King Pirate

by Tom Stern

  Kelley and the rest of the IPC agents wore black Pinnacle SOV-2000 type III Dragon Skin body armor. Helmets. Night-vision goggles. Each carried a slung HK MP-7 PDW, a submachine gun so cutting-edge it looked like a Star Wars blaster. It held a 40-round clip of 4.6X30mm ammunition, and could spit them at a rate of 950 rounds per minute. Designed for second-line troops, it was perfect for the IPC’s work. The strike teams operated in the gray area between law enforcement and military action. Light enough to fire with one hand, the weapon easily outclassed almost anything a typical pirate crew would throw at them. They also carried two M84 Stun Grenades – flashbangs – apiece, and a full pack of plastic zip ties.

  And Kelley had a knife strapped to his thigh. The same one he’d used to cut Fong Sai-Yuk’s throat.

  Minutes later, the helicopter crossed over land. The timber of the blades subtly changed, sound waves reflecting from uneven rocks and forest. They swooped in over a range of steep hills ringing the harbor.

  They found a deep port with a cement wharf. Large enough to berth two freighters. The port was way too big and over-developed for the tiny, slapped-together village of rickety shanties on its shore. Kelley smirked. Gotcha.

  Anastasia fell silent. Her instructions done, all that remained was to prepare her mind and soul. Kelley tried to catch her eye. He slipped off its cold, smooth surface. She was far beyond driven.

  Kelley looked to himself. Checking his gear one last time. Entering the state of no-mind. Going into his thoughts, and out the other side to a mental place where there was no space for concern, morality, fear. Only a time-slowed essence where the no-mind either killed or died.

  …

  The black military helicopter was invisible against the sky. The pirates sensed it before they heard it. Heard it before they saw it. There was only one reason for a helicopter to arrive. They raced for their weapons.

  The chopper dropped in to the middle of the village like a meteor. Small arms fire popped and flashed from the surrounding buildings. Rounds sang off the chopper’s armor.

  A Marine stopped a bullet with his leg. Blood spattered up, dotting Kelley’s goggles. The Marine grunted, but didn’t cry out. Hard as nails. The two Marines behind him dragged the guy farther into the chopper’s interior while the rest of the crew spilled out.

  Anastasia was the first to hit the dirt. “Flashbangs!”

  The Marines covered their eyes. IPC raiders threw grenades in every direction.

  Night became noon. Ten simultaneous million-candlepower flashes blinded the pirates. Ten simultaneous 180-decibel sonic explosions sent them reeling. It was like getting spun in a barrel that suddenly stopped.

  Kelley had thrown an elbow over his eyes after lobbing his flashbang. He looked up. Most of the pirates flopped on the ground like freshly-caught fish. Groaning and vomiting. Kelley allowed himself a smile.

  He ran to the first victim. A stinking little asshole, his greasy hair like an old fishing net. Writhing next to a stack of oil drums. Pulling at his eyes.

  Kelley shouted in Malay, “You’re under arrest! Shut up and lie still!” He yanked the guy’s hands away from his face, revealing freakishly-dilated pupils. Kelley hog-tied him with plastic zips. His prisoner whimpered in Burmese. Kelley didn’t care. If their positions were reversed, Kelley would be getting much worse.

  The same scene played out a dozen times around Kelley as the Marines and IPC swept the village, restraining the helpless pirates. The Marines weren’t nearly so gentle on their prisoners. Giving back for their wounded man.

  Despite the darkness and chaos, Kelley picked out Anastasia in the action, fifty feet away. Feminine, even with the armor. He hog-tied another pirate. Stepped over the guy. Moved to join Anastasia, picking his cover, keeping low.

  He saw the flying grenade in his peripheral vision before it landed. “Grenade!”

  Kelley threw himself between two shanties. The grenade went off with a skull-splitting BOOM. A flash of fire and smoke preceded its vicious cloud of jagged metal. The Italian guy, Stronzo, screamed as concussion launched him twenty feet into the air. Two Marines standing too close never knew what hit them. Kelley heard shrapnel punch through the cheap shanty walls around him.

  He sprang forward. Gun up, searching for a target. Found them: five pirates taking cover behind the oil drums. Kelley guessed they were on the Atlas when the team struck. Most guys would run. They stayed to fight it out. Kelley gave them that much.

