The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 8





Camp Lemonnier

Djibouti

Jamie clapped when told he was coming on the mission. Doc went straight to work. Mouse grumbled about his losing streak at Ping-Pong.

The four set out their med rucks on the riggers’ table. Each PJ’s pack was laid out the same way: three large pockets, A, B, and C, airway, bleeding, circulation. On this op they had the advantage of knowing the injuries in advance. The issue on the ship would be to determine the severity of the burns and the extent of the paralysis, then instruct the crew how to treat them.

LB and Jamie raided the medic’s closet. LB stocked up on nonstick dressings, IV fluids, antibiotic ointment for the burns, and two catheters. Jamie filled his ruck with bags of Solu-Medrol, a corticosteroid anti-inflammatory, plus extra vials of morphine and fentanyl. Both those sailors had to be in considerable pain.

As team leader, LB belted himself into his Rhodesian vest, satellite and team radios snug to his ribs. All four PJs grabbed flight helmets, shouldered their packs and carbines. Before heading out to the choppers, LB told the team what Torres had said: that this was, in fact, a milk run. They were not headed into an isolated zone; there were no combat nor enemy lines to drop behind, no severe weather. None of them wore armor or carted extra magazines. This was not an extraction but a humanitarian mission.

“These are the jobs,” he said to Doc, Jamie, and Mouse, “the milk runs, where shit happens. Stay focused. Do the job. Get back. Let’s roll.”

They headed for the Barn door, held open by Robey. When LB passed, the young lieutenant put out a hand.

“Hoo-ya, LB.”

LB shook firmly. “If I can’t handle this one, you come and get me.”

Robey grinned. “I’ll bring hell.”

“Hoo-ya, LT.”

Quincy waited for them in an ATV cart. He smacked each on the helmet, a throwback to his football days, then drove them to the airfield and the warming MH-53s.

The tarmac radiated morning heat. Wally waited between the two choppers. LB tapped Jamie on the shoulder to come with him in Detroit 1; Doc and Mouse would follow aboard Detroit 2.

Wally approached.

Detroit 1’s jet engine whined louder, the blades flipping slowly. Wally took down his sunglasses. LB pulled off his helmet.

Over the chopper noise, LB shouted, “What?”

Wally shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You came out here to tell me nothing?”

“Torres doesn’t want you on the boat. She says send Doc.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“I said I don’t make that call. She doesn’t either. You do.”

LB grimaced at the sun blazing over the gulf. He screwed on his helmet. Wally stepped away. Before climbing into the bay of Detroit 1, LB faced Wally, standing outside the wash of the propellers, racing now and building lift.

Haphazardly, LB saluted.



In the vast cargo bay of the MH-53, LB divided the ride over the gulf into thirds.

For the opening hour he talked with Jamie about how they would diagnose and treat severe burns and a spinal injury. Jamie, in three years as a pararescueman, hadn’t yet seen a bad burn case. LB described the changes heat could work on human flesh and reviewed the distressing effects on the body’s functions. The Ukrainian cadet had been blasted by steam, so they could expect red, swollen, blistering dead skin and a raw, repellent smell. The broken back would be hard to analyze without an X-ray. They’d try to reduce the swelling in the sailor’s spine to see if his symptoms eased. Both injured would need pain relief. Neither would have control of his urine or bowels.

Lying on the vibrating floor of the big chopper in smooth air, head on his ruck, LB slept through the second hour. Jamie, always eager, stood behind the cockpit, watching the pilots and the streaking water below.

In the third hour, LB wondered about the Valnea. Torres said the ship was empty but guarded. Steaming at twelve knots instead of twenty. Operated by Russians, Romanians, Ukrainians, Filipinos, guarded by Serbs, an odd mix. And why the blatant command to ignore the ship’s cargo if it had none?

This was obviously a spook ship bound for Lebanon. No question, something big and under the radar was going on with her, big enough for word to come down through the chain of command that the PJs were to show no curiosity.

When Detroit 1’s pilot finally announced he had the freighter in visual range, LB joined Jamie behind the cockpit to peer out the windshield. The Valnea swelled out of the distance to appear just as she had in the color brochure photos, riding high, her three cranes with no cargo to loom over, baring much of her painted hull that would be below the waterline if she were running loaded. At the bow, the great bulb should have been under the surface, too, but raised a pretty wake pushing the gulf aside. Valnea seemed effortless, cruising on the vast blue. She did not look wounded.

The two copters circled the ship while Detroit 1’s pilot hailed her. In lightly accented English, the Valnea answered, taking instructions for the chopper’s approach. The vessel would maintain course and speed.

Jamie and LB climbed into their med rucks and M4s. Detroit 1 leaned back to slow and match the freighter’s speed. The chopper crept up from behind while Detroit 2 kept pace a hundred yards to the right. LB tested the fast rope, tugging hard where it attached to the MH-53’s frame.

