The Devil's Waters

by David L. Robbins

  “And what will you do with Bojan when your ship wants to enter waters of a nation that does not allow guns into their harbor? This is commercial vessel. That port is closed to us. I tell you, around the world every maritime nation has different rulebook. For guns, you would pass these nations by? You make no money this way, young man.”

  Grisha moved down the hall. He spoke over his shoulder, wanting to finish his thought on the matter. “I will be glad to put them off my ship when we arrive.”

  The first mate halted at a door marked by a red cross against a white field, the infirmary. With a hand on the knob, he paused.

  “But today I am going twelve knots on a broken ship. In these devil’s waters I must be glad to have the guns of Bojan. The pirates, they make people crazy. They have made Anatoly Drozdov crazy.” The first mate stopped himself from saying more about his captain. He cracked the infirmary door. “And I am glad to have you here for these two hurt boys. Spasibo. Now, before we enter.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I am not doctor. I am sailor. You understand?”

  LB rolled his med ruck off his shoulders. “No worries. Let’s see what we got.”

  With Jamie at his back, LB entered the small sickbay. He did not recoil at the smell of urine because he expected it.

  Grisha raised his hands. “I am sorry.” He flustered quickly with the apology. “They cannot control. I cannot—”

  “Hey, Grisha. It’s all right. We got this. Listen to me. Either of these guys got allergies to drugs?”

  “I have checked records. They do not.”

  “Good. Now, can you find some disinfectant?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll take a look at your boys. You start mopping. Okay?”

  The first mate hurried out to fetch a bucket and mop, uttering again that he was sorry.

  The infirmary held two beds. On the closest lay a smallish man in a T-shirt. Straps held him down to a stiff board, tightened across his forehead, chest, waist, and legs. A foam brace circled his neck. A sour-smelling sheet covered him below the waist. LB moved to his bedside, standing without care in urine that had dribbled there. The seaman grimaced, raising one arm off his chest to take LB’s hand. LB squeezed to say he had arrived and there was to be no shame in this room.

  Jamie stepped to the second bed, where a young man, the cadet, moaned. The boy had been stripped; his torso and right leg were swaddled in white gauze bandages. The skin left bare had flushed a fevered pink. The boy’s rib cage rose and fell in a fast pant. Around his scalded mouth and brow, bubbled flesh wept. Jamie waved a hand over the boy’s bandages, as foul with urine as the engineer’s sheet and the infirmary floor. The young PJ dug into his med ruck for rubber gloves to start peeling away the cadet’s gauze.

  Jamie checked the IV in the cadet’s arm. He’d been plugged into a bag of saline. The bag was empty, the burns were thirsty.

  LB let go the engineer’s hand with a pat on his chest. “You’ll be okay, pal. Hang on, I gotta do something for you here.”

  He opened his ruck to withdraw the catheters he’d stashed. As soon as he’d heard the victims had suffered paralysis and burns, LB knew that neither man would be able to hold his water. The engineer couldn’t sense anything below the waist, and the cadet was in so much pain he couldn’t stay conscious.

  Jamie unwrapped all the cadet’s bandages. He stuffed them, the cadet’s sheet, and their stench into a trash bag. The boy’s skin glistened with fluids weeping out of his tissues, as the cells of his body tried to cool themselves.

  LB handed Jamie one of the catheters, then set to work on the engineer. The insertion went quickly; The man couldn’t feel a thing he was doing. LB slid the small sterile tube into the engineer’s penis, threading the tube deeper into the urethra until urine flowed. This meant he’d reached the bladder. A quick injection of fluid swelled the inserted end to hold it in place. LB hooked the plastic collection bag to the bed, and it was done.

  Right behind him, Jamie finished with the cadet.

  The first mate returned with a mop and a bucket slopping with sudsy water. The pungency of the bleach added to the urine stench.

  “Prop the door open,” LB told him.

  Grisha did so, then began to mop.

  “That is Nikita. He is dear friend. When piston blew he was thrown against railing. Broken back. Broken rib. The rib causes him pain.”

  Nikita whispered something in Russian. LB bent closer. The sailor cleared his throat, then repeated himself. He could not turn his immobilized head.

  “Chyort.” Damn.

  LB asked Grisha, “What’ve you given him?”

  “What I have. Fluids. Morphine.”

