The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 12





CMA CGM Valnea

Gulf of Aden

On the radar sweep, the Valnea’s large blip swallowed the smaller signature lying in its path.

“That ship,” Drozdov said. “It has disappeared.”

LB asked, “What the hell? Did we hit it?”

Grisha stopped hailing the mystery vessel. The VHF microphone hovered at his lips. “I felt nothing.”

“It was not radar shadow,” Drozdov said. “It moved to stay in our way.”

LB agreed. “I saw it. Dead ahead.”

“Steady on.” Drozdov gestured to the second mate, who had both hands on the tiny wheel. In the captain’s lap, the walkie-talkie squawked.

“Bojan here.”

Drozdov answered. “We have possible intruder off the bow. Perhaps a collision.”

Bojan paused before replying. “Which is it?”

“I don’t know. I expect you to tell me. Out.”

Drozdov set the walkie-talkie aside. “Sergeant, Grisha. Man the searchlights. Find that boat. Wreckage, something.”

LB rushed to the left wing, Grisha ran right. Throwing open the chocks on the watertight portal, LB raced to the tip of the wing. He flicked the switch on the back of the spotlight. The beam came alive, aimed into the open air.

The searchlight, bulky and powerful, needed both hands to swing. Heat off the bulb sizzled inside the round casing. LB aimed forward to the bow, then out to sea in case of flotsam or survivors. Finding nothing but foam and black swells, he played the light down the side of the freighter.

Froth sparkled on the water, sea mist drifted through the beam. No evidence of a ship entered the circle of the spotlight—nothing, until he aimed straight down. There, nine stories below, an intact wooden skiff hugged the Valnea’s hull.

In the boat stood one black man gripping a Kalashnikov, another with an RPG across his shoulder. A third sat behind the wheel. The skiff, long and sleek, looked fast, with twin outboards.

Why only three men?

They were armed men. The big one with the submachine gun made the point by raising his muzzle at the searchlight. The gun flashed and chattered. Bullets struck sparks around LB. The pirate missed the light but beat the steel close enough to make LB dive out of the way.

“Son of a bitch!” Staying low, he skittered for the wheelhouse. Flinging open the door, he shouted, “Pirates!”

Across the pilothouse, Grisha crawled in, hollering at Drozdov from his hands and knees. “Three pirates! They’re shooting!”

LB ducked in the doorway. “Same here.”

“That’s all? Six pirates?”

“You come count ’em.”

Drozdov beckoned to them both. “Inside.” A young officer and a Filipino crewman darted to replace them at the searchlights.

LB moved behind Drozdov, and Grisha skittered into the second seat.

“General alarm,” Drozdov ordered. Grisha flipped a switch on the console. A bell rang through the freighter. Above the bridge, the ship’s whistle blew. Seven short bursts, then a long blast. In two corners of the wheelhouse, red lights flashed.

“Helm, evasive maneuvers.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The Russian manning the wheel spun hard left. Valnea responded ponderously, taking a long moment to urge her massive girth into the turn. Once the pivot began, she proved nimble, surprising LB, banking enough to make him brace against Drozdov’s chair. Outside the wide windshield, the starlit horizon tilted. The earsplitting alarm cycle began again.

“Grisha?”

“Captain.”

“Activate SSAS.”

“Aye.”

The first mate reached under the radar dashboard to push a hidden button.

LB asked Drozdov, “What’s that?”

“Ship security alarm. Now home office and warships in area know we are under pirate attack. We have sent position, speed, and course.”

“What about the crew?”

“They have orders to barricade themselves in engine room. Crew will not fight; it is not job of seamen. If we see pirates climbing on board, that is where we will go. You will make sure the wounded are moved properly. We will deny the pirates hostages and leave the heroics to Bojan and the warships. That is their pay. We have ours.”

“What about Iris Cherlina?”

“She has heard the alarm. I expect her any minute.”

Drozdov took up the walkie-talkie. “Bojan, Bojan. Bridge.”

“Go, bridge.”

