Deadly Coast (23 page)

“Kiii … aiii!” screamed Arnett, just as the jagged end of the rake handle contacted the man’s Adam’s apple and she threw her hip to put all her body weight and momentum into the blow. The wood ripped through voice box, jugular vein, and esophagus, and impacted the pirate’s cervical vertebrae, forcing him backward even as he sank to the ground. Arnett drew her makeshift weapon back sharply, and arterial blood gushed from the gaping wound, spraying her before she could jump away.

Toothless lay on his back on top of the bag of bricks, blood pumping from the hole where his throat had been, moving his lips in wordless comprehension. His eyes fluttered shut and his lips stopped moving, and the air in the shed became even more foul as he lost sphincter control. Arnett stood motionless, staring down at him in the soft glow of the overturned lantern.

The trembling started in her good right hand and got increasingly violent. The bloodied stake slipped from her grasp, and the palsy spread to her legs, which buckled. She fell to her knees and retched, adding the stench of her own vomit to the miasma of death and goat dung. She felt an urgent need to flee and dragged herself toward the door on her three functioning limbs, the rough concrete punishing her hand and shredding her pants at the knees.

The door squeaked as she clawed it open and crawled into the moonlight, collapsing against the rough plank wall. She was suddenly very cold, even in the equatorial night, and she shivered uncontrollably. Shivers turned to sobs—whimpers at first, then growing to deep, wracking cries of anguish and freely flowing tears. Tears of sorrow for Gomez and the other dead crewman, tears of relief that she’d escaped Toothless, and finally tears of rage at the murderers that had done this to her and her crew. She hugged herself with her good arm and let her emotions out, crying until she was drained and exhausted.

Arnett jerked awake with the sun in her eyes, enraged at herself for falling asleep. She struggled to her feet. All her joints were stiff and her left arm and shoulder throbbed. She saw the SUV parked fifty yards away beside a dirt track, at the end of a narrow footpath through low brush and small boulders. There wasn’t a house in sight.

She moved back into the shed, breathing through her mouth to avoid the stench, and knelt to pull the Glock from the dead pirate’s waistband. A search of his pockets yielded another full magazine, a sat-phone, and car keys. She stuck the Glock in her waistband and pocketed the other things before she turned toward the shed door.

Arnett froze at a sound from outside, then bolted to the wall seconds before the door flew open and banged against her. The door swung closed to reveal Traitor, gun in hand, kneeling over Toothless with his back to Arnett. She raised the Glock in her right hand and drew a bead on the back of Traitor’s head. Her hand trembled not at all as her finger tightened on the trigger.

Chapter Twenty-Three

M/T Marie Floyd
Arabian Sea
En route to Harardheere, Somalia

Captain Vince Blake paced the bridge, glancing at the speed log each time he passed. A building south wind on the beam steadily increased the swell, and the old tanker had a pronounced roll now—and a speed of 13.5 knots, despite the chief engineer’s best efforts to coax more from of the tired old engine.

Blake’s pacing was interrupted by the buzz of the sat-phone.

“
Marie Floyd
, Captain speaking,” he answered.

“Captain Blake, this is Ray Hanley. The navy boys took back the
Luther Hurd
last night—”

“How’s the crew? Everyone all right?”

“Just the two guys we already knew about,” Hanley said. “Jones, the acting captain, was injured, but not seriously.”

“Don’t you mean acting chief mate? Arnett’s the capt …” Blake’s voice trailed off. “You … you said there were no more deaths. Why is Stan Jones acting captain? What about Lynda?” Blake asked at last.

“Truth is, we don’t know,” Hanley said. “They took her ashore just before the attack. All we can do at this point is hold a good thought for her.”

Blake didn’t trust himself to respond. He composed himself, then changed the subject. “How about the other ships? Any more executions?”

“Two days, two dead seamen,” Hanley said. “Just like the bastards threatened.”

Blake glanced at the speed log and resisted an impulse to punch the control console.

“Maybe we should tell them we’re coming with hostages of our own,” Blake said. “And tell them to hold off executions until we get there.”

“Except we don’t know where all their boats are,” Hanley said. “If they figure out where all their missing buddies are before you get under the protection of the USS
Carney
and the other navy ships off Somalia, you can bet they’ll swarm you. Don’t forget, this little operation of ours is totally off the books. We can pull up next to the navy boys and the pirates will
think
we’re under their protection, but the truth is, none of the Western governments want to touch our little privateering operation with a ten-foot pole. They’ll help us by ignoring us, but that’s as far as it goes. Tough as it is, we have to stick with the plan.”

Blake sighed. “I understand. We’re almost ready.”

“What do you mean,
almost
? You should be done.”

“We are here,” Blake replied. “Woody has the whole gang finishing up
Pacific Endurance
.” Blake turned as he spoke and looked across at where
Pacific Endurance
was keeping station with him, a mile away.

“Hey, Junior. Get your ass up here,” Woody called down into the tank.

