The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 10





CMA CGN Valnea

Gulf of Aden

The engineer Nikita wiggled a big toe.

He could not shift his strapped-down head to see. He groped for LB on the stool beside him.

“Vot edo da! Did you see? Look! Look, Sergeant! Is moving?”

LB confirmed the toe did flinch.

“I am not cripple! Gospodi! Sergeant, I am not cripple!”

Nikita spread both arms to celebrate in a hug. LB hung back; the man would not stop shouting. On the next bed, the cadet groaned, waking to find pain. To quiet the engineer, LB bent over him for a quick embrace but could not wrap his arms around the board or the cot. Nikita clamped him tight, pounding the back of LB’s rib cage. He sobbed, “Spasibo, bolshoe spasibo.”

LB wriggled loose. “Okay, okay. That’s great.” He patted Nikita on the chest. “Let’s keep it down; the kid needs to sleep.”

“Da, da,” the engineer panted, sniffing back tears. “But this is good, yes?”

“It’s a good sign. The anti-inflams are working. You still might have a break in your spine, but it doesn’t look like paralysis. We’ll know more in Djibouti. And you’re staying on that board till we get there.”

“Of course, of course.” Nikita kept his voice from climbing again. “Go. Find Grisha. I will wiggle for him.”

LB checked the cadet’s bandages for moistness. He headed for the door. Behind him Nikita whispered, “Thank you, svóloch.”

“You’re welcome, hui.”

The first mate Grisha was not in the wheelhouse, the only place LB knew to look for him. He found Drozdov in his captain’s chair. To the rear, the third officer sat at the map table, filling in the logbook.

LB told Drozdov of Nikita’s progress and the request to see Grisha. The Russian captain received the news with a long sigh of relief. Picking up the intercom phone, he found the first mate in his quarters.

“Nikita has moved a toe.”

Drozdov set down the receiver. LB imagined chubby Grisha bolting for the stairs.

LB climbed into the empty leather chair beside Drozdov, facing the broad tempered-glass windshield. Far ahead, a convoy steamed toward Suez. The Valnea sailed into an afternoon that had aged while LB kept vigil in the infirmary. The dropping sun shone into the ship’s westbound face.

On both large, round radar screens in the command dash, a red line swept out of the center blip that was the Valnea. The distant klatch of freighters showed as dark arrowheads, their speeds and headings digitized beneath each mark. To the north, a warship shadowed them. Above and below the convoy, two east–west electronic lines displayed the bounds of the IRTC, five nautical miles wide. Yemen lay a hundred miles to the north, Somalia an equal distance south. The Valnea plowed down the middle of the lane. She sailed alone.

“We cannot keep up,” Drozdov said. “The ships in the convoy are making sixteen knots. I have reported damage to UKMTO Dubai. That is all I can do.”

“When exactly do we get to Djibouti?”

The captain rolled a track ball. The cursor on one radar screen zoomed ahead, scrolling the distance from the center blip.

“Three hundred eighty miles. At this chërtov speed, dawn day after tomorrow. Perhaps.”

“Perhaps what?”

Drozdov laughed a grave chuckle that wrinkled his pocked nose. He gazed forward to the lowering sun.

“What do you think of my ship, Sergeant?”

LB patted the leather arms of his chair. “She’s a beauty.”

“Fah. She is govnó. Shit.” Drozdov turned dark eyes at LB. “Twenty years ago I am master on ships that are at sea even to this day. I see them, I talk on radio to them. Those were made of thick steel, good material. I worked on ships half this size with crew of thirty. Today I have just twenty men. Is all about money now. Companies care nothing for men, for metal, only money. This Valnea, she will have life of maybe ten years. Then she will be scrap. The steel will melt, then go into another ship, then another. You watch, look around. Every day, crew is grinding, painting to stay ahead of rust. Razvan is fixing breaks in something all the time. Two boys are hurt bad because engine explodes. Now we are limping to hospital. Da, I am captain of shit. I have become man to do this only for money, like owners, like insurance company. I am no better.”

LB hadn’t sat with Drozdov for any of this; he’d just meant to report on Nikita. The captain didn’t break his gaze from LB, inviting comment.

