Pirate Alley

by Stephen Coonts

  “But who is going to pay ransom for us?” Harold’s mate, Twila, asked, interrupting her spouse. She then answered the question herself. “Why, our neighbors at the church. Our congregation always sticks together. Or the government. The people in Washington can always print more money and give the pirates some.”

  “I guess so,” Suzanne said pensively, glancing at the pirate standing in the door with his AK-47 pointed negligently in the diners’ direction.

  “I don’t see why not,” Irene declared. “They ship money in heaps to every dictator on the planet. Might as well send some to Somalia and spring us. Boy, am I going to be mad if they don’t!”

  The waiters brought plates heaping with good things, so they all became too busy to talk.

  With her mouth full, the Little Rock lady asked the key question. “Do you think the cruise ship company will give us a refund? After all, pirates?”

  “Pirates are going to make their marketing more difficult,” Irene said, forking chicken. “Even a partial refund would be good PR.”

  “Walmart always worried about good PR,” Harold remarked. “Even a discount on another cruise would be welcome. We always wanted to go to South America. No pirates there.”

  “Except in Venezuela. That screwball dictator, what’s-his-name.”

  “Chavez. Like the ravine.”

  “We’ll skip Venezuela,” Harold said flatly. “Carnival in Rio would be nice.”

  “Nice,” Suzanne agreed and finished her third Cosmo.

  CHAPTER SIX

  INDIAN OCEAN, NOVEMBER 10

  When Angel Cordova glimpsed the lights of the Sultan of the Seas, the SEALs had been in their boats for an hour. It was 3:00 A.M. They were only twenty-five miles off the coast of Africa, sixty miles north of Eyl.

  The idling engine on Cordova’s boat didn’t interfere with his ability to hear the handheld radio on the earpiece he wore under his black, waterproof head covering.

  “Sultan in sight,” he reported.

  “She’s steering one-nine-three and steady at ten knots.”

  “Roger. Everyone copy?”

  “Two, aye.”

  “Three, aye.”

  “Four, aye.”

  Cordova had his boats spread out about two miles apart, so they covered six miles of ocean. At Cordova’s order, the coxswains revved the engines and they began the run-in to intercept the oncoming cruise ship.

  Sultan looked as if she would pass between Boats One and Two. Cordova had less than a mile to go westward; Boat Two a mile eastward. Three and Four were farther inshore, and they would have to hurry or the ship would be past them before they could intercept.

  The boat rocked and skipped over the swells, with Cordova and his five men hunkered down to keep the center of gravity as low as possible.

  Two miles ahead of the Sultan, Cordova’s coxswain, who knew his business, turned to parallel the cruise ship. He throttled back to let the big ship overtake him. He placed the boat so it would be on Sultan’s port side. As the speed bled off, the boat began to rock more violently in the swells. The men held on to ropes, just in case.

  Using his night-vision goggles, Cordova could see Boat Two maneuvering closer.

  Angel Cordova was scared, and he tried not to think about it. His stomach felt as if it were doing flip-flops. All that training, years of it, the running, swimming, brutal cross-country, obstacle and confidence-building courses, survival and weapons training, cold, mud, hunger, exhaustion … all of it came down to this, a real combat mission. He was worried he would blow it, would screw up the mission and lose his men, who trusted him implicitly.

  When he had briefed the mission he had watched their faces. Trust. Confidence. He remembered those looks now, and his stomach revolted and he heaved his dinner over the edge of the boat. The other men pretended they didn’t see that. When the mission was over, back aboard ship, then they would rib him. Not now. He was the officer in charge, and their lives were in his hands.

  Would they even be able to intercept? Get aboard?

  The ship was bigger, overtaking at about five knots. Angel Cordova could see every light.

  Jesus, it was a big ship! Hell, every ship was big when viewed from this angle, on the surface of the sea as it came steaming along.

  Slowly … then the bow was there, passing. Cordova could see lights in the lounges and dining rooms, the staterooms, all lit up like a big city hotel.

