King Pirate

by Tom Stern

  Kelley clenched the phone. “Did she use it?”

  “Yes. To call the same number at IPC. The call lasted under one minute.”

  Kelley thought, They’re using a code. He said: “Check the departures for oil tankers.”

  “Way ahead of you,” Asano replied. “The Varrenikov docked at 10:45 p.m. last night to refit and refuel. She departed at noon today.”

  “For Kuala Lumpur.”

  “Exactly.”

  “She’s gonna get hit,” Kelley said.

  “I think so, too. What are we going to do about it?”

  “Right this second? Not a damn thing.”

  “I should call IPC. I could stop it.”

  “Not this one.”

  “And if someone dies in the raid? Can you live with that?”

  “I’m already living with a lot of ghosts. One more won’t make a difference.”

  They were silent.

  Asano said: “You’re a cruel man, Kelley.”

  “Revenge is cruel by necessity,” Kelley said. “And if you do anything to warn the Varrenikov without telling me, I’ll show up at your doorstep with a gift you don’t want.”

  “I know,” Asano quietly said. His words were weighted, sounding like a man making a deal with the devil. He hung up.

  Kelley reflected, Only devils survive in hell.

  He turned around and found Dao Jia standing in the shadows. Listening.

  “How much did you hear?” he asked.

  “Almost everything. Was that your ‘source?’”

  Most men would get defensive and bashful, backpedaling and trying to come up with an excuse. Kelley just said: “One of them.” And: “Are you going to make a habit of spying on me?”

  “I have to,” she said, face defiantly up-turned. “You won’t tell me everything. But I told you, it’s our lives on the line, too. I need to know what’s going on.”

  Kelley thought about it. But in the end he said: “No.”

  “You’re trying to protect me,” she said. Playfully: “But you’re just being an asshole.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I am an asshole.”

  Kelley tried to leave, go back to his quarters. Dao Jia stopped him. “Not good enough.” She said: “I want in.”

  “Not yet.”

  Once again, Kelley left and Dao Jia stared at a receding point between his shoulder blades.

  …

  The coastline of Pulau Rapat.

  Kelley kept the Yurei just far enough out to avoid the dangerous patches of reef and rock. Pulau Rapat wasn’t a small island. It was bigger than most American States. But Kelly knew exactly where he was going.

  They studied satellite photos. Kelley running a finger from the southern bays, up the intersecting roads, to the northern bays. He had no intention of taking a party onto land to scout it out. He didn’t have to. Gaur’s men would be heading for the northern bays.

  …

  A day later. Kelley’s sat phone rang. He thought it might be Cuchulain, hoped it would be Asano.

  Kelley got his wish. The Japanese officer said: “According to an IPC alert, the Varrenikov was taken by pirates thirty minutes ago.”

  “Then it’s just a matter of time.”

  “If the theory is correct.”

  Silence.

  “Where are you, Kelley?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  …

  Pulau Rapat at 1-55’53.67” N, 101-46’42.92” E.

  Kelley stood on the fore deck of the Yurei. The Toy Box included a sniper rifle. He had it up to his shoulder, the night vision scope pressed against his eye.

  Engine down. Lights down. An extremely dangerous state for a ship to be along a populated coast.

  Kelley adjusted the site and squinted across the scope’s targeting sites at the greenish-black, tanker-shaped blob trundling across his field of view.

  Typhoon season was swiftly approaching. Heavy clouds blotted the stars. The scope was a light-enhancer. Kelley wished the clouds would let up so he’d get enough moonlight to see more detail.

  The heavens answered Kelley’s silent prayer. The clouds shifted like a restless herd of cattle. A disc of moonlight shot down.

  For the few seconds it lasted, Kelley was able to see the designation of the pirate-hijacked tanker ship.

  It was the Varrenikov.

  And the scope was sharp enough for Kelley to see the men and trucks waiting on the dock for the ship to arrive.

  …

  Cuchulain eventually reached Kelley as the Yurei sprinted northward along Palau Rapat’s coast.

