Deadly Coast (4 page)

To pray in such conditions was an abomination, and he’d compensated as best he could, diverting ever more of their limited water supply for ritual ablutions and ending each prayer session with an entreaty to Allah to forgive their transgressions and to bless their mission with success. It was in Allah’s hands, but as he watched his men move listlessly in the dim light, he struggled to suppress his doubts.

Hiding in the American ship until its closest approach to the Somali coast had seemed an easy thing on paper, but who could foresee these conditions? Minutes had turned to hours as the men crouched in fetid blackness, saving the lantern batteries for prayer and mealtimes. At first they’d passed the time reciting and discussing Quranic scripture in the dark, but they were fighters, not scholars. Discussion turned to other things, and then stopped altogether.

The men became fixated on food and water; so much so, Mukhtar felt compelled to guard their limited stores of both. They were near mutiny, and he was increasingly uneasy leaving them alone, even for his nightly twenty-meter climb up the ladder to the main deck to take a GPS reading through the open hatch.

Mukhtar was pulled back to the present by a sudden change in the pitch of vibration in the steel hull, a change he’d come to understand signaled a major course adjustment. He nodded to himself as he felt the ship turn to port, and realized the significance. Last night’s GPS reading had them just north of Bab-el-Mandeb, and he’d been waiting for a sign they’d moved through the narrow strait into the Gulf of Aden.

The men had sensed the change as well, and turned toward him, every face a question. Mukhtar ignored them and pulled the last water bottle from his pack. Less than a liter remained. They were not as close to home as he would have liked, but he could delay no more.

He straightened and handed the bottle to the man beside him.

“One swallow and pass it on,” he said. “We save the rest to cleanse ourselves this evening before
Isha’a
.” Mukhtar smiled at his men’s expectant looks. “We strike tonight, when everyone except the bridge watch is asleep.”

“Allahu Akbar,” murmured his men in unison.

Chapter Four

M/T Luther Hurd
Eastbound
Gulf of Aden

Mukhtar squatted in the darkness on the starboard bridge wing, his left shoulder pressed against the wheelhouse bulkhead, and his senses heightened by a rush of adrenaline. He felt the rhythmic throb of the engine through the steel at his feet and heard the soft breathing of the man squatting behind him. The others were similarly deployed on the port side, waiting for his signal.

He rose until his eyes just cleared the bottom of the waist-high side window of the wheelhouse. The helmsman and the watch officer had their backs to him as they stood side by side, leaning on their elbows on the forward windowsill and gazing out at the ship’s bow. They appeared to be chatting, and even without the night-vision goggles, he would’ve been able to make out their silhouettes in the soft glow of moonlight. Good, the ship was on automatic pilot. Should something go awry, he wouldn’t have to worry about veering off course and alerting any escort.

The sudden thought of an escort chilled him. The plan called for the infidels to be subdued silently, but fire discipline was always a challenge with the mujahideen, and their weapons were not suppressed. The flash and sound of gunfire would carry a long way over water, and it wouldn’t do to alert either the sleeping crew or an escort before he was prepared. Mukhtar sank back into a crouch and reconsidered his plan to rush the wheelhouse from each bridge wing.

After a time, he smiled, and motioned for his man to follow as he duck-walked forward, staying below the wheelhouse windows. He stopped a few feet aft of the open door into the wheelhouse and pulled a spare magazine from his pants pocket. He turned to see his underling nod in understanding and follow suit. Mukhtar held up three fingers for a silent countdown, and they lobbed the magazines in unison, away from the wheelhouse, which struck the steel deck with a sharp metallic clatter.

As expected, the watch officer came to investigate, intent on reaching the source of the sound farther out on the bridge wing. He moved through the open door with the helmsman on his heels, both playing small penlights on the deck in front of them. The pirates let them pass, then rose as one from the darkness to press the muzzles of their weapons against the backs of the seamen’s heads.

“Move or make a sound, and you’re dead,” said Mukhtar.

Arnett hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since she’d watched the chopper carry Vince Blake away at Gibraltar. Sleep came in patches, punctuated by weird dreams, the latest of which was unfolding behind her twitching eyelids. In it, she watched helplessly as Charlie Brown and thousands of his minions sailed off with
Luther Hurd
, leaving her adrift in the lifeboat in her underwear. She screamed curses, and then jerked awake in the dark—wakened by a sound that shouldn’t be there.

