The Devil's Waters

by David L. Robbins

  Iris lit the button for F deck, explaining she needed a rest before dinner. When the elevator stopped, LB spoke as she exited into the hall.

  “See you at dinner.”

  “I expect genius,” Iris called around the closing door, “from a relative of Nero’s.”

  The door slid shut on Iris turning away. LB would check in with Drozdov on the bridge, have the captain assign him quarters, then head back down to the galley to introduce himself to the Filipino chef.

  The elevator continued its ascent. Chief Razvan appeared agitated, finger-tapping the thick sheaf of sheets in his arms. LB made quick conversation, telling him that Nikita might recover; the cadet showed improvement but wasn’t out of the woods. The Romanian nodded, staring at his shoes. He seemed to want to burst out of the elevator.

  Rising to the top floor, before the door opened, LB quizzed the engineer. “What’ve you got? Your eyes are bugging out of your head.”

  Chief raised a finger. “You.” He stuck the digit into LB’s chest. “You are a reliable person.”

  “Yeah?”

  Before LB could question him further, the elevator stopped. Razvan charged out, up the steps to the pilothouse, leaving LB to walk in his wake.

  “Captain,” the chief called the instant he entered the cool, broad pilothouse, “a word.”

  From his chair, Drozdov presided over the array of controls and screens. Outside the ship’s wide windows, the steaming white light glowed in the dusk above the faraway bow.

  Without turning from his instruments, Drozdov said, “In a minute.”

  Razvan hurried to stand beside the captain’s chair, hefting his bale of pages.

  “I am sorry, Captain, but now.”

  Drozdov pivoted a taut face. Something else had been bothering him before Chief exploded into the bridge.

  “Yes.”

  Razvan slapped his papers. “The accident was no accident. It was deliberate.” Chief glanced around the wheelhouse, though only the three of them were there. “Somebody on this ship. Sabotage.”

  LB was jolted. The secrets on the Valnea were starting to become oppressive. He kept silent, but suddenly, badly, he wanted off the ship. Stuck here for another thirty hours. He thought of calling Torres on the satellite radio in his vest, telling her to come get him.

  Drozdov stayed icy. “How do you know this?”

  “I have searched every record of the engine. I found this.” The Romanian plopped his stack of papers on the console.

  Before he could dig in, Drozdov said, “Just tell me.”

  “Yes, all right. At oh-four-thirteen this morning, voltage for cylinder seven dropped off one instant before the accident. The injection timing signal to the cylinder was interrupted. This caused fuel to come in the wrong time to piston stroke. That blew the gasket. Then, poof, like magic, the voltage returned to the cylinder.”

  “Tell me why you think this is sabotage. And be quick, Chief.” Drozdov pointed at one of his radar screens. “I have another problem.”

  Chief leaped to his explanation. “In computer records, when there is short in the power, I will see two alarms. The first is pre-alarm. It tells me where to look. It is like skid marks in front of car wreck. The second alarm is actual power interruption. In this case, Captain, I only have alarm, not the pre-alarm. No skid mark. This says the power failure did not come from failure of engine but from outside. This was human hand.”

  “How was it done?”

  “Simple. Anyone with knowledge can go to fuse box for cylinder seven. Pull the correct fuse. Two seconds. Put it back.”

  “You are sure?”

  Chief gathered his computer sheets off the console. “Of course. I am sure also that only cadet, Nikita, this American, and I did not do it. The rest of you, I watch now.”

  Drozdov turned his weathered face to LB. He asked, “Who would do this?” as if an outsider to the ship might have the best idea.

  You, for one, Captain, LB thought.

  “Chief,” LB asked, “can you see the pistons from the fuse box?”

  “No. Whoever did this could not see Nikita and cadet. Perhaps that was mistake. But I do not forgive.”

  Drozdov’s chin dropped to his chest. After a quick moment, he raised his gaze to his controls and the radar sweep.

  The small ship off the bow lurked only a mile away, and dead ahead. The blip faded in and out, its radar signature on the water small and sketchy.

  LB asked, “What’s that?”

  “That, Sergeant, is my other problem. Right now, the greater of the two.”

  “Is it pirates?”

