Running Dark

by Jamie Freveletti

  Wainwright gave a grim laugh. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “I’ll put this gun away and go get him. Maybe he has some insight into the other passengers. Help us pick the security team.” Sumner grabbed his gun case and headed out.

  The ship’s narrow hallways were empty. The passengers, ordered to their staterooms, had beaten a hasty retreat there. In the casino a dozen die-hard players sat at the blackjack tables, including the Russian and his mistress. They gambled with a joyless determination that reminded Sumner of the stories of passengers left behind on the Titanic, playing while the ship sank. He shook off the ghoulish thought. This ship would not sink. Not if he could help it. He jogged to his stateroom and shoved the titanium case back into the closet.

  He found Block at the casino bar, nursing a scotch. Cindy was nowhere in sight. Sumner couldn’t help but feel thankful for that. He didn’t know how she’d handle her husband being tapped for the security team. He slid onto a stool next to Block, who didn’t turn his head but said, “You’re coming to ask me to keep quiet about what I saw, aren’t you?”

  Sumner hid his surprise at Block’s cynical question. Something told him to lay it out plain.

  “Only about the rifle. The rest you can shout to the world. Preferably the military world. Maybe they’ll send a destroyer to help us.”

  Block snorted. “They’d better do it fast. Those pirates are coming back.”

  The bartender stopped in front of Sumner. She was an attractive blonde, with green eyes, and even under the plain black-and-white uniform Sumner could see that she had a perfect figure.

  She put a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of him and gave him a professional smile. “What can I get you?”

  Sumner didn’t want a drink, but he ordered one anyway. “Maker’s Mark, neat.”

  The bartender set the drink on the table, and Block raised his in a toast. “To killing the bastards.”

  Sumner held his glass in the air. “To winning.”

  Block paused, the rim of his tumbler at his lips. He lowered it a fraction. “Ain’t that the same thing?”

  “Not if you’re bleeding out while you kill the last one,” Sumner said.

  Block shook his head. “Jesus, Sumner, what the hell kinda comment is that? Aren’t you a little young to be so jaded?”

  Sumner took a swallow of his drink. The liquor scorched his throat. Even though he hadn’t wanted it, the whiskey seemed like the perfect solution to his problems. He kept silent. He didn’t care to go into his experience in Colombia. When Block saw that he wasn’t going to respond, he changed subjects.

  “What’s the plan up there with the officers?”

  “Round-the-clock security beefed up by enlisting willing passengers to take shifts. Your name came up, since you said you could shoot. You can shoot, can’t you?”

  “You ever met a Texan that couldn’t shoot?”

  Sumner shrugged. “I’m sure they exist.”

  “Well, I ain’t one of them.”

  “So you’ll take a shift?”

  Block nodded. “But don’t tell me we’re headed to Mogadishu.”

  Sumner shook his head. “We’re going to a small port in the northern part of Somalia run by separatist rebels.”

  “I don’t fancy the sound of that. Do we like these guys?”

  Sumner took another sip of the drink. It was even better on the second go-around. “If by ‘we’ you mean the United States government, the answer is complicated.”

  “Then why the hell are we going?”

  “The people are honest. In Somaliland the moneylenders leave stacks of cash unattended while they pray in church, and when they return, it’s still there.” Sumner thought the citizens hesitated to steal not out of honesty but out of fear of the controlling warlord, but he wasn’t about to express his opinion to Block.

  Block snorted. “They don’t sound honest—they sound damn stupid.”

  “They won’t kill us.”

  Block clinked his glass against Sumner’s. “Well, let’s get there quick.”

