Yusuf brought the mike to his lips.
“This is he.”
“Sir, you speak English?”
“Very well.”
“Sir, do not harm any hostages. We have complied.”
“Thank you. Captain, what is your name?”
“Goldberg, sir.”
“Captain Goldberg. I have two more demands. First, keep your vessel at least five miles away from me at all times. Do you understand?”
“Affirmative.”
“Next. I want you to send a skiff alongside my starboard beam. I want no more than two men in it. Unarmed.”
“Sir, I can’t promise that.”
Yusuf spoke facing Drozdov.
“I have wounded on board, Captain. I don’t have time to care for them. You will take them off my hands. I have hostages enough.”
“Sir, I have the safety of my own crew to look out for. You understand. I need a guarantee.”
“You have my word, Captain. Your people will not be harmed.”
“All right, I’ll have to accept that. We’ll reach your position in fifteen minutes.”
“Good.”
“If you cut your speed, we can make that ten.”
“Fifteen will be fine. Valnea out.”
The Russian strapped to the backboard cursed from the moment he was carried out of the infirmary to the main deck. Suleiman, still impatient and anxious, pressed the barrel of his pistol into the grousing Russian’s groin where the urine bag attached. This shut him up.
The scalded boy was bundled into a bedsheet like a hammock and hoisted outdoors. The pirates pitied his condition, blistered and moaning, conscious enough to be in agony. They tried to be careful hefting him down the long, lowered gangway.
At the bottom of the stairs, waiting on the platform, Yusuf stood in the same spot where his skiff had ridden beside the Valnea’s great flank. He bathed again in the warm searchlight from above. Foam licked his bare feet skimming just above the water. Along the starboard rail three stories up, all the hostages stood in line, including Captain Drozdov. Behind them, a dozen Darood held Kalashnikovs.
Bathed in the spotlight, Yusuf could not see far over the black gulf or any stars. The turning of the freighter’s screw, the hiss of the wake—these blotted out other sounds. He did not hear the warship’s inflatable raft arrive out of the darkness until it had motored very close, blinking a flashlight only fifty yards away. This worried him, that the American boat could approach so near without discovery, without even trying to be stealthy. What if this had been a raid? Wasn’t the plodding Valnea just as vulnerable to commandos as it had been to Yusuf’s pirates?
Seven hours to Qandala.
The beam shifted away from Yusuf to the closing raft. As Yusuf had ordered, only two sailors manned the craft. They held no weapons. The one at the helm was dressed in camouflage and body armor, probably an American marine. The sailor in the bow wore a naval officer’s uniform.
The raft motored alongside. The officer tossed a painter caught by Suleiman, who tied it off. The marine stood, a big man, showing empty hands, then tied a stern line to snug the raft close. The officer, well tanned with an older seaman’s creases, saluted.
He asked, “Permission to come aboard?”
Yusuf reached down to help him onto the platform.
“Salaamu alaykum.”
The American held on to Yusuf’s offered hand to shake it. “I’m Captain Goldberg, USS Nicholas.”
“Yusuf Raage. Thank you for coming personally, Captain.”
“We got ourselves a situation here. Maybe we can figure it out, the two of us.”
“First, the wounded. Please take them aboard.”
“Aye, sir.”
Goldberg motioned for his hefty marine to help load the two injured Russians. The burned and bandaged boy on the sheet was placed gingerly into the raft. His eyes were open, round as coins, his pain easy to see. The one strapped to the backboard grabbed his testicles to shake them at the pirates handing him over, shouting, “Poshol nahuj!”
Yusuf said to the captain, “As I said, I haven’t the time.”
“I understand. Can I have a private word with you?”
Goldberg took a step closer to Yusuf. Suleiman set a hand on the pistol stuffed in his waistband. The marine, even unarmed, rose in the stern of the raft.
“I would keep my distance, Captain. My cousin is very protective.”
“I still need that private word.”
Yusuf gestured for his six pirates who’d hauled the Russians down the gangway to climb back to the deck. Suleiman held his ground.
