Quincy muttered, “Uh-oh.”
Wally pointed to the big PJ. “That’s about right. We got three and a half hours from wheels up. With a two-and-a-half-hour flight, that leaves a sixty-minute window for us to take the ship down.” Wally consulted his watch. “That’s oh-two-ten hours. That means we move fast, every step of the way.”
Jamie asked, “What happens at oh-two-ten?”
Wally removed everything from his voice but the words. “The United States government is going to sink the Valnea. There’s an armed Predator en route.”
On the chairs and sofa, every head jerked.
“Sink it? With us on it?”
“If they have to. Yeah.”
“The hostages, everybody?”
“It’s got to be before the ship gets in view of land. No witnesses. Deep water. They’ll claim the pirates blew it up.”
The team grew quiet. Their excitement for the mission changed. It didn’t disappear but turned inward, where each man reminded himself privately of his pledge to serve as called upon.
“If it gets to that, jump overboard. Robey will pick you up.”
Quincy asked, “You gonna jump overboard? Leave the hostages with the pirates?”
“No.”
“Then don’t fucking bring it up. Sir.”
Doc snapped, “Quincy.”
Wally waved it away. “It’s okay. Anything I missed?”
The elder PJ wiped a hand over his crown. “What the hell is on that ship?”
“Don’t know.”
Doc rose. “I’ll bet LB knows,” he said to the team. “Let’s go ask him.”
Wally opened the door. “On the tarmac in ten.”
The Barn became a hive. Loadmasters drove in a forklift to snatch a RAMZ package and haul it to the flight line. Doc, team leader in LB’s absence, stormed among the lockers, checking every man’s preparation. In shouts he repeated Wally’s orders for suppression tubes on all weapons, extra mags, counted down the minutes until wheels up. Robey’s team changed out of their cams into wetsuit shorties and dive gear. Doc tugged straps, checked gauges, weapons, packs. He growled at the men to do this now, do that later on the plane, move it.
“Everyone! Remember to take whistles, buzz saws, strobes, extra water. The LZ is a moving goddamn ship in the middle of the night! We’ll inspect chutes on the plane. Quincy, grab an extra.”
Doc visited each locker with a smudge can to grease up every face.
Wally geared up. He clamped the suppressor tube to the barrel of his M4, checked the charge on his radios and night-vision goggles. He stuffed four extra ammo magazines into his backpack, made sure he had all water survival items. Doc stopped last at Wally’s locker to black his face.
When Doc finished smearing the grease, Wally reached for his helmet.
“Get the men together.”
“Roger.”
Wally took a moment before stepping away from his locker. Putting a pen to the notepad he kept handy, he wrote a fast note to his mother and father in Nevada, another to his sister in San Francisco, and lastly an apology to Major Torres for being late to dinner. He set his Air Force Academy ring on top of the pages. He shut the locker door.
The team waited for him in a semicircle. Wally stepped to the center. Over a dozen years, in the minutes before a hundred missions, he’d never said these words. He swallowed once to make sure he didn’t choke them back.
“Before we head out, each man go to your locker. Leave behind something your families will want from you. A note, wedding ring, picture, you figure it out. Take two minutes. Go.”
Turning away, Dow made the team’s only comment. He breathed, “Holy shit.”
Wally stood alone with Mouse in the suddenly quiet Barn.
“What about the cheerleader?”
Mouse grinned. “She knows.”
Wally let a few seconds pass.
“You really have a—”
“Yeah, I do. With the Oakland Raiders. Jesus, Wally. You think this is a good time?”
From his locker, Doc said, “Shut up, both of you.”
Mouse mimicked an annoyed swing of a Ping-Pong paddle, mouthing how he was going to kick Wally’s ass when they got back.
Chapter 20
CMA CGN Valnea
Gulf of Aden
Yusuf left the wheelhouse with Drozdov, unarmed save for a flashlight and the onyx-handled blade tucked in the waistband under his khameez. They walked onto the wing past Suleiman’s gunman. The young guard started when they emerged, as if he’d been drowsy. Yusuf wondered if it might have been a mistake stopping the pirates from chewing qaat. The leaf would keep them awake. Dawn and Somalia were still six and a half hours away.
