Thomas Prescott Superpack (87 page)

I saw it in his eyes. He had officially defected. Or had defected again. Either way, he was on our team now.

He gripped my chin between his
hand and squished my mouth together. I murmured, “Bathroom.”

He cocked his head, then reared back and slapped me again on the side of the face. He turned to the pirates and said, “Cut him loose.”

They looked puzzled and Ganju walked over to them and spoke in a hushed tone for several seconds. When he finished, both pirates were smiling ear to ear.

What had Thapa told them?

Greg walked behind me and I could hear as his knife cut through the thick tape. After several seconds and 652 hairs ripped from my flesh, I was free. Ganju walked towards me, grabbed me by the ear, and began dragging me down the walkway. I could hear the pirates’ laughter resounding from behind me.

After several feet he released my ear, then shoved me in front of him. I knew without looking that his gun was trained between my fourth and fifth vertebrae. I stumbled down the aisle way, feeling the sympathizing stairs of my fellow hostages. Or maybe they felt that I had this coming for my heroically foolish stunt. If only these people had a clue.

As I approached Lacy and friends, I tried to give a wry smile, nothing that would betray too much. With my left hand, I pulled my three middle fingers in, leaving my pinkie and thumb outstretched. Lacy was the only one that caught the gesture and I saw her fight down a smile.

Hang Loose.

Frank looked like he was thinking of doing something stupid, like jumping up and getting himself shot. I shook my head at him and said, “Don’t.”

He took a deep breath and we moved past him.

As I passed Gilroy, he threw me a smirk. I had the sudden urge to scissor kick him in the neck. I didn’t.

I could feel Little Wayne’s eyes on me from the stage, and I wasn’t surprised when just feet from the bathroom, I was thrown forward, and I guessed that Thapa had decided a swift kick in the butt needed to be part of our act.

I slammed into the door of the bathroom, doing my best Vlade Divac impression, making it seem much worse than it actually was. Thapa followed me into the bathroom. I made my way to the trashcan. From behind me I heard him say, “I am sorry. For everything.”

I turned around and said, “Sorry about tackling you earlier.”

“I understand. You had to.”

I lifted the lid on the trashcan and began rifling through the trash.

“I saw the bomb,” said Thapa. “It is more than enough to destroy a ship twice the size of the
Afrikaans
.”

“These guys don’t fuck around.”

“No. They do not.”

“I think they’re going for the dramatic. Huge explosion. Maybe they have scuba gear or something. Get picked up by a boat a couple miles away and no one notices.”

“I am not sure of their getaway plans. But I am sure they do not include myself or any of the other pirates for that matter.”

My body was halfway down into the trash, my fingers combing the bottom, and my voice echoed through the plastic, “Where is the girl?”

“They are keeping her at the Bridge.”

“Is she okay?”

“They beat her up pretty bad, but she’ll live.”

My hands found the gun and I pulled it out. I was out of breath. It was still wrapped in paper towel and I peeled this off. Ganju’s eyes grew large. He asked, “Where did you get that?”

“We have one less pirate to worry about.”

He nodded. I thought I saw a twinge of a smile. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was proud of me. He said, “We must hurry.”

I nodded. But I did have to piss. I quickly peed, then stuck the gun in the waist of my pants.

We spent the next thirty seconds going over a plan. Then he said, “Go. Before they get suspicious.”

We walked from the bathroom and headed back towards the entrance. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. If I made eye contact with Lacy or Frank or even J.J., my face would show some iota of encouragement, something I couldn’t allow the pirates to notice.

Ganju led me back to the chair, then shoved me down into it. The gun jabbed hard against my back and I had to bite my lip in order not to flinch. Greg Louganis started towards us, excited for an encore duct-taping, but Ganju waved him away. He shrugged and walked back to his position at the door.

Ganju picked the roll of duct tape from the ground behind the chair and began wrapping it tightly around my arms and legs. After a couple minutes, he was done. He’d done almost as good of a job as Greg had done earlier. Key word being almost. There were a couple areas were the tape was much looser than it appeared to be, especially when I flexed against it.

The pirates were close to thirty yards away and I said under my breath, “What did you tell them?”

Ganju looked at me sternly and said, “Tell them what?”

“What did you tell the pirates earlier that had them smiling, then had
them cut me loose.”

He cupped my chin in his hands and brought his face inches from mine. From far away it must have looked like he was telling me that I was a dead man. Instead, he said, “I told them if they cut you loose now, then later tonight they could kill you however they wanted.”

Touché.

Ganju punched me in the solar plexus, the wind knock from my lungs. As I gasped for air, I could hear his fading footsteps, then the door open and close.

WASHINGTON D.C.

10:38
a.m.

Paul Garret pulled the pink bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk and took a long pull. It had been nearly two hours since his morning press conference and his stomach was still in knots. Over the course of the last twenty-four hours, the entire world had gotten wind of the story, down to every last crumb, and a once dormant volcano had erupted, spewing hot lava down the side of the mountain, destroying everything in its path. Unfortunately, at the bottom of the volcano, directly in the path of the flowing red-hot lava, was Paul Garret’s career.

Garret flipped on both small flat screen televisions situated in the wall of his den. The television on the right was tuned to CNN. The one on the left MSNBC.

CNN was at commercial. MSNBC was broadcasting a live press conference. The man behind the podium had a thick neck, reddish skin, and a face that wasn’t meant for television. He spoke in accented English. At the bottom of the screen a banner read, “Isaac Crown. President Oceanic Cruise Lines.”