  Four of the pirates opened up with AKMs set to burst. Bullets stung the air in staccato crackles. Kelley saw the last pirate reload a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

  Most of the other raiders in Kelley’s team were still stunned from the grenade explosion. For the moment, Kelley was alone. Didn’t matter. He fired a burst into the drums. Making the pirates react and duck.

  Kelley angled for a closer position, raced into the nearest shanty. The pirates returned fire. Tearing a thousand holes into the flimsy wood. Kelley heard the crump of the grenade launcher.

  He dove out the back window. Rolled behind the neighboring structure. The first shanty exploded behind him. The second absorbed most of the blast. It rocked on its pathetic foundation. For a moment, Kelley got an image of the shanty falling on top of him. It didn’t. But it would next time.

  Kelley popped up. Cracked off another burst. Saw two pirates maneuvering to flank him.

  It was their last mistake. Anastasia was there to head them off. She had been close to the first grenade, but not so close she wasn’t ready for action. She shot the first pirate in the leg with a controlled three-round burst. He wailed and fell, blood splashing his buddy. Kelley could tell Anastasia was shooting to incapacitate. He admired her. She was a stone pro.

  He immediately wished she’d killed the bastard. The fallen pirate jerked the trigger of his AK. Clumsy, throwing his whole clip into the air. Two rounds found Anastasia. The breath whoofed out of her. She landed on her back.

  IPC’s type III body armor was designed to handle anything up to armor-piercing rifle rounds. Kelley knew she was probably okay. But armor wasn’t impenetrable. A bullet could always sneak through to find her face or a bone joint. The other pirate raised his AKM, aiming from a deadly-close distance to finish her off.

  Kelley braced himself, aimed and put a bullet in the pirate’s chest before he could shoot Anastasia. Dropped his aim a few degrees, and put another bullet into the wounded pirate on the ground. Little tufts of blood sprayed up from the impacts.

  In the same moment, a storm of automatic rifle fire exploded from the other side of the village. The Marines and IPC raiders had recovered from the grenade. The remaining pirates ducked. Hundreds of bullets rang off their wall of oil drums.

  Kelley used the distraction to close in on the pirates’ position. The others had the same idea. The initial salvo slowed by half, as Marines covered their mates in standard fire team shoot-and-run style.

  Kelley was close enough to see the last pirate peek up from behind the drums. Still crouched, he worked the action of the RPG launcher. Raised the weapon. He was going to put another explosion right in the middle of the Marines.

  No fucking way Kelley was letting that happen. Kelley threw his last flashbang, aiming to put it directly in front of the barrels. He missed. It tumbled to the right, wobbling along the curve of the earth.

  Kelley covered his eyes. The flashbang went off with its distinctive fwoomp. The light so intense and sudden it was almost a physical thing. Kelley wouldn’t have been surprised if a bullet bounced off the initial flash.

  The pirate reeled back. He reflexively squeezed the launcher’s trigger – crump. The grenade shot straight up into the air. Kelley watched it vanish into the night sky.

  But what goes up, must come down. “Everybody down!” Kelley cast around. No cover. He dropped to his belly, hugging the ground, making himself as flat as possible.

  The grenade landed right in the midst of the three blinded pirates. It exploded. The oil drums they were using as cover f
lew up like a startled flock of metal birds. They fell, crashing through shanty rooms, knocking Marines off their feet. A drum landed next to Kelley, making an almost bell-like bong.

  And, as always happened after a shitload of destruction, when it was over a bizarre silence followed up behind. Quiet like Kelley and his crew had never been there. Smoke hung in the air.

  Everyone got up at the same time, trading amazed looks. Kelley rushed to where he’d seen Anastasia fall. Found her eyes. She nodded: I’m all right. Kelley checked over her armor, anyway. Adrenaline dulled pain, could make you forget about a bleeding wound until you passed out. But the armor had stopped the bullets. Stopped the shrapnel. She was fine.

  Kelley looked around, taking stock of their losses. The two Marines caught in the grenade blast lay still in death, their bodies tattered wet rags. Another Marine sat leaning against a shanty as two IPC raiders worked on a bullet hole in his side. Kelley couldn’t spot Stronzo through the darkness and smoke.