“We have two pirate skiffs. One port, another starboard. Three men each. They are armed.”

“I see them.”

“Mr. Bojan, I want to be plain. I insist there be no shooting, repeat, no shooting without my permission, or unless they shoot at you and your men. I have alerted warships. They will send assistance. We need only fend off the pirates until then. If pirates attempt to board, I will activate fire hoses. We will reserve lethal response for last resort. Do you understand?”

“I will protect this ship, Captain.”

“See that you do only that, Mr. Bojan. You know my mind on this.”

“I do.”

“Bridge out.”

The captain set the walkie-talkie down hard. The helmsman continued to drive the Valnea into her sharp left-hand pirouette. When Drozdov turned to LB, he had to look uphill. He shook his head in small tremors. He let slip a short, rueful laugh.

“There are only six pirates. This seems infantile.”

“These guys are probably chewing on a pound of qaat. They haven’t got a clue what they’re doing. They didn’t look very clever.”

“Perhaps. Do you know why I will not allow Bojan to shoot them? Not unless they set foot on my ship. Grisha, you understand.”

From his chair beside Drozdov, the portly mate dipped his head, knowing and saddened by it.

“I can guess,” LB said. “But tell me.”

The captain poked a finger into his own chest. “I have been the guest of Somali pirates before. I did not have a good visit. Because of that time, I want two things very much right now. A drink of vodka and revenge. Dat’ pizdy. To beat the shit out of someone. Both would feel very nice to me. And the desire for them would become addiction again. I do not like being prisoner of anything. So I will not drink. I will not hate. And I will not kill unless there is no other way. This emblem on your arm, sergeant. I think you have made this choice yourself.”

“Not the drinking part. But yeah. I have.”

The general alarm completed its third circuit. Drozdov cut it off. “Everyone knows.”

The loudspeaker in the dash crackled. A hail came through. “CMA CGN Valnea, CMA CGN Valnea. Coalition American warship USS Nicholas. Do you copy? Over.”

Drozdov snatched the microphone from Grisha. To LB, he whispered, “Your countrymen.” He clicked the talk button. “Nicholas, Valnea. Captain Drozdov. Go.”

“Captain, we’re received a distress signal from your vessel. Are you under attack?”

“Nicholas, yes. Two skiffs, six pirates. Armed and firing on my ship. No injuries.”

“Have they boarded?”

“Negative. They have made no attempt yet. They are staying alongside. I cannot outrun them; we have damaged engine. Twelve knots top speed. Taking evasive maneuvers. Can you send help? Over.”

“Valnea. I’ll have a chopper in the air in five minutes. ETA your position twenty minutes. We are turning your way. ETA my vessel at your position one hour. Copy?”

“Nicholas, yes.”

“Hold ’em off, Skipper. Cavalry’s coming. We will monitor this channel. Out.”

“Thank you, Captain. Valnea out.”

Drozdov communicated this development to Bojan. The Serb guard had both skiffs under observation. “The Somalis,” Bojan said, “they are like children. They are intoxicated. We will watch them until the American helicopter comes. They will turn and run.”

Grisha widened the sweep on one radar screen, locating USS Nicholas thirty-three miles to the west. The warship’s radar signature showed Nicholas already pointing east, sprinting to the rescue.

Drozdov’s helmsman twisted the small steering wheel to the right. The deck evened out, then began its tilt in the opposite direction as the hull swung into a zigzag.

LB analyzed the situation. A couple of skiffs cruising at Valnea’s sides. Six pirates. A few wild potshots at the searchlights. The pirates had RPGs but hadn’t used them. No effort to toss up grapnels or mount ladders. Attacking just after dusk. And that odd tactic of waiting in the freighter’s path, skiffs lashed together to look like a single ship on the radar. Then splitting up at the last second to fake a collision, an attack Drozdov had never seen before. Were these Somalis so high on qaat they couldn’t mount a proper hijacking, as Bojan implied? Why were they just hanging out alongside the ship’s hull? What was the purpose? Confusion? Stalling?

Ah, hell.

Stalling.