The pilot bled off altitude, closing the distance to the peak of the ship’s great superstructure, a six-story white building. LB peered into the sooty maw of the Valnea’s smokestack behind the wide pilothouse. Left and right, steel wings extended from the superstructure. Detroit 1 descended, settling in above the starboard wing.

The chopper’s pilot murmured in LB’s helmet, “LZ is below.”

LB answered, “Roger that.” He and Jamie unhooked from the intercom to plug into their team comm. Both PJs radio-checked.

Jamie kicked the fat green rope out the door. The line snapped taut, with its bottom half coiled on the wing’s deck twenty yards below. The wheelhouse door struggled to open against the prop wash; two sailors pushed their way out to watch the giant helicopter hover beside the smokestack. The MH-53’s downward gale pushed them back against the door.

LB gave Detroit 1’s pilots an okay signal. He gripped the rope with gloved hands, pinched it between his boots, and slid down to the Valnea. On deck, he held the line taut for Jamie. When both were down, the rope was reeled back in by the chopper’s flight engineer. LB and Jamie knelt to keep from being blown overboard while Detroit 1 backed away.

With the big chopper beating into position to join Detroit 2 alongside the ship, the two sailors walked forward. The shorter one, blond and pasty, sported a potbelly. The taller man approached lean and blackbird dark, a white captain’s hat on his head.

The tall one reached out in greeting. LB shook hands, struck by the firmness of the clasp, the sinews in the arm. This was a scrawny but strong Russian.

“Pazhalusta. I am Captain Anatoly Pavelovich Drozdov.” The captain beamed down on LB, pleased. His face crinkled around a knobby, veined nose. Drozdov was, or had been, a prodigious drinker. “You are welcome aboard the Valnea. And such a dramatic arrival.”

Drozdov motioned to the heavyset sailor beside him. “This is First Mate Grisha Mikhailovich Pravdin. It was his notion to call for help.”

LB took the mate’s hand, also a memorable grasp.

“First Sergeant DiNardo. This is Staff Sergeant Dempsey.”

LB took a moment to glance around, high above the waterline of the great freighter. Forward, the boat had the length of one and a half white football fields; to the stern, another fifty yards. From the helicopter, the ship had seemed easy in the water; here on her deck, she felt anxious, tippy, missing the two thousand containers that would normally stabilize her.

A brisk breeze nudged at LB, cooler than on the tarmac at Lemonnier. Out to sea on all sides, no other vessels studded the horizon—no convoy, warship, or pirate.

Before LB could ask Drozdov to take them to the patients, Jamie tapped at his elbow. With his chin, the young PJ indicated the distant bow. There, a pair of dark figures walked the rail.

“Two of the guards we have been given.” Drozdov spoke with obvious distaste. “I do not like guns on my ship.”

LB jerked to hear a new voice at his back.

“Nor do I.”

He spun to a man taller than Drozdov, paler than the first mate, swathed in black from head to toe, an odd choice under a stark sun. The man’s torso widened to shoulders broader than LB’s. What made his statement ominous was the Zastava M21, heavy and lethal, the assault weapon of the Serbian army, hanging off his shoulder.

“This sneaky creature,” said Drozdov, indicating the guard, “is Bojan. Mr. Bojan, these are American sergeants—”

“I will take your weapons.” The Serb extended a big hand.

Jamie hooked a thumb inside the strap of his own M4. “No.”

Bojan’s hand did not waver.

“I must control all weapons on this ship. I have been given that order.”

LB stretched an arm to silence Jamie. “Mr. Bojan. Sergeant Dempsey and I are in the United States Air Force. We were invited aboard this ship, weapons and all.”

“I have no instructions for exception. Not for US Air Force. Not for no one.”

“We don’t surrender our weapons to civilians.”

“I have not been civilian very long.” Bojan lowered his meaty palm. “Please, Sergeant. The two sailors are in great pain. I do not want to put you off this ship without your help. But I will. The captain knows I have this authority.”

Drozdov bobbed his white captain’s hat to grant the point.

LB considered what he was facing. Guns in the hands of others was why Bojan had been put here in the first place. While LB didn’t embrace the notion of turning over his M4—no soldier would—he’d surely do the same in big Bojan’s place. And the Serb was right. The two injured sailors needed his and Jamie’s help and the medicines they’d brought. How could he go back to the Barn and report to Torres and Wally that he’d left a couple of Russians in agony because he refused to give up his weapon?

“It’s cool,” LB told Jamie. He unslung his own carbine, holding back only the four-inch blade under his pants leg in the holster above his boot. No one got that.

Jamie followed suit with his own M4. From his med ruck, he pulled a stashed 203 40 mm grenade launcher and a Beretta 9 mm sidearm.

