by Sean Ellis
He scoured the dark horizon for any sign of the approaching armada, but could distinguish nothing. He cupped his hand over one ear, listening for the whine of what he knew must be powerful outboard motors, but heard only sounds of merriment.
“Jumping at shadows,” he murmured, turning away from the railing. Even so, he decided a visit to the ship’s bridge was in order. He had only taken a few steps toward his goal when the noise of the party was suddenly punctuated by the distinctive crack of gunfire.
The sound was muted by the layers of steel comprising the deck plates and bulkheads of the cruise liner. It might have been easy to mistake the noise for fireworks but for the sudden shrieks of terrified passengers. But the noise was repeated a moment later, and Kismet knew his first guess was correct.
He ducked instinctively, trying to present as small a target as possible, even while scanning the deck for some sign of a hostile presence. Seeing no one, friend or foe, he crept silently ahead.
When traveling, Kismet always brought his personal sidearm, a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol, and the kukri knife he had carried since that fateful night in the desert when the Gurkha blade had been his weapon of last resort. This venture was no exception to that basic rule of preparedness, but he had made the error of assuming nothing dire would occur in the minutes following his arrival aboard the ocean liner. His weapons were safely tucked inside a suitcase, which was probably en route from the helicopter to his cabin. His sole remaining means of defense—or attack—was his Benchmade 53 Marlowe Bali-Song knife. The Bali-Song butterfly knife design was different than an ordinary pocket knife where the blade folded into the side of hand grip. The Bali-Song handle was split lengthwise, and the blade rotated on two pivot points out of the grooved channels on either side. In skilled hands, it could be deployed almost as quickly as a switchblade. Kismet could hold his own with the Bali-Song, but he was also a believer in the axiom of not bringing a knife to a gunfight. Nevertheless, he held the unopened folding knife in his right fist, and continued forward stealthily.
He felt a faint tremor pass through the deck, and recognized that the ship was no longer surging ahead at a steady twenty-five knots. In fact, just over the barely audible thrum of the engines, Kismet could hear the rushing sound of water being agitated at the stern—someone had reversed the engines, slowing The Star of Muara’s forward progress.
It seemed inconceivable that in just the short time since Kismet’s arrival, the small flotilla of watercraft he had witnessed closing in on the cruise ship had managed to come alongside, putting a crew of raiders aboard to overrun the decks and seize either the bridge or the engine room. In fact, he realized, it was impossible. Those boats could not have been fast enough to execute such a takeover, leaving only one unarguable conclusion: the impending assault on The Star of Muara was being aided by someone already on board.
Kismet heard a loud clanking noise behind his position, and turned to find what looked like a small ship’s anchor hooked over the deck railing and trailing a thick rope down into the sea. The noise was repeated as several more grappling hooks arced over the rail, falling into place along the metal barrier.
He crept forward and peeked over the edge at the boarding party. Two shapes were visible in the water directly below—fast-hulled jet boats, commonly known as cigarettes—matching the speed of the larger vessel as its mass carried it forward despite the reversal of her screws. In addition to the pilot helming each cigarette boat, there were ten armed men, five per boat, now attempting to make the four story ascent to the deck. Despite the awkwardness of the rope scaling ladders attached to the grappling hooks, the intruders were making nimble progress. Kismet was going to have company in a matter of seconds.
He resisted an impulse to cut nearest line. Doing so would only have served to attract the attention of the men below, and Kismet doubted even the razor sharp edge of the Bali-Song could slice through all the thick ropes in time. Instead, he melted back into the darkness, waiting for a better opportunity.