  Drozdov answered by bringing a walkie-talkie from his lap to his lips. He thumbed the talk button. “Mr. Bojan, this is bridge. Bojan, bridge. Respond.”

  Before the Serb guard could answer, the captain unclipped another microphone from the console. In clear tones, he said, “All hands, all hands. This is the captain. Officers to the bridge. Crew prepare to take secure position. This is not a drill.”

  Razvan pivoted with his papers for the stairs. Drozdov said at his departing back, “Chief, please tend to the engine.”

  LB was left alone with Drozdov. The captain’s face was set hard. LB looked for a crack in the man’s composure, some flashback to captivity, thirst for a bottle, a wince, a lick of the lips.

  Drozdov locked eyes on the radar screen, measuring distance and time, calculating the next move, staying captain.

  LB asked again, “Pirates?”

  In a low growl, Drozdov said, “I do not know. I have never seen this from pirates. One vessel at dusk, sitting in the path of a freighter. This is new. The Somalis come at sunup. In two or three skiffs. They race in from both sides, shoot their rockets, threaten on the radio until we stop. This ship ahead”—Drozdov pointed again—”this one is quiet. We will find out shortly.”

  He put his chin into an open hand, pulled down on his jowls. Drozdov was not panicked. The gesture spoke instead of calculation.

  “And someone I trust has disabled my ship so these mudaki may hijack us more easily.” The captain turned his head to fake a disgusted spit. “Disloyal zhopoliz.”

  Who would want to be hijacked? It made no sense.

  One of the officers rushed from the stairwell into the pilothouse. Instantly Drozdov ordered, “Go to manual. Starboard five.”

  The mate positioned himself between the leather chairs, standing at the console. He punched a button and set hands on the tiny steering wheel. He came starboard five degrees. Moments after, the ship ahead moved to stay in the Valnea’s course.

  Drozdov leaned forward to tap the radar screen. He said to LB, “I have seen mornings after storms where containers have been opened and emptied. Leather jackets, Dom Pérignon, motorcycle parts. In storms, Sergeant. Pirates are desperate men. They cannot be predicted.”

  Grisha chugged in, huffing. Drozdov instructed him, “Hail the vessel in our path.”

  LB had no role on the bridge. If pirates were coming, he belonged where he could do some good.

  “I’m going.”

  “Where?”

  “To get my gun back from Bojan.”

  “He will not give it to you. He has orders.”

  “Then give him different orders.”

  “Bojan does not work for me on this ship of wonders.”

  LB stepped back from the console. He flung both arms over his head, swung a boot at his own frustration, infuriated and diminished. “Shit,” he barked through clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Yes!” Drozdov sang. “Yes, Sergeant. That’s the spirit!”

  Chapter 11

  Pirate skiffs

  Gulf of Aden

  Yusuf raised a fist.

  In the center, Suleiman did the same. To his right, young Guleed hoisted his balled hand.

  The three cousins stood in the bows of three black skiffs lashed together. They signaled to one another: Courage.

  The boats idled their engines. Along with Yusuf and Guleed in the left and
right skiffs, one helmsman and one gunner waited in each. Seventeen more pirates crowded behind Suleiman, standing in the bow of the middle skiff. All were armed with Kalashnikov rifles. A dozen rocket-propelled grenade launchers were secured to the floorboards of each of the three skiffs, along with rope ladders and new aluminum grappling hooks tied to long tethers. At Yusuf’s feet lay two hundred meters of coiled hemp rope. The line ran past Suleiman in the middle to an equal coil at Guleed’s bare feet.

  Every eye was turned to the enormous bow of the freighter bearing down on them. Yusuf could not understand why the Valnea moved so slowly. A vessel of this class was capable of twenty-five knots, even more running empty. The ship wasn’t in a convoy; she ran alone. Why? Was she wounded? Was this a trap? Yusuf had brooded over these questions, moving to stay in the freighter’s path, skulking to spring his own trap. He had no more time to ponder; the white steaming light on her forward mast charged closer, high in the air like an approaching comet.

  Over the skiff’s VHF radio, the freighter repeated its hail on Channel 16. The voice was very matter-of-fact. “Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, CMA CGN Valnea. Please respond.”

  Yusuf said, “Cut that off.”