“You’re not happy, so quit.”

Drozdov’s temples folded into creases etched by decades of ocean winds and shadeless light. Even grinning, his face dimmed.

“No. I drink too much on land.”

LB let the statement linger; it wasn’t the sort of remark to leave on.

“So tell me about Iris Cherlina.”

Drozdov’s narrow chest shook to a private, dour chuckle. LB’s question seemed to have struck another nerve in the captain.

“I know nothing about Iris Cherlina.”

“How can that be? I mean, she’s your passenger. She was sitting right here when I came on board. You don’t talk to her?”

Drozdov tapped a finger on the arm of his chair, the way Grisha had done against his lips. Iris Cherlina made these sailors twitchy.

“You have curiosity, Sergeant?”

“No more than any regular guy would for a good-looking woman.”

“I will tell you what I know, since you are regular guy. Iris Cherlina eats alone at all meals. In the day, she sometimes sits on the bridge to watch the seas go by. The rest of the time, she stays alone. At nightfall, she disappears into her cabin. Or she walks forward into the dark. That is what I know. This is cargo ship, not cruise liner. I do not talk to her. My crew do not talk to her. We do what I suggest you should do. Look.”

This wasn’t very friendly on anybody’s part, but LB kept that to himself.

LB had two days on this ship. He wasn’t going to take Drozdov’s advice and just look. He kept that to himself, too. And he’d been told by Torres to show no curiosity about the Valnea’s crew and cargo. Iris Cherlina wasn’t a sailor, and she wasn’t in a container.

Drozdov pivoted his attention to his instruments and radar, releasing LB from the leather seat and the conversation. He slid from the chair with no more notice from the captain.

LB left the air conditioning of the bridge to step out on the starboard wing. In the dusk, Iris stood with a cigarette between her fingers. She leaned against the rail when she saw him, the gesture implying that she would stay in place for his company. The woman was the counterpoint to Drozdov, slim and unruffled, not worn by sea and weather, pummeled by long labor, or pitted by liquor. The wind and the tinted light suited her. The breeze carried a puff of tobacco off her wide, smiling lips. She flipped the cigarette overboard. She did not look unapproachable, or off-limits.

Iris Cherlina spoke first. “I understand you are staying on the Valnea until we reach Djibouti.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Iris Cherlina appraised this development, which seemed suddenly to please her. She put forth a manicured hand—red nails against linen skin, a broad palm. She had the handshake of a musician, an artist, something where the firmness of her touch mattered.

“Let’s meet properly. I am Iris Cherlina.”

LB felt the urge for a hat he could remove, or a better suit of clothes than his uniform and communications vest to bow in.

“First Sergeant Gus DiNardo.” He held her hand for an extra shake, as if he were introducing himself twice. “Everyone calls me LB.”

“LB. What does that stand for?”

“It’s just a call sign.”

“For?”

“All right. Little Bastard.”

“Honestly?”

“Who would lie about that?”

“Fair enough. How on earth did you come by it?”

“I spend my summers as an instructor at the PJ School. It’s called the Pipeline. Some call it Superman School. It’s pretty tough.”

“What is a PJ?”

“Pararescue jumper.”

“You jump to the rescue, Sergeant?”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“Exactly how tough is your Superman School?”

“One in ten make it through. It’s the hardest training regimen in the American military.”

“Impressive. Is this the only place where you are a little bastard?”

“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.”

“Forgive me. I think that is a half truth.”

“It might be. I guess it depends on which half you need at the moment.”

“I like that.”

Iris Cherlina blinked again, long and languorous, as if savoring. LB did not consider himself a man of charm, but he was making this woman stay in place to talk, work her eyes. Was this what Drozdov feared about her, that she might agitate some of his crew, start some fights?

LB hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The captain. That’s a piece of work.”

“Yes, poor man.”

“How’s it going, being the only woman on a ship?”

“Mne pó figu. I don’t care.”

“So, what does Cherlina mean in Russian? ‘Dear,’ like in French?”

“Yes. But also, it means expensive.”

“Nice. Wow.”

“And you? DiNardo?”

