The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 44





When the elevator opened at F deck, Yusuf leaped out. He swept the hall with the Kalashnikov, taking nothing for granted on this ship. Satisfied, he climbed the last flight of stairs to the bridge. He pushed the door open carefully, calling out in English.

“Guleed, it’s Yusuf.”

The young Darood was the first to spin his gun to Yusuf’s voice. His eyes were white and wild when Yusuf approached through the dark.

“What were those blasts?” Guleed urged. “What’s going on? Where’s Suleiman?”

“Soldiers.” Drozdov spoke from the middle of his sailors beneath the windshield. All the Russians and Filipinos sat upright around him. Drozdov got to his feet. Guleed threatened him with the rifle.

“I said no talking, old man. Sit down.”

“That is not you speaking, boy, is your gun. Step aside. Let the men talk.”

Guleed’s breathing accelerated, some action rising in him. Yusuf settled him with a strong hand to the shoulder, walking him away from the other guards.

“I will talk to the captain. Stay ready.” Yusuf lowered his voice. “He’s right. There are soldiers on board. We’re the only ones left.”

“What do you mean, the only ones?”

“There’s been fighting. We still control the hostages and the ship. We will make it if you keep your head. Yes?”

Guleed’s shoulder collapsed under Yusuf’s grip. “All dead?”

Suleiman is not dead, Yusuf wanted to say, but could not with certainty. “Don’t tell the others. Guard the hostages.” He motioned Drozdov away from the windshield.

The twin radar screens outlined the Somali coast thirty miles ahead. The ship’s speed and course kept steady. Yusuf waited for Drozdov in the dim glow from the dashboard. Guleed resumed his pacing. The other pirates jutted their guns at the hostages, unsure of what was happening, certain only that these captured sailors were their protection from it.

“All dead, indeed?” Drozdov asked.

“Fifteen of my men. Everywhere around the deck.”

“Surrender. You will live.”

Yusuf looked away from the pocked Russian to the bow, the far-off beacon on its mast.

“Minutes ago, my cousin told me we must fight.”

“And where is he now? One of the dead?”

“Careful, Captain.”

“Da.” Drozdov patted his arm. “Careful, Yusuf Raage.”

The Russian turned without being dismissed. He sat among his crew. The sailors on both sides whispered urgent questions. Drozdov waved them off.

Yusuf moved to the captain’s chair. He stood behind it, eyeing the dials and radar images of the dash. He was not master of the Valnea. He was a captive as much as Drozdov. Worse. He’d led fifteen clansmen who’d trusted him to their deaths. Before the sun rose there could be more.

In the heart of these thoughts, a soft whistle of wind tugged Yusuf’s attention to the port door. The Kalashnikov rattled into his hands. Guleed halted his frantic pacing.

The guard outside on the wing did not enter the bridge. The door opened only inches, then stopped.

Something dark skidded across the floor. Yusuf could not make it out clearly and in surprise could not jump away or shout a warning.

The thing struck his sandaled foot. Yusuf braced for an explosion. He tried to capture a last thought. He pictured his home, the view of the sea.

The rush of air quit, the port door shut. At Yusuf’s feet the small box did not explode. Yusuf’s unclenching was almost painful.

Yusuf added the guard on the port wing to the tally of dead.

He bent for the box. Guleed screamed to leave it alone. The other gunners around Guleed shoved their weapons into the hostages’ midst, yelling too. Yusuf out-bellowed them to be silent. They settled enough to be quietly tense, guns stirring among the hostages. Guleed’s pacing increased, back and forth across Drozdov and the cringing crew.

Yusuf lifted the walkie-talkie. He pressed the button to speak.

“Yes.”

“How good is your English?”

“Better than your Somali. Who is this?”

Outside the port door window, a flashlight struck. The beam played upward across a face made shadowy and otherworldly against the night.

“First Sergeant Gus DiNardo. United States Air Force. You?”

“Yusuf Raage.”

The garish head bobbed, the civil greeting of an enemy.

“We need to talk, Yusuf.”

With a sweeping hand, Yusuf motioned to the twenty-five hostages and five other armed men this sergeant surely knew about even if he could not see the gesture.

“Why?”

One by one, like lanterns, more faces materialized out of the black. Three soldiers emerged beside the sergeant, two others lit on the starboard wing.

So another guard lay dead.

“That’s why. And I got two more on the floor below you.”

Yusuf lowered the radio, then raised it. “Where is my cousin?”

“Gold teeth?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead.”

Yusuf fought against himself to hold his place inside the bridge, to not rush this soldier and drive his knife deep enough to feel the man’s heart stop on the blade.

The American said, “We need to talk fast.”

Yusuf returned the radio to his lips. “Of course, Sergeant. Come inside.”