King Pirate

by Tom Stern

  “I’ve seen it. Not just in society. It’s the way of the world. There’s no room for weakness. Civilization is a luxury. A thin veneer stretched hard over our savage hearts. At sea, the water is so vast and powerful and unknowable that the only real power is your acceptance of the truth. Now you’ve got me curious. What’s your solution?”

  Cuchulain leaned forward. Stabbing his finger to emphasize every point. “Find yourself a ship and crew. Take it out and become a pirate of pirates. Steal back their stolen cargoes. Kill them to the last man.”

  Kelley said, “That’s a tall order. Even if I pull this together, I’m still just one ship with one crew. One man. What can one man do, that navies can’t?”

  “Take back the initiative, Kelley,” Cuchulain said, face stretching into a brutal smile. “Make them react to you. Make them fear you, the same way these governments are losing because they’re afraid of getting their hands dirty Fear is the weapon. Fear is the mind killer. When King Pirate can no longer think, he’ll make a mistake. And we’ll be there to make him pay for that mistake. ‘King’ or not, he’s only human. If we push him hard enough, he’ll fuck up.”

  “I don’t have a ship. I don’t have money to buy one or hire men. I barely have enough cash to pay my rent for the rest of the month.”

  “I’ll be financin’ this venture, backed by certain interested parties,” Cuchulain said. “Think I’d bring you up here if I didn’t have the money to back the whole thing? That cash on the table is the smallest taste.

  “You’ll become a modern privateer, a pirate unofficially funded,” Cuchulain trailed off, thinking through his next words: “And protected by a larger entity.”

  “Are you getting this money from a government?”

  “I can’t give ya a square answer on that one, lad. The need for plausible deniability is extreme, for obvious reasons. I can tell ya, the funding comes from concerned agencies willing to do whatever needs to be done to protect their interests, legal or no. Sometimes the good guys need a bad man on their side. A man like you.”

  Kelley couldn’t argue with Cuchulain’s estimation of him. He was more than on speaking terms with his devils. He liked violence more than he should. He and Cuchulain were atavisms, modern throwbacks from the days when a man’s work was bloody by nature.

  “How long do you want me out there?”

  “’Til King Pirate’s dead. Long as it takes.”

  “Could take years.”

  “What else’re ya doin’?”

  Good question.

  Kelley suddenly realized there was nothing he’d rather do than take Cuchulain up on his bizarre offer. This was a unique opportunity to feed his darker desires, all behind the excuse of the greater good. Kelley’s higher instincts, his no-mind philosophies, were nothing but internal leashes on an extraordinarily savage dog. The animal at the base of his brain thirsted to drink deep of pirate blood.

  A smarter man might balk at becoming a professional criminal at the behest of a shadowy agency. A more cautious man. Cuchulain appealed directly to Kelley’s greatest weaknesses. Kelley threw caution to the winds.

  Kelley stood up. Crossed the room and hoisted the last of the whisky.

  “You’ve got yourself a damn pirate, Cuchulain.”

  …

  “Anastasia. Call me. I want to talk to you.”

  Kelley hung up his cell phone. Thought a second. Dialed another number.

  “International Piracy Reporting Center,” came Sanjay’s voice in Malay.

  “Anastasia Petrovskya.”

  Sanjay nimbly switched to English. “I’m not allowed to transfer your calls, ex-Agent Kelley. My instructions are clear. If you call, it doesn’t go past me. If you call back, I’ll just hang up. No one here wants to talk to you, Kelley.”

  That’s what you think, Kelley mused. “I wanna leave a message. Tell her I called.”

  “No.” Click.

  Kelley snapped the phone shut. Stared at it, thinking of the electronic signals flying from this device to a phone receiver a couple of miles away. When he was a kid, Kelley once saw an old Popeye cartoon. Popeye was so tough, he sent a punch through phone wires, right into Bluto’s face. Popeye was a childhood hero. One of the many factors eventually sending Kelley out to sea. He dreamed of punching Sanjay through the phone. Threw it away. Knew he’d one day punch Sanjay, anyway.