“Speak.”
“All right. Listen, I don’t know what’s on this ship, and I don’t want to know. But you kicked a hornets’ nest when you took it. My phone has not stopped ringing. And the calls I’m getting are from very important people in my government. Very. Military and civilian both, if you get my drift.”
“Make your point, Captain.”
“I’m telling you to walk away. No harm done. Get back in your skiffs and go hijack yourself another freighter. You got my word: I’ll wave and let you go. See you another time. But not this time. This is bigger than you want and more than you can handle. That’s a heads-up for your own good.”
“For my good.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yusuf turned to his cousin, listening behind him. Suleiman kept his face blank, out of deference for Yusuf as leader. Both knew the American had just spoken everything on Suleiman’s mind.
Yusuf lapped a hand behind his kinsman’s neck. He squeezed in fondness and loyalty. His cousin would share whatever fate was his; that was their long-standing pact.
Yusuf raised his hand high into the spotlight. At the signal, the beam swept away, plunging the platform and raft into darkness. The light leaped up the Valnea’s tall hull, to the hostages gathered along the starboard rail.
Guleed’s single gunshot clapped loud enough to be heard at the bottom of the gangway. One hostage went limp; arms and shoulders flopped overboard until the legs were lifted from behind, dumping the black-clad body into the air. The searchlight followed the long, awkward somersault into the water.
The corpse splashed into the wake, then bobbed to the surface facedown. This was the large guard, the one wounded during the taking of the ship. The searchlight stayed on the body surging past the platform, beneath Yusuf’s bare feet, under the gaze of the warship captain. The body drifted quickly behind in pinkening foam, swallowed into the indifferent gulf.
Yusuf spoke to the side of the captain’s head. “The man was an armed guard. He shot one of my clansmen.”
Goldberg pivoted slowly to glare at Yusuf. He barely hid his anger.
“When your phone rings again, Captain, tell them if anyone attacks this ship, I will kill every hostage. You asked for the guarantee of Yusuf Raage. Tell them you have it.”
Suleiman did not lift his hand from his weapon until the American had stepped into the raft, slipped the lines, and motored away with the wounded. The spotlight tracked the boat deep into the night, until it became small and the beam blinked off.
Chapter 16
Through the honeycomb of steel, beneath the moan of the freighter’s engines, LB crept forward. He hid behind pillars, pausing, edging forward toward the source of the light. The glow did not waver, and the shadows it cast didn’t shift.
When he rounded the last corner into the cargo bay, he saw the source. A flashlight lay abandoned on the deck.
Instinctively, LB raised Bojan’s Zastava. He advanced slowly into the rim of light.
The spilled beam played across one more railcar standing alone, its large rectangular face wrapped like the others in a tarp. LB swept the Serb’s gun in a circle, scanning the blackness. He backed toward the railcar.
“Stop right there.” The voice bounced around the hard cargo bay, sounding as if it came from several mouths. LB quit backpedaling. “I’ve got a gun pointed at your head. Drop the rifle.”
H
e did not comply.
“Iris, it’s me. LB.” His own voice flew into the gloom, rattling in the dark.
“LB? What are you doing here?”
“I figure to ask you the same question. Come on out.”
Echoed footsteps preceded Iris. She emerged in her khakis and linen blouse. She carried no gun.
Iris Cherlina walked fast right at him. LB lowered the Zastava so she could walk into his arms.
“I’m so scared,” she whispered.
He wasn’t sure of the right pressure to put around her waist. She was a beautiful liar, and involved in something sneaky and international, way past his pay grade. He squeezed once, said, “Yeah,” then let her go. Iris backed off when he did.
“I’ll go first,” he said, “since I’m the one who really has a gun. What are you doing down here? What’s going on?”
Iris Cherlina picked up the flashlight she’d laid on the deck. She turned the light away from his eyes. “I went to my cabin to rest for dinner, like I said. But I was curious about that ship you and I saw off the bow at sunset. So I walked forward. I looked over the side and saw the pirates. It was incredible. Frightening. When I heard the alarm, I climbed down here to hide. I was lucky.”