  He could hear the wash of the bow wave, feel it as the boat approached its edge with the engine roaring and the coxswain taking the waves at an angle to keep from overturning.

  Here came the ship’s side. Wet and dark and slimy. It was so close he could almost reach it. He scanned the well-lit rails above him, looking for people. Not a head did he see.

  “Grappling hooks,” he shouted into his radio mike, which was against his lips.

  “Hooks … now!”

  Three hooks shot upward. Two of them seemed to catch. Angel Cordova grabbed one, tugged hard and felt the resistance.

  He paused for just a second to check the weapons and backpack full of explosives and ammo, then timed the rise and fall of the boat. As the boat came up, he grabbed a handful of rope-it was wet, but there were knots-and began climbing hand over hand with his feet braced against the side of the ship.

  Another man was also on a rope. More ropes went up, and two more men came scrambling.

  Cordova reached the deck edge and looked around. No one there. This was a lifeboat sponson; the large boats hung from davits over his head. Lights on the bulkheads.

  He hooked a heel over a rail, then crawled over. He unslung his weapon, a silenced submachine gun, and lay there for just a second looking around. He was on his feet against the bulkhead, behind a boat davit, when his men came over the rail. One, two, three and four. Got ’em.

  “Alpha Team is aboard port side.”

  “Bravo is aboard starboard side.”

  Silence.

  “Charlie is maybe five minutes out.”

  “Delta is ten out, but I don’t know if I can intercept.”

  “Roger.”

  One U.S. Navy sailor quickly unhooked the grappling hooks and dropped them over the side while his mates went forward and aft, checking the doors. They were open, as they always were in good weather. The black-clad men went through the doors with their weapons in their hands.

  * * *

  Aboard Chosin Reservoir, Rear Admiral Toad Tarkington was watching marines in assault gear man three V-22 Ospreys on the flight deck. Each of the giant twin-rotor transports could carry eight combat-ready marines. Toad was still transferring them to the destroyer. Several were snipers who could shoot pirates if they began executing passengers on deck.

  Tarkington was worried. The pirates still held the aces, the hostages. Toad had given Lieutenant Cordova permission to shoot anyone he had to, but good sense had to be exercised. Toad didn’t intend to give the pirates the chance to slaughter hostages. Everything depended on keeping the pirates confused and off balance. Speed. It had to happen fast.

  If the Sultan’s engines were disabled, the pirates might think their position was tactically hopeless. Or they might not.

  God damn Washington!

  Toad left the flag bridge and hustled down the ladders to the tactical flag spaces.

  * * *

  Angel Cordova made his way upward toward the Sultan’s bridge. He heard two pirates in the stairwell above him talking, so he checked his silenced submachine gun and eased upward. He saw their legs before he saw their upper bodies. Took careful aim at the legs. Fired a six-shot burst and both men fell, screaming. As they hit the deck he fired a squirt into each head. Blood and brains flew everywhere.

  Cordova continued to climb. He had reached the pool deck when he saw another man with a weapon lounging against a wall. Leaning on it.

  A black-clad ghost, Cordova pulled his knife, glided a step forward, then another. Grabbed a handful of hair, pulled the head back and cut the man’s throat with
one swipe. Blood spurted forward and the body collapsed. The weapon fell on the deck.

  Amazingly, the butterflies in Cordova’s gut were gone. He reached, snaked the AK back into the shadows, then tossed it over the rail. It spun once and fell into the blackness.

  “Bravo is trying to get into the engine room.”

  He merely clicked his mike twice in reply.

  From where he sat he could see the machine gun mounted across the pool on the deck above. Saw at least twenty people huddled in deck chairs. They looked cold. Well, the temp was in the fifties and they weren’t wearing coats. Some of them had deck towels wrapped around them.

  There should be two machine-gun nests above him. Cordova faded back through the door and started up the staircase.

  * * *

  Mustafa al-Said left the bridge and walked aft. The bridge was on the pool deck. He stepped out of the swinging doors, glanced at the people huddled in the deck chairs and looked aft at the machine guns protruding from the corners of the deck above.