  “I haven’t seen a report of any hits from you lately.”

  “I’m working on it,” Kelley replied. “We’re hanging around the shipping lanes, ears on the radio for a ShipLok call.”

  “Really? Tha’s wha’ yer doin’?” Cuchulain asked, his tone blatantly doubtful.

  Kelley held the phone from his head. Eyes slit as thoughts careened through his mind. Wondering why Cuchulain doubted him. If he was watching. If he was the guy sending the satellite photos.

  Kelley thought: Is this just paranoia?

  He said, “I have a Letter of Marque stuck up my ass that proves I’m motivated, man. We’re fishing. Just waiting for a bite.”

  “If you say so, Kelley.”

  He hung up. Kelley stared at the phone.

  …

  Later. Asano.

  “He called her back.”

  Kelley: “On which phone?”

  “Her temporary cell,” Asano answered. “But he called from the IPC line.”

  “Sanjay can’t be that fucking stupid. How long was the call?”

  “Short. A few seconds.”

  “They’re using a code.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t get what you mean.”

  Asano explained himself. “We can guess that Patel’s feeding info to Gupta. Info about outgoing oil tankers heading to Kuala Lumpur. Fine. But where’s it going?”

  “If the tanker gets hit, then he must be passing the info along to King Pirate, or someone in his organization. My guess is Dilip Gaur.”

  “But why call Patel back? What information is he passing back to her?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Message received?’”

  “Do you really think that’s what he’s saying?”

  Kelley grimaced. “I don’t know.”

  “And how is the information then getting to King Pirate’s organization?”

  “Dammit, I don’t know!” Kelley paced. Angry with himself, feeling cornered.

  “We need to figure out a way to monitor Sanjay Gupta inside IPC without him finding out.”

  “Great. Contact your good friends over there.”

  “That would be highly unusual. They prematurely removed me from duty.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Perhaps we can bug his phone.”

  Kelley snorted. “You gonna get a man in there? Gonna plant it yourself without Cuchulain noticing you? That guy lives for his little microphones and cameras.”

  “So you’re giving up, just like that?”

  Kelley knew Asano was pushing his buttons on purpose. “You can fuck yourself. Hey, how’d you learn how to speak English so well, anyway?”

  “I studied hard in school.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  Asano said, “And I used to play in a punk rock band in high school. We toured Australia.”

  “What was the name of your band?” Kelley asked.

  “Jolly Roger.”

  Kelley laughed. He asked, “Did they like you?”

  “Who?”

  “The Australians.”

  “They thought we were okay,” Asano said, “but they liked us more when we started throwing AC/DC covers into our set.”

  “What’ja play?”

  “’Highway to Hell.’ Punk rock style.”

  “Sounds cool,” Kelley said, sincerely.

  Asano: “What are we going to do about Sanjay
Gupta?”

  Kelley thought. “I have a guy I could call.”

  “Call him.”

  “No.”

  “Call him!”

  “Fuck! No!”

  …

  They sailed fast. Making for the northern bay.

  Kelley pulled Tsung and Dao Jia into the bridge. He said, “Let’s talk about the plan.”

  “You’re finally gonna let us know what we’re doing?” Tsung asked.

  “I think you have it figured out by now.”

  “Sure, following up on Dao Jia’s hunch about where the oil’s going.”

  “That and more,” Kelley replied. “We watched Gaur’s men load the oil onto trucks. The trucks are headed north. The pirates’ll put the oil on a new tanker. That tanker will head out to wherever Gaur’s re-selling the oil onto the black market.

  “And we’re gonna take it down.”

  Tsung and Dao Jia looked at each other. And, as brother and sister, shared the same slow smile.

  …

  Kelley worked the bag in the his quarters. Dialing in combos that had no place in the real world. Take some martial arts classes, and eventually they start laying complicated, multi-part combination strikes on you. It’s good kata. Good practice on the bag. But in a fucking alley with two assholes trying to break your spine? All that shit falls away. Real fighting was too chaotic and crazed for neat little forms. The human body didn’t stay in a nice, single place like a punching bag does. It comes down to the simplest combat. Strike. Strike. Kick. Kick. Strike. Break. Kill.