“It’s Italian. Means I’m related to Nero. He burned Rome and killed Christians. So you definitely win the name thing.”

“I do.”

LB checked his watch. Every hour he had to wet the cadet’s bandages, change out his saline bag, keep him dopey on fentanyl. He had forty more minutes to spend with Iris Cherlina.

Gazing at her, LB thought she was as much a collection of question marks as this entire voyage. He didn’t know what to ask first, what might lead to more conversation, what might make her walk away alone. Silently, he toted up what he knew about Iris and the Valnea. Iris was a Russian passenger on a freighter carrying a highly secret cargo—so secret his own government had told him to put on blinders—guarded by gun-toting Serbs. She had the run of the ship and stayed pretty much to herself, either because she wanted it that way or because Drozdov had gotten the same orders as LB—no curiosity. Early this morning an accident had injured two crewmen, making the Valnea cut her speed in half. The captain was an alcoholic who disliked his ship, who the first mate claimed had been made crazy by pirates. The Romanian chief engineer had no idea why his engine had failed. And this morning LB had been choppered in, an unexpected witness to whatever intrigues were on board.

LB figured, too, that a lot of what Iris Cherlina would say, if she talked to him, would be lies.

“Hey, I haven’t seen much of the boat. I figure you’ve been here for two and a half weeks.”

“Yes.”

“Give me a tour?”

“You do not strike me as a tourist. But whatever you wish.”

“So, you got on board in Vladivostok.”

“How did you know?”

“You just agreed you’d been here for two and a half weeks.”

“Of course.”

“Lead the way.”

Iris opted for the stairs down the side of the superstructure. LB followed. Descending, he asked her back, “What do you do in Russia?”

“I’m a scientist.”

“What kind?”

“Electrophysics. My specialty is heat resistance.”

“You don’t look like an electrophysicist.”

“No?” She pouted. “And I try so hard.”

“It’s awful cold in Russia for someone interested in heat.”

“I worked at a research institute.”

“Which one?”

“I’m afraid that’s off limits, Sergeant.”

“LB.”

“LB, then.”

The two wended down more staircases. The late daylight purpled. The wide water lost its blue shades, inking toward gray.

“You said ‘worked.’”

“I have retired from that institute. I’ve left Russia. For warmer climes, as it were.”

“You look young to retire.”

“Thank you. I have taken employment at a lab in Lebanon.”

“Is there a lot of money in electrophysics these days?”

“Untold.”

“Government?”

Iris Cherlina waggled a finger at another question she would not answer. LB switched gears.

“You like falafel, I hope.”

“Better than cold beet soup.”

He and Iris rounded another metal corner of the six staircases. He allowed a gap in their talk, letting their shoes on the steel steps be the sound of their company. They descended two more floors.

“So why’d the lab in Russia shut down? If there’s that much money in heat resistance in Beirut, why not in Russia?”

“We’d gone as far as we could go there. My government has lost interest, and we lost funds. I’m taking the research in a new direction.”

“So you booked a three-week passage on a commercial freighter from Vladivostok.”

Iris Cherlina stopped on a landing between stairwells. Without dropping her smile, she turned.

“Yes.”

She held her ground, waiting for him to choose whether she could stay in his company or would have to leave him if he pressed.

He clapped. “Looks like a great idea. No crowds. See the world. How’s the food?”

Iris beamed, a toothy beauty. She strode to LB, slipped her arm inside his so they could walk linked down the last stairs.

“The Filipino cook has no touch. I do not eat the heads of fish.”

“I’ll see if I can’t whip you up something special for dinner. Some pasta.”

“Are you a good cook?”

“I’m better than fish heads.”

She laughed and patted his forearm. This was his reward for letting her lie. It seemed fair pay. She took his arm down the steps.

At deck level, Iris released him. “Let’s walk to the bow. It’s my favorite place.”