LB’s jaw hung. “Dude.”

Baby-faced Jamie glared at the Serb. “I’ll want these back.”

The captain flattened a hand to his own breast. “I will be accountable for your weapons, gentlemen. You have my word, they will be returned to you.”

Bojan collected the arsenal. With a nod, he pivoted for the wheelhouse and, hardly encumbered by the guns, was gone.

Jamie spread his hands at LB. “What?”

“Nothing, Rambo.”

First Mate Grisha affably patted his belly. Neither he nor the captain gave any hint that they were the officers of a massive, seagoing puzzle.

Grisha spoke into the wind. “Mr. Bojan and his Serbs have not added personality to our long voyage.”

Jamie asked, “Are the wounded in the infirmary?”

Drozdov replied. “Come.”

Stepping inside the superstructure, both PJs shivered to a jolt of air conditioning. These former Soviets liked their air chilly. The captain sealed the door, throwing two watertight handles to stop its whistling.

The wheelhouse spread into an expanse of radar screen, dials, toggles, compasses, and monitors. Two padded leather chairs oversaw the controls. Between them the steering wheel was comically small, as if for a child’s car. A wide windshield of shaded impact glass provided a cool panorama of the distant bow and seas ahead. Behind, a map table and wooden shelves gave the bridge the feel of a library with an ocean view.

In one leather chair sat a pale, long-limbed woman. When she turned to LB, she moved with an uncoiling grace. She swung down her legs to stand and greet LB and Jamie. Her face was all angles and circles, black eyes and prominent nose, bangled earlobes, heavy eyebrows to balance a sprawling smile. She was dressed in a white linen cargo shirt over khaki pants, the clothes of a traveler. She wore her jet-black hair close to the scalp.

Drozdov escorted the two PJs to her. LB and Jamie pulled down their helmets, and the woman extended a lanky arm, striding to meet them. Her long fingers enveloped LB’s. She stood at least three inches taller.

Drozdov said, “This beautiful woman is counter to Mr. Bojan. She is our passenger. Iris, these are air force Sergeants DiNardo and Dempsey. They are pararescuemen.”

She withdrew her hand from LB’s, offering it to Jamie.

“Dobriy den’, gentlemen.”

Both PJs said, “Ma’am.”

“I very much liked your entrez. Like gods.”

LB and Jamie exchanged looks. Jamie muttered a shy “Thank you,” and let go of her hand.

LB said, “You’re Russian?”

“Yes. You have spent much time there?”

“Obviously not enough.”

“Wonderful.” She almost loomed over him. “I know you must go attend to the men. I understand they are very hurt.”

LB liked her version of English better than Drozdov’s. All the hard edges of the language were smoothed on her lips.

Jamie poked him in the back to reply.

“Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

The captain removed his billed cap. He mussed his own hair, short and black as Iris’s. He motioned both PJs to follow Grisha, then took one of the leather chairs. Iris slid into the other.

The first mate led them past the map table, into a down stairwell. One floor below the bridge, he punched the button for an elevator. The rotund officer’s eyes widened with mischief.

“She is pleasant, no?”

LB nodded. “Pleasant, yes. What do you know about her?”

“Iris Cherlina? Very little. She is passenger.”

“That’s it?”

Grisha tapped a finger to his lips. “I know what I am told. And that is nothing.”

Over his shoulder, LB raised eyebrows at Jamie.

The elevator arrived, and the door hissed aside. Inside, Grisha patted Jamie on the shoulder affably.

“Thank you, both of you, for giving your weapons to Bojan. I know this was uncomfortable. But on cargo vessels, there is a long tradition against guns. They are not wanted.”

The elevator descended slowly from F deck five floors to A. LB shrugged.

“You got pirates all over the place. Why not arm yourself?”

“We are at sea for months. Ten, twenty thousand ocean miles. We are family on this ship. We argue, make errors, like family. What does captain do with crewman who drinks too much or misses shift, who is unhappy he must be disciplined, if there are guns on board? What does captain do with crew who decides they want to take cargo for themselves and mutiny? What if man cannot stand argument with shipmate and wants to fight with gun? These are not first-time questions here in twenty-first century, you understand? These are asked by captains for many centuries.”

The elevator arrived at A deck. Grisha led them into a long wood-paneled hall without windows. The floors had been mopped spotless; every shiny surface gleamed under fluorescent lights. Captain Drozdov ran a spick-and-span ship.

Leading them to the infirmary, the mate continued, “As for pirates, listen. If we shoot at them with rifles, they will come with cannons. If we use cannons, they will use missiles. If we kill one, they will kill two. Who would want to get into bidding war with such people? We are merchant sailors. We train for seas, not guns.”

LB asked, “What about the warships?”

“Yes, if there is time to call. But understand, countries with warships in the Gulf of Aden are not coordinated. They meet once a month in hotel in Bahrain, they cooperate through online chat room. This is not proper approach to pirates.”