  “How often with the morphine?”

  “Every hour when I check on him.”

  “He needs to be checked every ten to fifteen.”

  LB moved next to the bed. He leaned over so Nikita could see his face.

  “Nikita. Buddy, how you feeling?”

  “Like blyadischa. Tired whore. Nothing in the legs.”

  LB patted the engineer’s shoulder. “That’s funny. Good. Now listen to me. You might have a broken spine. You might not. Maybe what you have is some bad swelling in your back, a couple of bruised vertebrae pressing on your nerves. That could be where the paralysis is coming from. We’re gonna hook you up to a high-dose anti-inflammatory, see if we can get the swelling down. That might help. You’ll be at the hospital in Djibouti in two more days. Can you stay calm?”

  “Could you?”

  LB moved his eyes directly above the sailor’s. “If I had someone as good as me looking me over? Yeah.”

  Frightened Nikita tried not to be amused. “Americans.”

  Together with Grisha and Jamie, LB pulled the damp sheet from beneath the engineer, then stuffed it into the garbage bag. Grisha found clean linens to lay over Nikita, then returned to his mop.

  LB joined Jamie beside the cadet. Together they wrapped fresh bandages over his burns, tenderly lifting the boy’s limbs. The cadet’s face twisted with every movement, eyes sputtered open, lapsing in and out of awareness. His breathing came in fits between groans from his blistered mouth. Fingers clenched at nothing and released.

  LB curled a finger for Grisha to stop mopping and come beside the bandaged cadet. Jamie stacked bags of Solu-Medrol and set out vials of morphine.

  LB laid a hand across the cadet’s unwrapped forearm. The boy’s temperature felt dangerously high. At the end of the tube in his arm, the liter bag of saline hung empty.

  Barely audible, Grisha said, “His name is Alek.”

  “You check on him every hour, too?”

  Grisha recoiled at LB’s tone. “Yes.”

  LB took down the drained IV bag. “Well,” he said, not looking at Grisha, “Alek is dying. His kidneys are shutting down from lack of fluids. You see these bubbles?” He circled a quick finger around the cadet’s mouth, cheek, and brow. “He’s got these over half his body. He’s using up all his water. We’ve got to stay ahead of what he’s doing. If he runs dry, his kidneys shut down and he’s dead.”

  LB guessed the cadet’s weight at about 170 pounds.

  “He gets a liter of saline every twenty minutes until he stabilizes. Then eight liters over the next ten hours. You got this kid on the same morphine schedule? Every hour?”

  “Yes.”

  LB pulled from his ruck one of the vials of fentanyl, stronger than morphine. This needed to be injected every thirty to sixty minutes instead of the morphine’s five to ten. LB drew a few cc’s of fentanyl into a syringe and pushed the needle into the port of the IV line, slowly injecting the painkiller. In moments, the kid’s unconscious clenching relaxed, his muttering quieted.

  LB drew the four-inch knife from his leg sheath. He slit one of the saline bags and handed it to Grisha.

  “Every hour, you check his bandages. Make sure they stay wet. Pour nothing but sterile solution on them.”

  Grisha grew red-faced, and glistens rimmed his
eyes. Carefully, he sprinkled fluid over the fresh gauze wraps. He was ashamed to have done such a poor job as medical officer for his shipmates.

  LB eased off. Grisha had done the best he could with his first-aid training. He’d called for help. That call had probably saved the kid’s life. Maybe they’d get lucky and the steroids would take some pressure off the engineer’s spine, put some feeling back in his legs.

  Just like Grisha had said, these were sailors, not medical men, not soldiers. No reason to get mad at the guy. Grisha was already kicking himself pretty good. LB drew his first deep breath since entering the infirmary. His hope for these two patients, his patience for Grisha, sweetened on the odor of disinfectant.

  “Hey. You did great. They’re gonna be fine.”

  The stricken mate nodded without looking up from the chore. “I will stay.”

  “All right. You know what to do.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Please inform the captain what you have told me.”

  LB and Jamie emptied their rucks of saline, painkiller, and Solu-Medrol. Heading for the door, LB passed the strapped-down engineer. He rapped an easy fist on the sailor’s chest.

  “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

  Nikita raised a backhand as if to slap at LB. He muttered, “Idi na khui.”

  LB replied, “Idi nyuhai plavki.”