The armed boarding party swarmed over the railing, expecting no opposition and meeting none. They carried AK-47s or possibly a regionally produced variant; the sturdy assault rifle was easily obtainable from a number of different sources. The men, a scattering of Chinese among a majority of Indonesians, wore ragged jeans, cast-off military fatigues and t-shirts with English and Chinese language advertising logos. Despite their unprofessional appearance, Kismet recognized that they were trained combatants, not formally trained perhaps, but men who had honed their survival skills in an arena far more exacting than any military school. They fanned out as if they had intimate knowledge of the cruise vessel and her decks. Kismet didn’t doubt that such was the case; the seizure of The Star of Muara had not been merely a spur of the moment attack on a target of opportunity.
He figured there were probably more groups like this boarding the vessel elsewhere. Additionally, there was an unknown number of pirates who had patiently waited, perhaps performing duties as members of the ship’s crew, until the signal to strike was given. Though it was impossible to verify, Kismet estimated a force of at least fifty men were now swarming over The Star of Muara. There seemed to be little he could hope to accomplish against such overwhelming odds, but he couldn’t bear to simply hide out in the shadows.
He moved toward the rail again and peered over the side at the boats below. The two jet boats were already pulling away, leaving the scaling ropes to dangle purposelessly against the side of the ship. Another vessel however, hove into view, slowly navigating toward the ocean liner. This craft appeared to be a Chinese junk, drawing motive power from a large diesel engine, rather than the sails which hung limply from the mast. Even with the modern power source, the craft would never have been able to match the cruise ship’s speed. Here at least was an answer to the question of why the pirates’ first objective had been to reverse the cruise ship’s engines. The mystery of why were the attackers utilizing such a slow boat when they had so much speed at their command, both from the cigarettes and the cruise ship itself, continued to gnaw at him.
They’re not staying, he realized. This is a simple heist; take what they can grab and run like hell. And if the pirates intended to use the junk to haul away their booty, they evidently had no intention of keeping the massive cruise ship as a prize.
Kismet didn’t stop to think about what he was doing; under the circumstances it seemed like the right thing to do. Clipping his butterfly knife to his belt, he drew one of the grapnels from off the rail and carefully coiled the scaling rope over his shoulder.
The junk drew nearer to The Star of Muara, close enough for Kismet to see the figures moving about her deck. A moment later, its hull scraped against the larger craft as it pulled in parallel beside her. Kismet leaned out a little further, risking discovery, in order to observe the crew of the junk in action. The Indonesian men were using long strips of adhesive tape to affix something to the hull of the cruise ship.
Shaped charges, Kismet thought. Probably detcord. Once ignited, the substance could burn through steel in a heartbeat, even underwater. But the pirates were not placing their charges below the water line. Instead, they had marked off a section as big as a garage door that was roughly level with the deck of their own craft. Despite the immediate risk of discovery, Kismet was fascinated by what he was witnessing.
One of the pirates shouted something in Chinese, and the rest of the group sought cover. Without waiting for an all clear, the leader of the group activated the fuse. There was a resounding boom from near the water line as the ship’s hull became instantaneously hot enough for the metal to actually begin burning. The pirates were ready for this however. Two men stepped forward with pressurized carbon dioxide fire extinguishers to rapidly cool the molten steel, after which a third used a pry bar to pop the excised portion of the hull loose, allowing it to slip into the depths.
A few minutes later, the process was repeated on the cruise vessel’s secondary hull, breaching her completely and lea
ving a gaping wound in The Star of Muara. The gap was significant enough that even a modest rogue wave might inundate the ship, sending her to the bottom. The pirates evidently cared little for the ultimate fate of the captured ship or her passengers. The hole served only one purpose: it was a doorway through which they might bring whatever treasures they could seize. A dozen more armed men crossed over from the junk, entering the bowels of the ship and leaving their own vessel evidently unmanned.
Kismet saw his opportunity. He quickly repositioned one of the grappling hooks so that the rope trailed down above the junk’s stern, then unhesitatingly climbed over the rail and rappelled down. Only as he slid down the thick line did it occur to him how ridiculous he must appear in his tux and shiny black shoes; he had dressed for the wrong party.