LB grabbed the walkie-talkie off the console. Drozdov shot him a raised eyebrow.

“Bojan, Bojan. Sergeant DiNardo.”

The Serb swiftly answered. “Sergeant, this is private communication with captain only.”

“Shut up, Bojan. Listen to me. Those two skiffs might be a distraction. Repeat, they might be a distraction. There could be another boat. Go look for it.”

At this, Drozdov’s chin fell to his chest. He lapped a hand over his brow, muttering, “Dolboyob.” LB knew this one, too. Stupid.

Bojan snapped his response. “I have situation under control, Sergeant. Bojan out.”

The Serb would not answer LB’s hail. He tossed the walkie-talkie to Grisha.

“Keep calling him. Tell him I’m on my way.”

Drozdov said, “Go quickly.”

LB broke downhill for the left wing. Exiting the portal, he snared a flashlight and made his way down the rail to the Filipino manning the spotlight. The lit-up pirate skiff far below no longer snugged against the great hull but kept pace twenty yards off. LB instructed the Filipino crew to wait one minute, then take the searchlight beam off the skiff and move it forward along the hull, then back.

He flung himself at the exterior stairs.

LB could not fly down the six staircases. The Valnea tilted harder as she curved to the right, making the stairs treacherous. He moved as fast as he could, suspecting that every tick of the clock worked for the pirates.

Bojan greeted him at the last step. The Serb held his Zastava M21 ready at his waist. Behind him, the white girder of light from the wing shone down.

“Go inside, Sergeant.”

“Look.” LB showed the flashlight. “I’m unarmed, thanks to you. I just need to see something up close. I think we’re being deked.”

“I do not know this word.”

“Fooled, Bojan. Tricked. I don’t think these pirates are children. I’m betting they’ve got another skiff. Let me take one look.”

“You are medic. Please restrict your efforts to that.”

Ten years in Special Forces; LB wanted to bellow this in the Serb’s face. Instead, he said again, “One look.”

“One. Then back to the infirmary.”

LB leaned over the port rail, flicking on the flashlight. The skiff held its position off the hull, pacing the freighter’s speed exactly. The pirates made no menacing moves at the Valnea, only gazed into the dazzling searchlight with weapons up. No one fired. It looked like a standoff. LB feared it was not.

The Valnea’s big searchlight panned forward as instructed to the ship’s bow. No more boats lurked in the darkness against the hull where they might hide too close to reflect on Valnea’s radar.

Something stirred in the foam beside the hull. A slash broke the water, then dipped back into the black gulf, splashed again, skipped, and disappeared.

The searchlight returned to the skiff. There it was, a rope faring off the bow into the dark water.

LB’s balance shifted as Valnea continued her careening course, swaying back to her left. As the ship rose into the turn, the pirate skiff closed the distance to the hull.

LB bolted from the rail, downhill across the ship’s beam to starboard. Behind him, Bojan ran, shouting.

Reaching the gunwale, LB looked down behind the flashlight before the guard on starboard could intercept him. Another rope ran forward off this spotlighted skiff’s sharp bow. The long boat angled away from the hull just as the skiff on the opposite side bore in.

Bojan caught up. LB whirled on him.

“I got to go forward.”

“Inside.” Bojan motioned to his arriving guard. “Take him inside.”

“Listen to me. We’re on the same team here. Come with me. I got a hunch.”

Bojan moved closer. “Take your hunch and your ass inside, Sergeant.”

LB raised a hand into Bojan’s chest to stop the big man from laying hands on him first.

“Or what?”

“For your own safety.”

LB dropped the hand. He backed away.

“Yeah. That’s not really what PJs do.”

He spun on his boots, breaking into a sprint through the corridor. Bojan cursed and followed him, as LB wanted.

LB dashed into the dark and slanting companionway, dodging the many steel pillars, ladders, hydrants, and lashings in the way. While not nimble, LB was faster than the Serb with the heavy Zastava bouncing against his chest. He did not slow for the full length of the Valnea, did not look back at Bojan or over the night sea. LB ran flat out until he popped from beneath the long overhang, onto the bow, and under the first stars.