She led him along the starboard rail. They moved single file through the skinny passage, more tunnel than walkway. Here on deck, the ship seemed livelier than from the cool vantage of the bridge or the high perch of the wings. The water sloughing off the great hull whispered a constant shush. Under LB’s boots, the floor vibrated. The huge engine, even hobbled, murmured in the steel. Thick walls suggested the mammoth weight this ship could carry. All the angles were sharp, the passage studded with ladders, beams, low-hanging lanterns. The Valnea had been designed and built every inch for cargo, not comfort. According to Drozdov, she was also disposable.

LB followed Iris Cherlina past a large red lifeboat hung on davits, and smaller life rafts packed into plastic barrels along the rail. The stroll to the bow and back would cover a quarter of a mile.

As they stepped onto the open bow, the night’s first stars appeared behind Iris’s head. The crimson sun had been doused only minutes before. One of Bojan’s Serbs strode the opposite rail, black-clad. Spotting them, he reversed course and approached, keeping his weapon slung but laying an obvious hand on it.

“Dr. Cherlina. He is not allowed here.”

Iris held up a palm to halt any further comment. Despite her imperious raised hand, the guard parted his lips to say more. She stopped him again.

“He is with me.”

She tucked her arm inside LB’s to turn away from the Serb. LB didn’t like having his back to a gun, any gun, but Iris towed him away, and the guard returned to his patrol.

Iris Cherlina was no passenger on this ship—that much was plain. She had authority the guard couldn’t top, and she wasn’t shy about showing that to LB.

The bow offered more room to move than elsewhere on the ship, though it was cluttered with large hawsers, a pair of oversize windlasses for raising and dropping the twin anchors, rusty chains with links big around as LB. In the center, a high mast rose, topped by an unlit beacon. He looked back the length of the ship to the pilothouse, over the vast and vacant container deck that resembled a no-man’s-land for giants, with its rows of fences and steel cables.

Straight off the bow, at the foot of the slumping sun in a rippling red pool, the silhouette of a small ship lay miles ahead.

Iris leaned over the rail. LB copied her. Both looked far down to the bulbous bow cutting high out of the water. Several dolphins swooped on either side, cruising in the breaking crest. Iris waved at them.

Over the slapping wash, his shoulders touching hers, LB asked, “Why’d you say ‘poor man’ about the captain?”

Iris did not straighten. The dolphins kept her bent over the rail. LB pulled himself erect, fixing on the dim outline of the small ship, bobbing without running lights in the Valnea’s path.

Iris came up, flushed. She considered him a long moment.

“You do pay attention, don’t you?”

“I’m in a life-and-death profession. It’s what I do.”

LB liked her long blinks, as she retreated behind her lids to make a plan. She looked sexy when she closed her eyes, smart when she opened them.

“All right,” Iris Cherlina said. “This comes from Grisha, but it is also painfully obvious. The captain is a troubled man.”

“Check.”

“A few years back, he was hijacked in these waters. His ship was anchored off the coast for eight months while the insurance company negotiated with the Somalis. The crew was treated well enough, but the captain didn’t take well to captivity. He fought with the pirates, and they beat him. After the ransom, Drozdov went home to Russia. He became a drunkard. He was dismissed by the company. His wife left him. This year he became sober, and they took him back.”

“For this voyage.”

Again Iris blinked like an owl.

“Yes. How did you know?”

Because it made sense. Find a captain so down on his luck that he’d accept a cargo he knew nothing about. No curiosity.

“Just a guess.”

He glanced at his watch. Time for him to head back to the infirmary.

“Tell me something.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing, Sergeant.”

“Yeah. Why’re you okay with talking to me?”

Iris Cherlina withdrew, playacting as if hurt. “Do I seem standoffish?”

“No. But Drozdov says you don’t talk to anyone, and they don’t talk to you. You eat by yourself, wander around by yourself. How come?”

“I don’t know. I’m an outsider; they are busy all the time. We just fell into mutual silence. But after two and a half weeks of scant attention, to be honest, I am very glad to have a man show some interest in me.”

“Sounds like you talk to Grisha.”

“Some. But he…well, he is not you.”

He dipped his head to the flattery, even though her explanation didn’t square with what Drozdov said, that she kept mostly to herself.

The shadow ship in the Valnea’s path loitered, one mile bigger in the twilight.

“Let’s go back. I’ve got to check on the infirmary. Then dinner. I’ll have a chat with the cook.”