  But there was a value. Actually, two. The first: practice. If you do simple combos often enough, they become as quick and easy to pull off as a single strike for a lesser-trained fighter. But that was only after hundreds of hours of practice. Kelley learned a long time ago that it was better to own one good combo than rent a few.

  Second: the physical and mental exertion of rolling through combos was like a musician practicing with scales. It was just difficult enough to quiet the screaming in his head, and just simple enough that he could put his body on autopilot. Kelley could think.

  And he thought, Cuchulain said he suspected there was a mole in the IPC.

  Okay.

  He thought, The evidence points to Dilip Gaur getting his leads from Sanjay Gupta in the IPC.

  Great. Cool. But…

  Yap Chew said he had an informant inside the IPC.

  Which left him with –

  Is Sanjay feeding info to both Dilip Gaur and Yap Chew?

  Or is he reporting directly to King Pirate, who then disseminates that information?

  Who lead Kelley into the trap with the heavy water tanker? Who would think that had a chance of working?

  Kelley slammed the bag hard enough to break it off the chain holding it to the ceiling. It plopped to the floor. Once a bitter opponent. Now a pathetic sack of sand.

  Kelley kicked it. Think time was over. Time to act.

  …

  The Yurei hovered off Pulau Rapat’s northern shore.

  Kelley stood on the deck. Eye again pressed to the night-vision rifle scope. They were too far out for him to see too much detail. But Kelley could make out the trucks. And the new tanker.

  “They’re getting ready,” Kelley said. He took the scope from his eye, turning to Tsung standing next to him.

  “What’s our move?”

  “Pull us back a couple of klicks. Let’s keep just to the edge of radar. Too soon, and they could send help. I wanna come at these fuckers like a lightning bolt, and be gone just as quick.”

  Tsung headed up to the bridge.

  Kelley again peered through the scope. Fixing the image of his prey in his mind. The images shifted in his sites.

  Kelley looked to the distant horizon. The sky was slowly lightening with the coming dawn. In just a few minutes, the night darkness shifted from pitch black to a subtle, dark gray.

  Soon.

  …

  The men quickly prepped for the approaching fight. They moved with quiet concentration. Eyes shining with anticipation for their captain’s order to attack. Fuel gurgled into the speedboat tanks. Precision-machined metal parts clattered as the sea wolves checked and rechecked their weapons.

  On the bridge, Kelley and Tsung leaned on the instruments. Watching the fat, green blip on the radar that represented the pirate tanker. She’d pushed off from the dock less than an hour before. Moving with deliberation, in no particular hurry. If the captain was aware the Yurei stalked nearby, the ship didn’t act like it.

  Dao Jia poked her head in. Said, “We’re ready.”

  Kelley nodded, but said, “Not yet. Give the dawn a few minutes. I want to come at them out of the glare of the rising sun.”

  The sky was light gray by now, shot through with sun rays in ten shades of red. The horizon clouds burned from below as if they’d been set on a stovetop. In less time than it took to listen to a song, the full power of the dawn would gleam across the sea. And Kelley would pounce.

  “On my word,” Kelley told them. He left the bridge, slid down the stairs to the deck.

  Kelley’s sea wolves looked up from their work as he appeared in their midst. There was something new in their eyes. Something almost akin to an awe, a slight fear intermingled with fresh levels of respect. They’d follow Kelley through the devil’s teeth and straight down his stinking throat, because Kelley was greater than any enemy they could face, including themselves.

  Kelley met their eyes. Weighing and judging them. Liking what he found. This tanker and her crew were in deep fucking shit.

  A glare from the water made Kelley blink. He looked to the horizon. Dawn broke. The sun was coming up.

  Kelley returned the sun’s gaze with a bloodthirsty grin. He raised a hand. “Launch!”

  …

  They took the tanker.