  Kelley sat in the corner of Dao Jia’s bar. Making the preliminary sketches, jotting ideas, drawing up a list of everything he’d need to do. It was a long list. He had a little black notebook. One of those little blank things you use to write a journal or take notes. Kelley got it for two ringgit at a street market.

  Dao Jia sauntered by. “Your woman doesn’t want to talk to you?”

  Kelley answered with a bemused grin. “Do you always eavesdrop when I’m on the phone?”

  “Only when you’re talking to other women.”

  “You don’t get to be jealous until you fuck me.”

  “I can’t fuck a man who’s never here. Besides, I’m taken.”

  “So I gathered.”

  She glanced down at Kelley’s work. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m changing my career. Now I’m going to be a pirate.”

  Dao Jia laughed. Not believing him. “You’re going to become a wokou?” She said, using to the old Chinese term for the Japanese pirates. “I’d like to see that. You need more tattoos, first.”

  She went back to the bar. Popping tops off beer bottles for a group of whalers. Hard men of the sea. Burned dark brown by an uncaring sun. Skin like a motorcycle jacket. Muscles like knots of wet rope. Kelley found himself appraising them. Gauging everyone around him by their potential to become a pirate.

  The cell rang.

  “Yeah.”

  Cuchulain: “What’re you doing?”

  “Planning.”

  “Plan later. Time to get your letter of marque.”

  “I don’t need the silly props. Just give me the money so I can get to work.”

  “First the marque, then your funding,” Cuchulain said. “Y’ever hear of Eli Boggs?”

  “Nope. But I bet you’re gonna – “

  “American pirate. Came to Hong Kong in the mid-1800s, organized a crew and preyed on the opium trade. He was betrayed by his own men in 1857. Arrested, imprisoned for three years, and deported back to the States.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I can’t help ya pick your crew,” Cuchulain told him. “But if ya get hooked, you won’t be spending three years in the hole while I’ve got somethin’ to do with it.”

  “Fine.”

  “Get a pen. I’m gonna give you an address. Go there. Ask for Nahib. He’ll hook you up.”

  “Who the fuck’s Nahib?”

  “Ask him when you see him. Write this down.”

  …

  It was on the fifth floor of a professional building. It looked like a doctor’s office. Magazines on tables. Flat lighting. Newish-looking couches. A young woman in white behind a counter.

  “I’m looking for Nahib,” Kelley said in his half-assed Malay.

  She looked up. Smiled. Liking what she saw. “Doctor Nahib. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  A minute later, a Malaysian doctor came through the door. Doctor Nahib. He was tall for his people, almost six feet. Kelley still dominated the room. Kelley wondered what the hell this guy had to do with Cuchulain and piracy.

  Doctor Nahib looked at Kelley with his impenetrable, black Malaysian eyes. Motioned for Kelley to follow and went back through the door.

  They went into an examination room. Doctor Nahib closed the door. He said in good English, “This is a very brief surgical procedure. You’ll only need a local anesthetic.”

  “Wait, what? Cuchulain said – “

  Doctor Nahib shushed him with an upraised hand. Cut his eyes to the door, don’t let her overhear.

  Kelley continued in a fierce whisper. “Cuchulain said you were the man to see about my l
etter of marque.”

  “That is true.” He opened a small, plastic case. Inside, what looked like a tiny computer chip.

  Kelley began to understand. “That’s my letter of marque. A RFID chip. Twenty-first century technology applied to an eighteenth-century job.”

  The doctor closed the case. “I’ll install it subdermally. Only a reader with the proper signal will pick up its signal, and the information that signal contains.”

  “Who’ll have the right reader?”

  “Cuchulain.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And whoever else Cuchulain feels should know about your position. His network is extensive. Every major port in the region will have one of Cuchulain’s agents to save you in case you’re captured.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “That’s it,” Doctor Nahib said. “Cuchulain keeps everyone in the dark, on a need-to-know basis. I’ve only been told to install your chip, what it’s for and how much I’ll be paid. Beyond that, you might as well ask my nurse.”

  “How long have you been working for Cuchulain?”

  Doctor Nahib ignored the question. Busied himself with pre-op prep.