He led the way into the narrow passage. Again LB swung his shoulders to avoid bumping into the hard pillars supporting the overhang. Far below the rail, in the faint light, phosphorus twinkled in the foaming wake.

They passed another strolling Serbian. The guard backed out of the way, wordless. LB wondered how good Bojan’s guys would be in a scrap. In his long experience, the ones with the attitude most often came up short. Doc and Quincy were plain Nevada cowboys, Jamie was shy, Wally was clean-cut, and LB had seen every one of them dive into whatever hot or freezing hell the job threw at them. LB would take Mouse, even young Robey, every PJ or CRO he’d ever known, over these arrogant Serb security guards any day.

Reaching the superstructure, Iris stayed with LB in the infirmary, bathing the cadet’s bandages while LB checked the pace of the saline IV and the fentanyl drip. The boy’s urine flow lagged behind the input of saline, meaning that his body was still holding fluids in its tissues and blisters. Iris was unfazed at the boy’s bubbled, boiled skin, unmoved by his half-awake moan, raised no eyebrows at the catheters. She had a scientist’s easy detachment. Nikita had added another toe to his wiggling.

Grisha agreed to stay in the infirmary through dinner if he could share in whatever meal LB would prepare for Iris. The first mate got a peck on the cheek from the departing Iris.

Down the hall, LB stabbed the elevator button. When the door slid open, Chief Engineer Razvan stood inside, clutching a brace of folders and loose printout sheets. LB let Iris step in first. The engineer nodded curtly to them both.

Iris lit the button for F deck, explaining she needed a rest before dinner. When the elevator stopped, LB spoke as she exited into the hall.

“See you at dinner.”

“I expect genius,” Iris called around the closing door, “from a relative of Nero’s.”

The door slid shut on Iris turning away. LB would check in with Drozdov on the bridge, have the captain assign him quarters, then head back down to the galley to introduce himself to the Filipino chef.

The elevator continued its ascent. Chief Razvan appeared agitated, finger-tapping the thick sheaf of sheets in his arms. LB made quick conversation, telling him that Nikita might recover; the cadet showed improvement but wasn’t out of the woods. The Romanian nodded, staring at his shoes. He seemed to want to burst out of the elevator.

Rising to the top floor, before the door opened, LB quizzed the engineer. “What’ve you got? Your eyes are bugging out of your head.”

Chief raised a finger. “You.” He stuck the digit into LB’s chest. “You are a reliable person.”

“Yeah?”

Before LB could question him further, the elevator stopped. Razvan charged out, up the steps to the pilothouse, leaving LB to walk in his wake.

“Captain,” the chief called the instant he entered the cool, broad pilothouse, “a word.”

From his chair, Drozdov presided over the array of controls and screens. Outside the ship’s wide windows, the steaming white light glowed in the dusk above the faraway bow.

Without turning from his instruments, Drozdov said, “In a minute.”

Razvan hurried to stand beside the captain’s chair, hefting his bale of pages.

“I am sorry, Captain, but now.”

Drozdov pivoted a taut face. Something else had been bothering him before Chief exploded into the bridge.

“Yes.”

Razvan slapped his papers. “The accident was no accident. It was deliberate.” Chief glanced around the wheelhouse, though only the three of them were there. “Somebody on this ship. Sabotage.”

LB was jolted. The secrets on the Valnea were starting to become oppressive. He kept silent, but suddenly, badly, he wanted off the ship. Stuck here for another thirty hours. He thought of calling Torres on the satellite radio in his vest, telling her to come get him.

Drozdov stayed icy. “How do you know this?”

“I have searched every record of the engine. I found this.” The Romanian plopped his stack of papers on the console.

Before he could dig in, Drozdov said, “Just tell me.”

“Yes, all right. At oh-four-thirteen this morning, voltage for cylinder seven dropped off one instant before the accident. The injection timing signal to the cylinder was interrupted. This caused fuel to come in the wrong time to piston stroke. That blew the gasket. Then, poof, like magic, the voltage returned to the cylinder.”