  If there was any doubt they were a pirate crew, these pricks didn’t use the hoses to defend themselves. They had AK-47s. They had an RPG. They fired grenades at Kelley’s sea wolves as they descended with their speed boats. It didn’t do the pirates any good. The grenades made for some hot work. But the wolves were too nimble.

  In exchange, Kelley eschewed the tear gas for their own live grenades. The agonized howls of shrapnel-ripped pirates accompanied Kelley’s men as they surged over the railings.

  Kelley’s boots hit the blood-slicked deck. He drew both Chinese automatic pistols, each tricked with a laser sight. Sprinting. Firing as he moved. Finding cover. Seconds like hours like years like heartbeats passed in a crazed jangle as Kelley fought and killed the tanker’s pirate crew.

  When it was over, Kelley struggled to remember what had happened. He was missing flashbang grenades. He must have thrown them. He’d holstered a pistol. The fighting knife was in his hand. Gory. He was covered with sweat. Kelley wiped it from his eyes with the back of his wrist. It came back dripping with salty watered-down blood. Whose? His own? Did he care?

  Kelley had given himself over to berserker rage. The opposite of the no-mind. After a few panting moments, Kelley realized he was laughing. He stopped, but kept the fangish smile.

  Kelley looked around him. His men were there. The sea wolves. Killing the terminally wounded. Collecting the prisoners. None of the captured pirates suffered. Good. The wolves learned Al Buq’s lesson.

  They’d won. The tanker was theirs. Along with its cargo – millions of dollars of oil. A man who knew where to sell such commodities on the black market could become very rich, very quickly. A man like Kelley. But he had another use in mind for this oil. That, and he wasn’t a damn pirate.

  “The safe,” Kelley said, loud enough for all of the men around him to hear. Tsung took a couple of men. They vanished to check the bridge.

  Kelley wandered over to the prisoners. Bound with zip-ties. Terrified, expecting death. He looked them over.

  As was his habit, Kelley asked: “Who’s the captain?”

  The prisoners cast meaningful looks to a dead man slumped several yards awa
y. Kelley went to the corpse. Flipped him over with the tip of his boot. Examined the wounds. At least this explained how his knife had gotten bloody. The captain still grasped a pistol in his cold hand. Kelley lifted it to his nose. Sniffed. It had been fired. Kelley mechanically checked his body. No bullet holes. The fucked had missed. Kelley dropped the arm and the gun. The captain went down fighting. Like a man. Kelley felt no remorse.

  Kelley dug in the pirate captain’s pockets. He found a wallet. As always: pictures of women and children. Kelley ignored them. There was cash. He handed it to the nearest sea wolf. A joint. Kelley handed that off.

  He checked the other pockets. Found a cell phone.

  Again, Kelley was in the habit of checking the saved numbers, recent calls, everything. The prisoners weren’t going anywhere, and Tsung was handling the safe. Kelley took his time. He was thorough.

  Kelley froze in surprise. What he found in that anonymous pirate captain’s cell phone would echo with Kelley until the end of his days.

  There were several received calls from the same name and number.

  The listed name for the calls: “KING PIRATE.”

  But the number was the same as Cuchulain’s secret satellite phone.

  …

  Kelley was still staring at the cell phone when the shit officially hit the fan.

  “Kelley!”

  It was Tsung, hanging out the door of the bridge. Something was up.

  Kelley ran up the steps.

  In the tanker’s bridge. Tsung wordlessly pointed to the radar screen. Kelley followed Tsung’s finger to a third blip. Smaller than the tanker. Coming up fast from the west. From the direction of the pirate’s dock.

  “What is it?”

  “That fast? Maybe a cutter?”

  “Doesn’t feel right,” Kelley said, “Whoever it is, why are they coming? Make a guess.”

  “Maybe the skipper forgot his wallet.”

  Kelley smirked. But he wasn’t feeling it. His head clanged: Cuchulain.

  Another thought came to Tsung: “Or the tanker got a warning out, and this is the late rescue party.”

  Kelley said, “Back to the Yurei.”

  …

  They abandoned the tanker. They left the pirates bound with zip-ties. They’d be back.