Weaving quickly between fat hawsers, he rushed to the tip of the bow. Leaning out with the glowing flashlight in hand, LB found what he’d come looking for.

Bojan grabbed him by the collar to yank him backward.

“Before you say anything”—LB held the flashlight out to the panting Serb—“take a look.”

“I will”—Bojan mustered the breath to finish his threat—”put you in brig.”

“Look first. Then brig.”

Bojan slung the Zastava over his heaving shoulders. LB bent over the rail to watch him train the flashlight on the rope looped around the Valnea’s nose above her giant bow bulb. The Serb played the beam left and right, following the cord along both sides until it disappeared into the breaking water.

“Impossible.”

LB patted the big guard on the back to return standing on the deck.

“You get it now? That’s why they were waiting in front of us. One skiff on each side—they let us go right between them. They strung that rope around the ship’s nose. Drozdov is zigzagging, but all he’s doing is flinging them around. We’re not gonna shake these guys.”

“We are towing them.” The Serb bared his teeth. “Sranje,” he cursed, then lifted his chin to LB to say, Go a head, speak.

“They’re not trying to climb up. They’re not shooting. Those two pirate skiffs are keeping our attention on them, that’s all. There’s another boat.“

Bojan curled his upper lip, an angry, sour face. He thrust LB the flashlight, burdened enough with the Zastava. “Sergeant, come.” Bojan rammed a finger toward the port corridor. “The stern.”

Bojan took off barreling through the narrow companionway, twisting his shoulders to fit. LB reached instinctively for the M4 that was not strapped across his shoulder.

The two bolted single file. The unlit passage tilted more with Drozdov’s useless evasion, making both men balance against the rail as they ran. Bojan jangled with weapons, LB’s jump boots clomped.

Somali pirates. LB had always considered them the same way Bojan described them, as ignorant and rash, not much more than simpleton villagers with guns. He had to rethink that now. From the look of things, these guys were clever. And no question, they had balls. But what were they after—why so much trouble and violence? What was inside this damned ship?

LB had no time to mull this over, darting behind Bojan down the hard corridor. The big Serb, already winded from chasing LB to the bow, couldn’t keep the pace for long. He reached the ladder below the forward crane before slowing to a jogging walk.

“I’ll meet you there.”

With that, LB dodged around Bojan, who did not move to stop him. He ran the rest of the way to the stern, rounding the last steel corner to the fantail. He bent over the rail, catching his breath. The wake behind the Valnea was intense, choppy, ghostly. One black-painted skiff crowded with dark men joggled on the foam.

Bojan skidded to a stop beside him. He looked, then spat over the rail at the pirates.

“So. No brig for you, Sergeant.”

Two thin men wearing loose white tunics and Kalashnikovs across their backs worked their way up a pair of rope ladders strung from grapnels. The hooks had been flung over the rail of the mooring deck below, fifteen feet closer to the water. The Somalis were only a few rungs from boarding the freighter.

Bojan braced the stock of the Zastava under his armpit.

“You have knife?”

LB was already on the move. He sprang for the down staircase, hopping for a moment to grab the four-inch blade out of the sheath around his calf. Behind him, Bojan ran uphill to the center of the rail, directly above the rope ladders. He halted and fired a burst. LB couldn’t gauge the result, already lunging the first steps down to the mooring deck to slash away the ropes. This close, the Serb had to hit somebody. The answering blast of bullets halted LB on the stairs. Bojan stood as if in the center of fireworks, sparks and ricochets in the steel all around him. He jerked, raked by many rounds. Bojan staggered from the rail, then stepped up to fire another volley. More bullets answered from below, another corona of sparks lit him up. Bojan stumbled backward, the Zastava too high when he pulled the trigger again. He fired uselessly over the gulf, then collapsed against the wall.

LB reversed, vaulting back to Bojan. The slumped Serb held up a shaking hand to stop him. LB ignored it. He skidded to his knees at the guard’s side.