  Kelley took in the village. These men had fought and bled and died for a ridiculous little pile of scrap wood. And the Atlas. Recovering some floating pile of rusted shit no one cared about except the company that owned it. Right at that moment, as Kelley crashed physically and emotionally from his adrenaline high, he couldn’t think of anything more uselessly stupid.

  But no one told these pirates to make a living preying on people making an honest living. No one forced them to start a fight with an obviously stronger arresting force. They created their own fate from day one. Them, Fong Sai-Yuk, King Pirate and all the rest of the wretched vermin.

  Kelley thought of Brody. Looked down and found Anastasia in his arms. She let him hold her. Comfortable in their combat bonding.

  She stared wide-eyed at the smear of blood and smoke that had been three pirates a moment before.

  “Those poor men…” she gasped.

  Kelley shook his head. “Fuck ‘em.”

  Chapter 2

  Kelley smoked a good cigar. Toasty flavor. Medium body. Just enough pull. He didn’t enjoy it.

  Kelley was in one of his favorite shit hole dives. He liked this one because it had a back patio deck. Kelley sat, chair tipped back. Feet up on the table. It was the kind of place where the staff didn’t mind. The deck overlooked the ocean. He could throw a rock and maybe get it in the water. The ocean was that close. He had the cigar in one hand, an excellent single-malt neat in the other. Perfect sippin’ Scotch. Its flavor burned on his lips. Kelley didn’t enjoy it at all.

  The setting sun glowed molten orange. Painting the clouds. Reflection wavering on the water’s surface. Kelley closed his eyes and listened to the waves. A constant rhythm. The seas were the embodiment of chaos. Every time Kelley went out on a job, he knew there was a chance he wouldn’t come back. The seas did as they would. But they were also as constant as the rising sun. The interplay of chaos and order. The embodiment of existence.

  Kelley loved the sea because he saw all of human life in its behavior. On the surface, stormy and unpredictable. Under the surface, it obeyed ancient rhythms and currents. Everything above happened for a reason below. Whatever you do, a current pulls you in that direction, whether you’re aware of it or not.

  Such was the reason behind Kelley’s unhappiness. He was celebrating his victory over those miserable fucks at Pulau Malak. Any other time, he’d be sharing the Scotch, the cigar and the sunset with his friend Brody. But he wasn’t. Brody was gone. Dead. The surface storm.

  Kelley should already be on another ship heading for another shore. But he wasn’t. He had focused himself on the single goal of getting revenge on King Pirate. Motivated by a sense of friendship, of right and wrong and justice. The below-surface current.

  Kelley sat in that gorgeous tableau and it felt cheap. Going through the motions. He’d lost interest in visceral pleasures. Now he listened to the waves, both of the sea and within his soul. Listening for the rhythms, drifting in thoughts about currents and storms.

  Kelley had killed one of King Pirate’s top three lieutenants. Pulled the guy’s ring off his bloody hand. What difference did it make? King Pirate would just promote some other guy. Kelley had raided and destroyed one of King Pirate’s hidden bases. That made no difference, either. There would always be more pirates. More bases like Pulau Malak. This was his “revenge”? Kelley was trying to dig holes in the sea with a shovel. The entire thing was ridiculous. He was doing nothing but getting King Pirate pissed at him. If the King had even noticed. Kelley would end up chopped into pieces like Brody, with nothing to show for the destruction and corpses he left behind.

  Kelley stared out at the sea. Eyes empty. Mind working. Trying to find a meaning to it all, wondering if there was any. Caught in one of the powerful melancholies that, throughout his life, came to him with the regularity of the tides. The sun dipped lower. The world grew darker.

  Brody.

  King Pirate.

  Anastasia.

  Kelley felt a sudden urge to see her. If she were there to share his cigar and Scotch and sunset, they might be worth having.

  Kelley searched his pockets for his cell phone. Couldn’t understand why his fingers were having a hard time with such a simple task. Kelley realized he’d put away his fair share of Scotch over several hours. He was drunk. It’d crept up on him. A smirk oozed up the side of Kelley’s face. Laughing at himself. Asshole. He tipped back the rest of the drink. Lifted the empty tumbler in toast to the sea. To the men who had died in the past. To the men who would die in the future. Dead men who would likely include Kelley in their ranks before the end.