  9

  MUNGABE SAT ON THE DECK OF A CHINESE TANKER FLYING THE Liberian flag and watched his two advance boats roar toward him. He was not pleased to see them. They were to make an initial strike against the Kaiser Franz and, if all went as Mungabe thought it might, board her then. That they were returning so quickly boded ill. The small craft came alongside the mother ship, attached themselves to the side, and prepared to unload. Within a few minutes, Mungabe watched his crew pull two injured men over the railing. Anwar Talek, his right-hand man, instructed that they be taken below to be treated. He strode across the deck toward Mungabe with his usual arrogant swagger. Mungabe thought Talek would try a coup against him one day—his ambition was such—but that day was a long way off. Mungabe was only forty, still strong, and had many years’ more experience. He would not relinquish power easily. Talek reached the place where Mungabe sat under a protective awning and delivered the bad news.

  “The tourists have guns,” he said.

  Mungabe snorted. “Since when do tourists from Europe have guns?”

  Talek spread his hands wide. “I cannot tell you. Perhaps the boat carries Americans? Americans sleep with their guns.”

  Mungabe shook his head. “The Vulture told me the passengers are wealthy Europeans. If I had known it was filled with Americans, I would have charged more.” He took a sip of the thick, sweet Turkish tea that sat on a low table before him and contemplated this development. In truth, he was a bit shocked. No cruise liner routinely carried weapons. Especially not those so far from the danger zones. He thought it not likely a coincidence that this one did.

  “The Vulture is keeping secrets from us. He must have known that this ship might be carrying weapons.”

  Talek squatted down next to him. “What is in the cargo hold that this man desires so much?” Talek said.

  “Medications, that is all.”

  Talek frowned. “Why? Surely these medications are not worth so much?”

  Mungabe pondered a moment. “Some drugs can cost one thousand American dollars per month to take.”

  Talek whistled. “That’s a lot. But still. Why does he pay?”

  Mungabe hadn’t really thought about it. “Who knows? The Vulture is the head of a large corporation. Perhaps the owners of the boat angered him and now he craves retribution. All I know is that he has the power to destroy the security company that is causing us so many headaches. This is one ship I will be happy to take.”

  “I think we should grab the medication, too. If it is worth that much, then we can sell it just as easily as he can.”

  Mungabe drank his tea without comment. It was these types of statements that convinced him Talek had no honor. He thought nothing of betraying the European. Well, Mungabe wasn’t too concerned about it either, but he tried to fulfill his contracts whenever possible. Talek had a point, though. What was in the medication that the Vulture wanted it so badly? Mungabe knew an arms dealer who was connected to all things European. He would know if there was anything in the wind about the Vulture and his so-called medication.

  Mungabe shifted in his seat. The harsh sun beat on the blue sea so that he squinted with the reflection. A long stream of sweat ran down his face, followed by another, hastened by the hot tea he drank. The smells of cinnamon, cardamom, and the tangy snap of salt filled the air, scents that brought to mind relaxation. Mungabe, though, was anything but relaxed. He felt his blood beginning to heat.

  “What do we do next? Our crews are out, aren’t they?” Talek said.

  Mungabe nodded. He’d sent the bulk of his fleet into the Gulf of Aden, where they were engaged in various activities. Three crews charged toward two freighters off the Somali coast near Eyl, while two others were attempting to board some Japanese fishing vessels located in the Somali economic zone. All the while they did this, they were dodging the various warships from the CTG 600, a coalition of countries that had agreed to assist with security
along the Gulf of Aden trade route. Mungabe focused his efforts in the gulf because ships taken there were likely to reap the highest profits. He’d sent only a skeleton crew to the Kaiser Franz, since he considered it to be the easiest of all targets to capture.

  Easy, but not simple. The cruise liner sat far from the trade route. None of the small skiffs used by the pirates could reach ships this far from the Somali coast, and so Mungabe had sailed the tanker out first. The massive barge towed behind it several small skiffs and held barrels of gasoline that they’d use to refill their tanks. This far away from the safety of Somalia, anything could happen. Although he’d kept the CTG busy responding to his other activities back at the trade route, if even one carrier came this far to engage them, neither Mungabe nor his crew could do much in defense. The average carrier held an array of sophisticated weapons and helicopters that Mungabe had yet to acquire. The tanker could not outpace a carrier, and the faster skiffs would run out of gas long before reaching land. They’d end up floating on the open sea until they died.