“Why didn’t you tell somebody?”
She blinked at him, indulgent. “That defeats the purpose of hiding.”
“Where’d you get a master key?”
Around Iris, the engine hummed while, high above, pirates swarmed the ship.
“LB. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Too late.” He dropped the question to point at the mystery railcar behind her. “That’s yours, isn’t it? And all that back there. The drones, the radar.”
Iris didn’t nod, nor did she need to for him to know he was right.
She covered her mouth. “Is that blood on your shoulders?”
“Bojan’s been shot. I had to carry him.”
Iris spoke behind her fingers. “Oh my God. Are we safe? Did the pirates follow you?”
“They don’t know I’m down here. Last I saw, Drozdov and the crew were headed to the engine room to lock themselves in. I’m not sure if they made it. If they didn’t, the pirates are going to check the manifest and find out you’re missing. They might come looking. They’ll need a hostage.”
“And if they do?”
“If they come down here, they’re gonna find your Israeli hardware and whatever you got behind door number three over there.”
“What will you do?”
“Me? Haven’t got a clue. You’re gonna help me figure that out.”
“How can I do that, Sergeant?”
LB shouldered the big Zastava. He flicked on his own flashlight to spotlight a circle of the bare steel floor.
“Iris, sit.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to talk.”
“I can’t tell you anything. It’s all classified.”
LB firmed his tone. “Lady, do you understand what I do for a living? Everything I do is classified. I shit classified.”
“Not like this.”
“Sit.”
Iris folded her legs onto the carpet of light. With less grace, LB settled beside her. He laid the Zastava across his lap. While he spoke, he kept one ear trained into the darkness. If he could find Iris, the pirates could.
“Listen to me. I just looked at a few billion dollars’ worth of Israeli surveillance gear that I’m told is headed to Beirut. That makes no sense. I’m going to look under the tarp of that last railcar there, and I’m pretty sure that’s going to make no sense either. I find you standing in the middle of it all. I need to know what’s going on, and you’re gonna tell me.”
“Why should I do that?”
LB kept a rein on his voice, though he wanted to shout.
“Because it’s all been hijacked.”
Still, his volume made echoes, a chorus to tell him to quiet down. Barking at Iris wouldn’t help.
“Look at me. I’m a soldier. My country’s involved in this somehow. I need to know what I should do here. I’m operating way outside my orders. I have to decide whether or not to defend these railcars or just save my own ass and yours. So give it to me quick. And make it easy to understand.” LB pointed. “What’s under that tarp?”
“I’m sorry. That information is secret.”
“I’m looking at it, so it ain’t a secret anymore.”
Iris mulled this over too long. LB rose off the deck.
“Fine.”
He strode away from her voice calling for him to stop. Iris did not follow, which was smart.
LB cut a long slash in the tarp to make the point that he was aggravated. He stuffed his upper body in with the flashlight, blocked by the solid side of a wooden crate. He played the light over the labels spray-painted there in Cyrillic. This cargo wasn’t Israeli, but Russian.
He pulled himself farther inside the tarp, hopped up to climb above the wall, and sliced more tarp to give himself room. Outside the stuffy confines, Iris had come alongside to shout for him to stop. She would tell him what was inside. LB ignored her, figuring he’d have a stronger chance of getting the truth out of Iris if he saw firsthand what was inside.
With one more long zip of the blade through the roof of the tarp, he clambered over the side, to balance on a wooden cross-beam. Beneath his boots, packed tight, padded by foam, lay what looked like a thirty-foot-long engine block.
The thing was rectangular, gray steel, four feet high by three feet wide. The sides were solid plate, but the top featured twin rows of fist-size black bolts clamping it down like the head on a motor, maybe a hundred of them.
“Come down.” Iris hit him with her flashlight beam while he stood to consider what he was looking at. He kept his place above the machine.