  Water sprayed off the huge bulbous bow that would ram them in another thirty seconds. With the immense ship almost on top of them, her twelve knots didn’t seem so sluggish to Yusuf. The noise of the bow cutting through the water and the rumble of the propeller beneath the surface vibrated under his soles. He held his fist higher, to be seen by his men in the dim light. Twenty-three narrow Darood faces locked on him. Yusuf looked once to the stars—still a moonless night—to take a bit of peace with him into the hijacking.

  The freighter charged so close that it blocked the stars to the east, and the walls of the hull echoed the splashing, bulbous bow. Yusuf nodded to his two kinsmen. He dropped his fist.

  Instantly, the lines tying the skiffs together were let go. The trio of helmsmen blared their engines. Yusuf and Guleed peeled away left and right, playing out the coiled rope between them, straining to hold the line taut above the water. Suleiman’s skiff dodged left, barely escaping the slicing bow, almost swamped by the ship’s wash. Suleiman’s helmsman quickly regained control. Hugging the Valnea’s painted skirt, the skiff slowed, slipping along the hull back toward the stern and out of sight.

  Yusuf’s and Guleed’s skiffs sped just ahead of the bulbous bow, avoiding the wake that nearly tipped Suleiman. The cousins leaned against the rope, stretching it above the surface. The bulb rose three meters out of the breaking water, over their heads. When Suleiman had first told Yusuf of this tactic weeks ago, it had sounded like an excellent ploy, a way to fool the ship and its armed guards. Now, attempting it, Yusuf wasn’t so confident. He was more sure with an RPG in his hands against a Goliath freighter than with a rope.

  Both helmsmen nudged the cousins as close to the dripping steel as they dared. The surge and sound of the freighter here at the leading edge were overwhelming, so much force split the sea. Yusuf bellowed to Guleed, “Ready?” The boy could not possibly hear over the roaring water and skiff engines, but Guleed jerked his head to show that he knew what Yusuf wanted.

  Yusuf gave his helmsman the order, and Guleed did the same. Both skiffs, twenty meters apart, eased their throttles to let the Valnea creep slightly ahead. The cousins yanked hard on the rope, nearing the nose of the bulbous bow. If the line hit the water, the freighter would run over it, Yusuf would have to cut the rope, and this tactic would fail. Then they’d untie the rocket launchers and hail the ship with threats. With grappling hooks and ladders, they’d attempt to board, the more usual tactic of Somali piracy. If the armed guards resisted, Yusuf, Guleed, and Suleiman in their skiffs would harass and beat the ship until she submitted, or until the pirates managed to board under fire, a violent and deadly option.

  Yusuf pulled hard against the rope, hoping Suleiman’s gambit worked.

  Mist off the bow clouded his vision. With no free hand to wipe his eyes, his tunic soaked, he lost focus. The line took slack and bounced on the surface, almost snagging under the bow. Yusuf and opposite him Guleed leaned back with all their strength to lift the rope free.

  Yusuf’s hands burned around the thick hemp. The pain honed his will. He jutted his chin at his helmsman to ease the skiff’s speed a little more, to touch the rope to the front of the bulb. Opposite him, Guleed disappeared behind the bow and spray.

  Yusuf hauled on the line through the assault of water, the bounding of the skiff over the chop. Slowly, the rope neared the bulb until it touched its tip. Now the trick was to lift the rope over the bulb to bridle Valnea so they could ride her.

  Yusuf nodded to his clansman at the wheel. He envisioned Guleed on the right side of the ship doing the same, nudging closer.

  The skiff angled in, shortening the distance to the colossal hull. Yusuf raised the rope high over his head. The wash from the bulb splattered his eyes, and he blinked fast to clear his vision. The helmsman fought to keep the skiff steady so Yusuf might not lose his balance.

  Yusuf let a meter of slack into the rope; at the same moment, he flicked his arms and wrist to send a loop into the line. He tried this several times, hoping to nurse the rope to the top of the rounded bulb. Yusuf stumbled to his knees, unable to use his hands to catch himself.