Although he was abandoning the cruise ship, his primary concern was the safety of her passengers and crew. He had not heard any more gunfire since the initial moments of the assault, but he did not take this as a sign of the pirates’ goodwill. Doubtless, they knew that once they started killing people, the fear of certain death might push some of the hostages to attempt a counter-attack. It was much more likely that the intruders would first concentrate on seizing the Sultan’s treasures, and then simply scuttle the ship, sending all the witnesses to their crime to the bottom of the South China Sea. Kismet reckoned the best chance the hostages had lay with his finding the junk’s radio and sending a distress call to the mainland. Hopefully, rescue boats would arrive in time to pluck the survivors from the water.
He dropped stealthily to the deck of the junk and darted once more into the shadows. With the folding knife again in hand, he crept around to the opposite side of the boat, hoping to place its superstructure between himself and any lookout posted on the cruise ship. He then stole forward, cautiously exploring the unfamiliar vessel to locate its radio room. It was impossible to know where to turn next. No two junks were alike and most were haphazardly thrown together in response to the needs of the moment.
As he rounded the superstructure, he got his first look at the demolition work carried out by the pirate crew. The detcord had carved through the ship’s hull with surgical neatness, opening her to the despoilers. The bottom cut of the rectangular hole was almost perfectly level with the deck inside; the intruders had chosen their point of entry carefully, further evidence that their actions had been directed by someone among the crew. The pirates would be able to come and go with relative ease. Kismet knew he didn’t have much time.
The sound of approaching footsteps sent him hastening once more for cover. A young Chinese man with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder, strolled by his hiding place a few moments later. Kismet breathed a sigh of relief that his presence apparently remained unnoticed, but then he heard something that caused his heart to freeze in his chest. It was the electronically reproduced melody of a cellular telephone ringtone.
Kismet’s hands flew to his pockets, desperate to silence the phone’s trilling, even though he knew it was already too late. The young pirate could not possibly have failed to hear the sound. His worst fears were confirmed as he saw the man stop in his tracks. Kismet’s hand tightened on the twin handle halves of the Balisong, squeezing just enough to release the spring-loaded latch.
The pirate took his cell phone from his front trouser pocket and pushed a button to receive the call, silencing the ring tone.
The sudden adrenaline dump made Kismet feel like throwing up. His personal cell phone was in his luggage along with everything else that would have been useful right then, but in the grip of panic he had forgotten that detail. As the pirate commenced chatting with a distant, unseen party, Kismet sagged in relief, biding his time in his place of concealment.
His grasp of the dialect spoken by the young man was insufficient for him to follow the conversation, but it seemed like a fairly casual exchange; a curious relative or girlfriend perhaps. It took Kismet a few moments to grasp the real significance of the phone call.
They’ve got coverage out here!
He had caught a glimpse of the pirate’s phone. It was a regular digital unit, almost small enough to disappear inside a closed fist, not a satellite phone receiver, which despite advances in miniaturization technology, would have been considerably larger. It seemed impossible that phone service existed in the middle of the South China Sea. Nevertheless, the young man carried on his conversation as naturally as if he were on a street corner in Singapore.
Kismet realized the cruise line must have established a satellite link for their passengers, allowing them to use their personal phones as they pleased—probably passing along a hefty surcharge for the privilege—which in turn had created a cell through which the pirate’s call had been routed. The particulars of the arrangement didn’t concern him; all he cared about was getting his hands on that phone.
The young Chinese man continued his conversation animatedly, speaking at seemingly random intervals as he leaned against the junk’s starboard railing. The exchange lasted an interminable sixty seconds before the pirate eventually pulled the receiver from his ear and hit the ‘end’ button. He contemplated the bright blue backlit display for a moment, and then moved to return the device to his pocket.
Kismet leapt forward, wrapping his left arm around the young man’s throat as he seized his right hand in order to prevent the loss of the phone. The pirate struggled in Kismet’s choke hold, but the latter had the advantage of surprise and superior physical strength. After a moment of struggle, the pirate went limp in Kismet’s grasp.