Isaac was in midsentence, “….the families of the passengers have been contacted. Of course we cannot release any of these names.”

“How many are American?” a reporter shot.

Isaac looked off-screen, perhaps at the OCL’s lawyer, and seemingly getting the nod, answered, “According to our manifest, there were—sorry,
are
—one hundred and fifty-four Americans aboard the ship. The remaining passengers are mostly European, with a few Australians. The one hundred and sixty-four person crew is international.”

Paul already knew of all these details and he wasn’t interested in what else Isaac had to say. Anyhow, CNN was back on and Paul flipped off the other TV.

Wolf Blitzer was on screen in front of a map of southern Africa. Over the course of the next couple minutes he used the telestrator to show the world where the
Afrikaans
was located 70 miles off the eastern coast of South Africa. And where the small village of Ptutsi was located 200 miles northeast of Durban.

CNN had a correspondent at the small village. They flashed to a young man with a hooked nose. Behind him was a blockade of military vehicles and yards behind them a thick wall of Africans could be seen. He said, “We’re about a quarter mile outside the heart of Ptutsi where the South African Military has set up a blockade. They are no longer letting anyone pass through, but for the past week, Africans have been flocking to the small village after being promised AIDS relief by several Zulu newspaper ads as well as an ad that has been running on a local Zulu television station. And somewhere behind these blockades are rumored to be close to a quarter of a million people.”

A quarter of a million people?

For a split second, Paul’s stomach clenched, but for a different reason altogether. Last he’d heard it had been a couple thousand. And now there were a quarter of million Africans all supposedly infected with AIDS? Paul couldn’t help thinking how Gina was in that mess of people somewhere. And he put her there.

Wolf Blitzer said, “It would appear the terrorists aboard the
Afrikaans
had prompted these people to flee to the small village in an attempt to elicit help from the United States. Have you seen any sort of medical tent or anything that would indicate help is on the way?”

“No, I haven’t. There has been an influx of news vans and reporters and of course the military presence, but nothing that would suggest medical relief of any kind.”

“Thanks, Mark. We’ll check in with you later.”

Mark signed off. Wolf was standing behind a huge flat screen television and said, “If you’re just joining us, two days ago a luxury cruise liner off the coast of South Africa was boarded by African pirates. The pirates, yet to be identified, have demanded AIDS relief be sent to a small village forty miles southeast of the town of Ladysmith, or about two hundred miles northeast of the coastal city of Durban. Ptutsi currently carries the highest prevalence of AIDS in the world, with close to fifty percent of their inhabitants infected with the virus. The Zulu village’s population is just under 400, down from more than 800 only five years ago. Earlier the White House Press Secretary spoke about the incident. Here is the scene everybody is talking about.”

The large television behind Wolf flashed to Garret standing behind a podium. The White House seal emblazoned on the blue wall behind him. Garret—the Garret watching himself—tipped the pink bottle back once more and took a healthy pull.

On screen a reporter asked, “
Why did the White House attempt to keep this quiet for so long?
”

This had been fifteen minutes into the press conference. Paul watched himself take a deep breath on screen, then say, “Our main focus was, and still is, the four hundred people on the
Afrikaans.
By keeping the story quiet we were giving those hostages the best possible chance to survive.”

“
What is the U.S. doing to combat the terrorists
?”

“Obviously I can’t tell you that. But I can assure you the President and the United States Navy are doing everything in their power to ensure the survival of everyone on that ship.”

“You said the Navy is involved. What are they doing?”

Paul knew this was the question that had started the slide. On screen, Paul gritted his teeth and said, “Do you really think I am about to divulge the United States Naval strategy to you? The act of piracy aboard a ship carrying American passengers falls under the jurisdiction of the United States Navy. This is why they are involved. And this is all you need to know.”

“
It’s been rumored the pirates demand the United States send medical aid to South Africa to help combat their AIDS epidemic.”

The pirate’s demands had leaked at some point the previous night. No one knew exactly who was responsible for the leak. It could have easily been someone in the White House, but no one had discounted the pirates making a couple calls themselves. The more airtime their demands received, the more shots of tattered Africans lined up for miles to get AIDS medicine, the more pressure on the United States to send relief.

“This is correct.”

“
Is the US sending aid
?”

“For those of you who haven’t lived in the United States, or have never watched a
Die Hard
movie, or are just plain stupid, we do not negotiate with terrorists.”

There was a brief quiet in the room.

A brave reporter asked, “
But don’t you think we should send help
?”

“The United States is already the single largest contributor to AIDS relief in the world. It’s not like we are just sitting on our asses watching millions and millions of people die of this disease. In the two years since the President has been in office, relief to South Africa has more than doubled.”

Garret peered at the reporter and said, “Craig, how much money have
you
contributed to AIDS relief?”

“
Um
.”

“That’s what I thought. You and your pals sit here with your fifty dollar haircuts and your four dollar lattes and you point fingers at the President, his staff, and the military for not helping. Or in some cases helping too much. We can’t win. Well, let me tell you something. We can’t save the world. We have the highest level of unemployment in history. Our own healthcare system is in shambles. Our national deficit is at an all-time high. And we are expected to take care of the entire world. Well, that costs [bleeping] money.”

There was an awkward silence. Then a reporter stood up and said, “
Give us a break Garret, we’re just doing our job
.”