Seconds later, Junior West’s head and shoulders emerged from the open expansion trunk of number-one starboard cargo tank, a welding hood tilted back and a cap worn backward under the hood soaked with sweat.

“Whatcha need, Woody?” asked Junior. “You’re holding up progress.”

“Where are you?”

“Last seam. Maybe three feet,” Junior said. “Course, that’s just the first pass. I figure I ought to give ‘em all at least one more.”

“No need,” said Woody. “Just seal all the seams with epoxy. It ain’t like it’s a permanent job.”

Junior nodded. “Whatever you say. You think this is gonna work?”

“Don’t see why not,” Woody replied. “All any pirate opening the tank cover or the ullage hatch is gonna see is gasoline. They won’t know they’re looking at a six-foot-square box with a couple of tons at most and that the rest of the tank is full of seawater. The digital readout in the cargo control room will show the tanks all full.”

Woody shrugged. “And even if they’re suspicious enough to gauge the tanks by hand, those funnels and capped pipes we have rigged to line up under the ullage hatches will let the tape go all the way to the tank bottom and show gasoline all the way.” Woody smiled. “I gotta admit, that Dugan’s smart.”

Junior nodded, and started back down into the tank.

“Junior,” Woody said, and Junior stopped and looked over. “Don’t forget to cut a couple of little holes in the tops of the walls of the false tanks so the inert gas can equalize. Put ‘em way up at the top, right below the main deck where nobody can see ‘em. I don’t know how savvy these pirates are, but I don’t want any of them getting suspicious ‘cause there’s no inert-gas blanket on the cargo.”

Junior nodded again and disappeared into the tank.

Drillship Ocean Goliath
Arabian Sea

The black hull rushed toward Dugan as he threw his weight to the side, attempting to spin on the rope. At the last moment, he twisted in flight and his back slapped against the hull, snapping his head against the steel with a dull thud, cushioned by the thick neoprene of the survival-suit hood. The impact drove the air from his lungs. He clung to the rope and saw stars and fought to retain consciousness.

He saw Borgdanov at the rail of the fishing boat, screaming up at the deck of the drillship and gesturing wildly. Then Dugan was moving again, almost in slow motion at first, then rushing toward Borgdanov as the drillship rolled and Kwok overcorrected again, sending the fishing boat charging at the drillship. Dugan dipped into the water to his knees, staring up helplessly at Borgdanov as the bow of the fishing boat towered above him on the crest of an approaching swell. He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of being crushed between the steel hulls.

Then the rope bit his chest even harder, and he was jerked upward as the drillship reached the end of her roll and started back in the opposite direction. Dugan opened his eyes to see Borgdanov flash by, as if Dugan was ascending past him on an express elevator. A strong hand grabbed his leg, and he heard a thunderous crash and the screech of steel on steel as the rope slackened its grip on his chest and he felt himself falling—not swinging now, but straight down.

Dugan landed on top of Borgdanov, driving him to the deck of the fishing boat some feet back from the mangled handrail. He heard muffled Russian curses below him, as Borgdanov rolled him off and got to his feet before reaching down to help Dugan. Dugan took the offered hand and pulled himself up.

Borgdanov put his facemask against Dugan’s so he could be heard over the engine. “Are you injured,
Dyed
?”

“Ju-just my pride,” Dugan said, as his breath returned. “Thanks.”

The Russian gestured up toward the drillship. “Is thanks to Ilya. He pulled very hard when you were in water, and then released rope at just right moment so I can pull you in. We are very lucky, I think.”

Dugan stepped back and nodded before waving up at the sergeant, who returned his wave. He took in the situation. Kwok was maintaining station next to the drillship, and Dugan could make out a steady stream of abuse in English and Korean coming through the open window of the wheelhouse, even with the noise and the mask. He had no doubt the little Korean was tallying repair expenses mentally, even as he maneuvered his boat. There was a sizable dent in the hull of the drillship, and the gunwale of
Kyung Yang No. 173
was set in a good eighteen inches, with the attached handrail mangled. Dugan had a fleeting thought about Woody’s cement-box patches and put it out of his mind. First things first. He put his facemask against Borgdanov’s.

“OK. Let’s try this again. Do you think you should remind Ilya to make damn sure I’m on the ladder before he snubs up the safety line?”

Borgdanov smiled through the mask. “
Nyet
. I think he remembers now.”

Dugan nodded and moved to the side of the boat. He jumped on the ladder without hesitation this time, and ten terrifying seconds later, he crawled over the handrail onto the deck of the drillship. Borgdanov was on the ladder and starting up as soon as Dugan cleared the rail, and the
Kyung Yang No. 173
moved away to trail the drillship.

As previously agreed, the Russians armed themselves and took the lead, communicating with long-familiar hand signals. The ship’s movement was different than the fishing boat’s, more extreme due to the weight of the pipe in the derrick but less erratic. Dugan cast a worried look at the storm clouds to the south. The seas were coming from the starboard quarter now, striking the vessel diagonally on the stern. If the wind and waves shifted to the beam, things could deteriorate quickly. He pushed the thought from his mind and fell in behind the Russians.