Jamie spoke up. “So hire guards instead. Like Bojan.”

Grisha stopped in the hall to shake a pudgy finger.

“And what will you do with Bojan when your ship wants to enter waters of a nation that does not allow guns into their harbor? This is commercial vessel. That port is closed to us. I tell you, around the world every maritime nation has different rulebook. For guns, you would pass these nations by? You make no money this way, young man.”

Grisha moved down the hall. He spoke over his shoulder, wanting to finish his thought on the matter. “I will be glad to put them off my ship when we arrive.”

The first mate halted at a door marked by a red cross against a white field, the infirmary. With a hand on the knob, he paused.

“But today I am going twelve knots on a broken ship. In these devil’s waters I must be glad to have the guns of Bojan. The pirates, they make people crazy. They have made Anatoly Drozdov crazy.” The first mate stopped himself from saying more about his captain. He cracked the infirmary door. “And I am glad to have you here for these two hurt boys. Spasibo. Now, before we enter.”

“Yeah.”

“I am not doctor. I am sailor. You understand?”

LB rolled his med ruck off his shoulders. “No worries. Let’s see what we got.”

With Jamie at his back, LB entered the small sickbay. He did not recoil at the smell of urine because he expected it.

Grisha raised his hands. “I am sorry.” He flustered quickly with the apology. “They cannot control. I cannot—”

“Hey, Grisha. It’s all right. We got this. Listen to me. Either of these guys got allergies to drugs?”

“I have checked records. They do not.”

“Good. Now, can you find some disinfectant?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll take a look at your boys. You start mopping. Okay?”

The first mate hurried out to fetch a bucket and mop, uttering again that he was sorry.

The infirmary held two beds. On the closest lay a smallish man in a T-shirt. Straps held him down to a stiff board, tightened across his forehead, chest, waist, and legs. A foam brace circled his neck. A sour-smelling sheet covered him below the waist. LB moved to his bedside, standing without care in urine that had dribbled there. The seaman grimaced, raising one arm off his chest to take LB’s hand. LB squeezed to say he had arrived and there was to be no shame in this room.

Jamie stepped to the second bed, where a young man, the cadet, moaned. The boy had been stripped; his torso and right leg were swaddled in white gauze bandages. The skin left bare had flushed a fevered pink. The boy’s rib cage rose and fell in a fast pant. Around his scalded mouth and brow, bubbled flesh wept. Jamie waved a hand over the boy’s bandages, as foul with urine as the engineer’s sheet and the infirmary floor. The young PJ dug into his med ruck for rubber gloves to start peeling away the cadet’s gauze.

Jamie checked the IV in the cadet’s arm. He’d been plugged into a bag of saline. The bag was empty, the burns were thirsty.

LB let go the engineer’s hand with a pat on his chest. “You’ll be okay, pal. Hang on, I gotta do something for you here.”

He opened his ruck to withdraw the catheters he’d stashed. As soon as he’d heard the victims had suffered paralysis and burns, LB knew that neither man would be able to hold his water. The engineer couldn’t sense anything below the waist, and the cadet was in so much pain he couldn’t stay conscious.

Jamie unwrapped all the cadet’s bandages. He stuffed them, the cadet’s sheet, and their stench into a trash bag. The boy’s skin glistened with fluids weeping out of his tissues, as the cells of his body tried to cool themselves.

LB handed Jamie one of the catheters, then set to work on the engineer. The insertion went quickly; The man couldn’t feel a thing he was doing. LB slid the small sterile tube into the engineer’s penis, threading the tube deeper into the urethra until urine flowed. This meant he’d reached the bladder. A quick injection of fluid swelled the inserted end to hold it in place. LB hooked the plastic collection bag to the bed, and it was done.

Right behind him, Jamie finished with the cadet.

The first mate returned with a mop and a bucket slopping with sudsy water. The pungency of the bleach added to the urine stench.

“Prop the door open,” LB told him.

Grisha did so, then began to mop.

“That is Nikita. He is dear friend. When piston blew he was thrown against railing. Broken back. Broken rib. The rib causes him pain.”

Nikita whispered something in Russian. LB bent closer. The sailor cleared his throat, then repeated himself. He could not turn his immobilized head.

“Chyort.” Damn.

LB asked Grisha, “What’ve you given him?”

“What I have. Fluids. Morphine.”

“How often with the morphine?”

“Every hour when I check on him.”

“He needs to be checked every ten to fifteen.”

LB moved next to the bed. He leaned over so Nikita could see his face.

“Nikita. Buddy, how you feeling?”

“Like blyadischa. Tired whore. Nothing in the legs.”

