by Sean Ellis
There was something there, something glinting in the darkness.
His hand found the pistol grip of the Kalashnikov rifle he had liberated from the pirate on the junk. He stuffed the wooden stock into the pit of his shoulder and pulled the bolt back an inch in order to verify that a round was already chambered.
The night suddenly seemed less quiet; he could almost hear the timbers of the structure creaking in the wind. Once the Sultana’s escape was noticed, things were going to get a lot noisier, and he didn't want to be in the fortress when that happened. He had to find Elisabeth and get out.
His search for the far end of the hall ended abruptly at a grillwork of iron bars. Like everything else, they had lost any metallic sheen they might once have possessed to the corrosion of humid, salty air. Nevertheless, they remained firm and impassable. He gripped a vertical bar in each hand and attempted in vain to move the barrier. Daunted, he took a step back and tried to discern what lay beyond the bars.
With an ear-splitting squeal, a section of the bars began to rise like a portcullis. Kismet’s gaze riveted on the slowly ascending gate, and he suddenly felt very uneasy. Floating in the darkness beyond were two glowing embers that looked exactly like...
“Eyes. Uh, oh.” He began slowly backing away from the cage.
Gentle laughter abruptly echoed in the great hall. Kismet glanced up quickly, instinctively, then forced his gaze back to the eyes of whatever it was that watched him from the now opened cell. “I should have known better, when you said to trust you.”
“Yes,” replied Elisabeth from somewhere above and to his left. “Are you always such a sucker for a pretty girl, Nick?”
“More often than you'd believe,” he muttered, more to the mocking voice of his conscience, than to the actress. “So let me guess. This pirate, Jin, made you a better offer than the Sultan?”
“Oh, I certainly did,” replied a different voice. Though masculine, the speaker's tone was high, almost flute-like, and his speech was deeply accented. “Lights!”
The hall was suddenly bathed in the glow from more than a dozen electric bulbs, all shining down from the balcony. Kismet did not look away from the eyes, which still seemed to be hiding in shadow, but in the periphery of his view, he saw at least a score of men moving above him. He knew without looking that Elisabeth and Jin, the leader of the pirate gang, were among that number.
“You seem to have trouble with the ladies,” chuckled Jin. “Maybe you will have better luck with my other princess.”
The hovering embers blinked then moved forward out of the darkness. Kismet was not surprised at all when the features surrounding the glowing points coalesced into a feline face, the largest member of the cat family, a tiger. Kismet locked his own eyes with the stare of the stalking cat, backing up slowly.
“Or perhaps not,” concluded Jin.
Without looking away, Kismet fixed the place where Jin's voice seemed to be coming from. He vaguely remembered reading that Bengal tigers liked to attack their human victims from behind, that they would not approach if their prey seemed to be watching. This had prompted the men working in the Indian jungles to wear masks on the back of their heads, so that their “eyes” were always watching out from behind. Kismet had no idea if this was merely jungle lore, or if the tigers on the Malay isles were as gullible as their cousins to the west, but it seemed like a good idea. As the cat padded forward however, he could plainly see that the animal had been starved and abused; doubtless, it would not wait long to attack anyone trapped with it in the pit. With slow, deliberate moves so as not to provoke the tiger, he let go of the AK-47 and slung it across his back, and then removed the coil of rope from his shoulder, hefting the grappling hook.
“Ah,” sighed Jin. “Perhaps this will be more entertaining than I first believed.”
Kismet tight expression cracked in a wide grin. “You don't know how right you are.”
His arm moved in a barely visible arc, the rope uncoiling like a striking serpent as his arm stretched upward. His gaze never faulted. The hook sailed up and struck something just out of view. He immediately pulled with both hands setting the hook and taking in the slack. An instant later, someone pitched over the balcony railing and crashed onto the floor in front of him.
“Nice of you to join us, Jin.”