  Kelley realized this was another moment when most rational men would turn back. He went forward. Kelley rolled up his sleeve, offering his skin to the doctor.

  Doctor Nahib shook his head. “Too obvious. We need to place the chip in a place on your body that’s not often observed.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve found the perfect spot is near the inside lower quadrant of your left glute.”

  Kelley stared at Doctor Nahib for a long moment.

  “You’re going to stick a chip up my ass?”

  “Not that far. Inside the lower quadrant –“

  “You’re going to stick a chip up my ass.”

  “Yes. For your own safety.”

  Kelley undid his buckle. “I’m the world’s first pirate with a chip up his ass.”

  “Would you rather have a parrot up your ass?”

  “Just gimme the damn chip.”

  …

  Kelley and Cuchulain. In another anonymous apartment. This one on the other side of town, in Segambut. Drinking, of course. Another coffin in the corner. Kelly stood. He couldn’t sit down. The implant was too fresh. He hobbled over to the table, looking at listings of ships for sale.

  Cuchulain watched him limp. He laughed. Kelley glared at him. “How long do I get to listen to you giggle?”

  “I knew I picked the right man for the job,” Cuchulain chuckled. “Yer already walkin’ like an old pirate.”

  Kelley tried to be angry. Finally broke into a grin of his own, shook his head. Cuchulain reminded him of his cousins from the old country. The thought brought Kelley to his family. He hadn’t spoken to anybody of his own blood in years. Should he contact them now? In case he didn’t come back from this? No. They’d worry. Too complicated. He’d have to lie to them. If anything, Kelley was scrupulously honest with his blood. He’d make it back to the other side of the world one of these days. But not yet.

  Wafting up from the street several stories below, shouting and police sirens. “What the fuck’s going on out there?” Kelley asked.

  “Malays’ve gotten a bug in their bum over illegal Indonesian laborers. Cops’re doin’ stings, roundin’ ‘em up. They’ll get a canin’, stiff fine and back to Indonesia they go.”

  Kelley grunted, reflective. “Same thing the world over.”

  “Thinkin’ on your days in La Migra?”

  “You read my mind.”

  “Nay, lad,” Cuchulain said. “Just yer file. This business out in the street, it’s nothing but political bullshit. Increases tension between the littoral states, makes it harder to coordinate anti-piratical activity.”

  “Good. Let’s get back to work.”

  They had two laptops. A printer/fax. Stacks of printouts. Photographs. Maps from Google Earth.

  Cuchulain opened his mouth to say something. Closed it again. Said: “Is tha’ a gun under yer shirt, Kelley?”

  No hiding it. Kelley drew out the 9mm semi-automatic he’d collected from Bingham that morning. He’d also spent the first of his cash down payment from Cuchulain on two OKC FF1 fighting knives. One was in his boot.

  Kelley held up the gun. Didn’t hand it over. He wasn’t stupid. “Chinese QSZ-92.”

  “Oh, aye. I know it, seen ‘em a lot since the People’s Army adopted ‘em. Guessin’ there’s a quarter master somewhere missing a few crates, maybe on purpose. Where’d ya happen to find it?” Cuchulain asked craftily.

  “Same place you got that cannon you keep in your hand every time you answer the door.”

  “Fair enough. Y’ever need ammunition for that, just say the word.”

  “Sure. The rail fits for a laser pointer. Score me one of those sometime.”

  “Yeh’ll have it tomorrow. Why’nt you come to me if you wanted a gat?”

  “Had to make sure you knew I got my own resources. You fuck me over bad enough, and you’d better know I can get my hands on some iron. And I’ll find you.”

  “Point made, point taken. Now, about your ship.”

  Kelley nodded, went back to the listings. “Think I’ve found it.” Kelley’s finger landed on the photo printout. Under it, a spec listing. “The Yurei.”

  Cuchulain checked it out. “She’s a freighter, displacing twenty tons. Yeh’ll never catch anything with that.”

  “You’re right, but that’s not the point.” He pointed out the drop cranes on either side of the ship. “I’m gonna launch speed boats. Four of ‘em. Five men each. Surprise’ll be our weapon. We take control of our target. Lock down the cabin, hit ‘em with their dicks in their hands while the Yurei comes up with the rest of the force. Like lightning. Seize the initiative, don’t give ‘em time to plan a defense.”