The thing was bound to have a military application, judging by the drones and radar that accompanied it. It was long, straight, and seriously held together.
“It’s a gun,” he guessed.
“Yes.” Iris Cherlina cast her beam to the deck to light the way for him to climb down. “It’s a gun. Now get off it.”
LB eased down from the crate. He sat on the deck, setting his back against the railroad wheels to face the dark expanse of the hold. He patted the floor for Iris to join him; she folded neatly down, laying her flashlight inside the ring of her crossed legs so she glowed as if beside a campfire. LB rested the Zastava across his knees.
“Tell me. Plain terms. What is that? And who are you?”
Iris Cherlina lifted both palms. LB was no scientist, and she seemed unclear where to begin.
LB had little patience for her hesitation. “Just start.”
“All right. I’ll answer the personal question first. I am, as I told you, an electrophysicist. I worked at the Molniya machine-building plant in Moscow.”
“That’s weapons research. Nuclear.”
“Yes, it is. I am a weapons engineer. Molniya does more than nuclear.”
“So what are you doing on this boat?”
“I am merely accompanying this.” She tapped the back of her hand against the railcar. “I will assist in its installation. That is all. Then I really will take a position at another lab.”
“And what, exactly, is this?”
“An electromagnetic launcher.”
“Okay”—LB nodded—“okay. That’s a railgun. I’ve heard of that. The navy’s doing a lot of R&D on them.”
“Yes, I know. Your US Navy is not alone. Nor are they in the forefront.” Iris almost sniffed when she said this.
“You’re about to say Russia is.”
“And China. Our weapons research is not so strapped as yours with budget cuts, verification and safety issues.”
“Especially that safety thing. That can be a pain in the ass.”
Iris blinked. “Don’t behave like a child.”
“So the Russians haven’t lost interest in electrophysics, like you said.”
“That was a lie, Gus.” Sh
e patted his arm indulgently.
Iris Cherlina continued smoothly, not slowed by her admission or his attempts at wit. “Do you know how an EML works?”
He rummaged for some insight, something to speed the conversation, but dredged up nothing.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s a simple concept, really. Two rails of conductive metal are laid parallel. An electric current is introduced into one. This creates a positive magnetic field around that rail. The current crosses an armature sabot, to flow down the second, negative rail. The armature is designed to slide along the rails. The opposing magnetic fields generate a Lorentz force. This repels the armature in the direction away from the power source.”
LB whisked his hand into the air to imitate a launch. “That pushes out the shell.”
“With immense power.”
“How much?”
“That depends on the electricity applied. Your naval research lab expects that within ten years it will be able to fire a projectile over three hundred nautical miles at speeds up to Mach 8, with an accuracy of five meters. The power needed for this will be in the millions of amps. But imagine what will happen when the first nation’s warship puts out to sea equipped with a railgun. It will control a diameter of six hundred miles, sit at invincible distances, and pound targets on sea and land. Troops onshore won’t need to take their own artillery. This weapon will revolutionize warfare. And it gets better.”
LB finally recalled something he’d heard about railguns.
“No powder.”
Iris Cherlina smiled broadly, pleased.
“No explosive propellants. Railguns use only electricity. Ships will be safer. EM projectiles are more powerful. They’re smaller, lighter, even cheaper. And since there’s no chemical or thermal trace from firing an EM weapon, the rounds will be harder to track by an enemy.”
“Will it really work as well as all that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then what’s the holdup? Why’s it ten years off?”
“Because in its current form, the EM gun can only fire once. Then it has to be rebuilt.”
“What happens?”
“When you run that much current through a conductive metal, a fraction of the electricity is turned into heat. The power needs of a railgun are so great, the heat generated is enough to melt the rails. Also keep in mind that the magnetic fields of the rails are opposing, so they push at each other with enormous force. Add the friction of the armature passing over them at such speeds, and you have a pitted, warped, ruined railgun after one shot. Maybe two.”
The Devil's Waters Page 16