He quickly dragged his captive back to the niche where he had been concealed only a moment before. The young man was still breathing but had blacked out from the temporary disruption of the blood flowing to his brain through the carotid artery. Kismet hastily relieved the pirate of his weapon, and bound the man’s hands behind his back, using the cummerbund from his tuxedo as an impromptu rope. As an afterthought, he tugged his black bow-tie free and stuffed it into the captive’s mouth. Only then did he pluck the phone from the man’s slack grasp. He still had no idea whom to call.
He contemplated the numeric keypad a moment longer, then hit the zero key, making the universal summons for an operator. As soon as the connection was made, he spoke a single word: “English.”
The reply was incomprehensible, but a few moments later another voice came on the line, “May I help you, sir?”
“I need to make an international call from this phone, but I don’t know the country code for this network.”
“What country?”
“The United States.”
“Sir, the country code is ‘one.’ Simply dial one, and then enter the number you wish to call.”
Kismet thumbed the ‘end’ button then hastily entered the eleven digits that would connect him with the one person who would not only believe his wild tale of piracy on the high seas, but might actually be able to help. There was a long silence as his summons went out into the ether, then the ring tones sounded through a haze of scratchy static. After three trills, a voice from the other side of the world spoke: “This is Christian Garral. How may I help you?”
Kismet grinned at the familiar voice. “Hey, Dad. It’s Nick. I need a big favor.”
TWO
The Star of Muara was still afloat when Kismet lost sight of her. If it was indeed the intention of the pirates to sink her once their business aboard was complete, they did not remain to witness that outcome. Kismet hoped he was wrong about that prediction.
The raiders had returned to the junk and their various speedboats shortly after Kismet completed his call. He dared not look out from his place of concealment to observe them, but got the impression that they had taken only what could be easily carried; small relics, paintings, precious stones and so forth. Doubtless they had helped themselves to the cash and valuables of the passengers as well. Like all good opportunists, the pirates knew that the larger relics from the old Sultan’s collection would be far too difficult to move—both literally and with r
espects to resale—to make their theft worthwhile despite their extraordinary value. The costume jewelry worn by the women at the party would represent a pittance alongside those ancient wonders, but a smart thief only took what he could fence.
Still, it seemed like an awful lot of trouble for such a modest score. Why hit the collection at all if they planned to leave most of it behind?
Kismet did not know what would result from his hasty distress call. He only had time to relate the particulars of the crisis to his father and make a few suggestions as to who might best be summoned to rescue the passengers and crew of The Star of Muara, and bring the pirates to justice. Christian Garral was more of a world traveler than his adopted son could ever aspire to be; no doubt he would know exactly whom to contact in that part of the world in order to yield the quickest and most satisfactory resolution.
The junk had moved off, flanked by several of the cigarettes. The smaller jet boats languished under the burden of diminished speed, champing at the bit like thoroughbreds forced to trot alongside a pack mule. Kismet didn’t know what port the junk finally put into, but at a top speed of about twelve knots, it had proved to be a long journey over a short distance. Fortunately, it appeared that no one had missed the young man Kismet had waylaid.
As he had expected, the cell phone signal had failed when the ocean liner dropped below the horizon. The junk had motored almost due east, correcting marginally as the destination came into view.
The pirate base was located on a small jungle island, a partially overgrown pillar of igneous rock sprouting from the South China Sea. The cigarette boats broke off their escort duty and surfed over the reef into the sheltered lagoon. The junk plotted a more cautious course, but eventually threaded the coral and basalt gauntlet, mooring at a long wooden dock which extended like a pointing finger into the lagoon. Kismet removed his shoes and slipped over the side before the offloading commenced, treading water near the stern of the boat, careful to keep the AK-47 he’d appropriated from the Chinese pirate high and dry. The black fabric of his tuxedo provided adequate camouflage in the inky darkness and no one noticed him.