  The cruise lines knew that the pirate skiffs were ill equipped for long journeys, and so they continued to sail to the Seychelles Islands along a route that kept them far from the coast and the Gulf of Aden trade channels. They docked at several different ports along the way, and because maritime law regarding armament varied country by country, the pleasure ships carried nonlethal weapons and fire hoses only. The fire hoses were the most effective in repelling boarders, but those manning them could not be everywhere at once. Mungabe’s men knew to attack from all sides.

  Mungabe thought that the cruise ship would use its various defense techniques, but, once on board, the pirates with their rifles would carry the day. He doubted that any cruise liner’s captain would order civilian passengers to fight bare-handed against armed men. Surrendering was the only way to avoid bloodshed. Thirty armed pirates could easily hold three hundred people hostage.

  “Perhaps the American security company that protects the freighters also guards the cruise liner,” Talek said. Mungabe’s anger rose at the mere thought. It was well past time for him to mount a concerted attack against Darkview. He consulted his watch.

  “Get the satellite phone. I mean to ask the European how the plans are proceeding on his end.” Mungabe looked at the sky. “It’s getting late. We attack again in the dark. We’ll see if those new night-vision goggles work. Just send two more boats. Get the ship to fire its weapons. I want to know what type of firepower they have and make them waste some more bullets.”

  “Should we board her?”

  “If you can. But don’t risk any men. Just keep them scared and put some more holes in the ship. Remember, though, we are not to sink it. We need the cargo intact. The European said he will not pay if we damage his precious medication. We will keep stinging them until the rest of the crews return. When they do, we’ll collect everyone and launch a final run. Until then keep me informed.”

  Mungabe’s second assistant handed him the satellite phone. “It’s about our crew near the economic zones, the ones that were attacking the fishing trawlers. They’ve been taken captive.”

  “By Japanese fishermen?” Mungabe said.

  The assistant shook his head. ”They weren’t all Japanese fishermen. When the advance crew got closer, they said it looked like there were mercenaries wandering among the crew. They opened fire and killed three in our advance line. The second boats pulled back.”

  Mungabe’s legendary anger surged to the forefront. “Who did such a thing?”

  The second assistant raised his eyebrows. “Who else? The American company. Darkview.”

  10

  BANNER STALKED OUT OF THE CONGRESSIONAL MEETING AND marched down the halls to the exit. He stepped into the sunlight and inhaled fresh air for the first time in six hours. He turned right to the Metro, jogged down the stairs, and boarded a train to Arlington, Virginia, where Darkview kept its offices.

  The building that housed Darkview had a curved design, with green-tinted windows and fully grown landscaping. Darkview occupied the second-story corner suites, which accounted for 30 percent of the building’s available space. Banner hit the staircase door and jogged up one flight, emerging at the entrance to his offices. He flung open the frosted-glass doors. Cameras placed at advantageous angles in the ceiling monitored every visitor, so Banner was not surprised when his receptionist greeted him without looking up from her console.

  “Hi, Mr. Banner.”

  Alicia Compton was twenty years old and working her way through community college. She was diligent and friendly, and she sported short neon-red hair, double earrings in both ears, and heavy goth eyeliner. Banner was doubtful about the two small tattoos inked on her upper shoulders. One said PAX and the other VIRTUS. While Banner applauded the sentiments, he wasn’t a fan of tattoos on women. When he’d commented about them to his vice president, Carol Stromeyer, who was responsible for hiring the girl, Stromeyer had warned him to keep his mouth shut.

  “It’s not appropriate to comment on them. She’s smart, industrious, and honest. Frankly, employees like her are hard to find. She could be covered with them and I’d still be thankful to have her.”

  “She’s quite pretty. Why ink her body? Used to be only drunken sailors got tattoos.”

  “You sound like you’re in your eighties, not your forties.”

  “It’s the truth, though.”