In starlight he led the Russian down the six metal staircases. Yusuf strode in front to prevent Drozdov from surprising any of Suleiman’s guards. He didn’t worry about the captain behind him; this man would do nothing heroic.
Reaching the deck, they walked the starboard rail. Yusuf was again taken by the size of the ship. Yusuf and Drozdov approached one guard, then another forty meters later, in the long and narrow companionway. Neither pirate heard them coming out of the dark. Both were caught gazing out to sea, weapons across their backs, elbows on the rail. The first snapped to a foolish, eager attention at Yusuf’s arrival. Clattering, he brought the RPG across his belly. Yusuf led Drozdov on. The second, a younger one, turned a slow glance to Yusuf’s advance. The boy slouched closer to the rail to make room for Yusuf and the Russian to get by.
Two-handed, Yusuf gripped the thin Darood by the tunic, lifting him out of one sandal. Yusuf bent the boy backward across the rail. The pirate’s white eyes flitted from Yusuf’s nose to the foaming wake three stories below.
“Stay awake,” Yusuf growled in Somali. “Watch the water.” He shook the boy, scooting him inches farther over the rail. “Or I’ll give you a closer look.”
Without hauling the pirate back in, Yusuf released his tunic. The boy scrabbled to gain his balance, windmilling to put his feet back on the deck.
Yusuf pivoted to the wall and the ladder. He climbed ahead of Drozdov up to the cargo deck. He’d never been on an empty freighter. While Drozdov clambered behind him, Yusuf admired the white expanse, the posts and cables to hold a thousand containers. He imagined the cranes loading and unloading this giant, the faraway places she and her crew had traveled and traded, the globe made small enough to view from such a life on board.
Yusuf Raage could never captain a vessel like this. He came from a land ruined by avarice and bloodshed, rained on them by outsiders. Yusuf wanted Drozdov, ashen under the half-light of constellations, to say he was sorry.
He said to the Russian, “Move.”
Drozdov led the way now, down an aisle between lashing bridges. He halted at a hatch in the deck plates, producing a key to open the padlock. The captain lifted the hatch door. Yusuf invited him down the ladder first by shining the flashlight onto the yellow rungs.
The two descended into the empty cargo hold. Drozdov proved nimble on the ladders and catwalks of the ship’s hidden interior. Yusuf directed the light mostly to guide his own steps; Drozdov seemed to know where he was going.
After six levels, they arrived at the hull’s bottom. Yusuf shone the beam along the open floor.
“This way,” Drozdov said. His words fled into the great chamber, echoing deeper than the light could reach. Yusuf followed toward the bow. They climbed across railings in their way like hurdles, passing beneath other tiers of catwalks. Yusuf shone the light in all directions, admiring the structure and expanse, imagining it filled with containers. Drozdov tramped in front, Yusuf strides behind. He fixed the light in the Russian’s path, leaving the darkness intact on the sides.
After two more tiers of catwalks and pillars, the beam fell on two ranks of nine railroad cars stretching the width of the hull. In the first row, the loads were irregularly shaped; the rest were large rectangles. All had been strapped down and covered by tarpaulins.
&n
bsp; Yusuf led Drozdov closer. Quickly, his flashlight beam found a slit in the tarp of the first railcar. Someone had been here before them, probing under the covers. Slits were cut in every one. Who would have done this?
The two peered inside the loads. The cargo was all military hardware, aircraft and technology, marked as Israeli-made.
With his head beside Yusuf’s inside the last tarp, examining the ghostly wings of an oddly shaped aircraft, Drozdov mused.
“All these Israeli machines. Picked up in a corner of Russia, going to Lebanon. Why? And someone on my ship trying to stop it. Why?”
The riddles did not unravel for Yusuf any more than they did for Drozdov.
The saboteur knew the answers.
And Sheikh Robow. There was little chance the sheikh’s interest in hijacking these machines was only ransom. He must have known what the cargo was. Did he want this equipment for his own cause? Or was his purpose deeper?
“They are not going to Lebanon anymore, Captain. They are going to Somalia.”