  In the hall, Jamie asked, “What was that?”

  “He told me to go to the penis. I told him to go smell underwear. I’ve rescued a few Russians. Love how they curse.”

  “I mean, why’d you say you’d be back?”

  “C’mon.”

  The two rode the elevator up to F deck. They climbed the stairwell into the cold bridge. Captain Drozdov and Iris sat where LB had left them, in the chairs facing the windshield and controls. Drozdov was in deep conversation with a graying, lanky man. Iris listened intently. Outside the starboard windows, keeping a steady distance, Detroit 1 and 2 waited for word from LB.

  The man between Drozdov and Iris spoke with his hands, drawing circles and little explosions in the air. Noticing the PJs near, he lowered his arms, snapped into a shallow, military bow. Before he opened his mouth, LB had recognized the training and discipline of an old-school Soviet.

  “Gentlemen. I am Chief Engineer Razvan Utva. How much damage has my engine done to those two?”

  LB let Jamie make the report. Both patients were stable for now. Nikita was on a strong anti-inflammatory; the cadet was getting a heavy regimen of fluids. The first mate would stay with them in the infirmary for now.

  “Perhaps,” the engineer asked, “they may both recover?”

  Stone-faced, Jamie said, “We’ll see.”

  Razvan chewed his lip, waiting for some other statement. The young PJ stayed tough and true, and said no more.

  The chief dipped his head again, accepting the judgment. He seemed to be taking the accident as his personal fault. His engine had done this.

  Drozdov asked him, “Do you know the cause?”

  “No, Captain. But I will. I am not resting. And please. No more than fifty rpm. She cannot take more. Gentlemen. Miss Iris.”

  The chief excused himself. He pivoted away, his face set.

  Drozdov addressed LB and Jamie. “So, you will be leaving now. That is too bad, but I thank you for coming. You have educated my first mate what must be done, yes?”

  LB raised a finger. “Gimme a moment.” To Jamie, he said, “Step over here.”

  He towed Jamie through the portal, outside onto the starboard wing. The day’s heat slapped at him after thirty minutes of Russian winter inside Drozdov’s superstructure. Detroit 1 and 2 hovered a hundred yards away.

  “I’m thinking we should stay.”

  Jamie waved this off. “No. We did our time. We go back.”

  “You saw how that guy Grisha was caring for those two. Piss everywhere. Not checking the fluids. He hasn’t got a clue, and he isn’t gonna get one. We leave, that burned kid might not make it. The engineer needs to be monitored. You know what I’m saying.”

  “I’m not arguing that point. We just don’t have orders to stay.”

  LB dug the radio out of his Rhodesian vest. “Let me get some orders. Go inside. Flirt with the Russian lady. I’ll be right in.”

  Jamie threw up his palms in peevish surrender. LB called Detroit 1 on the aircraft common frequency. He asked for a sat patch to the PRCC, then waited while the chopper relayed his message.

  In a few minutes, his radio peeped.

  “Lima Bravo, Lima Bravo. Torres here.”

  “Major, LB.”

  “What do you want, Sergeant?”

  “Major, request permission to stay behind on the ship. The condition of the injured exceeds what we expected. The quality of care on board is not sufficient. We can do the job. The ship’s crew can’t.”

  “Denied. Return to base.”

  “Major, with respect, why send us out here if you’re not gonna let us do the job the way we see fit? One of the injured might not last to Djibouti.”

  “I can’t leave the PJ team down two men. You’re on a humanitarian mission. We could spare you for eight hours, not forty-eight. That was the deal.”

  “Major, I don’t think the burned kid who can barely stay conscious for the pain cares about the deal. He’s fighting infection and dehydration. The paralysis case needs monitoring to see if we can reduce his injuries. He’s scared out of his mind. He don’t care either.”

  “My hands are tied. Come back.”

  “Major, a compromise. Let me stay by myself. I can do this. I’ll send Sergeant Dempsey back.”

  “No.”

  “I’m asking you. We’ll only be down a single PJ for two days. I’ll stand alert here twenty-four/seven. You need me, come pick me up. I’ll be ready. But I can’t leave these two guys in the state we found them. The mission was bullshit if I do, pardon my French. Ma’am, please. You got my word.”

  The sat link buzzed while Torres considered.