Blood dribbled from the corners of the big man’s mouth. Pale skin and wet wounds peeked through a half-dozen rips in his sweater. He breathed with a grating noise, the holes in his chest burbling. One squeeze of his hand in LB’s came strong and pained.

“Uh-oh,” Bojan wheezed.

“We gotta get you out of here.”

“Too late. Here.” Bojan unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. He handed it quavering to LB. “Warn Drozdov.”

LB stuffed the radio in his vest, then lifted the Zastava’s strap from around Bojan’s shoulders to loop it over his own. He raced through his options. He could trade shots with the pirates scrambling on board, probably take a few rounds himself, and die next to Bojan. He could run for the other two guards or wait to see if they heard the gunfire and ran this way. In either case, by the time LB managed to mount any kind of defense, a dozen pirates would already be over the rail below and spreading over the ship. This would become a running firefight against superior numbers on a roller-coaster deck. Or he could get Bojan to safety, warn the captain, and rescue the wounded, plus maybe his own neck.

Gripping the Serb by the wrist, he dug his other arm between the man’s splayed legs. He drew his knees in close for the fireman’s carry.

“Never too late, pal. This is gonna hurt.”

Bojan hissed when LB hoisted him. The Serb lay on his wounds across LB’s shoulders. Standing under the weight, LB broke into a jog. Each step drew another Serbian curse. Below, one Somali had already cleared the grappling hook and dropped to the mooring deck. The other rope ladder had no barefoot pirate on it. Bojan must have taken that one out. Two more climbed onto the first rungs. The others in the skiff held the ropes taut or kept gun barrels searching over their heads. The Valnea’s dodging did nothing to dislodge them. They, too, were being towed.

LB freed a hand for the walkie-talkie. He hit the talk button.

“Drozdov, DiNardo. Copy?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“A couple dozen pirates at the stern. At least one already on board, the rest on their way.”

“What about the guards?”

“Bojan’s down. The other two are watching the skiffs. Get your people to the engine room.”

“Yebanat.”

“I know. Get moving.”

“Where are you going?”

“The infirmary.”

“I have not heard from Iris Cherlina.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, I know. Out.”

LB crab-walked down the skinny passageway with Bojan astride his shoulders, careful not to bang the Serb’s head. The deck leveled out and did not swing the other direction. LB pictured no one at the wheel now.

He prickled with the advent of action. This was a container ship; not a jungle, desert, or ice storm, it was unfamiliar territory. One man had already been shot. The warship’s helicopter was going to arrive too late. LB didn’t know the protocols of the Valnea, barely knew her layout. He had no plan. All he could do was protect the injured, kick himself for giving up his weapon, then letting Jamie go home on the chopper, lock himself in the engine room with Drozdov and the crew, then leave the rest to the cavalry.

He made it through the passageway, figuring he was no more than a minute ahead of the pirates. He reached the guard stationed on port. The Serb fumbled his weapon, alarmed at the sight of Bojan across LB’s shoulders.

“What has happened?”

“There’s pirates on board. We gotta move. Now.”

“Bojan.”

“He’s been shot. There’s no time. Go get the other guard. Meet me in the infirmary. Fast.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet. But we’re all gonna be if you don’t hump it. Move.” The Serb tore across the ship to the starboard rail to collect the other guard. LB ducked Bojan into the superstructure, bumping him on the steel portal. Bojan grunted, “Sergeant, I hurt enough. Really.”

LB lurched past the infirmary, running out of steam nearing the elevator. He stabbed the down indicator, then shed Bojan to the floor.

Lighter by two hundred pounds, Serbian blood on his shoulders, LB raced back to the infirmary. Nikita, unable to turn his strapped head toward LB bursting in, reached wildly.

“What is going on? I heard general alarm.”

LB pushed down the engineer’s hands. “Listen. We’re gonna move you to the engine room. Pirates are on the ship.”

