble of the diesel as Stan Jones hit the electric start. He heard the rattle of gunfire and a sharp knock as something hit the fiberglass canopy.
He looked up to Jones in the elevated seat, with its glass ports to provide visibility for the coxswain. “You better get down lower, Stan,” he said. “You’re a sitting duck up there, and it doesn’t much matter where we’re going until we get away from the ship. Sit on the deck and reach up and hold the bottom of the wheel.”
Jones didn’t respond for a moment, then turned and gave Milam a strange look as he reached his left hand across his chest and felt behind his right shoulder. He pulled back a bloody hand. “Thanks for the advice, Chief, but I think you’re a little friggin’ late.”
“Christ,” Milam said, and began to unbuckle his harness, as beside him the bosun did the same. Both men were up and beside Jones seconds before he slumped in his harness.
“I’ll hold him, Boats. You unfasten his harness,” Milam said.
The bosun did as instructed, and between them, they maneuvered Jones to the seat just vacated by Milam.
“You steer, Boats,” Milam said. “Just take a quick look to make sure we’re still headed away from the damn ship and then stay down and hold on to the bottom of the wheel. We’ll take care of Stan.”
The bosun nodded and moved to the wheel, as Milam tried to get Jones’s shirt off so he could see the wound. Frustrated, he tore it, just as the chief steward made his way up the aisle with the first-aid kit.
“Let me help, Chief,” said the steward, as footfalls sounded at the rear of the boat, followed by rapping on the stern door.
“US Navy. Open up,” said a voice on the other side of the door.
“Thank God,” Milam said, leaving Jones in the steward’s care and moving aft. “Boats, get on back in the coxswain’s seat and let me by.”
He moved aft and threw open the stern door.
“We’ve got an injured man—”
“Hands on your head and don’t move!” said a black-clad figure, his face obscured by goggles, unlike the assault rifle pointed at Milam, which was quite visible.
Milam hesitated, confused.
“Hands on your head! Now!” the man shouted again. “And have someone open the forward door.”
“Christ on a crutch,” Milam said, putting his hands on his head. “Somebody open the bow door before this moron shoots me,” he called over his shoulder.
He heard the bow door open, and after a moment a voice from the bow called to the SEAL holding him at gunpoint. “Clear. No bad guys inside.”
The SEAL lowered his weapon. “Sorry,” he said. “It could’ve been a trap. What’s your situation?”
Milam’s anger vanished. “We got an injured man. Gunshot wound. Everybody else is OK.”
The SEAL nodded. “We’ll leave our medic with you. Carney’s sending out another boat. Any hostages left aboard the ship?”
“No,” said Milam. “But they took the captain ashore. And there’s a US Army guy aboard, but he looks like a pirate.”
“We know,” the SEAL said, and keyed his mike.
M/T Luther Hurd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia
Ahmed raced down the stairwell, feeling strangely exhilarated. It was good to have a taste of his own identity, but now he had to be Gaal again, if only for a fe
w moments. He reached main-deck level and ran out the starboard door of the deckhouse, and into a confused melee of pirates. He ran up the starboard side of the main deck toward the accommodation ladder, shouting as he ran to gain attention.
“Everyone listen!” he yelled, as he stopped on the main deck and pointed back toward the deckhouse. “The hostages overpowered me and escaped, and the Americans will attack any minute. Everyone back to the deckhouse. It’s more defensible. We can hold them off long enough for boats to rescue us from shore.”
Ahmed turned to the nearest pirate. “The infidels took my phone,” he said. “Give me yours so I can call and arrange the boats!”
The pirate hesitated.
“Now! You idiot,” Ahmed yelled, and the man pulled a phone from his pocket and handed it over. Ahmed pocketed it and turned back to the milling crowd.
“What are you waiting for?” he screamed, and fired a burst from his AK near the feet of the nearest group, sending bullets whining off the steel deck and into the darkness. “Go now, or by the Beard of the Prophet, I will shoot you down myself.”
The startled pirates started running toward the deckhouse, and as soon as they were all in motion, Ahmed turned and ran for the accommodation ladder. As he started down the sloping aluminum stairway, his heart sank as he heard an outboard crank and saw a man in the remaining Zodiac untying the boat from the ladder. One of the pirates was a bit smarter than the rest.
“Stop!” Ahmed screamed, and brought up his AK, but the pirate twisted the throttle and the boat roared off. Ahmed’s burst hit him in the back and he toppled out of the boat, which slowed abruptly and veered against the hull, thirty feet away from the bottom landing of the accommodation ladder.
Ahmed slung his AK on his back and flew down the ladder, hardly hesitating at the bottom before diving in. He reached the boat in half a dozen strong strokes, and pulled himself aboard as angry shouts reached him from the main deck above. Their attention drawn by his gunfire, even the dullest pirate understood Ahmed was abandoning them.
Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel) Page 19