The two withdrew their heads from the tarpaulin.
“This is illegal shipment,” Drozdov muttered. “Super secrets, armed guards, Iris Cherlina. Someone wrecked my ship. Fuck. This is big monkey business. I knew it.”
“Cherlina. Is that the passenger?”
“I don’t know what she is. Oslayob, I cannot believe I am captain of this ship.”
Yusuf stepped behind the flashlight, headed for the bow to see if any more cargo waited belowdecks. “I can’t believe I took it.”
They passed through another six-story tier of pillars and platforms. Yusuf quit imagining the vast hold packed with containers. He filled the void now only with himself, Drozdov, and whatever mysteries were down here with them.
Climbing over a railing, Yusuf walked into the open floor of another empty bay. Drozdov closed beside him, pointing.
“There is final tier. Beyond that is last bay, then bow.”
Shuffling across the empty floor, Yusuf cast the beam past the vertical structures ahead. On the other side, at the farthest reaches of the light, squatted one more long railroad car, loaded and masked by a tarp. Yusuf slowed. Drozdov bumped into him from behind.
They crossed the floor cautiously. Yusuf held the flashlight at arm’s length. Drozdov stayed to his rear, a hand on Yusuf’s back. Approaching the last tier, Yusuf halted before clambering over the rail into the final cargo bay. He cast the beam through the opening.
Twenty meters ahead, the light played over one more railcar, isolated here in the bow. Yusuf lifted himself over the rail, keeping the beam on this tarpaulin as he approached. The covering had been shredded more than the others.
Drozdov, never taking his hand from Yusuf’s back, followed.
“Someone is very curious,” Yusuf said. He whirled with the flashlight, casting past Drozdov. The jumble of steel in the hold gave up little, only more shadows.
Yusuf slid the onyx-handled knife from under his khameez. Drozdov spoke from behind.
Drozdov asked, “You could not bring a gun?”
“It seemed unnecessary.”
The Russian made a spitting noise. “Very confident.”
Yusuf drifted the light across Drozdov’s face. The captain’s features were as hard as his ship, no sign of fear. Yusuf considered turning around to come back with more than this knife, with a few extra men.
“Come,” the captain said. “I suspect that one is big secret.”
Yusuf followed the light forward. Drozdov moved to his shoulder, side by side.
The cargo strapped to this final railcar was a mystery. Yusuf hoisted himself up inside the cut-up tarp to climb over a crate wall painted with Cyrillic characters. Inside, the flashlight showed him nothing he could recognize, just a long block of steel plates bolted together. It could be anything.
Yusuf put his head outside one of the slices made by another’s knife. “Captain.”
“Yes.”
“Read the side of the crate.”
Drozdov inserted his head into the slit. Yusuf leaned the flashlight over the edge to light the wall for him.
“It is Molniya machine plant. In Moscow.”
“Do you know it?”
“No. Move over.”
Drozdov shimmied under the tarp to climb beside Yusuf over the unnamed device.
“Zdayus. What is it?”
Yusuf cared less about what the machine was than who’d made these cuts to look at it before him. What did Sheikh Robow want with it?
The thing was ugly. Yusuf leaned down to lay a hand on it. The machine felt terrible under his fingers, like a bone from the last man on earth. Suleiman would surely sense it to be a bad sign.
Chapter 21
Four stories below, a large Somali approached behind a flashlight beam. He’d spotted the last railroad car bearing the railgun. LB followed him down the open sight of the Zastava. At the pirate’s side walked Drozdov.
LB and Iris had been lucky. They’d been on the parapet, climbing up to the open night to make LB’s call, when they caught the first glimmer of the pirate’s approaching light. But that luck was fleeting, and seemed to have run out already. The Somalis had Drozdov. That was very bad news. It meant the pirates had at least one hostage, maybe more. Perhaps Bojan and the wounded. What if the rest of the crew had never made it to the engine room and were now captive? This development was going to make an already dangerous rescue even more dicey for whoever was on their way to shoot it out with the pirates.