The pirate winced as he pushed himself to his elbows, dazed by the fall. Kismet gave the rope a shake, loosening the hook from Jin’s clothing where it had snagged. Blood seeped from a ragged wound on the pirate’s back and dripped onto the floor of the hall. Jin stared blearily at Kismet then his eyes opened wide as he whirled around to face his pet. The tiger had already sprung, and at that moment, all hell broke loose.
The entire promontory shuddered as a peal of what sounded like thunder rolled though the structure. The balcony was suddenly filled with chaotic shouting, mostly in Chinese, but Elisabeth's strident shrieking wove in an out of the din. A second tremor followed quickly on the heels of the first, and this time, the electric lights winked out as somewhere in the compound, the generator was knocked out. The fortress was under attack.
Kismet jumped back as the tiger pounced on its fallen master. Loud concussions echoed in the hall as at least one of the pirates on the balcony tried to distract the tiger by shooting at it. Kismet instinctively raised a hand to ward off flying splinters of wood as he rushed through the hall.
The pirates on the balcony were attempting to flee, but in their panic, they were tripping over each other. Elisabeth seemed to be struggling to stay on her feet as the human current changed unpredictably. With a grim smile, Kismet decided to rescue her for the second time that night.
Another mortar round crashed into the compound, causing the ground to heave. One of the doors into the building was blasted open. At least three of the pirates were knocked from the balcony, crashing stunned on the floor below, while others clung to the railing to avoid a similar fate. Kismet felt the debris from the nearby explosion harmlessly pelting him.
The tiger ignored the external attack altogether, gripping Jin's throat in its mouth and throwing the pirate across the floor. It was on him again in a second, swiping its claws across his face.
Scrambling away, Kismet utilized the grappling hook once more, hurling it onto the balcony high above. The line wrapped around a railing, the hook setting securely when he drew in the slack, and he quickly set about scrambling up the wall.
His arms screamed in agony. All of the exertions of the night seemed to return in a single burst of pain. Gritting his teeth, he planted his feet against one of the support pillars and tried again. Somehow, with his biceps quivering on the verge of total fatigue, he reached the level of the balcony floor. Swinging his body like a pendulum, he got one of his legs up, then the other, and managed to roll his torso onto the edge. Frantic pirates stumbled blindly over him as they fought with each other in order to escape. Only when he stood up in their midst did they identify him as a foe and turn their destructive attention toward him.
Kismet dodged the thrust of an old-fashioned cutlass, hearing the unmistakable sound of the blade piercing flesh behind him and the groan as a wounded pirate went down. His fist, still clenching the rope, hammered into the sword's wielder, and as the man staggered against the railing, Kismet guided him over. He plucked the heavy blade from the man's grasp as he went, and wrenched it free of the body of the unfortunate soul who had inadvertently been on the receiving end of the misguided thrust. Discarding the rope, he took the sword in his right hand and charged the pirate ranks, scattering them.
Elisabeth stood a head taller than most of the men on the balcony, and Kismet saw her hair flashing only a few feet away. With wild slashes, he mowed a path toward her. When she saw him, a tortured look crossed her beautiful face. “Damn you!”
“Did you get the sapphire, princess?”
Her eyes blazed as she raised her hand toward him, a small pistol locked in her grip.
Kismet lashed out with the cutlass. The tip struck the barrel of the gun a
nd knocked her arm upward as the firing pin struck the shell. The muzzle flashed in his face, but the round impotently struck the ceiling. He quickly moved in closer, snatching the gun away with his left hand.
The wayward Sultana raised a fist, as if to strike him, but he was faster. Stabbing the cutlass into the floorboards, he delivered a roundhouse to her jaw that spun her around. Before she could fall, he snatched her up and threw her over his shoulder. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his tuxedo trousers and then worked the cutlass loose.
“Well this has been fun, Your Highness. But it's time to take you back to your husband.”
If Elisabeth heard him, she did not reply.
Kismet fought his way through several more pirates, and found a staircase leading back down to the ground floor. He crossed the rubble strewn area, mindful of the tiger which continued to feast on its former master, and headed for the ATV quads. It took him only a moment to loosen the tow bar attachment and free one of the small motorized vehicles from its treasure wagon. He started it up and climbed aboard. Elisabeth still had not stirred.