LB patted the engineer’s shoulder. “That’s funny. Good. Now listen to me. You might have a broken spine. You might not. Maybe what you have is some bad swelling in your back, a couple of bruised vertebrae pressing on your nerves. That could be where the paralysis is coming from. We’re gonna hook you up to a high-dose anti-inflammatory, see if we can get the swelling down. That might help. You’ll be at the hospital in Djibouti in two more days. Can you stay calm?”

“Could you?”

LB moved his eyes directly above the sailor’s. “If I had someone as good as me looking me over? Yeah.”

Frightened Nikita tried not to be amused. “Americans.”

Together with Grisha and Jamie, LB pulled the damp sheet from beneath the engineer, then stuffed it into the garbage bag. Grisha found clean linens to lay over Nikita, then returned to his mop.

LB joined Jamie beside the cadet. Together they wrapped fresh bandages over his burns, tenderly lifting the boy’s limbs. The cadet’s face twisted with every movement, eyes sputtered open, lapsing in and out of awareness. His breathing came in fits between groans from his blistered mouth. Fingers clenched at nothing and released.

LB curled a finger for Grisha to stop mopping and come beside the bandaged cadet. Jamie stacked bags of Solu-Medrol and set out vials of morphine.

LB laid a hand across the cadet’s unwrapped forearm. The boy’s temperature felt dangerously high. At the end of the tube in his arm, the liter bag of saline hung empty.

Barely audible, Grisha said, “His name is Alek.”

“You check on him every hour, too?”

Grisha recoiled at LB’s tone. “Yes.”

LB took down the drained IV bag. “Well,” he said, not looking at Grisha, “Alek is dying. His kidneys are shutting down from lack of fluids. You see these bubbles?” He circled a quick finger around the cadet’s mouth, cheek, and brow. “He’s got these over half his body. He’s using up all his water. We’ve got to stay ahead of what he’s doing. If he runs dry, his kidneys shut down and he’s dead.”

LB guessed the cadet’s weight at about 170 pounds.

“He gets a liter of saline every twenty minutes until he stabilizes. Then eight liters over the next ten hours. You got this kid on the same morphine schedule? Every hour?”

“Yes.”

LB pulled from his ruck one of the vials of fentanyl, stronger than morphine. This needed to be injected every thirty to sixty minutes instead of the morphine’s five to ten. LB drew a few cc’s of fentanyl into a syringe and pushed the needle into the port of the IV line, slowly injecting the painkiller. In moments, the kid’s unconscious clenching relaxed, his muttering quieted.

LB drew the four-inch knife from his leg sheath. He slit one of the saline bags and handed it to Grisha.

“Every hour, you check his bandages. Make sure they stay wet. Pour nothing but sterile solution on them.”

Grisha grew red-faced, and glistens rimmed his eyes. Carefully, he sprinkled fluid over the fresh gauze wraps. He was ashamed to have done such a poor job as medical officer for his shipmates.

LB eased off. Grisha had done the best he could with his first-aid training. He’d called for help. That call had probably saved the kid’s life. Maybe they’d get lucky and the steroids would take some pressure off the engineer’s spine, put some feeling back in his legs.

Just like Grisha had said, these were sailors, not medical men, not soldiers. No reason to get mad at the guy. Grisha was already kicking himself pretty good. LB drew his first deep breath since entering the infirmary. His hope for these two patients, his patience for Grisha, sweetened on the odor of disinfectant.

“Hey. You did great. They’re gonna be fine.”

The stricken mate nodded without looking up from the chore. “I will stay.”

“All right. You know what to do.”

“Yes, Sergeant. Please inform the captain what you have told me.”

LB and Jamie emptied their rucks of saline, painkiller, and Solu-Medrol. Heading for the door, LB passed the strapped-down engineer. He rapped an easy fist on the sailor’s chest.

“I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

Nikita raised a backhand as if to slap at LB. He muttered, “Idi na khui.”

LB replied, “Idi nyuhai plavki.”

In the hall, Jamie asked, “What was that?”

“He told me to go to the penis. I told him to go smell underwear. I’ve rescued a few Russians. Love how they curse.”

“I mean, why’d you say you’d be back?”

“C’mon.”

The two rode the elevator up to F deck. They climbed the stairwell into the cold bridge. Captain Drozdov and Iris sat where LB had left them, in the chairs facing the windshield and controls. Drozdov was in deep conversation with a graying, lanky man. Iris listened intently. Outside the starboard windows, keeping a steady distance, Detroit 1 and 2 waited for word from LB.

The man between Drozdov and Iris spoke with his hands, drawing circles and little explosions in the air. Noticing the PJs near, he lowered his arms, snapped into a shallow, military bow. Before he opened his mouth, LB had recognized the training and discipline of an old-school Soviet.

“Gentlemen. I am Chief Engineer Razvan Utva. How much damage has my engine done to those two?”

