The Weapon

by David Poyer

  The coast gradually left them, dropping away to the southward until it vanished, and they ran in the open sea all night, a boundless desert of water under the gazes of millions of stars. Dan lay staring at the Pleiades. His eyes would drift closed to the hum of the engine, but he never quite lost consciousness. Just too much going on in his head.

  When the sun heated the sky red again it backlit a peninsula and two high islands stark against the horizon. Far beyond them a shining white hull that might be a passenger ferry was heading west. He made the islands as Tanjung Datu, Pulau Serasan, and either Pulau Panjang or Pulau Subi Besar. “Pulau,” he figured, meant “island.” He took a round of bearings—he didn’t trust the GPS alone—and ran out his dead reckoning line from the visual fix as the ferry dropped below the brightening rim of the sea.

  He straightened, kneading his neck, exhausted. “Teddy. Monty. Let’s put our heads together.”

  “Feeling any better?” Oberg asked Henrickson. They were sitting up on the bow, the boat rolling slowly as swells from some far-off storm heaved them up and then dropped them. The sun was glaring already and it was only seven.

  Henrickson shrugged. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Okay enough to climb a boarding ladder?”

  “Do it if I have to.”

  “These guys need to know how to shoot these AKs,” Oberg said. He watched Lenson carefully.

  Dan thought about it, balancing what was incontrovertible about that statement with his misgivings about the mission. He didn’t want any wild shooting. On the other hand . . . he leaned to dip his ball cap in the passing sea, fitted it to his head. The evaporating water felt good. “Uh, all right. Take them one at a time and fam fire off to port.

  “Okay. Now. We’re catching up to the schedule, but we’re still a couple days ahead of the freighter. We need to find someplace to hole up.”

  “Someplace there’s no natives or residents to report us to the Malaysian authorities,” Henrickson said.

  “Indonesian,” Teddy put in.

  “Correct,” Dan said. “We’re in Indonesian waters, anywhere to the west of Tanjung. I’ve operated with the Indonesians.” They were an ally, but even allies didn’t need to know about covert actions. Especially those involving hijacking, theft, and arson. “Now. Here on the chart. The Kepuluan Tambelan group. Distance . . .” He dividered it off. “I make it fifty-five miles from the intercept point. And the Pilot says it’s sparsely populated. Which means, if this weather holds, we could get underway after dark and just have a short run to intercept.”

  “How do we know the freighter’s still on the same schedule?” Oberg asked.

  “Because they haven’t called us on the sat phone.”

  “I’d feel better if we had a positive confirmation.”

  “That’s a good point. Monty, ask for confirmation when we report in at noon.”

  Teddy sat darkly pondering this whole lack of preparation as Lenson talked about the chart. This wasn’t the way SEALs operated. This whole thing should be a Team operation anyway. He should have just backed out. But then, the way they were doing this, they really needed help.

  Wenck stood at the stern, youthful features screwed into concentration. The crack of a Kalashnikov set to single shots whacked across the water, bursting up white fountains each time the rifle jerked.

  The Tambelans pushed over the horizon the evening of their fourth day out from Zamboanga. By then everyone was sick of living aboard forty feet of boat with five other men. Dan had made them sponge off in salt water every morning, but they still smelled, the boat smelled, the fuel smelled, and they were all so scraggly, bearded, and burned they looked as if they’d spent their lives out here. Still, he kept them offshore that night, unwilling to close without a fathometer. The charts said he could have gotten in, but he didn’t trust them. He couldn’t anchor because he didn’t have enough line for a proper scope. Fortunately the weather was still friendly. He hove to and let a current migrate them north during the dark hours. Then restarted an engine at 0400 and ran slowly westward, toward the smallest, most remote, and westernmost island, keeping a sharp lookout for lights or the outlines of boats. The Pilot said it was uninhabited, but even uninhabited islands had visitors.

  Which was where they were now, anchored over coral heads on the east side of an islet too small to have a name on his chart, shielded from the swell and any storms that might come down on them, though he hadn’t seen any storm sign and the met report at their last sat phone checkin had been for five-knot winds. He stood and stretched, then picked up the binocs and once more checked the horizon. They were alone.