She lay panting in the twisted sheets, trying to get her bearings and straining to hear what had wakened her, rewarded only with the distant throb of the engine and the familiar sounds of a ship at sea. She debated getting up, then decided against it. She wouldn’t be a nervous pain-in-the-ass captain that didn’t trust her people. The watch would call if she was needed, and she needed rest. She’d almost convinced herself that was going to happen when her phone buzzed.

“Captain,” she answered.

“Captain,” said the third mate, “I need you on the bridge.”

“OK. Be right up,” Arnett said, rolling out of bed.

Arnett pushed open the door from the central stairwell and made her way across the chart room, her path illuminated by the dim red lights of the chart table. She stepped through the curtains onto the darkened bridge, taking care to close them behind her, and then stopped a moment to let her eyes adjust.

“I’m here, Joe,” she said. “Give me a minute to get my night vision and—” The smell hit her first—the sickening odor of an unwashed body and excrement. Before she could react, strong arms encircled her, pinning her own arms to her sides, as she was pulled close to that unwashed body. Then her training kicked in.

At five foot two, 120 pounds dripping wet, and determined to make her way in what was still very much a man’s world, Lynda Arnett had carefully selected interests. Chief among them was martial arts. Rather than resist, Arnett tensed her legs and forced her back into her captor’s chest. She sensed his surprise and a slight loosening of his grip, and still in the circle of his arms, she spun violently to the right, raising her right arm to deliver a savage elbow strike at the place where his head should be. There was a sharp pain as her elbow struck teeth, mitigated by the satisfying feel of the teeth giving way and arms releasing her as her attacker spewed unintelligible curses. She stepped back, still night-blind, and stumbled through the dark toward the general alarm.

Then the night exploded in stars, and she felt, rather than saw, the deck rising up to meet her face.

Mukhtar pocketed the leather-covered sap, and squatted over the motionless woman. He felt her pulse at the neck. Strong and steady—she’d have little more than a headache. Which was more than he could say for his second-in-command. He looked over to where the man stood, florescent in the night-vision glasses, holding his face.

“Are you injured, Diriyi?” he called, as he bound the whore’s hands with a plastic restraint.

Mukhtar heard the sound of spitting and a soft click as something hard and small hit the deck. Diriyi’s reply came as a wet, lisping rasp. “The bitch broke my teeth. I’ll kill her!”

“Not yet,” Mukhtar said, as he felt Arnett’s pockets and extracted a key ring. “I’ll stay here and guard the bridge. You take her master key and the other men and secure the rest of the crew. Enter their quarters and take them while they sleep. Leave each bound and gagged in their room for now. Start on the top deck and work your way down to neutralize the officers first. If you must kill anyone, use your knives. Now hurry!” He rose, and pressed the key ring into Diriyi’s hand.

Arnett drifted back into consciousness, her head throbbing and a tightness enveloping the right side of her face as her flesh swelled from the savage blow she’d received. She couldn’t see, and she fought down rising panic as she attempted to touch her aching face and couldn’t. The panic worsened as she attempted to speak and couldn’t open her mouth.

She forced herself calm and tried to assess her situation. She was sitting on the deck with her back against a bulkhead. Her hands were bound behind her and something sticky covered both her mouth and eyes—duct tape, she guessed. Light leaked around the edge of her blindfold, so she knew it was daytime, and from the sounds around her, she knew she was on the bridge. It sounded like her attackers had released Joe Silva to con the ship.

The VHF squawked. “
Luther Hurd
,
Luther Hurd
. This is USS
Carney
. How do you copy? Over.”

“What do they want?” asked a foreign-accented voice.

“I don’t know. Probably just a communications check,” Silva said. Arnett heard the terror in his voice.

“Answer it and get rid of them,” said the foreign voice. “And do not attempt to warn them, or first the whore dies, and then you.”

“I’ll try,” said Silva, “but the captain’s been talking to them. They may be expecting her.”

Something hard pressed into Arnett’s temple and she heard the foreign voice from just above her. “Do it,” the man said. “And be convincing, or the whore dies.”

“This is
Luther Hurd
,
Carney
,” she heard Silva say. “We copy five by five. Over.”

Joe Silva had been in the States for most of his forty years—a US citizen for thirty—but there was still a ghost of his native Brazil in his speech, evidently enough to draw interest.