LB let Jamie make the report. Both patients were stable for now. Nikita was on a strong anti-inflammatory; the cadet was getting a heavy regimen of fluids. The first mate would stay with them in the infirmary for now.

“Perhaps,” the engineer asked, “they may both recover?”

Stone-faced, Jamie said, “We’ll see.”

Razvan chewed his lip, waiting for some other statement. The young PJ stayed tough and true, and said no more.

The chief dipped his head again, accepting the judgment. He seemed to be taking the accident as his personal fault. His engine had done this.

Drozdov asked him, “Do you know the cause?”

“No, Captain. But I will. I am not resting. And please. No more than fifty rpm. She cannot take more. Gentlemen. Miss Iris.”

The chief excused himself. He pivoted away, his face set.

Drozdov addressed LB and Jamie. “So, you will be leaving now. That is too bad, but I thank you for coming. You have educated my first mate what must be done, yes?”

LB raised a finger. “Gimme a moment.” To Jamie, he said, “Step over here.”

He towed Jamie through the portal, outside onto the starboard wing. The day’s heat slapped at him after thirty minutes of Russian winter inside Drozdov’s superstructure. Detroit 1 and 2 hovered a hundred yards away.

“I’m thinking we should stay.”

Jamie waved this off. “No. We did our time. We go back.”

“You saw how that guy Grisha was caring for those two. Piss everywhere. Not checking the fluids. He hasn’t got a clue, and he isn’t gonna get one. We leave, that burned kid might not make it. The engineer needs to be monitored. You know what I’m saying.”

“I’m not arguing that point. We just don’t have orders to stay.”

LB dug the radio out of his Rhodesian vest. “Let me get some orders. Go inside. Flirt with the Russian lady. I’ll be right in.”

Jamie threw up his palms in peevish surrender. LB called Detroit 1 on the aircraft common frequency. He asked for a sat patch to the PRCC, then waited while the chopper relayed his message.

In a few minutes, his radio peeped.

“Lima Bravo, Lima Bravo. Torres here.”

“Major, LB.”

“What do you want, Sergeant?”

“Major, request permission to stay behind on the ship. The condition of the injured exceeds what we expected. The quality of care on board is not sufficient. We can do the job. The ship’s crew can’t.”

“Denied. Return to base.”

“Major, with respect, why send us out here if you’re not gonna let us do the job the way we see fit? One of the injured might not last to Djibouti.”

“I can’t leave the PJ team down two men. You’re on a humanitarian mission. We could spare you for eight hours, not forty-eight. That was the deal.”

“Major, I don’t think the burned kid who can barely stay conscious for the pain cares about the deal. He’s fighting infection and dehydration. The paralysis case needs monitoring to see if we can reduce his injuries. He’s scared out of his mind. He don’t care either.”

“My hands are tied. Come back.”

“Major, a compromise. Let me stay by myself. I can do this. I’ll send Sergeant Dempsey back.”

“No.”

“I’m asking you. We’ll only be down a single PJ for two days. I’ll stand alert here twenty-four/seven. You need me, come pick me up. I’ll be ready. But I can’t leave these two guys in the state we found them. The mission was bullshit if I do, pardon my French. Ma’am, please. You got my word.”

The sat link buzzed while Torres considered.

“All right. You know my conditions. No curiosity about the crew or the cargo. Press the mission. Take care of the injured. Get back here in two days. And if something comes up, I damn well will come get you.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“Out.”

LB stowed the radio. He entered the bridge. From the copilot’s leather chair, Iris smiled to see him.

LB focused on Drozdov. “All right. Call Bojan. Have him bring back Sergeant Dempsey’s weapons.”

Jamie tugged LB’s arm. “Whoa, hang on.”

LB excused himself again from Drozdov and Iris. He walked Jamie to the starboard windows with a view of the copters keeping pace.

Jamie spoke first. “You’re staying alone? What the hell.”

“Listen to me. Torres wouldn’t go for both of us staying. It’s okay. There’s no good reason for two of us to hang out here. It’s gonna be two days of this.”

“This is a surprise. We work in teams.”

“Yeah, when there’s work to do. This is a one-man job. If a real mission spins up at Lemonnier, Torres will send a chopper for me. Go get your weapons. It’s okay. Help Wally keep an eye on Robey. I got this.”

“I know what you got. A freaking boner.”

“Hey, careful. I’m your elder. By a lot.”

“That’s why it’s a surprise.”

“A mouth like that, I know why you carry so many guns. Go.”

LB threw the chocks on the watertight door to return to the starboard wing. He waved to the two choppers, both sideslipping to keep watch on the Valnea. LB toggled his radio to the aircraft freq.

“Detroit 1, Detroit 1, this is Hallmark.”

“Go, Hallmark.”

“Pickup for one.”

“Everything okay?”