  He lowered the glasses, then lifted them again, focusing on the island.

  The far side had looked like bare rock or earth as they’d approached. This side was a thick, deep, threatening green, jungle and undergrowth and along the beach palms above a chalk-line of surf. He thought he glimpsed movement under them, but it was probably just shadows. Colorful yellow and blue birds wheeled and dipped. Their harsh cries piped faintly over the sigh of the breeze, the seashell-whisper of distant surf.

  He lowered the glasses, hawked, and spat over the side again, noticing fish moving down there, above the multicolored, fissured coral heads, slowly finning in and out of the shimmering shadow the boat printed over the reef, as if that shadow was protection or safety.

  Kaulukukui squinted toward the island. “Think there’s any pigs over there?”

  “Thought I saw something moving. Under those palms.”

  “An AK’ll take down a pig.”

  “No shooting,” Dan said. “And nobody goes ashore.”

  “We been on this boat four days, sir. At least, swim call. Doesn’t that water look great?”

  Kaulukukui rooted out mask and fins from his gear bag and held them out. Dan considered. He tugged on the anchor line. Then looked down into the clear again. He really ought to get some sleep while he could. It would be a long day tomorrow, a long night after that.

  “Watch out for sea snakes,” the Hawaiian said. “One of those suckers starts gnawing on you, you’ll be sorry.”

  Dan nodded. He pushed off his stinking, hot boots, strapped the mask on, and stepped over the side.

  The surface rocked silver above him; the powdery blue surrounded him. He pulled himself down the smooth braided nylon of the anchor line, paused, cleared his ears, then kept going down. To the sugar-white sand between the coral heads, where he tugged on the chain pendant. The anchor held. He let go and floated upward lazily and broke the surface beside the boat.

  Wenck, pale-chested and bony in shorts, cannonballed over him with a whoop and hit with an enormous splash. Dan sucked air, jackknifed, and surface dove, into the blue once more.

  The top of the nearest head was only about five feet down. He leveled off and coasted along its crest. Finned over it, and came face to face with a huge green parrotfish. The fish eyed him and angled off, casually, not panicked. Not many divers here, then.

  Suddenly he was at peace. The endless demands of keeping a team pulling together, the looming danger of the boarding seemed a million miles distant. All around him fish darted, intent on tiny missions probably just as important in the grand scheme of the universe as his search for the Shkval. If only he could stay here forever, drifting in the powdery blue . . . but he needed air. He turned his face up reluctantly, and finned upward, toward the golden light.

  As he surfaced he caught the flicker of someone else going overboard. He turned away and swam for a hundred yards, enjoying the water on his skin and the sun on his back. Looking down on the colorful teeming life of the reef, he tried again to forget what they had to do tonight. The closer he was getting to the attempt, the less he liked it. But it had to be done. Taking the carrier task forces off the board would skew the whole calculus of deterrence, all around the world. Ever since the days of Morris and Decatur, sea power had been the only answer to those who considered their contiguous seas their own, and traffic on them lawful prey.

/>   It had always struck him that a world in which violence was the price of existence had not been well designed. But he had to accept it, just as every wrasse and damsel scurrying from his passing shadow had to accept the conditions of their own watery lives. Without security, the predators would rule.

  He went deep, as deep as he could, right down again to the white fine powder between the coral heads. He stayed alert for sea snakes and lionfish, and actually saw one snake, a black and white banded one, zigzagging some distance off. He finned in the opposite direction. That’d be a great way to go, paralyzed from a neurotoxin.

  He came to a hollow in the reef. Chunks of bleached dead stone lay scattered across the bottom. He hovered, gradually understanding some explosive had gone off here. Some errant shell or bomb? Or, more probably, blast fishing? That was how some of the locals fished. With dynamite. Destroying an entire intricate universe, for a day’s catch.

  He was sculling on the surface, sucking breath for another dive, when a shot clapped from the island.