“Tell me why you think this is sabotage. And be quick, Chief.” Drozdov pointed at one of his radar screens. “I have another problem.”

Chief leaped to his explanation. “In computer records, when there is short in the power, I will see two alarms. The first is pre-alarm. It tells me where to look. It is like skid marks in front of car wreck. The second alarm is actual power interruption. In this case, Captain, I only have alarm, not the pre-alarm. No skid mark. This says the power failure did not come from failure of engine but from outside. This was human hand.”

“How was it done?”

“Simple. Anyone with knowledge can go to fuse box for cylinder seven. Pull the correct fuse. Two seconds. Put it back.”

“You are sure?”

Chief gathered his computer sheets off the console. “Of course. I am sure also that only cadet, Nikita, this American, and I did not do it. The rest of you, I watch now.”

Drozdov turned his weathered face to LB. He asked, “Who would do this?” as if an outsider to the ship might have the best idea.

You, for one, Captain, LB thought.

“Chief,” LB asked, “can you see the pistons from the fuse box?”

“No. Whoever did this could not see Nikita and cadet. Perhaps that was mistake. But I do not forgive.”

Drozdov’s chin dropped to his chest. After a quick moment, he raised his gaze to his controls and the radar sweep.

The small ship off the bow lurked only a mile away, and dead ahead. The blip faded in and out, its radar signature on the water small and sketchy.

LB asked, “What’s that?”

“That, Sergeant, is my other problem. Right now, the greater of the two.”

“Is it pirates?”

Drozdov answered by bringing a walkie-talkie from his lap to his lips. He thumbed the talk button. “Mr. Bojan, this is bridge. Bojan, bridge. Respond.”

Before the Serb guard could answer, the captain unclipped another microphone from the console. In clear tones, he said, “All hands, all hands. This is the captain. Officers to the bridge. Crew prepare to take secure position. This is not a drill.”

Razvan pivoted with his papers for the stairs. Drozdov said at his departing back, “Chief, please tend to the engine.”

LB was left alone with Drozdov. The captain’s face was set hard. LB looked for a crack in the man’s composure, some flashback to captivity, thirst for a bottle, a wince, a lick of the lips.

Drozdov locked eyes on the radar screen, measuring distance and time, calculating the next move, staying captain.

LB asked again, “Pirates?”

In a low growl, Drozdov said, “I do not know. I have never seen this from pirates. One vessel at dusk, sitting in the path of a freighter. This is new. The Somalis come at sunup. In two or three skiffs. They race in from both sides, shoot their rockets, threaten on the radio until we stop. This ship ahead”—Drozdov pointed again—”this one is quiet. We will find out shortly.”

He put his chin into an open hand, pulled down on his jowls. Drozdov was not panicked. The gesture spoke instead of calculation.

“And someone I trust has disabled my ship so these mudaki may hijack us more easily.” The captain turned his head to fake a disgusted spit. “Disloyal zhopoliz.”

Who would want to be hijacked? It made no sense.

One of the officers rushed from the stairwell into the pilothouse. Instantly Drozdov ordered, “Go to manual. Starboard five.”

The mate positioned himself between the leather chairs, standing at the console. He punched a button and set hands on the tiny steering wheel. He came starboard five degrees. Moments after, the ship ahead moved to stay in the Valnea’s course.

Drozdov leaned forward to tap the radar screen. He said to LB, “I have seen mornings after storms where containers have been opened and emptied. Leather jackets, Dom Pérignon, motorcycle parts. In storms, Sergeant. Pirates are desperate men. They cannot be predicted.”

Grisha chugged in, huffing. Drozdov instructed him, “Hail the vessel in our path.”

LB had no role on the bridge. If pirates were coming, he belonged where he could do some good.

“I’m going.”

“Where?”

“To get my gun back from Bojan.”

“He will not give it to you. He has orders.”

“Then give him different orders.”

“Bojan does not work for me on this ship of wonders.”

LB stepped back from the console. He flung both arms over his head, swung a boot at his own frustration, infuriated and diminished. “Shit,” he barked through clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch.”

“Yes!” Drozdov sang. “Yes, Sergeant. That’s the spirit!”