Besides the single body they’d already spotted on the open deck, they found several more in the deckhouse passageways. When they pushed open the crew lounge, Dugan almost lost it. Bodies were everywhere, leaking blood and fluids. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting in his mask. He closed the door, and they began a room-by-room search of the rest of the quarters, faster now, sure they would encounter no armed resistance.

They found two more bodies in upper-deck rooms and encountered the last one on the bridge, lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit on the deck next to the dynamic positioning console. Dugan studied the bank of flashing video monitors on the DP console and considered trying to bring the vessel’s bow into the weather. One look at the controls dissuaded him. He didn’t know the system, and this wasn’t the time for on-the-job training. He could make things worse.

Instead, he gestured the two Russians close. Without the noise of the fishing boat engine, they could hear each other better now, but they still had to yell to communicate through the masks and hoods.

“I think that’s all of them,” Dugan yelled. “We need to get all the bodies into the crew lounge with the rest so we can burn them.” He looked at Borgdanov. “If the sergeant can do that, I need to show you something.”

The two Russians nodded, and the sergeant moved toward the body, but Dugan caught his arm. “Don’t touch them directly,” Dugan said, and pointed to the curtain between the chart room and the main area of the bridge. “Throw a curtain or shower curtain over the bodies and then roll them over onto it. Then you can drag them down the stairs or into the elevator without touching them any more than you have to. After you get the bodies taken care of, find the laundry and look for some bleach. Slosh it over any body fluids on the deck.”

The sergeant looked confused. “Bletch?” he said.

“
Klornogo otbelivatelya
,” the major said, and the sergeant nodded his understanding before moving to tear down the chart-room curtain.

Dugan motioned Borgdanov to follow, and led him out the bridge door and up the external stairway to the helideck perched high over the bow of the drillship. He found the nearest fire station, freed the fire monitor, and swiveled it to point overboard before opening the valve wide to send a stream of water arcing over the ship’s side. He left it there, and with the Russian in tow, crossed the helideck to the fire station on the opposite side of the ship and repeated the operation.

“These monitors will spray water until I stop the fire pump and drain the line,” Dugan said. “That may take a few minutes. While that’s happening and Ilya is moving the bodies, I want you to look for the gas cylinders. According to Ward, they look something like scuba tanks. When you find them, put them with the bodies in the crew lounge. Get the sergeant to help you when he finishes with the bodies.”

Borgdanov nodded, and Dugan continued. “But remember, while you’re doing that, keep an eye up here on these monitors. If you see diesel shooting over the side, one of you needs to get up here quick and close the valves. Got it?”

“
Da
. As you explained on the boat, I understand.”

Dugan nodded and headed for the stairs.

Sweat squished between Dugan’s toes as he raced down the external stairs on the port side of the deckhouse. Only the fact that the boots were tight kept his feet from slipping around inside them. He hit the main deck and moved aft toward the machinery casing, his footing made even more treacherous by the loose layer of silver coins shifting across the open deck with each roll of the ship.

He slipped twice, the second time falling to his hands and knees as the ship took a hard roll to port. He froze at the metallic clang of drill pipe shifting in the towering derrick beside him, then breathed a sigh of relief as the vessel began to right herself. His relief was short-lived.

There was a thunderous boom, and he felt the steel deck vibrate through his gloves as the pirates’ fishing vessel once again lost its fight with the mooring lines holding it captive and surged back against the side of the drillship. Dugan struggled to his feet on the tilting deck.
Christ!
How the hell did he get into this mess? He swallowed his fear and pressed aft to the machinery casing, hoping the layout wasn’t too different from what he was used to.

He found the main fire pumps on a lower level, turned off the one that was running, and closed the discharge valve before dropping into the bilge to trace the system piping. He found the drain valve a few feet away. Water gushed over his legs and into the bilge when he opened it, cooling him a bit. He was tempted to linger, but he had no time. Truth be told, not even enough time to drain the system properly—there would be water trapped in branch lines unless he opened the valves on every single fire station—but that didn’t matter. Opening the two monitors at the very top of the system would allow enough air into the system to drain the main line and allow it to vent when he refilled it. That would have to do. Reluctantly, Dugan climbed out of the cool bilge in pursuit of his next objective.

He spotted the centrifugal purifiers first, and found the diesel-oil transfer pump not far away. He traced the pump discharge piping until he found what he needed—a branch line about the same size as a fire hose—then traced the system farther, closing valves as he found them, isolating the branch line.

The hacksaw he’d taken from the Korean boat was old and dull. Undoubtedly, there were better tools aboard the drillship, but he had little time to find them and figured they might be under lock and key. His hands were sweating in the clumsy rubber gloves, and he almost lost his grip on the saw several times before it began to bite into the pipe. When he penetrated the top of the pipe, diesel gushed out, covering his hands and making the pipe and saw slick under his rubber gloves.