  The Scotch seared its way down to Kelley’s gut, where it stoked a foundry’s cauldron. Kelley knew he’d pay for tonight, in more ways than one. He wasn’t a rich man. IPC wasn’t gonna make him rich, either. Kelley had a bit socked away. But the sea wasn’t where you went to become a millionaire. Unless you happened to own a ship, or were a shareholder in one of the more successful companies. By taking time away from jobs to focus on his pursuit of King Pirate, Brody was cashing in a very short stack of chips.

  Up until now, he’d been looking at IPC as a means to an end. He’d stay just long enough to track down King Pirate. Then he would go back to the sea. Life as it had been before. Kelley thought no further than tomorrow. But hunting these pirates was no easy task. It would take time. Kelley would have to commit to IPC. One way or the other. There was no middle road, no halfway. In this, or anything else in Kelley’s life. He’d see it through. No matter what the cost.

  Kelley finally wrestled the cell phone out of his jeans. Flipped it open. Thumbed through the names in the contact list. Landed on Anastasia. Everyone in the IPC Investigative branch had to have a number at which they could be reached anytime, anywhere. Kelley stared at hers. He idly wondered what she was doing right this second. What she was wearing.

  The bartender came out. Her name was Dao Jia. Maybe just over thirty. Beautiful. A Hong Kong flower with iron petals. She carried herself. Casual, but hard. She’d crawled out of the Kowloon slums, trying to make something of herself. She was tough as hell. Kelley had watched her fight on four occasions. She wasn’t afraid to use a tonfa or bottle or chain or knuckles. She had once bitten the ear off Oyster Vij, a crazed transvestite heroin dealer from Thailand. That fight was the only time Kelley had felt it was necessary to jump in and help Dao Jia. He and Brody were watching from a corner table. Doubled over laughing at the scene. Dao Jia made the mistake of thinking a bitten-off ear finished the fight. She’d turned away. Oyster Vij pulled a knife, made to put it in Dao Jia’s kidney. Kelley stepped in and smashed his beer bottle across Oyster Vij’s wrist. It broke. Oyster dropped the knife. Dao Jia took care of the rest. Kelley couldn’t care less if Oyster liked dressing like a woman. Go crazy, have fun. But stabbing a friend in the back wasn’t something that would happen with Kelley around.

  Dao Jia was even tougher where it counted, in her heart and mind. She’d always had a hard life. Didn’t know anything easy. She’d scream and
claw her way out of anything. Kelley liked her. He liked tough, scrappy women. He liked women who didn’t take shit.

  They’d drunkenly kissed as the sun came up after one post-shift drinking bout. But she’d never given it up, despite Kelley’s best efforts. She seemed wounded. Kelley got the feeling she had a love somewhere far away. Another port. Or maybe the farthest port of all, the one on the other side of the gray afterlife waters we all one day cross. Kelley didn’t know because he didn’t ask. You don’t ask shit like that in the bars Kelley liked. You shut your mouth and accept whatever’s there.

  Dao Jia picked up the empty glass. Gave Kelley a philosophical smile. “Party time? Score some money?” Her English was okay, her Malay better.

  “I’m burning through my savings on the good stuff. Buddy of mine couldn’t be here, so I’m celebrating for two the right way.”

  Dao Jia wiped down the table, using the action to cover the seconds she needed to process Kelley’s English. “What are you celebrating?”

  “An empty victory.”

  She picked up on his dark mood. She liked Kelley. He could tell. Dao Jai hesitated a moment. Taking in the gorgeous sunset. People and situations get old. Beautiful sunsets never get old. She swept up the glass. “Next one’s on me. For your friend.”

  Kelley winked at her. A boozy Irishman’s gratitude. Watched her go. Dao Jai had unblemished skin the color of polished brass. Tight thighs, back muscles playing under a sheer t-shirt. She looked good. Kelley let his mind roam up her body as she walked away.

  As if jealous of his thoughts, the cell phone chose that moment to ring. Kelley checked the name. It wasn’t Anastasia. It was Cuchulain. Kelley answered.

  “Good job, Kelley,” the brogue said. “Wish I could’ve been cracking skulls with the rest of you.”