LB ignored the engineer’s spurt of questions. The man’s feet quivered while he fought down his shock. LB unclipped Nikita’s bag of anti-inflammatory, then stacked three more on his chest. He loaded the engineer with two boxes of bandage wraps for Bojan and four bags of fluids. The last thing he slapped on Nikita was the half-filled catheter bag. “Hang on to these, buddy.”

The two black-garbed guards surged in. LB was glad to see both keeping their composure. He instructed them: “Lift this one outta here. Get him to the elevator. Take Bojan and him down to the engine room. Stay with the crew. Protect them. Got it?”

Both nodded. One asked, pointing to the unconscious, bandaged cadet, “What about him?”

LB held open the infirmary door, hitching a thumb down the hall at the elevator and the sagging Bojan. “I’ll bring him. You go. Go. Send the elevator back to A deck.”

The guards lugged Nikita on his board, trailing the sheet that covered him. LB shut the infirmary door. By now, pirates were definitely crawling over the mooring deck and headed up the stairs.

With no time to be gentle, LB stacked the remaining bags of saline and fentanyl on the cadet’s bandaged chest. The kid seemed unaware except for a flinch of the fingers. Unclipping the catheter bag from the bed, he noted that the cadet’s urine remained brownish, a sign of continued dehydration. He might not survive a long siege in the engine room, the hottest and least antiseptic place on the ship.

LB rolled the cadet and the medical supplies in the blanket. The boy stiffened against LB’s arms sliding under him. A deep groan crossed his rounded lips.

LB lifted the kid. He turned for the door to see it opening, with no hand free to reach for his gun or knife. He could not drop the cadet.

Drozdov flew into the infirmary, leaving the door open.

“Put him down, Sergeant.”

“What?”

“I will take him to engine room. You must go.”

“Go where?”

“Iris Cherlina is missing. If they find her, they will have their hostage. She is not in her room, not in accommodation. She may be again on the bow. I don’t know. But find her. Hide her. You are not on ship’s manifest. Pirates will not look for you.”

The captain dug fast hands into the cadet’s clothes hanging on a hook. He dug out a key on a ring. He slapped this on the cot where the cadet had lain.

“This is master key. Every lock on the ship. If you must hide, this will take you places. Now.”

Drozdov stepped forward to extend his arms next to LB’s beneath the wrapped cadet. Tugging the cadet out of LB’s arms, he held the boy well enough, though he turned red with the burden.

“I must speak quickly, Sergeant.”

“Go.”

“I do not know the secrets on this ship,” the Russian urged. “I do not know the lies of Iris Cherlina. Wed’ma, she is not just passenger. You have guessed this?”

“It wasn’t tough.”

“I was told, no questions.”

“Maybe you should’ve asked a few.”

“Too late for that. Now listen to me. The people who put her here, and Bojan, me, all the bullshit on this ship, are not going to let it stay hijacked. They will come. You have radios. You have gun. Help them. And remember.”

“What?”

“Someone has sabotaged the Valnea. Trust no one. They may do same to you.”

“All right. Get bandages on Bojan fast. And make sure the kid—”

“Grisha knows.”

“All right, all right. Be safe.”

“Otyebis safe. Run.”

LB swept the master key off the cot, pocketed it, and flew out of the infirmary. He lapped his finger over the Zastava’s trigger. The elevator waited at the long end of the hall for Drozdov. Bojan, the guards, Nikita, were gone. Behind him, the captain staggered under the cadet. LB wished them all luck, and himself.

He moved to the door leading out to the main deck. He swung the heavy portal as quickly as he dared, judging time more important than stealth. Outside, LB flattened his back to the wall, listening. High-pitched voices flitted over the ship’s hum.

He squatted to present the smallest profile. Stepping onto the open deck, LB swerved eyes and gun together, left and right. In the narrow, dark passageway, men crept his way, Kalashnikovs at their hips. LB could take a knee and drop the first two or three, framed in the passage with nowhere to hide. That would leave a dozen more flowing up both sides of the Valnea. In a gunfight, he’d be flanked and finished in seconds. Somali pirates weren’t soldiers, but they weren’t known as cowards, despite Bojan’s disregard. The big Serb’s blood on his shoulders told him the Somalis would shoot back.

