The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 41





Before he could shout a warning or lower the NVGs, the stain in the smoke struck Robey with incredible speed. LB bolted into the haze.

He ran full tilt with no clear shot, no infrared sight on the Zastava. LB got within twenty yards, close enough to see the hazy outline of the young CRO being bashed against the wall. LB screamed. The big Somali turned his way, holding the limp Robey as a shield between them. LB could not shoot.

With seeming ease, the pirate heaved Robey over the rail. The young lieutenant didn’t yelp, only flopped in the air, unconscious or dead. Robey plunged out of sight. LB ran, firing the Zastava from the waist as the pirate darted away into the smoke. LB loosed another burst, the rounds hitting steel. LB bolted through the cloud to the other side, into the clear. He found no trace of the pirate.

Sandoval, with NVGs down, ran out of the mist. Together with LB they swept their rifles into the darkness, at the blowing fog.

Sandoval asked, “What the hell was that?”

“A big f*cking pirate threw LT off the ship.”

Through the confusion, the pain in his calf, his worry and sudden sorrow over Robey, LB recalled that he’d seen that large Somali before, by flashlight with Drozdov, looking at the railgun. Iris had been right—LB should have shot the son of a bitch in the back.

“Can you spot Robey?”

Sandoval turned his night goggles overboard and behind the steaming ship.

“Yeah, yeah. He’s still floating.”

“Take the point. Get us back to the bridge.”

“Roger that.”

LB toggled his team radio. “Fitz, Fitz. LB. You copy?”

“LB, Fitz. Go.”

“Robey’s overboard, on port. He’s unconscious. His wetsuit’s keeping him on the surface. Find him.”

From the bridge, Quincy broke in. “What, again?”

LB dismissed this. Fitz in the RAMZ replied that he was trailing the Valnea by two hundred yards. He’d try to get a fix on the young CRO in the wake.

“On it, LB.” Fitz hailed Robey but got no answer. Fitz wouldn’t quit until he found him.

LB waited in the corridor for Wally and Jamie to catch up. Wally wasn’t lagging behind to help Jamie walk; he looked as if he needed a supporting hand himself, hobbling along the rail through the dissipating smoke.

When Wally came past, LB fell in behind him. The man bled out of the gash in his biceps and at least a dozen shrapnel cuts from the back of his neck to his ankles. LB took stock of the carnage they passed. One Somali lay crumpled in the corridor, cleanly killed through the heart by Robey. Three more corpses jammed the narrow alley leading to the forward crane.

He asked Wally, “How many is that?”

Wally toted up: fourteen dead targets around the deck. Two more were still alive down here somewhere, the big one and another. LB had seen just how dangerous those two intended to make themselves. Another five remained inside the bridge with the hostages.

LB checked his watch: 0145.

“Twenty-five minutes left.”

Wally hailed Doc. “On our way.”

Doc answered. “The pirates are freaked. They saw the flash-bangs. Still haven’t come out on the wings.”

“We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“What happened to Robey?”

LB chewed his lip; his own limp grew more pronounced as they made their way along the corridor. Since he’d seen it happen, he answered, knowing the whole team was listening.

“One of the pirates threw him overboard. I think he’s dead.”

No responses came over the frequency. All the cursing was done in whispers, off the radio.

Wally added, “Stay focused.” Finger off the PTT, he turned to LB. “Tell me something.”

“Yeah.”

“You know what’s on this ship?”

“I do. But it wasn’t my fault.”

“I don’t care. Tell me.”

“What about the order not to be curious?”

“That went overboard with Robey. I’ve lost a man, and now I want to know why. I want to know what you know.”

LB opened his mouth to answer but paused. He ought to tell the entire team. All their lives, already in danger, were even more at risk because of the cargo on this ship. One of their own had just paid the price for the secrets under their feet. The clock was ticking down on a drone locked and loaded to blow them all out of the water if they didn’t retake this ship on time.

Five miles off, the US warship kept pace. They couldn’t call the frigate for backup. Valnea was massively top secret. There needed to be as few witnesses as possible to everything that happened on board.

They had their orders: this mission wasn’t a hostage rescue. The Somalis could never be allowed to keep this ship. And the pirates had made it clear they weren’t leaving unless it was feet first.

This was the PJs’ job to finish. Do or, really, die.

The team had a right to know everything.

LB set his thumb over the PTT on his team radio. Wally nodded, okay. He pressed his own talk button.

“Listen up, team. LB’s going to give us a fast brief. Eyes on your job while he talks. Go, LB.”

Wally dropped behind Jamie to keep an eye on their six while LB spoke on the team freq.

“All right. You guys remember Iran-Contra, back in the eighties. The US and Israel gave Iran a bunch of missiles under the table so they’d release some hostages. Well, it’s happening again; we got the twenty-first-century version. This ship is carrying state-of-the-art battlefield radar and weaponry to Iran, a swap for their nuclear weapons program. This shipment is so f*cking illegal, it’s off the chart. Israel, Russia, and the US are behind it. The Somalis cannot, repeat, cannot, be allowed to keep this ship. You lucky bastards were the only unit sitting alert close enough to do the job. That’s the nutshell.”

Doc said only, “What a world.”

Quiet moments passed. Sandoval led LB and Jamie forward along the port rail; Wally backpedaled with his M4 facing backward. The missing member was Robey. His return broke the silence.

The team freq clicked. “Juggler. Fitz.”

Wally answered. “Fitz, go.”

“I found Robey.”

“How bad?”

“He’s dead. Someone cut him up pretty good.”

The kid never had a chance—he was overwhelmed in the first second. Robey was likely dead when he hit the water.

They continued to move toward the bridge, all of them with watchful eyes on the moon-shadowed corners of the freighter. Inside the bridge, the pirates paced in front of Drozdov and his hostage crew. The clock to the Predator continued to tick down: twenty-three minutes left. None of this stopped because of Robey’s death. The opposite happened; things sped up. LB hadn’t expected the PJs would take this ship and get away without paying for it.

Wally responded to Fitz. “Roger that. Stay close. I’ll let you know if we need you.”

“Roger. Good luck, guys.”

Like that, Robey was put aside. This was combat, and though the dead asked for a role, they had none.