  “I’m in my forties. What if I told you I had a tattoo somewhere?”

  Banner had only grunted in reply. But later, alone, he’d spent quite a few nights wondering just where Stromeyer’s tattoo would be, and the fact that she might have one wasn’t off-putting at all.

  Now he strode into her office to find her standing at her desk staring at a small machine placed there that blinked red in a silent, hysterical cadence. Her light brown hair streaked with blond flowed over her face, obscuring half of it. A crease lined her forehead as she frowned at the device. She put up a hand for silence. Banner waited while she scribbled a note on a pad. She held it up for him to read.

  “Bug detector. Was blinking before, went crazy when you stepped in. Drop your cell and meet me in the courtyard.”

  Banner removed his cell phone, placing it gently on her desk.

  The courtyard began at the base of a sweeping stairway. The May air was just cool enough to deter any outdoor activity. They were alone and could talk in peace. Banner watched as Stromeyer, in a wrap dress and heels, moved with her characteristic efficiency of motion. Like Banner, Stromeyer was former military. When he’d first met her, she was wearing a uniform, and she marched rather than walked wherever she went. Since she’d joined Darkview, her march had softened a bit, as if she had exhaled and relaxed. He’d worked with her for three years, and each year she seemed to grow deeper into the vice-president role. She was able to change direction in a heartbeat and with a flexibility demanded by corporate America but not often found in the armed services. Most of their contracts flowed from the Department of Defense, though, and during those meetings she maintained her military demeanor.

  She turned to him. “So who do you think is tapping us?”

  Banner smiled. “Hello, Banner, how was the congressional hearing? Did you bury Cooley? Or did he bury you?”

  She laughed. “I don’t have to ask. I watched it on closed-circuit television in between signing endless copies of our expense report in triplicate. You did great, although I got concerned when you kept talking over Ralston’s objections. We pay him a lot of money to protect you. You should listen to him.”

  “If Ralston got his wish, I wouldn’t have said a word. I thought it better to give Cooley a little bit rather than shut him down entirely. By the way, I received a call from Emma Caldridge. She’s in trouble.” Banner filled Stromeyer in on the call and the cryptic message.

  “You think this has anything to do with our phones being tapped?”

  “Maybe. Tell me what you know.”

  “Even after our bimonthly sweep—wh
ich turned up clean, incidentally—I kept hearing clicks on the phone. I thought the noises were suspicious. I bought that little device two days ago. It searches for physical bugs at the actual location, and it confirmed that our offices are tapped. Now I just need to find the transmitter. But the way it went crazy when you walked in told me that your cell phone must be carrying a physical bug. Has it been out of your control?”

  Banner shook his head. “Not at all. When I got the thing, I made sure to disable the GPS as well. Who would use physical bugs anymore? You don’t have to get near the actual phones, or even into our offices, to tap them.”

  “I agree, but the machine seems to think we’ve got a bug. And there’s more.” She handed him a letter. “Got it today. It’s from the IRS. We’re being audited.”

  Banner read the terse request for information. “This is Cooley’s doing, you know that.”

  Stromeyer took back the paper. “There’s no end to the harassment. It’s entirely possible he’s behind the tap as well.” She looked glum. “Where’s Caldridge now?”

  “In South Africa, running the Comrades ultramarathon.”

  Stromeyer frowned. “Where the bomb went off? Maybe she’s right to be worried.”

  The sound of a closing door echoed in the courtyard. They both looked up the staircase to the broad terrace. A man and a woman, presumably employees from one of the offices in the building, stepped out. Banner watched as both people put cigarettes to their lips, lit them with plastic lighters, and inhaled, their eyes closed in bliss.

  “Addicts.” Stromeyer’s voice was filled with good humor.

  “I used to be addicted,” Banner said.

  Stromeyer raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  “Why the shocked look?”

  “I just can’t imagine you doing anything so…” She waved a hand in the air, as if searching for the word.

  “Weak?”

  She laughed. “Unhealthy. You’re such a fitness freak.”