  When he pulled his fins off on the beach, shin weeping blood from painless razor-cuts from the coral he’d bumped on the way out of the surf, Oberg was crouched over something in the undergrowth. The birds whirled over their heads, keening warnings. Glancing his way as he came up, the SEAL held aloft a large green reptile, blood pumping slowly from where its head had been.

  “Lizard sushi, Commander? Guaranteed fresh.”

  “I said no one goes ashore, Obie.”

  “Didn’t hear that order, sir. Figured we could use fresh meat. A boar or something.”

  “Who’s on the other side of this island?”

  “Other side? I haven’t checked the far side.”

  “Exactly. Fishermen. Tourists. A dive boat. Or an Indonesian patrol. That’s why I wanted no one ashore. And no fucking shooting.” Dan pointed to the boat. “Get your ass back there, Oberg. Right now.”

  He held up the lizard. “Yes, take the fucking thing,” Dan told him. He picked up the rifle and threw it at Oberg. “Find your brass. Take it with you, too.” He stood breathing hard, till the SEAL angrily bent.

  He lay awake again that night, waking from time to time and looking at his watch. Around the boat the others slept or tossed, cramped into corners and cuddies. Their snoring waxed and waned.

  At last his Seiko beeped. He rolled over, scratched himself, and got up. Across from him another dark figure stirred against the stars.

  “It’s time?” Henrickson sat up.

  “Let’s go,” Dan said.

  15

  “Point India,” the South China Sea

  The sea heaved darkly; a quarter moon silvered the waves. The boat rolled with a wet slapping like a snapped towel. Their lights were off, and around the deck dark shapes lay like long-dead corpses. In the hours they’d tossed out here several sets of running lights had passed. None had been on Fengshun No.5, but larger vessels, tankers, Dan judged, by their length and their laden-low lights.

  Merchant ships weren’t Swiss trains. They could run early or late, so he’d wanted to be in position well in advance of when she was scheduled to pass. Sitting on the gunwale, he reviewed their gear, each man’s assigned tasks, how it would go and what could go wrong. Unfortunately, almost always what did go wrong was something you’d never anticipated. Murphy was alive and well.

  “Petty Officer Oberg. Anything else we need to do? Set up your climbing gear, anything like that?”

  “Been ready since we got here, Commander.”

  The SEAL had been frosty since their set-to over the lizard, but Dan could not care less. He checked again that his weapon’s safety was on. The chamber was empty anyway, he’d ordered chambers empty until they were actually aboard, so no one would get shot by mistake, but it gave him the illusion of something to do.

  He sat for a few minutes, then checked his watch again. Then again.

  By 0400 he was worried. Would she arrive before dawn? He didn’t think they could approach, grapple, and board by daylight. They’d be seen at once, and if she started to weave, no way they’d get aboard.

  Wenck grabbed his hair, making him flinch. “Something out there,” the Carolinian muttered, sounding like he was choking. Dan put up a hand and Wenck pulled him up with him on top of the cuddy and thrust the glasses into his hands.

  A distant green spark, two white lights in a near vertical line. Heading: a little east of them. “Start one engine,” he muttered, as if they could hear him from here. “Ahead slow. Course two-zero-zero magnetic. Everybody out of sight, except the helmsman.”

  “Why are we running toward?” Carpenter wanted to know. Dan looked at him. Since his trial, the sonarman had barely opened his mouth, just jumped to it whenever it looked as if something had to be done. Seeing Dan’s look he added, “Sorry, sir. Just wondered.”

  “We want to look like a crossing contact. See if they react in a closing situation; that tells us how well the bridge is manned, how alert they are. When we get in tight, they’ll lose us; we’ll be below radar coverage. Then we can alter to drop in astern, but we want to look like a fisherman till the last minute.” He noticed a shadow behind the sonarman. “Obie, this’d be a good time to tell me if I’m doing something wrong.”

  “Really want my input, Commander?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Teddy tried to master his growing dislike for the guy. Their asses would be on the line in a few minutes. “Okay, sir, no argument with that. But once we get alongside, it’d go smoother if you just let me call the shots.”