As the chopper pilot spoke, Detroit 1 broke formation to slide behind the freighter. Detroit 2 held position.

“Juliet Delta’s going back to base. Lima Bravo is staying. All good. Confirm.”

“Five by five.”

In minutes Jamie joined him on the wing, his ruck and M4 in place. The other weapons were stowed away. No one came out to watch him depart.

With Detroit 1 tucking itself closer to the ship’s great chimney, the wind on the platform mounted. LB shouted, “I’ll see you in two days.”

“Let me know if the guy moves his legs.”

“Will do.”

The copter eased overhead. LB and Jamie knelt under the intense prop wash. From the open door the MH-53’s engineer tossed down a rope ladder, and LB moved to anchor it. Jamie took a running leap and launched himself athletically several rungs up the ladder. With LB holding the ladder taut, the young PJ scampered up to the thrumming copter.

LB ducked away while the ladder was reeled in. The giant MH-53 lifted its nose to fall back from the ship. The chopper peeled to its side, gaining quick distance.

“Have fun, Hallmark. Detroit 1 out.” Detroit 2 moved up. Both copters beat away low, whipping up froth on the flat, vacant sea.



LB did not go back into the wheelhouse but walked the exterior stairway down the side of the superstructure. After six stories, at deck level, he looked overboard, down the ship’s hull, another three stories to the water.

Making his way to the door for A level, he passed three crewmen in blue overalls and construction hats. The men worked to sand away chipped paint from the gray steel floor and rail. On the opposite side, across the thirty meters of the freighter’s broad beam, another team did the same.

These men, all Filipinos, came to greet LB warily, pointing at the sky to indicate that he was the American soldier from the helicopter. Some spoke enough English to ask how the injured crewmen were: Would they be okay? The deckhands were short and wiry; their work required nimbleness and stamina. When the Valnea was loaded, they stacked her 2,200 containers, locked them in place, then cleaned and maintained the ship under way. LB wanted to ask what they thought of armed Serbian guards on a ship carrying no cargo, but he’d been told not to snoop.

Inside the superstructure, he poked his head into the infirmary. The second engineer and cadet both slept under blankets of morphine and fentanyl. Grisha kept vigil from a stool beside his friend Nikita. LB checked the progress of Nikita’s anti-inflammatory drip, then the cadet’s bandages. The boy’s exposed skin had cooled slightly and its crimson cast had faded, marking progress in lowering his core temperature. His saline bag ran low. LB considered changing it but gave the task to Grisha. The man needed badly to be helpful. The first mate hung the fresh bag and flipped open the petcock. The cadet moaned, deep in narcotic, but did not wake.

LB held open the infirmary door for Grisha to follow into the hall, to talk without waking the injured.

“I’ll be staying on board with you to Djibouti. That all right?”

“Yes. That is excellent news.”

“So, how’d this happen?”

The first mate rubbed the bridge of his nose, tired. “This morning before breakfast, Nikita inspected engine with cadet. On catwalk along the pistons. No warning, cylinder seven blew. The boy was closest, burned by steam from gasket, then blown into Nikita, who hit rail with his back. And derr`mo, here we are.”

“I heard the chief say he didn’t know what caused it.”

“I do not know this Razvan much. He is Romanian. Shipping company normally puts Russian officers together. He seems clever. I think he will find. He is always in engine room. Go ask him. But you know what I think?”

“No.”

“Eto piz`dets.” This is f*cked up.

In the elevator, LB punched the button for the engine control room. The doors opened into a room without windows, only rows of computer screens above a lengthy desk and a massive bank of fuse panels, switches, gauges, and LCD readouts. Chief Razvan sat chin in hand, staring into one screen, a sheaf of computer printouts in front of him. The room pulsed with a low, droning burr from the great engine behind the walls.

“Chief. May I come in?”

“Enter.”

LB took the swivel chair beside him. The Romanian worked off three computer screens at once, each with different schematics. The one in front of LB depicted the eight pistons of the ship’s engine, all rising and falling in rhythm except for number seven, which stood inert and bathed in red.

Razvan made notations on his papers. The information on all sides of LB was indecipherable. He sat in the belly of a modern cargo ship, a miracle of electronics, mechanics, girth, and power. The chief engineer on this freighter had to be a whiz kid in several fields.

LB waited until Razvan finished his scrutinizing and note taking.

The chief looked up. “The second engineer and cadet. Their condition.”

“We’ve got the cadet on fluids; he’s stable but in and out of consciousness. Nikita’s on steroids. We’ll have to wait and see where things go.”

“The boy. He looked bad.” The Romanian shook his gray head, tongue stuck behind his lips. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

LB tapped the image of the dead cylinder seven on the screen in front of him.

“That why we’re going twelve knots?”

Razvan blew out his cheeks. “Pfff. This captain. He would go twenty-five if I turn my back.”

