The Devil's Waters

by David L. Robbins

  LB dismissed this. Fitz in the RAMZ replied that he was trailing the Valnea by two hundred yards. He’d try to get a fix on the young CRO in the wake.

  “On it, LB.” Fitz hailed Robey but got no answer. Fitz wouldn’t quit until he found him.

  LB waited in the corridor for Wally and Jamie to catch up. Wally wasn’t lagging behind to help Jamie walk; he looked as if he needed a supporting hand himself, hobbling along the rail through the dissipating smoke.

  When Wally came past, LB fell in behind him. The man bled out of the gash in his biceps and at least a dozen shrapnel cuts from the back of his neck to his ankles. LB took stock of the carnage they passed. One Somali lay crumpled in the corridor, cleanly killed through the heart by Robey. Three more corpses jammed the narrow alley leading to the forward crane.

  He asked Wally, “How many is that?”

  Wally toted up: fourteen dead targets around the deck. Two more were still alive down here somewhere, the big one and another. LB had seen just how dangerous those two intended to make themselves. Another five remained inside the bridge with the hostages.

  LB checked his watch: 0145.

  “Twenty-five minutes left.”

  Wally hailed Doc. “On our way.”

  Doc answered. “The pirates are freaked. They saw the flash-bangs. Still haven’t come out on the wings.”

  “We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “What happened to Robey?”

  LB chewed his lip; his own limp grew more pronounced as they made their way along the corridor. Since he’d seen it happen, he answered, knowing the whole team was listening.

  “One of the pirates threw him overboard. I think he’s dead.”

  No responses came over the frequency. All the cursing was done in whispers, off the radio.

  Wally added, “Stay focused.” Finger off the PTT, he turned to LB. “Tell me something.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know what’s on this ship?”

  “I do. But it wasn’t my fault.”

  “I don’t care. Tell me.”

  “What about the order not to be curious?”

  “That went overboard with Robey. I’ve lost a man, and now I want to know why. I want to know what you know.”

  LB opened his mouth to answer but paused. He ought to tell the entire team. All their lives, already in danger, were even more at risk because of the cargo on this ship. One of their own had just paid the price for the secrets under their feet. The clock was ticking down on a drone locked and loaded to blow them all out of the water if they didn’t retake this ship on time.

  Five miles off, the US warship kept pace. They couldn’t call the frigate for backup. Valnea was massively top secret. There needed to be as few witnesses as possible to everything that happened on board.

  They had their orders: this mission wasn’t a hostage rescue. The Somalis could never be allowed to keep this ship. And the pirates had made it clear they weren’t leaving unless it was feet first.

  This was the PJs’ job to finish. Do or, really, die.

  The team had a right to know everything.

  LB set his thumb over the PTT on his team radio. Wally nodded, okay. He pressed his own talk button.

  “Listen up, team. LB’s going to give us a fast brief. Eyes on your job while he talks. Go, LB.”

  Wally dropped behind Jamie to keep an eye on their six while LB spoke on the team freq.

  “All right. You guys remember Iran-Contra, back in the eighties. The US and Israel gave Iran a bunch of missiles under the table so they’d release some hostages. Well, it’s happening again; we got the twenty-first-century version. This ship is carrying state-of-the-art battlefield radar and weaponry to Iran, a swap for their nuclear weapons program. This shipment is so fucking illegal, it’s off the chart. Israel, Russia, and the US are behind it. The Somalis cannot, repeat, cannot, be allowed to keep this ship. You lucky bastards were the only unit sitting alert close enough to do the job. That’s the nutshell.”

  Doc said only, “What a world.”

  Quiet moments passed. Sandoval led LB and Jamie forward along the port rail; Wally backpedaled with his M4 facing backward. The missing member was Robey. His return broke the silence.

  The team freq clicked. “Juggler. Fitz.”

  Wally answered. “Fitz, go.”

  “I found Robey.”

  “How bad?”

  “He’s dead. Someone cut him up pretty good.”

  The kid never had a chance—he was overwhelmed in the first second. Robey was likely dead when he hit the water.