  “All right. You know my conditions. No curiosity about the crew or the cargo. Press the mission. Take care of the injured. Get back here in two days. And if something comes up, I damn well will come get you.”

  “Thank you, Major.”

  “Out.”

  LB stowed the radio. He entered the bridge. From the copilot’s leather chair, Iris smiled to see him.

  LB focused on Drozdov. “All right. Call Bojan. Have him bring back Sergeant Dempsey’s weapons.”

  Jamie tugged LB’s arm. “Whoa, hang on.”

  LB excused himself again from Drozdov and Iris. He walked Jamie to the starboard windows with a view of the copters keeping pace.

  Jamie spoke first. “You’re staying alone? What the hell.”

  “Listen to me. Torres wouldn’t go for both of us staying. It’s okay. There’s no good reason for two of us to hang out here. It’s gonna be two days of this.”

  “This is a surprise. We work in teams.”

  “Yeah, when there’s work to do. This is a one-man job. If a real mission spins up at Lemonnier, Torres will send a chopper for me. Go get your weapons. It’s okay. Help Wally keep an eye on Robey. I got this.”

  “I know what you got. A freaking boner.”

  “Hey, careful. I’m your elder. By a lot.”

  “That’s why it’s a surprise.”

  “A mouth like that, I know why you carry so many guns. Go.”

  LB threw the chocks on the watertight door to return to the starboard wing. He waved to the two choppers, both sideslipping to keep watch on the Valnea. LB toggled his radio to the aircraft freq.

  “Detroit 1, Detroit 1, this is Hallmark.”

  “Go, Hallmark.”

  “Pickup for one.”

  “Everything okay?”

  As the chopper pilot spoke, Detroit 1 broke formation to slide behind the freighter. Detroit 2 held position.

  “Juliet Delta’s going back to base. Lima Bravo is staying. All good. Confirm.”

  “Five by five.”r />
  In minutes Jamie joined him on the wing, his ruck and M4 in place. The other weapons were stowed away. No one came out to watch him depart.

  With Detroit 1 tucking itself closer to the ship’s great chimney, the wind on the platform mounted. LB shouted, “I’ll see you in two days.”

  “Let me know if the guy moves his legs.”

  “Will do.”

  The copter eased overhead. LB and Jamie knelt under the intense prop wash. From the open door the MH-53’s engineer tossed down a rope ladder, and LB moved to anchor it. Jamie took a running leap and launched himself athletically several rungs up the ladder. With LB holding the ladder taut, the young PJ scampered up to the thrumming copter.

  LB ducked away while the ladder was reeled in. The giant MH-53 lifted its nose to fall back from the ship. The chopper peeled to its side, gaining quick distance.

  “Have fun, Hallmark. Detroit 1 out.” Detroit 2 moved up. Both copters beat away low, whipping up froth on the flat, vacant sea.

  LB did not go back into the wheelhouse but walked the exterior stairway down the side of the superstructure. After six stories, at deck level, he looked overboard, down the ship’s hull, another three stories to the water.

  Making his way to the door for A level, he passed three crewmen in blue overalls and construction hats. The men worked to sand away chipped paint from the gray steel floor and rail. On the opposite side, across the thirty meters of the freighter’s broad beam, another team did the same.

  These men, all Filipinos, came to greet LB warily, pointing at the sky to indicate that he was the American soldier from the helicopter. Some spoke enough English to ask how the injured crewmen were: Would they be okay? The deckhands were short and wiry; their work required nimbleness and stamina. When the Valnea was loaded, they stacked her 2,200 containers, locked them in place, then cleaned and maintained the ship under way. LB wanted to ask what they thought of armed Serbian guards on a ship carrying no cargo, but he’d been told not to snoop.

  Inside the superstructure, he poked his head into the infirmary. The second engineer and cadet both slept under blankets of morphine and fentanyl. Grisha kept vigil from a stool beside his friend Nikita. LB checked the progress of Nikita’s anti-inflammatory drip, then the cadet’s bandages. The boy’s exposed skin had cooled slightly and its crimson cast had faded, marking progress in lowering his core temperature. His saline bag ran low. LB considered changing it but gave the task to Grisha. The man needed badly to be helpful. The first mate hung the fresh bag and flipped open the petcock. The cadet moaned, deep in narcotic, but did not wake.