The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 46





Yusuf approached the seated hostages. A few shied from him, shinnying away. In the center, Drozdov held firm.

Yusuf knelt before Drozdov. “Captain. I need one of your men. You pick. Or I will.”

Drozdov’s gray sockets and sunken cheeks might have branded him a ghost to Suleiman.

“No,” the captain said. “This is not the way.”

Yusuf stood to look across the seamen. The Filipinos in dungarees and T-shirts lowered their eyes from him, wanting nothing to do with sacrifice. The Russian officers in slacks and buttoned shirts crowded about Drozdov as if closeness to his courage might save them from Yusuf’s choosing. The two guards in their black sweaters sat separate, distancing themselves from these sailors and their concerns.

Yusuf considered the fat first mate, Grisha. This one looked like he would blubber. Already Yusuf knew him to be a traitor. He needed a more sympathetic figure.

The Filipinos were small and too many.

A lanky officer shifted to his knees to stand, muttering, “Sparcai-m-ash in ciorba lu ma-ta.”

Drozdov reached to stop him. “Razvan, no.” The officer shoved his captain’s hand away and straightened.

Yusuf moved close to this tall officer. “What did you say to me, Russian?”

“I will shit in your mother’s soup.” He spat. “And I am Romanian, pirate.”

Before Yusuf could take this one by the arm, Drozdov struggled to his feet to confront his tall crewman.

“Sit, Chief. That is order.”

The Romanian curled his lips and winced, holding back another spit. He took his seat.

Drozdov walked away from Yusuf, again without instructions. He rounded the long dashboard to stand in the glow of his dials and screens, lit by his ship.

Dramatically, Drozdov spread his hands. Yusuf pushed talk on the radio and held it up to Drozdov so the Americans could hear him.

“Three years I have been dying slow death from pirates. Drinking, stupid, angry. Day after day. So let’s go, Yusuf Raage. Kill me all at once instead of these little bits. Po hooy. I don’t f*cking care.”

Yusuf raised the Kalashnikov to his shoulder. At the same time he brought the radio close to his lips.

“You are listening?”

“Yes.”

“Take your men off the wings. Now. Or I will shoot the captain. I will kill another every minute until you leave or you kill me.”

“Yusuf, I’m not bluffing. I can’t.”

“Take a moment, Sergeant. Be sure.”

“I haven’t got a moment. Neither do you. Put the gun down.”

On both dark ends of the bridge, the doors unsealed. The wind whistled again.

At the end of the Kalashnikov, Drozdov dropped his arms.

Yusuf had run through the blood of his clansmen, sworn to walk through Robow’s in revenge. In the next seconds, there would be more blood at his feet, the hostages’, Guleed’s, his own, perhaps the Americans’. Air gushed into the bridge from the doors cracking open; the soldiers would be next to rush in. They would spill all to take this ship and their machines back. Suleiman had not slowed them. Yusuf could not stop them.

The American had said it. If Yusuf did not surrender, he was a dead man. If he did give up, if he betrayed his clan, his vows, Qandala, his kin, he would surely be a living dead man.

There was only one choice. Spill one man’s blood. It may stop more. It had worked before.

The radio said, “One last time. Put all your guns down. Come out.”

Guleed shook his head in fast, frightened trembles. “They’ll kill us.”

The port door opened wide enough for a big soldier, eyes hidden behind goggles, to fill the frame. The soldier did not enter but pointed his weapon at Guleed’s back.

Yusuf screamed at the soldier, “No!”

His Kalashnikov flamed inside the dark bridge.

Drozdov shuddered, every round of the long blast tearing him until he buckled at the foot of the captain’s chair.