  They continued to move toward the bridge, all of them with watchful eyes on the moon-shadowed corners of the freighter. Inside the bridge, the pirates paced in front of Drozdov and his hostage crew. The clock to the Predator continued to tick down: twenty-three minutes left. None of this stopped because of Robey’s death. The opposite happened; things sped up. LB hadn’t expected the PJs would take this ship and get away without paying for it.

  Wally responded to Fitz. “Roger that. Stay close. I’ll let you know if we need you.”

  “Roger. Good luck, guys.”

  Like that, Robey was put aside. This was combat, and though the dead asked for a role, they had none.

  Chapter 42

  Suleiman galloped in front, holding Yusuf’s abandoned sandals. They left the cloud behind, gunfire rattling and fading at their backs.

  They rounded a corner into the starboard rail corridor. The guns on the far side of the ship stopped snapping. Yusuf and Suleiman swept the muzzles of their Kalashnikovs left and right to be certain they were not being trailed. The moon had ridden high enough to show the corridor empty, but that meant little. The Americans could appear out of darkness and smoke anywhere on the ship. Yes, Yusuf thought, like demons. But the one he’d killed had died like any other man.

  He wiped the knife on his khameez, a bloody man. He slid it into the sheath in his waistband.

  A hundred meters toward the stern, at the top of the super-structure, the broad windshield of the bridge stayed dark. The freighter surged toward Qandala as if nothing were wrong.

  “We’ve got to get to Guleed,” Yusuf said. “As long as we hold the controls, we can make it. The sun will be up in a few hours.”

  Suleiman did not face him. He focused on the last wisps of smoke behind them, as though the puffs were more ghosts. Yusuf spoke to his cousin’s narrow back.

  “We need to get to the bridge.”

  “I agree.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “You must go, cousin.” Suleiman turned. “My brother.”

  “We go together.”

  Suleiman’s gold teeth sparkled. “We have traveled beside each other a long time. We go separate ways now.”

  Yusuf set a palm to Suleiman’s thin chest. “It doesn’t have to be like that. You said we would fight together. Please, no more signs.”

  “This is not a sign. It is a choice.” Suleiman covered Yusuf’s hand with his. “There is no jihad in piracy. There never was. I’m done with it. I won’t fight for this ship anymore.”

  “You said to have faith. We’ll get through this. We’ll get home.”

  Suleiman laughed. “I have absolute faith, cousin. If I am to live or die, I submit myself to Allah for a better cause than ransom.”

  “Those are men.” Yusuf held out a stained and tacky hand. “Just men.”

  “They may be men and still be sent by Allah.”

  Suleiman scanned the stars. His words seemed intended as much for them as for Yusuf.

  “I do not believe we will both survive this night.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I did not say I was sure. I said I believe.”

  Yusuf bunched Suleiman’s tunic into his fist. “This is madness.”

  “No. I have not gone mad. I am still a fighter, like you. And if Allah decides I must die by his hand, it will need to be a strong hand.”

  “What about Qandala?”

 
; “Qandala, the ransom, Robow—those are for you, cousin. Not for me.”

  “What will you do?”

  Suleiman squeezed Yusuf’s bloodied wrist.

  “I will attack. I will slow them, perhaps kill a few more, enough to give you a better chance. You go to the bridge. Save Guleed and yourself, get this ship home. If I am alive at sunup, I will pay for your wedding. But if I am to die tonight, it will be to save my two kinsmen.”

  Suleiman wrapped Yusuf in both arms. The Kalashnikovs bulged between them.

  Yusuf whispered, “Our paths have always been side by side.”

  Suleiman’s head shook gently. “This is not a new path for us. It’s the one we’ve always been on. Now mine stays here. Yours leads to the bridge. Run, Yusuf. Allah rewards those who run to their destiny.”

  Suleiman kissed both Yusuf’s cheeks, then released him. Suleiman was the elder, but Yusuf remained clan chief. Suleiman turned away but did not walk off. He faced the bow and rising moon. This let Yusuf depart first, as was proper. At his back, Yusuf heard his cousin climb a ladder, up to the cargo deck.