Drozdov and the pirate examined the railgun together. They made note of the slashes LB had cut in the tarp, and the pirate whirled with his flashlight to check the dark hold behind him, spooked that someone else had been there. The pirate and Drozdov held a hushed conversation LB couldn’t make out for the distance and echoes. They looked like a team.
LB had an ugly thought. Was Drozdov actually the saboteur? Was he the one working with the pirates?
The Russian certainly had no love for this ship. His life was in shambles, and hijacking was a high-stakes game; this multi-billion-dollar cargo could make him rich if they got away with it. And Drozdov had been hijacked before. Had he been recruited then to partner up with the Somalis?
That was all difficult to believe. Drozdov seemed to be passionate about his damaged career, fiercely loyal to his crew. Even under the drink and bad luck that weighed him down, he appeared a decent, strong man. But Drozdov certainly had the knowledge to do damage to the engine; Chief Razvan suspected everyone. It was hard to ignore the sight of the Russian captain calmly exploring the railgun with the big pirate. Was Drozdov under threat? Or was he just one more bad guy in a world full of them? More quandaries for later.
In the dark, on the catwalk beside him, Iris Cherlina nudged LB. She whispered, “Shoot the pirate.”
LB shook his head. Iris elbowed him. It made no sense to shoot the Somali. If LB hit him, what would happen down here when other pirates came looking for him and Drozdov—an Alamo by flashlights? If LB missed and the pirate got away, his own presence on the ship would be blown.
Besides, Iris Cherlina had no idea how hard it was to shoot a man in the back. If she could imagine it and it didn’t bother her, that was scary.
Drozdov and the pirate crawled up inside the tarp, examined the gun, then walked off. LB wondered if Drozdov and the Somali even knew what the thing was, were aware what it could do, and that it was headed to Iran.
LB and Iris watched Drozdov’s and the pirate’s voices and flashlight cross the open bay, then under the tier where they knelt. The two men worked their way far forward, to the ladders they’d climbed down. Iris and LB stayed motionless in utter blackness, to stir no sound in the cargo hold.
Hearing the clang of a closing cargo hatch, LB waited to let them clear the deck above.
After five silent minutes, he struck up his own flashlight.
“Stay close. Don’t make a move I don’t tell you to make.”
Asking Iris to lead him to the ladder where she�
��d entered the hold, he cut the flashlight and climbed. He lifted the heavy cover only inches, to scan the cargo deck. Seeing no lights or Somalis, he clambered out. Before Iris could follow, LB opened a palm, warning her to stay belowdecks.
He bent low behind the cover of the lashing bridges fore and aft. To the stern, Drozdov and the pirate walked behind their flashlight. At the top of the superstructure, the broad windshield of the bridge remained opaque.
LB tugged the satellite antenna from his vest. Hollow rods telescoped into two tiers of umbrellalike branches, plugged into his sat-comm radio at the base. He put on the headset, then leveled the small compass latched to his vest. In the thin light, he found his azimuth, 110 degrees.
Aiming the antenna southwest over the stern port quarter, he tilted the rods to the stars at his best guess of 55 degrees above the horizon, where his satellite ought to be, and pushed the PTT button on his vest.
“Hallmark ops. Hallmark ops. Lima Bravo. Over.”
He repeated the call twice, switching the antenna’s direction each time to a different star, before his headset rustled.
“Lima Bravo, Hallmark ops. Been waiting to hear from you.”
“Roger that, Hallmark. I’ve been busy.”
“Hang on for Major Torres.”
In the seconds before the PRCC came on the line, Iris poked her head up from the open hatch. She asked, “Why do you call them Hallmark?”
“When you care to send the very best.”
In his ear, “Lima Bravo, PRCC here.”
“Major, Lima Bravo.”
“Good to hear from you. We were worried.”
“You were right.”
“What’s your status?”
“My status is, I’m hijacked.”
“Are you safe?”
“For now. That can change.”
“We’re aware of the pirates on board. Valnea’s distress signal reached us an hour ago. What intel can you give me?”
“Estimate twenty to twenty-four targets. All armed with AKs. Plenty of RPGs on board, too. Be advised the pirates have at least one hostage, the captain. Probably more.”
The Devil's Waters Page 19
