The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 49





There seemed hardly a place on the ship without blood splashed on it.

LB gazed down at the bullet-riddled Somali boy. Jamie shifted back and forth, both legs hurting. The young PJ flicked an open hand at the body.

“What kind of son of a bitch sends out a kid to get shot up so he can run off?”

From where he slumped against a wall, Sandoval agreed, cursing in Spanish.

Wally took LB aside. “Take care of Sandoval and Jamie. Defend the bridge. Get one of the crew to stop the freighter. I’ll radio when I’m done.” He strode for the stairs leading down.

LB halted him.

“Move aside,” Wally said. “I’ve got orders.”

“And whoever gave you those orders wasn’t thinking you’d have to chase him down by yourself on a dark freighter with how many wounds in you? Let me organize a search party; it’s a big ship. We’ll do it right. But if Raage is gone, he’s gone.”

“Do it right. Is that LB talking?”

LB ignored the jibe. Wally was hurt, tired, and not his cheerful self.

“And another thing. We’ve got to find Iris Cherlina, maybe before he does. You can’t do that and hunt him down by yourself.”

While Wally weighed this, LB added one more reason. “PJs don’t work alone.”

Wally nodded. LB rapped him lightly on the good shoulder. Quickly he stepped beside Jamie to loop the young PJ’s arm across his shoulder. “Let’s get you fixed up.” To Sandoval, he said, “I’ll send Dow and Mouse down for you.”

“Roger, LB.”

LB helped Jamie up the flight of steps to the pilothouse, Wally following. Inside the bridge, Quincy rushed over to lay the young PJ against a wall. Quincy set to cutting away both pants legs to dress the thigh wounds. Jamie, with two bullets through him, reached for the med ruck to grab bandages for Quincy’s dripping hand. LB dispatched Dow and Mouse to fetch Sandoval up the stairs.

The bridge had shed the last of the flashbang smoke. LB and Wally crossed to the huddle of hostages. Two Filipinos wore Doc’s gauze around their arms; a third held still while Mouse swathed his head. The chest-wounded Russian was already bandaged and plugged into a saline drip held up by a dazed shipmate. The pair of dead crewmen lay covered, one by a cloth from the coffee table, the other under a shirt from one of his Pinoy mates. Most of the hostages were still fuzzy from the flashbangs. Wally knelt before one Russian who looked clearheaded.

“Can you drive the ship?”

The man tapped his ear. “What?”

Wally leaned close. “Can you drive the ship?”

The officer raised the finger, understanding. “Yes.”

“I want it stopped. Can you put it in neutral or something?”

“Of course.”

The tall officer unfolded from the sheen of broken glass on the floor. “I am Razvan. Chief engineer.”

LB said, “We can hear you. Don’t shout.”

“Sorry.”

LB escorted the tall engineer around the dashboard. The ship’s captain lay ruined there. Razvan hesitated.

“Can he be moved?”

Wally joined LB to lift the captain away. LB had watched and listened to this man’s death; it had been gutsy. The lightness of the corpse, like a sack of sticks, saddened him. Such an end should reside in a man somehow, leave him weightier. This was LB’s fear, the fear of every warrior—to die well but yet be insignificant. They carried the captain behind the map table, and LB dragged down several long paper charts to cover him.

He walked to where Jamie rested against a wall.

“Can you stand?”

“Sure.”

“Take the port wing. Quincy, put him on his feet.” LB pointed at the big PJ’s bandaged wrist. “How’s the hand?”

“Good to go.”

“Mouse, you’re on the starboard wing.”

“Roger.”

“Dow, stay with the bridge. Keep an eye on Sandy and the hostages. Call Nicholas. Have them stand off close on starboard until we bring them in for evac. Doc, Quincy, listen up. The three of us and Wally are going to secure the ship. There’s one Somali left. You see him, shoot him. Plus a civilian out there somewhere, a woman. Be on the lookout for her. Questions?”

Doc asked, “What if the pirate surrenders?”

Wally answered. “If he throws his gun down, you keep him there for me. Then you walk away.”

“But, Captain—”

Wally cut Doc off. “Those are your orders. I’ve got mine, and I’m done with having them questioned. I’ll answer for them later. Not now.”

Wally split them into two teams, Doc and Quincy on the port rail, him with LB along starboard. LB took the lead onto the wing, down the external stairs. He moved quickly, believing Yusuf Raage was not interested in making a stand, only in getting off the ship. As they reached deck level, the hiss of the wake had fallen away. The Valnea was slowing.

LB turned for the stern, using more care now. Wally kept an eye behind them. All three pirate skiffs were still attached to the rail, trailing on the freighter’s fading momentum. The trio of Somali bodies lay undisturbed. Wally alerted Doc and Quincy on the radio, told them to watch for life rafts.

“What’s Raage doing?” Wally asked.

LB pushed forward to find out. He lowered his NVGs to scan the dark waters for an inflated raft or floating container. The gulf lay flat and moon-dappled. The goggles provided a panorama of the heavens, every star highlighted.

LB let Wally take the point. They passed the midship crane, stepping over corpses every forty yards. The Valnea sat dead in the water now. With no masking headwind or wake, the bodies asserted themselves in silence and pitiful odors.

The radio buzzed. Quincy reported no movement in the port companionway.

Wally answered, “Stay cool. Push forward.”

The pain in LB’s leg grew more jabbing, his limp more pronounced. He and Wally passed another skinny body with Wally’s bullets in it. LB was glad Wally had taken the lead, or, like the Valnea, he might just stop, drained of momentum.