  Yusuf sprinted sternward, brandishing his Kalashnikov in case he surprised an enemy in the corridor. The narrow passage stayed empty, the wake’s hiss the only sound. Yusuf swung his shoulders to dodge the pillars, jumped across the bodies of clansmen.

  The soldiers had gone quiet. Jama and the last three pirates on deck had died in explosions and smoke. No one was left to oppose them but Suleiman.

  Yusuf ran as his cousin said. With every stride he felt the severing of their fates.

  Bolting down the dark passage, he fingered the trigger of his rifle. Should he have allowed Suleiman to talk him into letting him stay behind? Yusuf was tempted to turn around and go kill the rest of the soldiers alongside his cousin. He’d throw their carcasses off this ship and shout to him, “See this! Allah has chosen for you to live!”

  Yusuf reached the superstructure. He stopped to catch his wind. He pointed the Kalashnikov in every direction until all the shadows proved themselves motionless.

  The six stairwells to the bridge loomed very high. Yusuf, alone and breathing hard, was tempted not to go up them. He might stand his ground and deal with whatever came out of the dark for him, like Suleiman.

  He could not stay here. He was not Suleiman, did not share his destiny. Guleed, Drozdov, the hostages, the American soldiers, Qandala—all those fates waited on Yusuf to move.

  He spit over the rail. He picked one star to breathe in.

  Yusuf entered the superstructure to take the elevator.

  Chapter 43

  LB did not have his NVGs down, so he did not see the pirate who shot Sandoval.

  The bark of a Kalashnikov knocked Sandoval backward. More automatic rounds clanged against the steel around them. Wally dove for the deck. LB stayed on his feet to whirl and answer with a burst over their heads, but Jamie on his two bad wheels couldn’t get down fast enough. LB couldn’t pull the trigger, so took a knee. Sandoval tried to sit up, one-handing his M4, but Wally pulled him back down.

  LB knelt to clamp a hand over the fresh hole in Sandoval’s left shoulder, then pulled his goggles down, surveying the corridor. The gunfire had been only a burst. The long alley showed green and clear.

  Sandoval gritted his teeth under the pressure of LB’s palm over the wound.

  LB asked, “What happened?”

  “Son of a bitch dropped down out of nowhere.” Pained, Sandoval hissed, “Hijo de puta.”

  Jamie was on the deck now, his face as wrenched as Sandoval’s. Wally climbed to his feet, goggles down, swinging his weapon front and back to guard both directions.

  LB pulled his hand away for a quick look at Sandoval’s wound. The bullet had entered at the top of the chest; it might have nicked the collar bone. No exit wound—the round had stayed inside Sandoval. He needed a bandage and pain meds from their rucks stashed outside the bridge. And evac. They all did.

  LB checked his watch: 0149. Twenty-one minutes.

  “There’s time.” He told Jamie to give Wally his NVGs. The young PJ detached the goggles from his helmet and tossed them over. “Sandy, sit up now.” LB helped Sandoval grunt his way to a sitting position. He arranged Jamie and Sandoval back-to-back, M4s up, facing fore and aft.

  Wally finished clipping the night goggles to his helmet. He said, “We got about three minutes.”

  “It won’t take that long.” LB lowered his goggles.

  He led the way up the ladder. On the white expanse, LB crouched to protect Wally’s approach, scanning the breadth of the cargo deck. No glow rose above the southern horizon; Somalia was mostly an unlit land. Moon and stars were enough to paint the rows of gates and crisscrossing cables with an emerald clarity. Nothing of the steel field moved. The thing that did move was human.

  The cargo deck presented the same obstacles to this pirate that it did to LB, designed to strap down containers, not for a stroll. The pirate struggled to make progress. He was headed toward the bow to lay another ambush, this time from behind the wounded PJs in the corridor. To do this, he had to climb, drop, run, and climb again.

  LB and Wally crept sideways to the center of the deck, keeping low. The distance to the scrambling pirate was no more than fifty meters. Wally braced his carbine against a pillar. In LB’s goggles, Wally’s thin green laser landed on the pirate’s moving back. It wasn’t a broad back; this was not the Somali who killed Robey. There was no sign of that one anywhere up here. Just this one, thin pirate alone.