  “Closer!” he yelled to the helmsman. The man shook his head, afraid to take on more of the ship’s wake. The other in the skiff, the gunner, leaped to shove the frightened driver away. He took hold of the wheel and throttle. Like all the pirates in Yusuf’s crew, he, too, was a man of the sea. The displaced one took a seat at the center of the skiff, angry.

  The rope stayed bent over the bow’s bulbous nose. Leaning against the line, Yusuf moved to the bow of the skiff. He climbed onto the short crossbeam, lifting his arms as high as he could. This risked a slip off the skiff shimmying on the Valnea’s wake, the deluge of spray shoving him off his perch. To fall in the dark water would be to drown, sucked under the freighter, chopped by the propeller. To fail to take this ship would be to invite another visit from Sheikh Robow, only a slightly better fate.

  Yusuf raised his arms their highest. He pulled against the rope, sensing Guleed on the other end in the same struggle. He wavered on the bow, unable to hold his stance on the shuddering skiff, in the cataract all around him.

  The disgraced pirate, the displaced one, leaped forward to wrap his arms around Yusuf’s knees, propping him in place.

  “Take it!” the man shouted.

  With his stance steadied, Yusuf snapped the rope upward as hard as he could. A ripple whipped into the line; when it reached the bow, the rope slid upward.

  Yusuf had snared the Valnea.

  Keeping pressure on the line, he stepped down to cleat the rope at the skiff’s bow. On the starboard side of the freighter, Guleed would be doing the same. Yusuf gripped the shoulders of the pirate who’d held him, turned him, and put him back behind the skiff’s wheel, redeemed. The gunner, no longer at the helm, scrambled to untie a rocket launcher from the floorboards.

  The skiff bled off speed, letting the freighter pull ahead while the coils of rope slithered into the water. The side of the skiff skimmed against the ship’s hull, gliding backward beneath the giant white letters CMA CGM. No more than a minute had passed since the start of the attack. No reaction had come from the Valnea. If Suleiman’s plan was working, the ship’s captain hadn’t yet figured out where they were.

  The long rope continued to spiral into the gulf as the bow gained distance forward. With his Kalashnikov, Yusuf scanned the freighter’s rail far above, three stories high, ready to discourage anyone who might gaze down. The night’s calm, barely begun, remained unbroken by the Valnea.

  After one more tense minute, the skiff had slipped 150 meters astern of the ship’s bow. The vessel remained silent and dark, no lights or alarms. The last of the rope skipped overboard. Instantly the line jumped out of the gulf, taut between the two skiffs, looped across
the ship’s nose. Yusuf’s helmsman idled the twin outboards, leaving only the freighter’s deep drone and hissing wake. Yusuf and Guleed were now being towed by the freighter, running at her sides like jackals. The Valnea could not outsprint them or shake them off.

  Yusuf did not have to wait longer for the freighter’s reply. A searchlight flared from the port wing. The beam scanned forward to the bow, then out to sea, until it panned down the long hull to find Yusuf standing in his skiff. The light warmed his neck.

  The vibrations of the great freighter trembled against Yusuf’s little boat, pressed to her ribs; her engine and propeller throbbed into the skiff’s wooden frame. The Valnea bellowed at Yusuf, glared at him with one hot white eye, demanding he release her. Instead, Yusuf loosed a half dozen rounds toward the searchlight, though he had no chance of hitting it, just to fix the attention of the sailor manning it. Beside Yusuf, the gunner lifted an RPG, aimed at the wing where the light streamed down. Yusuf waved him off. The Valnea had not fired on them. The rockets were to be used only then.

  Overhead, a klaxon rang. The skiff squealed, tilting away from the ship. Yusuf and the gunner quickly sat, hanging on to keep from being pitched overboard. The Valnea reared out of the water, lifting herself, the helmsman gunning his engines to free the skiff from the rolling leviathan.

  The Valnea careened sharply to the left toward Yusuf, turning as though to address him, to say what Suleiman had said weeks ago.

  Let this go, cousin.

  The helmsman could not budge the skiff; one of the propellers was lifted out of the water.

  Yusuf reached out to stroke the freighter’s rising steel torso.

  “Maya,” he told her. No.

  Chapter 12

  CMA CGM Valnea

  Gulf of Aden

  On the radar sweep, the Valnea’s large blip swallowed the smaller signature lying in its path.