The sounds of the shelling now filled the night. Much of the fortress was in flames, and the wall on the ocean side was breached in three places. On the threshold of the barn-like storehouse, Kismet had an unobstructed view of the assault.
Three helicopters—judging by their silhouettes, Kismet reckoned they were reliable old UH-1 “Hueys,” repurposed after the Vietnam war—beat the air high above the pirate compound. Several thick lines dropped from the hovering aircraft like spider-silk, and human figures began abseiling into the midst of the compound, protected by covering fire from their comrades still aboard. In a matter of seconds, a dozen camouflaged warriors had fast-roped down and were spreading out to engage the confused pirates. Kismet surmised that the commando squad was there in response to his own summons, but the fortress was presently a free-fire zone; the only salvation lay in physically removing himself from the battlefield. He revved the throttle on the ATV and charged into the midst of the skirmish.
The pirates were attempting to muster a response to the overwhelming attack, but their numbers were already severely diminished and their arsenal of poorly maintained rifles and handguns was no match for the concussion grenades and assault rifles wielded by the attacking force. Most of the pirates simply threw down their weapons and fled into the jungle. Reasoning that the refugees would know the best way out of the fortress, Kismet swerved the quad in their direction, plunging into the darkness beyond.
The explosions did little to illuminate the dark woods. The canopy of overgrowth quickly eclipsed any ambient light, forcing Kismet to slow the vehicle to a crawl. He debated using the quad’s headlights, but decided that doing so would merely make him a target. Instead, he switched off the engine and let the noise of the jungle settle over him like a blanket.
“Well,” he sighed. “That didn't go too badly.”
His grin faltered as he became aware of several shapes, nothing more than silhouettes, ringing his position. A flashlight blazed in his face, blinding him momentarily, but also revealing the jungle pattern fatigues worn by the group surrounding him. He raised his hands slowly, painfully aware of the fact that the Sultana of Muara was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“It’s okay, I’m one of the good guys.”
“Lieutenant?”
The voice was familiar, but even more so was the pronunciation of that single word. Kismet hadn’t held military rank in nearly twenty years, but in all the time he had been an officer, he had only once heard the word pronounced as “Lef-tenant.” He blinked in the direction of the voice—the man holding the light.
“Sergeant Higgins?”
Another shape interposed, stepping into the light. Kismet recognized the man from his publicity photos, but in most of those he was smiling.
“Release my wife,” demanded the Sultan. His hand rested on the grip of a holstered pistol.
Kismet eased the semi-conscious woman from her undignified perch, setting her on the rear fender of the ATV. As he did, her eyes fluttered into focus. She looked first at Kismet, and then turned slowly to face her husband. Kismet expected her to launch into some kind of conciliatory plea, but when the former actress spoke, her tone was anything but contrite.
“What are you doing,” she rasped. “He’s one of them.”
Kismet was still trying to make sense of her declaration when the Sultan drew his sidearm, thrusting it toward him. Kismet was taken aback. “Your highness?”
“I will have your head for this,” raged the Sultan.
Kismet gaped, mouthing a reply. Judging by the Sultan's fierce expression, trying to explain the facts would do little to help the situation. He decided to try a different approach.
Although the Sultan’s gun was less than a hand’s breadth from his face, Kismet launched into motion. He wrapped an arm around the Malay prince's neck, and plucked the gun from his unprepared grasp. By the time the soldiers could react, Kismet had the muzzle of the weapon buried in the Sultan's ear. “Lower your guns and move back.”
The commandos did not seem willing to relinquish their control of the situation, and Kismet could sense each man wondering if there was time to make a killing shot before the trigger could be pulled on the royal hostage.
“I mean it,” he grated, screwing the barrel deeper into the Sultan’s skull and eliciting a low cry. “Back off.”
“Do as he says.”