  Wally waited seconds for a clear shot, then took it. The gun’s suppression tube coughed; no thunder for this death. The Somali heaved forward, slammed against the steel gate he was halfway up, then slid to the deck out of sight.

  Wally lowered the M4, confident in the shot. He strode forward. LB stopped him.

  “You go get Sandoval and Jamie headed to the bridge. I’ll do it. Then I’ll catch up to you.”

  Wally raised his NVGs. “Tell me something.”

  LB took one more look at the cluttered distance between them and the downed pirate. He lifted his own goggles. “Tell you what?”

  “When we were in South America. Those missions I jump-mastered for you my last year at the academy. They weren’t just recon.”

  “No. They were black ops.”

  “I’ve never seen you kill anybody the way you knifed that pirate on the bow.”

  “There a problem?”

  “You’ve done that before.”

  “You were a kid back then.”

  “I stopped being a kid pretty quick. You helped with that.”

  “Look, I know why you need to talk. I do. But not right now, okay?” LB said again, “I got this one.”

  Wally nodded. “Okay. Later.”

  LB dropped the NVGs over his eyes. Wally headed for the ladder down to the port corridor.

  LB stood above the pirate, who lay with hands spread as if in welcome. The Kalashnikov was underneath him. Shot in the back, the Somali had rolled over to die faceup.

  Wally’s bullet had exited through the sternum, dead center in the torso. The pirate’s eyes followed LB’s last step over him.

  LB lowered the Zastava’s muzzle against the pirate’s heart.

  Blood dribbled from the corner of the Somali’s mouth. The man’s voice was thickened, his life draining into his throat. He spoke through spattered gold teeth.

  “What…what is your name?”

  “LB.”

  The pirate hacked weakly, swallowed once. “That is an odd name for a demon.”

  LB fingered the trigger. “You should never have come on this ship, pal.”

  The Somali nodded against the steel deck. “At the end, even enemies agree.”

  “You say so.”

  The big Zastava roared into the pirate’s heart.

  LB caught up with Wally, Jamie, and Sandoval at the base of the port external stairs. LB’s calf pulsed. Blood warmed one boot.

  Sandoval looked rough. His left arm dangled uselessly, b
ut he held his M4 out and ready with his right. Jamie could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

  LB said to Wally, “Neither of these guys can make it on the steps. Send them up in the elevator. It stops one floor below the bridge. They can backstop the inside stairwell.”

  Wally answered with a wan smile. LB had made no mention of the pirate on the cargo deck. That told Wally the job was done.

  “All right. Jamie, Sandy, do it. We’ll get you wrapped up soon as we secure the bridge.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Captain.” The two PJs propped each other up enough to hobble toward the superstructure. “Send ’em our way.”

  Wally took the lead up the staircases, LB close on his heels. LB couldn’t count the number of rips in the back of Wally’s uniform and vest. For their wounds, neither could muster much stealth, all four of their boots scuffing the steel steps.

  As they reached the fourth landing, Doc called on the radio. “I hear you coming.”

  LB answered, “Right below you. Portside stairs.”

  Wally read the time: “Oh-one fifty-two.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  They mounted the last steps, crouching onto the wing. Doc squatted below the pilothouse door, NVGs down to keep track of the pirates inside. Big Quincy knelt, ready with his M4. Doc gave LB a thumbs-up. After a quick look at the two of them, Quincy scrambled for his med ruck, stacked in a corner alongside a dead pirate. Wally’s calling card marked the body, two black punctures in the chest.

  In seconds, Quincy bound LB’s right calf in gauze, then started on Wally’s left biceps. The big PJ’s eyes widened over Wally’s shredded back. “What the fuck did you do?”

  The pain in LB’s leg lulled to a throb under the gauze wrap. He gestured to his own eyes, then to the bridge, asking Doc to take one last look inside the windows. Doc inched his goggles above the bottom of the dark pane, peered in, then just as slowly slid down the door. He reported over the radio.

  “Six targets inside. Another one must’ve snuck in from the back door. He’s a big one. They’re all on their feet. Two on this side, three on the other, and the one jumpy little guy’s still pacing between them. The hostages are crowded under the windshield. All guns are on them. How you want to play it, Captain?”