Iris Cherlina. Where was she that she didn’t hear the alarms? Had the woman gone to the bow, like Drozdov said, or had she been on the stern for some reason? Did the pirates already have her—was that why she’d gone missing?

There wasn’t time to figure any of that out now. He had to keep himself on the loose, or he’d be no help to Iris or Drozdov.

The pirates bore down on LB’s position. Only one way to go. He drew a deep breath and came out of his crouch.

He lit out across the open steel deck, momentarily exposed until he reached the starboard rail, banked hard left, and pelted forward. He heard nothing but his own hurtle and the ever-present whisper of the ship’s wake. LB braced for a bullet in the back. After a hundred meters, halfway to the bow, he slowed, bringing the Zastava around to check if he was pursued.

His eyes adjusted better in the dim passage. More by motion than shape, he discerned Somalis behind him. They came his way without hurry or caution, thirty meters back, calling to each other, confident in their weapons and number. LB was maybe twenty seconds ahead of them.

He scurried forward to the bow, not sure if the pirates had seen him in the long passageway. He stayed low, below the glow of stars across the rail.

Reaching the open bow, he hissed Iris’s name, running beneath the steaming light past every place she might hide. He kept an eye on the rail where the pirates would emerge in moments. He considered again squaring them up in the Zastava’s sights and standing his ground. If he had Jamie with him, he’d do it. The two of them back-to-back could hold off the pirates for twenty minutes until that chopper arrived. One more time, he damned himself for being in this mess on his own.

Iris wasn’t on the bow. LB had no more time. If the pirates had her, he was already too late. If not, she was holed up somewhere better than he could find in the next ten seconds.

He needed to get off the open bow. Dodging hawsers, anchor rodes, and life-raft barrels, darting in and out of the shadows, LB dashed along the port rail, scanning for hiding places. The Valnea had plenty of dark crannies he could cram himself into, steel dead-ends with no back door. He needed a secure place to regroup and think, make a plan, move if discovered, not a spot for a siege.

He couldn’t stay in the passageway. Even if he managed to keep ahead of the Somalis behind him, another pack was sure to come hunting from the other direction. He’d be caught between the two. Six more pirates waited in the pair of spotlighted skiffs roped around the ship’s nose. In minutes there’d be twenty-plus armed bandits on board, more than enough to ferret him out.

LB had to duck out of sight. Now.

He stood in front of the short ladder leading up to the empty cargo deck beneath the forward crane. Other than jumping overboard, the ladder was the only way out of the corridor. LB strapped the Zastava across his shoulder, then leaped up the rungs.

On the broad cargo deck, he took in his surroundings and chances for cover. In the wide spaces between the lashing bridges, the bare deck was not a place he could hide for long. He’d be spotted minutes after the pirates got the same idea and climbed up to tramp around. LB needed a better lair.

The answer lay just ahead, an access hatch leading down to the cargo hold. Hurrying to it, he dug into his pocket for the master key Drozdov had thrust at him a minute ago. Torres had said no curiosity. This wasn’t a violation of that order. This was survival and evasion.

LB braked to his knees, reaching for the door’s padlock with the key.

The lock was not there.

In the dark, on the white deck beside the hatch cover, the lock stood opened.

Was this where Iris was hiding, belowdecks? Did she have a master key, too?

LB had no more time to ponder. He heaved open the hatch cover to swing his legs onto the ladder leading down. Once his head had dropped below deck level, he pulled the hatch down against its spring hinges, then spun the watertight wheel to dog it shut.

LB flicked on the flashlight. He dropped the rest of the way down the steel ladder to a narrow metal catwalk. Working the light, he was greeted by a gigantic catacomb of rails and beams, columns, platforms, and more ladders stretching forward and aft, many stories down. A grottolike quiet reflected every step and rustle of his creep along the catwalk high above the hull.

A second pale glow filtered from below, deep in the steel cells of the Valnea. LB found the next ladder and, shielding his flashlight behind a cupped hand, descended into the freighter’s secrets.