Kismet again recognized the voice and the distinct accent of a New Zealander. Evidently, Sergeant Alexander Higgins remained a figure of authority in whatever army he now served; as one, the commandos lowered their assault rifles until the barrels were pointing at the ground and opened a path of exit.
Kismet did not release the Sultan, but instead manhandled him away from the parked ATV and toward his intended avenue of escape. He did not offer words of thanks to Higgins; the night was still young and there remained ample opportunities for things to go wrong.
Once past the perimeter established by the ring of soldiers, he turned, backing away from them toward the tree line. The commandos hesitantly grouped together, watching him and cautiously easing forward. He took a final backward step, then propelled the Sultan into their midst. As they instinctively moved to assist the royal personage, Kismet bolted into the depths of the jungle.
The night came alive with the tumult of gunfire, and Kismet knew that the bullets zipping through the humid air, shattering bamboo poles and smacking into tree trunks were meant for him. Apparently Higgins’ orders didn’t carry that much weight after all.
He couldn’t tell if the soldiers had elected to pursue him on foot, but after an initially fierce fusillade, their guns fell silent and the sounds of the jungle enveloped him completely.
There was no way he could have heard the barely whispered parting words as he vanished into the night.
“Good luck, mate.”
THREE
By the time the Sultan of Muara arrived back at the cruise ship bearing the name and flag of his small country, repairs to her breached hull were well underway. Dead in the water since the sabotage of her computerized systems by pirate agents posing as members of the crew, the ship faced only minimal danger from the gaping wound. As a precaution, the chief engineer had dumped enough ballast to lift the holed section away from the waterline to mitigate the risk of inundation, and it had not been necessary to abandon the vessel. Nevertheless, most of the passengers had elected to depart, at least temporarily, the idea of a long ocean voyage having lost its appeal. The Sultan likewise decided to leave the ship, claiming that the act of piracy and the near-fatal kidnapping of his beloved wife had created a domestic crisis which necessitated his remaining in the Sultanate.
Over the next twenty-four hours however, the situation improved remarkably. The repairs were completed—not simply a patch to cripple the ship into port, but a seaworthy reconstitution of the hull. The only indication of the damage was the flat gray of the p
rimer coat used to protect the welded steel plates from rapid oxidation in the salty air, and even that distinction was scheduled to be addressed by maintenance crews at the next major port of call. The sabotage to the engine room and the ship’s computer were likewise repaired in short order, and the craft was deemed ready for service before the fall of the next evening.
There were many reasons why it was important for The Star of Muara to be restored to active status as quickly as possible. Several of the antiquities in the collection were too large or fragile to be moved while the ship remained on the high seas; it was this very fact that had protected them from the greed of the pirates. An overriding concern however was giving the appearance that no crime or act of terrorism could prevent the success of the exhibition. It was an important psychological message to the world; if the cruise could be thwarted, what next? Only by demonstrating that everything was back to normal, that the hijacking had been merely an inconvenience, could the sponsors of the Muara exhibition hope to return a profit. Of course that normalcy would be an illusion. The already impressive security force was tripled, even though at the time no one but the crew remained aboard, and they were all undergoing an intense, if somewhat tardy, vetting process.
The next step in establishing that everything was back on track was to begin returning guests to the ship. Fully two-thirds declined the invitation, despite a number of incentives. But for every current passenger unwilling to return, there were ten thrill-seekers from every part of the world who were eager to book passage on what the news media had begun calling “The Pirate Cruise.”
The last of a long procession of helicopter shuttle flights touched down shortly after midnight. The pilot dutifully opened the rear door for his passengers, urging them to exit cautiously as they passed beneath the still spinning rotor blades, and then set about collecting their luggage. Burdened as he was with a double armful of suitcases and garment bags, he left the cargo door open and he hastened toward a pair of stewards who waited a safe distance from the aircraft. Neither the pilot, nor the stewards saw a dark-clad figure slip from the belly of the helicopter and melt into the shadows. Nevertheless, Nick Kismet’s return to The Star of Muara did not go completely unnoticed.