“Why?”

“These are pirate waters. You are soldier; you know this.”

“Yeah.”

“We are sitting like ducks going this speed. Drozdov is nervous. But we cannot go faster. Seven pistons cannot balance. Vibration will damage bearings, shaft, other pistons.”

“What about the guards?”

“Ah, yes. You may sleep well being guarded by Serbs. I do not.”

LB didn’t inquire; the antagonisms of Central Europe were ancient and as inscrutable to an outsider as the machines around him.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“What do you know about engines?”

“Compared to you, or a kid from Sacramento?”

“Me.”

“Nothing.”

“Good. I don’t like opinions.”

“I’m the same. My motto is, when in doubt, I go with me.”

Razvan cracked his first grin. “Okay. This accident. It was an untimed injection.”

“I’ve done that before.”

“You can stop now, Sergeant.”

LB raised a hand to yield. Chief continued.

“The engine runs on heavy fuel oil. In normal operation, piston comes up, goes down. Every second revolution, at specific point, fuel is injected into top of cylinder. Pressure increases as piston rises, until fuel ignites. At this exact moment, when piston is pushed back down by explosion, exhaust portal at top of cylinder opens to release waste gases. But…”

Chief laid a long finger to the screen in front of LB, where an animation showed seven of the eight pistons still pumping. He selected one tall cylinder.

“If fuel comes into cylinder at wrong time…” Chief knocked the computerized image. “Now! When the piston is in wrong place, explosion happens too soon. Exhaust portal is not open. Too much pressure builds up in cylinder, and boom.”

LB had worked on enough engines to know what boom meant. “The head gasket blows.”

“Yes. Cylinder cracks. Water flows into cylinder.”

“Steam.”

“Then accident. Two men standing in front of discharge from broken gasket.”

“The call goes out, and here I am.”

“With our happy crew.”

“What time did it happen?”

Chief flipped to find the proper computer sheet. “Oh-four-forty-eight hours, thirty-five-point-oh-nine seconds.”

“Exact.”

“Right now, time is all I know. Cause is not so easy. I am compiling data. Voltage records, alarms, pressure, injector rates.” Razvan flopped a hand on the stack of papers. “Duten pula calului.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Go to horse dick.”

“Man. I love how you guys cuss.”

“An odd thing to love.”

“Can you show me where it happened?”

Chief cocked an eyebrow, quickly suspicious. LB wondered if growing up under secret police had made the crew on this boat itchy. Or if this unexplained voyage from Vladivostok to Beirut was doing it.

“You are investigator now?”

“No. I’m stuck on this ship for two days. What else is there to do?”

Chief hunched. “Okay.”

He handed LB ear protection headgear. Sliding on his own muffs, he opened a thick door. A fleet, warm gush of air greeted them on a suspended platform. They looked down over a massive room, a collection of steel blocks, rods, trusses, pipes, every hard bit of it adding its bawl and whine to stir the roar rattling LB’s chest, rapping on the pads blocking his ears. He lifted one earpiece for a moment to hear the real, deafening din.

Razvan led him down the stairwell. The floor under this hive of machines did not tremble as LB thought it might. It felt concrete. Even with a ruined piston, Chief’s engine ran balanced and tuned, just as he said.

Without turning to see if LB followed, Chief strode purposefully through a warren of equipment and apparatuses, all interconnected by cables, ducts, and miles of electric wire. The primary color was a mute yellow, with interruptions of battleship gray. The bolts and nuts holding everything together were the size of LB’s fists. He recognized nothing; not a piece resembled anything in a regular car or boat motor. The scale of the freighter’s engine beggared any machine LB had seen, even on naval ships. The Valnea’s engine was dazzling, even chugging at half speed.

Razvan ducked into the maze, beneath a web of catwalks and beams, conducting the tour at a long-legged gait without pause or explanations. Along the way, LB stayed lost. He could not find his way out if Razvan took a powder on him down here. He made out only one recognizable thing: a spinning black shaft the size of a tree trunk, horizontal, disappearing into the hull. Attached to the other end must have been the gargantuan propeller to push this ship.

Rounding a final corner, Chief mounted a platform running beside the heart of the engine, the row of oversize pistons. He strode down the line of chrome and copper cylinder housings, setting a hand to some to feel for the enemy in this room, vibration. At the seventh, he finally faced LB. Beneath the raging sounds of the engine room, he mouthed, “Each one weighs four tons.” Then, unexpectedly, he playacted the moment of injury for the second engineer Nikita, slamming himself into the railing in slow motion.

The quiet piston casing was not blackened or warped by the incident, though its housing, gears, cables, dials sat motionless. Razvan laid hands on the casing to draw forth the sense of its failure. Chief showed no disdain or anger for piston seven; nothing in his engine room lost value just because it was out of order. LB, who saved broken men, admired this.