  “You’re the pros. Just remember, these guys aren’t our enemies. Just merchant seamen, doing a job. We can restrain them. We can scare them. Even threaten them, but I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Teddy grinned in the dark. Like they were going to take over a ship and burn it, and nobody was going to get hurt? Shit, if that’s what the fool wanted to believe . . . he made his voice gung-ho earnest. “Hey, you got it, sir. Just make sure your guys are behind us, and everything’ll go great.”

  “There’s no ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ here, Teddy. We’re all on the same team.”

  Oberg gave him another “yessir.” And that seemed to finish the conversation.

  The lights rose from the sea, glimmering out toward them like reaching hands. Behind them one engine burbled, driving them along at a trawlerlike eight knots. Kaulukukui was sprawled on top of the cuddy with the night-vision goggles, watching the oncoming ship. “Get me an ID,” Dan called. “I’m not going in till we have a positive ID.”

  He bent, shielding the lit numerals with his body, and switched his handheld to the bridge-to-bridge frequency. He had no intention of answering any calls, but it might serve to tell them they’d been detected.

  It didn’t seem that they had. The massive shadow drove steadily on. They crossed its bow a thousand yards ahead of it, the bulging froth at its stem glimmering in the moonlight. He made out a shadowy mass aft, probably an accommodation block. But now he was closer this ship looked bigger than what they’d been briefed to expect. Which was a 900-TEU, feeder-sized containership of about ten thousand gross registered tons and a hundred and sixty meters long.

  But he couldn’t hang around while he decided if this was it or not. It was really tearing along. If they were going to make it into position without a long stern chase, he had to tuck himself in. “All right: Lights out.” Their running lights snapped off. “Come left, angle in toward the stern as she passes,” Dan told Carpenter, on the helm. “Come on, kick her in the ass, Rit! Full RPM, let’s get up on plane.”

  Sumo turned his head, the protuberant muzzle eye of the night goggles making him look inhuman against the lights of the ship. “I don’t think that’s Feng Shui.”

  “It’s Fengshun, not ‘Feng Shui.’ ”

  “Right. But that’s not the name I’m reading on the bow.”

  “Oh, shit,” Dan muttered. “Angle in more,” he told Carpenter. “All engines, flank— What’s it say? Can you read it?”
>
  “Van Linschoten, it says.”

  “That doesn’t sound Chinese,” Henrickson muttered.

  “No, it doesn’t. More rudder, Rit. Look at the stern, Sumo. Can you get a home port?”

  “A - m - s . . . I think an R—no, a T—”

  “Amsterdam.” He could make it out himself now. Along with the white tumult at the base of the black hull-cliff, where the screw lived. He shivered, envisioning falling into that frothy doom. It would be like diving into a tank of hungry sharks. The bow wave hit them with a rushing crash and they grabbed for handholds as the boat climbed under their feet, then aimed her nose for the bottom.

  He grimaced and glanced to the east. The horizon was not yet visible, but it was getting there. Back when he’d been a navigator, he’d be already dressed and shaved, up in the nav shack deciding which stars to shoot. He slammed his fist into the gunwale and felt skin peel off it. “Sheer off. Lights on! Monty, they said it was coming through the Strait tonight? That was firm intel?”

  “I don’t know about intel, they said it was from VTIS.”

  VTIS was the vessel traffic information service, the maritime safety ship reporting system that tracked traffic through major straits. “That should be good dope, then.”

  “Then where is it? Broken down? Running behind schedule?”

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. He slammed his fist into fiberglass again, felt blood trickle. It seemed like this whole Shkval-hunt was Jonahed. Every time they got set up to actually do something—

  “More lights, sir,” Wenck called.

  He sucked breath. There they were, another set of red and green and white. He checked behind them; the Dutch ship dwindling, already low to the horizon. It had gone past faster than he’d expected, huge, towering, a freight train. Getting up a ship’s stern in the dark, the black cliff moving at fifteen or twenty knots, would not be easy. He wiped sweat and blood off on his pants, checked his gear again, checked it again.