  The ship’s lights were still on. He wondered about that. Should he turn them off? If the Americans came over, would darkness help or hurt them?

  Mustafa decided to leave the lights on. They would help the machine-gun crews see helicopters, and give the Americans a good look at the hostages around the pool.

  That decision made, he began a circuit of the pool, checking the men on the corners. Less than a minute later, he found the man with his throat cut, lying in an extraordinary pool of blood.

  For a moment he thought perhaps a passenger had attacked the man, but when he saw the head had been almost severed from the body with one vicious swipe of a knife, saw the white of bone amid the red gore, he forgot about passengers. This was the work of a trained killer. Americans were aboard!

  Mustafa fired a burst from his weapon over the rail. The sound was flat, but he saw his men on deck looking his way. He gestured and two men came running.

  One look was enough.

  A few tense words … then the command, “Find them. Quickly.”

  * * *

  Angel Cordova was behind the two-man machine-gun crew when he heard the burst. The crew moved forward, looked down, trying to see.

  Cordova fired two quick silenced three-shot bursts. They weren’t exactly silent, just guttural coughs. One man slumped down where he was, and the other fell across the machine gun, which was on a tripod. The barrel of the gun moved upward at a crazy angle.

  Almost instantly, a burst of slugs from somewhere smashed into the overhead. Someone on the pool deck below was shooting.

  Cordova fell backward and crawled out of the area, headed across the foyer in front of the elevators for the second machine gun on the starboard side.

  A man stepped out, saw him and swung his AK.

  The SEAL was quicker. His burst hit the man in the stomach, and the man triggered his assault rifle. The long burst hammered at the floor, then the ceiling as he fell. The noise filled the stairwell.

  * * *

  Petty Officer First Class Buster Imboden was belowdecks, going for the hatch that led below for the engine rooms. His team of four men followed him, but not too close. They were spread out so a burst that felled one man wouldn’t get them all. The passageway was lined with doors, most of which were standing open. They led to four-man bunkrooms. These were crew quarters, and many of the off-duty crewmen and — women looked at the men wearing black wet suits and carrying weapons with open curiosity. Several stuck their heads through the door, but the SEALs motioned them back into their bunkrooms.

  The hatch was open, with lights shining up the trunk. Buster took a look, signaled to the men behind him and took a deep breath. There was only one way down, and pirates would be waiting. He could hear them talking.

  “Alpha has run into problems. Alpha Two, get behind that forward machine gun and take them out.” While the transmission button was keyed, Imboden could hear bursts of AK-47 fire.

  Imboden glanced at his men, then slung his weapon around his neck so it would be easily accessible, stepped on the ladder and started down quickly. At the bottom, a door led onto the engine room catwalk. He opened the door and a hatful of bullets stitched him across the abdomen, missing his backbone but puncturing both kidneys, his liver and his intestines. He fell face forward on the catwalk.

  Bravo Two, Petty Officer Second Class Neil Irons, didn’t hesitate. He pulled a grenade from his vest and pulled the pin. Went down the ladder to the door, released the lever, counted one potato, two potato and shoved the door open with his left hand while he tossed the grenade aft as far as he could.

  Bullets spanged off the door, which had automatically started to close. Then the grenade exploded.

  Irons led Bravo Team through the door, guns burping out bullets.

  Imboden was sprawled on his stomach. He had his head up and was firing his weapon.

  The SEALs coming through the doorway ran by him shooting at everything they saw. That turned out to be two pirates, one of whom was already wounded by the grenade blast. The other went down under a burst of submachine-gun fire.

  Leaving a man to watch the hatches, Irons ran on as he keyed his mike. “Bravo One’s hit.”

  The attackers were in a large engine room that was two decks high. Running aft, Irons saw the control panel. Two of the ship’s engineers were huddled on the deck in front of the panel while another pirate attempted to hide behind it.

  The Somali shouted something. Now he threw out his weapon as the SEALs ran at him. As he stepped out from behind the panel with his hands up, Irons shot him.

  The other team members jerked the engineers off the deck and herded them toward the catwalk ladder and the door to the upper decks while Irons surveyed the panel and the engines. Then they ran for the watertight hatch that led to the aft engine room.

  The engines were what Irons expected, medium-speed four-stroke diesels. There were two of them in this engine room and two in the aft engine room. The diesels turned generators that supplied the power to the four propeller pods under the ship. Any engine could be shut down for maintenance while the others powered the pods.

  The propeller pods under the ship were controlled from the bridge, Irons knew, but all the control wires went through this panel. He removed a preprepared plastique explosive charge from his backpack, armed it and wedged it behind the panel. Another satchel charge went on the front of the panel.

  Irons set the timers for ten seconds, hit the arming switches and ran to get behind one of the diesels. Two small explosions, almost simultaneous but not quite.

  After a last look around, Irons led his two men back to the place they had left their team leader, Imboden. The man seemed to be still alive. Alive or dead, he was going with Irons and the other men.

  They picked him up and opened the door to the ladder leading upward. Someone was trying to get into this space from the aft engine room. A burst of submachine gun fire dissuaded him.

  Carrying and shoving Imboden, the men started up the forward ladderwell toward the fourth deck. They heard the explosions of the satchel charges. The lights went out. Seconds later low-wattage emergency lights illuminated.

  Imboden was badly hit. The men paused in the fourth-deck passageway to bandage him up as well as they could to stop the bleeding, gave him a shot of morphine, then headed up the stairs toward the fifth deck and the sponson where they had boarded.

  One pirate came running down the passageway and was taken out by bursts from two submachine guns, which hammered him to the deck. His weapon skittered along the linoleum to a stop.

  “Bravo got the control panel and is egressing with one casualty.”

  “Roger that,” Cordova replied.

  As they exited to the sponson, two pirates opened fire from behind a davit. They had guessed how the intruders had boarded and were there waiting.

  Two of Irons’ men threw grenades, and after they exploded, the SEALS went over the side, jumping toward the black ocean below. Two of them had Imboden fi
rmly grasped between them as they went over.

  * * *

  Mustafa al-Said ran to the people huddled around the pool on deck chairs. The emergency lights were just enough to see with. He gestured to the first five he saw with the barrel of his assault rifle, shouting, “Get up. Get up. Go forward.”

  When one man didn’t go quickly enough, Mustafa shot him. A woman screamed and he shot her. The other three ran ahead of him. He herded them forward toward the bridge.

  Alpha One, Lieutenant Angel Cordova, saw the murders by the pool. The pirates would kill everyone if this went on. He aimed his submachine gun at Mustafa, but he didn’t shoot. The hostages would probably also be hit. Oh, God! Still, if Mustafa fired again, Cordova intended to pull the trigger. He didn’t.

  “Alpha and Bravo egress. Alpha and Bravo egress.”

  Bullets were spanging around Cordova from the forward machine gun as he ran for the rail. Two of his men behind him opened fire, giving him cover. He rolled behind a stanchion and fired a burst at the machine gun. It fell silent.

  “Over the side,” he roared into his mike.

  Two men ran past and vaulted the rail.

  He saw two men going over the rail on the far side of the deck, so he didn’t hesitate. Angel Cordova gathered himself, ran two steps and leaped for the rail. Machine-gun bullets followed him. One of them hit him in the leg as he went over.

  * * *

  “Sultan is slowing, sir,” one of the radar operators reported to Admiral Tarkington.

  He could see that. The computer symbol was showing three knots.

  “Her engines have stopped, sir.” That would be a sonar report.

  “Let’s get in there and pick up those SEALs,” Toad snapped. Each of the SEALs wore saltwater-activated beacons. They were expert swimmers, but at least one man was wounded.

  “Launch the alert Ospreys,” Toad ordered. He had three birds ready to go. Two were to pick up SEALs, and the third was to cover them as a gunship. The Osprey could hover like a chopper, and the marine versions carried a 20 mm cannon in the left sponson. Toad had the covering Osprey crew briefed. If the pirates started shooting hostages, they were to take them out with the cannon. Ditto if they shot at the Ospreys.