  Cuchulain was thoughtful. “I like it, Kelley. But it’s risky. These ain’t cruise ships an’ merchantmen you’re going after. These’ll be dangerous men, experienced pirates.”

  “Even better,” Kelley told him. “Crew you’re describing is professional and disciplined. These fucks are just street gangs on boats. Without a strong leader, they fall apart. I saw it in our raid. Yeah, they fought back and we lost a couple of guys. But that was just a mistake on our part. We should’ve had another chopper hitting the Atlas at the same time. Even so, we took down the majority of the crew inside of thirty seconds. Give me some military grade hardware and a good team, and they’ll never see it coming.”

  “Speaking of the team, how’s yer recruiting?”

  “I’ve got the word on the street now. I’m waiting for a couple of ships to pull into port. Some guys I wanna talk to on ‘em. Should have it together inside the week.”

  “Then I’ll get on the Yurei.”

  “No, just gimme the money. I don’t want anybody else buying the ship for me. There’ll be records. It’ll get out. I need to do this myself, every step of the way. Just get me some fucking guns.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  …

  Kelley flexed his fingers inside the boxer’s tape. A good wrap, snug. Looked across the ring.

  Tsung was a tough son of a bitch. His body looked like it was made of raw rubber pulled around a wooden statue. Impenetrable eyes in a dark brown face that had never smiled. His front teeth were dentures. They’d been knocked out when he was still in school. He bounced, limbering himself. Kicking backwards to stretch his knees.

  The air was rank with sweat and motor oil. They were in a warehouse near the port. The local gangsters took bets from the hundred screaming people standing behind a “ring” demarcated by saw horses.

  Kelley pulled his shirt over his head. Stripped to his jeans and boots. The crowd howled for blood. They wanted nothing more than to see the white guy get his shit ruined. Kelley’s joints were sore. He was still recovering from his bout with Cuchulain. It didn’t matter. All of that would be forgotten as soon as they got into it.r />
  One of the gangsters hit a small gong. Without hesitation, Tsung threw himself across the ring. Kelley met him halfway. He couldn’t get pushed into the corner.

  Kelley had reach on Tsung. Before Tsung could throw a single punch, Kelley fired rapid jabs at his face. Tsung blocked. But it threw off his rhythm. Kelley followed up with a deep uppercut. Tsung slapped his fist away.

  Tsung came back around with a back fist. Hoping to draw Kelley into a combo. He almost pulled it off, but Kelley was just a bit too fast.

  They feinted and weaved at each other. Prodding for an opening. Tsung found it first. Whipped off a quick double-kick. Kelley took it, hissing when Tsung’s foot connected with his bruised ribs. The crowd loved it.

  Kelly replied with a blistering set of punches. Pushing Tsung back. Giving Kelley room to throw off a big side thrust kick. Tsung caught it and flipped Kelley to the ground.

  Kelley rolled away from Tsung’s stomp. Sprang up. Tagged Tsung’s jaw with a quick hook. Tsung’s head flinched away. Kelley came after him in a big way. Throwing a cross combo like he was drawing an “X” on Tsung’s face with his fists. Kelley put all of his extra height and weight into the final right hook. It came down on Tsung’s eye like a bomb.

  Tsung hit the floor. Kelley raised his fists. The crowd screeched, outraged.

  A gangster threw two sets of fighting sticks into the ring. Kelley shook his head. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. Tsung was reeling.

  Tsung saw the sticks. He pushed himself up to his feet. Picked up a set, one stick in each hand. Kelley looked at him. Are you sure? Tsung nodded. Ready to go all the way down the road. Never one to turn down a fight, Kelley picked up the other set. If Tsung wasn’t one hundred percent, it would be his funeral. He had the chance to walk away and ignored it. Kelley wasn’t his fucking mother.

  The gong sounded. Kelley and Tsung went at it. Sticks whirling. Striking and blocking so fast it filled the warehouse with a machine-gun clatter: tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak!