Deadly Coast (19 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea

“You same pirate, Dugan,” Captain Kwok said, glaring across the small wheelhouse of
Kyung Yang No. 173
. “Pirates take ship. You take ship.” He shifted his gaze to include Borgdanov. “Somalis. You. Commie friends. All same. All pirate.”

“I am not Communist. I am independent contractor,” Borgdanov said, earning himself an even harder glare from the Korean.

“We
did
salvage your vessel, Captain Kwok,” Dugan said.

That seemed to stoke the fires of the little Korean’s anger even hotter.

“YOU SHOOT HOLES IN SHIP! NO HOLES! NO NEED SALVAGE!”
he shouted, before spitting out a stream of Korean that Dugan was just as glad he didn’t understand. Kwok returned to English. “First port, you see! I file charges. You big pirate!”

Dugan lost it. “File whatever you damn please. You looked plenty happy for our help when we untied you from that handrail, as I recall.”

Kwok clamped his mouth shut and ignored Dugan to stare out at the sunlit sea. Sergeant Denosovitch came up the interior stairway and into the wheelhouse to relieve Borgdanov, and Dugan motioned for the major to follow and headed out of the wheelhouse to the aft deck of the fishing boat.

“Thank you for agreeing to come, Andrei,” Dugan said. “I know it’s not what you signed on for.”

Borgdanov shrugged. “After you explained situation, I cannot let you go off alone.” He grinned. “Ilya and I must keep you from trouble,
da
? And Corporal Anisimov, he likes the bonus. Besides, seems most difficult part is to get there.”

“Yeah, Woody sure called that one right,” Dugan said. “Captain Kwok’s not a real happy camper.”

Borgdanov nodded. “He is not so cooperative. But makes no difference, I think. We are four, and one of us can stay in wheelhouse to make sure boat stays on GPS track.” He looked out at the sea. “And weather is fine. How long do you think?”

Dugan snorted. “Our tankers are speedboats next to this thing. I doubt she’ll make more than eight knots, maybe less with all the jury-rigging in the engine room. It’ll take us the better part of two days to get there.”

“Good,” Borgdanov said. “Maybe we use time to figure out what we do when we arrive. You have plan?”

Dugan shrugged. “Nothing firm. Plan A is to pretend to fish and get as close as we can without drawing attention. If we see anything suspicious, we pass it to Ward so he can convince people the threat is real. Assuming we
don’t
see anything Ward can use, plan B is to pump a bit of oil over in the middle of the night so it drifts down around the drillship, and then we’ll haul ass. Ward can use investigation of the oil spill as a pretext to get agents aboard for a closer look. Either way, when we’re done, we head back toward the tankers. Ward promised me to start a navy ship in this direction, and get close enough to meet us with a chopper en route. With a bit of luck, we should get to Harardheere not long after the tankers arrive.”

Borgdanov nodded. “Do you think this virus is real,
Dyed
? It seems like fantastic story.”

“Not a clue, but Ward is certainly taking it seriously.”

Drillship Ocean Goliath
Arabian Sea

Mukhtar ignored his throbbing head as he watched the little ROV surface beside the ship. His men were working with the drillship crew now to supplement the work force and help hoist the craft back onboard. The men’s movements were dull and lethargic, almost as if they were moving in slow motion. Half the regular ship’s crew lay dead or dying in the crew lounge, and four of Mukhtar’s men lay with them.

They all realized they were dying, but some undefinable will to live kept them moving, just as fear of Mukhtar drove them to their tasks. Just to be sure, he had two loyal men stationed on the fishing boat. No one was leaving until he’d brought up all the cylinders, a task made more difficult as men dropped of the disease hourly.

The revelation had come to him as the drillship crew began to sicken and die, starting with those who had survived the nerve-gas exposure. It was a miracle. In His great wisdom, Allah, blessed be His Name, had transformed the nerve gas into a deadly plague.
Yawm ad-Din
, the Day of Judgment, was at hand, and Allah had chosen Mukhtar as his instrument. The honor and responsibility were almost more than he could bear, but he would not fail!

His initial actions had been correct. He’d isolated the infected men in the crew’s lounge, not realizing it was already too late, and spent the next four days scouring the sea floor to bring up every cylinder he could find. For what seemed the hundredth time, he debated leaving with what he had, and for the hundredth time he ignored the urge. He knew nothing about this new weapon, but sensed more was better than less, and he was determined to have it all.

He watched impatiently as the ROV was hoisted aboard, and his dwindling work force started to transfer cylinders from the ROV into a half-filled cargo basket on deck. Another full basket sat nearby. When he was sure he had all the cylinders, he would hoist the baskets aboard the fishing boat with the ship’s crane. And then he would get God’s great cleansing plague ashore somewhere, Inshallah.

M/T Luther Hurd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia

Gaal’s eyes flew open as he heard the key in the lock of his cabin door. He feigned sleep as his hand sought the grip of the Glock beneath his pillow. He heard his door open and his hand tightened on the Glock.

“Gaal,” called Diriyi’s voice. Gaal opened one eye and saw the Somali’s form silhouetted against the light of the passageway. He looked at his watch.

“What do you want? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“Take the spare collars to the top of the wheelhouse, then join me in the officers’ mess room.”

“Why?”

“Never mind why,” said Diriyi. “Just do as I say.” He closed the door before Gaal could respond.

Gaal got up and dressed before going to the spare room, where he kept the extra explosive collars. He carried them to the top of the wheelhouse and laid them on the deck not far from where the bosun dozed in a lounge chair, fatigue having overcome his anxiety at being shackled to the handrail with two pounds of explosive wrapped around his neck.

The bosun started awake, wild-eyed in the light of the small penlight, as Gaal bent over him. The man jerked away and tried to stand, but Gaal pushed him back down in the chair.

“Relax,” Gaal said. “I’m not going to harm you. Do you understand?”

The bosun nodded, distrust in his eyes, as Gaal held the light in his mouth and lifted the explosive collar to poke around beneath it. Terrified, the bosun tried to force his chin down to see what Gaal was doing, but Gaal pushed the collar up harder to keep the bosun looking straight up at the stars. Then Gaal pressed the collar back in place, straightened, and walked off, his progress marked by the faint glow of the penlight lighting his way.

He made his way down the central stairwell to A-deck, and found Diriyi waiting outside the officers’ mess staring down in disgust at the man supposedly guarding the hostages. The pirate sat on the deck snoring, his back against the bulkhead, an AK draped across his outstretched legs.

Diriyi sneered. “This rabble now seems to look to you as a leader, Gaal. I’m happy to see you command such a disciplined group.”

Gaal grimaced and kicked the sleeping man hard. The man jerked awake and scrambled to his feet in a flurry of elbows and knees.

“Sorry to disturb your nap,” Gaal said, as the man stood blinking, his head swiveling between Gaal and Diriyi.

“Leave him,” Diriyi said, and motioned for Gaal to come closer. When he did so, Diriyi lowered his voice. “Something is wrong,” he said. “We will go in and bring out the woman and three other hostages one at a time. Bind their hands and tape their eyes here in the passageway, and then shackle them with the other one on top of the wheelhouse.”

“There are only three extra collars,” Gaal said.

“I know that,” Diriyi said. “Have this fool”—he nodded at the guard—”take the woman to my cabin.”

“But why?”

“I will explain later, in my cabin. For now, just do as I say.”

Gaal hesitated, then nodded and followed Diriyi into the mess room.

Something was definitely wrong. Diriyi seemed agitated and nervous, and for the first time in days, he followed Gaal to the flying bridge and assisted in collaring the hostages. Diriyi handed Gaal each collar, and then held a penlight as Gaal fitted it. Gaal felt Diriyi’s eyes on him as he worked. He finished and stepped back. The third mate, the chief mate, and the chief engineer now stood with the bosun, each fastened to a corner of the flying bridge.

“Good,” Diriyi said, and moved toward the bosun.

“Where are you going?” Gaal asked.

“To check his collar,” Diriyi said.

“I checked it when I brought the other collars up,” Gaal said. “It’s fine. Do you think I’m not competent to fit a simple collar?”

Diriyi hesitated. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s go down.”

Gaal nodded and followed Diriyi down the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Gaal asked minutes later in the captain’s cabin.

“Mukhtar called and he sounded crazy,” said Diriyi. “He was raving about Yawm ad-Din, the Day of Judgment, and saying something about a cleansing plague. None of it made sense, but it’s clear the operation is coming to an end and now’s the time to leave.”

“I don’t understand,” Gaal said. “What about the woman? Why’s she here?”

Diriyi smiled a gap-tooth smile. “I’m keeping my promise, but since I plan to take my time, I’m taking her ashore. After that …” He shrugged and pointed to where Arnett sat on the sofa, duct tape over her eyes and binding her wrists together behind her back. An oversized duffel lay on the sofa beside her.

“I need help getting her in the bag,” Diriyi said.

Gaal smiled back, with a composure he didn’t feel. “You’ll need help taping her feet as well,” he said. “Else you might be missing a few more teeth.”

Diriyi frowned and extracted something from his pocket and moved to the sofa. He pressed the stun gun to Arnett’s bare neck and held it there as she jerked and spasmed before toppling over.

Diriyi looked back and smiled again, as he slipped the stun gun into his pocket and reached down to pick up a roll of duct tape from the coffee table. He tossed it to Gaal. “That should hold her awhile. Tape the bitch’s ankles.”

Gaal did as instructed, uneasy as he watched Diriyi grab the big duffel and open the heavy zipper that ran its length. Diriyi spread the bag open on the deck, then came over and grabbed Arnett under the armpits and gestured for Gaal to take her feet. In seconds, they had her in the duffel and zipped up. A tight fit, but Diriyi didn’t seem concerned with the woman’s comfort.

“So what now?” Gaal asked.

“We take her ashore,” Diriyi said, “and leave these fools to face the Americans when they come.”

“They may be watching us with night-vision equipment.”

“They’ll see two men leave with a bag. Hardly enough to trigger action.” He smiled. “And besides, I’m counting on their night vision, because they’ll also notice the new hostages on display.” He held up a remote actuator. “And when we’re far enough away, they’ll see those hostages lose their heads. I’m sure that will bring the attack.”

Diriyi laughed. “It’s a pity I didn’t think of this earlier. We could’ve made collars for the whole crew.” He sighed. “I guess we just have to do the best we can under the circumstances—Beard of the Prophet.” Diriyi looked toward the cabin door. “What’s that?”

Gaal turned to follow Diriyi’s gaze, then felt the electrodes on his neck.
Dumb, dumb, dumb
was his last conscious thought before he fell to the deck. When his brain started functioning five minutes later, he was lying on his side with his wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. His mouth was untaped, but the last thing Gaal wanted to do at the moment was call for help from another pirate. He moved his bound wrists to the knife he wore on his belt, but the sheath was empty. He lifted his wrists to his mouth and began to gnaw at the tape.

Chapter Twenty

M/T Luther Hurd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia

Jim Milam stood trying to assess the situation as the pirates’ footsteps faded on the steel treads of the ladder. He heard the rattle of steel chain on the deck.

“This is Milam. Who’s there?” he called into the dark.

“Me, Chief. Johnson.”

“Boats,” Milam said to the bosun. “Are we on the flying bridge? Can you see? How many others—”

“I’m here. Jones,” called Stan Jones.

“M-me too. Silva,” added Joe Silva.

“I can see,” said the bosun. “We’re on the flying bridge.” The bosun looked around, his eyes accustomed to the moonlight. “I’m chained as usual, but it looks like y’all are pulled up short on the handrail. They left y’all’s hands tied and no piss bucket or water bottles, so I’m thinking’ they ain’t figuring on y’all being around too long.” He paused. “That asshole Traitor was up here earlier, messing around with my collar. I don’t know what that was about either.”

“OK,” Milam said. “Is everyone all right?”

“
You mean other than being chained to a handrail with a friggin’ bomb strapped to my neck?” Jones asked. “Yeah, other than that, I’m just peachy.”

“What about you, Joe?” Milam asked.

“I … I’m OK, Chief,” Silva replied. “But I wish they hadn’t left us blind. It makes it all worse somehow.”

“Yeah, I know,” Milam said, as chains rattled on the deck to his right.

“I got some slack in my chain and my hands are free,” the bosun said. “Move toward me, Chief, and I might be able to get that tape off your eyes.”

Milam’s hands were bound behind his back, his wrists chained to the handrail. He moved toward the sound of the bosun’s voice until his short chain was taut.

He heard chain rattling on the deck as the bosun moved, then “Crap! That’s as far as I can go. Can you bend toward me, Chief? Maybe I can reach your head with one hand.”

Milam’s shoulders were burning from being twisted in directions they weren’t intended to flex, but he gritted his teeth and inched his head farther and lower, to be rewarded with a tentative touch to the crown of his head.

“Oof. Almost,” the bosun said, strain in his voice. “Just a bit more and I might be able to hook my fingers under the tape.”

Milam willed the pain away and surged forward. A half inch.

He heard a snort from the bosun’s direction and felt the fingers slipping down the side of his face, and then—

“Got it!” the bosun said, and Milam clamped his eyes shut to a new pain as the ring of duct tape was torn from his head, taking a substantial wad of hair along with it.

Milam staggered back against the rail. “Christ, Boats! I think you friggin’ scalped me!”

The bosun peered down at the hairy ring in his hand. “Sorry, Chief.”

“That’s OK, Boats. Thanks,” Milam said.

“Can either of you reach us?” asked Stan Jones.

“Sorry, Stan,” Milam said. “Both of you are too far away.”

“Wonderful,” Jones said.

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Milam said, “things don’t look any better with my eyes open.”

The woman squirmed unexpectedly halfway down the sloping accommodation ladder, almost causing Diriyi to drop her over the side. It would serve the bitch right if her unseemly stubbornness resulted in her going to a watery grave. He managed to balance the moving bag on his shoulder the rest of the way down to the bottom landing, and then bent at the waist to drop the bag onto the floorboards of the Zodiac. It hit with a satisfying thump and stopped moving. Diriyi smiled his gap-tooth smile and jumped into the boat, untying the craft and cranking the outboard. He looked at the second inflatable tied to the accommodation ladder and considered sinking it, then discounted the idea. He was no doubt being watched from the infidel ship, and he didn’t want to draw undue attention.

He turned the little boat toward shore, and increased speed. Not too fast, he must make sure Gaal had time to free himself and collect his weapons. He certainly didn’t want the infidels to find Gaal all tied up and think him a victim. Diriyi laughed aloud, pleased with himself, as he slipped a phone battery from his pocket and tossed it over the side. It had puzzled him at first when his mole on the
Phoenix Lynx
had reported that Zahra seemed to know a great deal about Mukhtar’s operation against the drilling vessel, but it soon became clear. Only he and Gaal had been privy to that information. Of course, there could be a mole on the drilling vessel itself, but Gaal was the more likely spy. He’d already proven his readiness to turn his coat at the first opportunity. And besides, Gaal was such a convenient scapegoat. The Americans were sure to take some of that rabble alive, and they would all claim Gaal as their leader. And if the Americans captured a leader, they’d be less inclined to look for him.

Gaal ripped at the last stubborn strand of tape with his teeth and it parted. He separated his wrists and tore the clinging remnants of the tape away, as he hawked and spit on the deck, trying to rid himself of the foul taste of the adhesive. His hands free, he made short work of the ankle binding, then leaped to his feet and rushed into the passageway. He stopped, surprised to see his knife and Glock on the passageway deck.

He collected his weapons and then rushed out of the deckhouse, onto the exterior staircase zigzagging up the starboard side, and looked overboard. There, at the edge of the circle of light around the bottom of the accommodation ladder, he saw a Zodiac moving away from the ship, and knew he was too late to save Arnett. He pounded up the stairs.

The guard inside the bridge heard his heavy tread and met him as he came up the stairway, onto the bridge wing.

“Quickly,” Gaal said. “I think we’ll be attacked. Go reinforce the guard on the hostages. I’ll take care of things here.”

The man nodded, and rushed down the stairs, as Gaal moved into the wheelhouse to a lighting panel. Without hesitation, he threw on the deck lights, and the main deck and the exterior of the deckhouse lit up like high noon, providing any force attacking from the dark a decided advantage. He dug in his pocket for his sat-phone—and found it dead. He mashed the power button repeatedly, then gave up and rushed back to the bridge wing and up the steel stairway to the flying bridge.

Milam clamped his eyes shut and then opened them cautiously, blinking in the harsh glare of the deck lights. He heard steps and turned to see Traitor top the open stairs from the bridge deck below.

“I’m Sergeant Al Ahmed, US Army Special Forces,” Traitor said. “I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to do exactly as I say.”

And I’m the friggin’ Easter Bunny,
thought Milam, as his mind raced, trying to figure out what Traitor was up to. He watched the pirate rush to a cringing Joe Silva and probe under the third mate’s explosive collar. Stan Jones, blind like Joe Silva, was next, and the pirate was on him before he could react. Milam had no clue what the bastard was doing, but sensed the end was near and vowed not to die without at least getting in his licks.

He tensed as Traitor approached. One good one in the family jewels might bring the pirate down between him and Boats. If they could stomp the son of a bitch to death, maybe Boats could find the key on him. A lot of friggin’ maybes, but it was the only plan he had.

Traitor was moving toward him now, holding something in his right hand. Milam turned toward him, and when Traitor was close enough, aimed a savage kick at the pirate’s groin. But Traitor was fast, deflecting the kick with a forearm block that sent the wire cutters in his hand flying over the rail.

“You stupid son of a bitch!” Traitor said. “I’m trying to help you!”

“Yeah, right. Screw you,” Milam said, and braced himself against the handrail, ready to kick again.

Traitor pulled a knife from his belt and started toward Milam.

“There is no time for this, you idiot,” Traitor screamed, threatening Milam with the knife. He raised the knife high as he approached and Milam tracked it with his eyes. Milam was surprised by the side kick, and Traitor’s heel slammed into his solar plexus like a jackhammer, driving the air from his lungs. Milam began to collapse, but Traitor was on him in an instant, driving his shoulder into Milam’s chest to pin him upright against the rail. The knife flashed in Gaal’s hand, slashing the straps that secured the collar under Milam’s armpits. Then Traitor stepped back, and as Milam sagged to the deck, Traitor dropped the knife and grasped the collar with both hands in one fluid motion, ripping it over Milam’s head. He continued in a whirling motion, like an Olympian throwing a discus, and released the collar.

Diriyi mashed the button and felt a rush of exhilaration as a fireball bloomed in the distance, followed by the delayed rumble of an explosion. The thrill faded as he realized there was one fireball, not four. Something was very wrong. First, the lights had come on, making the
Luther Hurd
an island of light on the dark surface of the surrounding sea. Then the movement on top of the wheelhouse. He cursed himself for not thinking to bring binoculars, then twisted the throttle on the outboard and roared toward shore.

USS Carney (DDG-64)
Drifting
Harardheere, Somalia

“Jesus Christ!” Captain Frank Lorenzo said, as he peered through the binoculars toward
Luther Hurd.
“That was definitely Ahmed. Are they all down?”

“Can’t tell,” the SEAL beside him said. “But what the hell’s he doing? He was supposed to give us at least thirty minutes’ warning when he was ready for us.”

“Well, that didn’t happen, Lieutenant,” Lorenzo said. “Are your SEALs ready to rock-and-roll?”

“The bird’s warming up now,” the SEAL said. “And I have two more waterborne teams ready to go when we give the word.”

“That would be now, Lieutenant!” Lorenzo said, but he was already talking to the SEAL’s back.

M/T Luther Hurd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia

Gaal, aka Sergeant Al Ahmed, struggled to his feet and took inventory. The collar had barely cleared the bridge wing when it detonated with an ear-shattering crash, driving him to the deck. The chief engineer was on his knees, his arms tethered to the top rail, twisted up painfully behind him. He’d recovered enough of his wind to moan as he put a foot on the deck and struggled to his feet. The two blindfolded men appeared to be terrified. They stood chained and alone in their darkness, begging someone to tell them what had happened. The bosun was least effected, having seen what was coming and thrown himself to the deck. As he struggled to his feet, Ahmed started toward him, when he felt as well as heard the pounding footsteps of men on the steel stairway below.

“Can you hear me?” asked Ahmed, letting out a relieved sigh when the bosun nodded. Ahmed handed the bosun a set of keys.

“Unshackle yourself and help the chief,” Ahmed said. “Get him to lie down on the deck where he can’t be seen from below and tell him to be very quiet. Then return to your position, but stand up so you can be seen by any pirates who look up from below. We have to fool them a bit longer. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Understand?”

The bosun nodded and Ahmed turned to rush down the stairs to the bridge deck. He got to the starboard bridge wing as three pirates topped the stairs from below.

“Gaal! What’s happening? What was the explosion?” the first man asked.

“One of the hostages lost his head,” Gaal-Ahmed said. “There’s no time to explain. The infidels will attack very soon, and we must be ready. Go below and get everyone to take defensive positions on the main deck, both sides, from bow to stern. They could approach from any direction, and we can’t let them get aboard.”

“But what of the hostages?” asked the man.

Ahmed looked up at the flying bridge, relieved to see the bosun standing there, the collar around his neck and chains draped around his wrists to give the impression he was restrained. “We still have three collared hostages to discourage the infidels. Move all the rest into the officers’ mess before you disperse on the main deck, then block the doors from the outside. Leave one guard.”

The pirates looked confused.

“Move!”
Ahmed shouted, and the three took off down the stairway.