“
Luther Hurd
, this is
Carney
. Please identify the speaker. Over.”

“
Carney
, I’m Joe Silva, third mate of
Luther Hurd
. Over,” said Silva, his accent becoming more pronounced due to stress.

“
Luther Hurd
, stand by. Over.”

The radio fell dead for over a minute, then squawked again.

“
Luther Hurd
, this is
Carney
. Is Captain Arnett available? Over.”

Arnett could hear the panic in Silva’s voice as he addressed their attacker.

“They want to talk to the captain! What do I do?”

“Make some excuse to delay,” ordered the foreign voice. “Then break communications.”

Arnett heard Silva sigh and then key the mike.

“
Carney
, this is
Luther Hurd
. I must call Captain Arnett to the bridge. She will contact you soonest.
Luther Hurd
, out.”

“Understood,
Luther Hurd
. We will stand by. USS
Carney
, out.”

Arnett felt strong hands in her armpits as she was hoisted to her feet and pushed forward. She stumbled a few steps and felt the chart-room curtain brush her face as she was pushed through it. Rough hands seized her arms again, and she sensed she was being held between two men, her attackers having apparently learned not to underestimate her. The body odor�shit smell was overpowering and nauseating, and she thought of her taped mouth, visions of strangling on her own vomit flashing through her mind.

She flinched as duct tape was ripped from her eyes and mouth, and blinked in the light as her eyes focused on the scene around her. The chart room was crowded. Two men held her against the chart table, and another stood across the room pointing an automatic weapon down at Joe Silva and Gomez, a young ordinary seaman on his first trip to sea. The terrified crewmen had been forced to their knees, and Gomez’s hands were bound behind him. Silva’s hands were free, but he looked almost catatonic from fear. In the middle of the small space stood a fourth man, very much in charge. The men were all black, armed, and of medium height and indeterminate age. They were dressed very much like the vendors that swarmed aboard at Suez.

Mr. In Charge smiled as Arnett’s eyes watered in the unaccustomed light, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Ah, the whore captain cries,” he said in accented English. “Did we upset you?”

He said something in his own language, drawing laughter from the pair holding her and a grin from the man across the cabin holding her crewmen. A grin somewhat spoiled by missing front teeth.

Arnett smiled back at the man across the cabin. “Nice teeth, asshole,” she said.

The man scowled and started for her, then stopped at the upraised hand of the man in charge.

Now she knew at least two of them spoke English.

Mr. In Charge moved in front of her.

“My name is Mukhtar, whore,” he said. “But you will call me master. In a few moments, you will radio your navy friends and convince them everything is in order, or you will live to regret it. Any questions?”

“Yeah. Would you assholes like some deodorant? I’ve got some in my cabin.”

Mukhtar’s fist flew back, then he stopped.

“No,” he said, “I must not damage your mouth. I want you to speak clearly on the radio. Diriyi,” he called over his shoulder to the man with the missing teeth, “show the whore we mean business.”

Without hesitation, the man raised his weapon to Gomez’s head.

“No!” shouted Mukhtar. “Use your knife.”

Toothless nodded and lowered his weapon to dangle from a shoulder strap, and whipped a knife from his side. He jerked Gomez’s head back by his hair and sliced the young seaman’s throat in one fluid motion, and bright arterial blood sprayed forward onto the deck. Toothless released him, and Gomez toppled forward, face-down as blood pumped from the wound and puddled in a spreading pool. Beside him, Joe Silva blanched, and dark stains of blood from the spray dotted his face in stark contrast to his skin. He trembled in wordless terror, trying to speak, but his mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fresh-caught fish in the bottom of a boat.

Shock coursed through Arnett, followed by rage. There was no training now, just undiluted hatred. She struggled to escape, but her captors were prepared and held her tightly. She aimed a kick at Mukhtar’s groin, but he sidestepped.

“You bastard,” she screamed. “I’m going to kill you!”

“I don’t think so,” he said, then turned to his underling. “Diriyi!”

Toothless moved toward Joe Silva with the knife.

“Wait!” screamed Arnett.

Mukhtar turned back toward Arnett and smiled. “Will you cooperate?”

“Let the crew go,” Arnett said. “You have me and the ship. That should be enough for whatever you plan.”

Mukhtar came close and grabbed her chin, putting his face inches from her own. “Listen to me, whore, because I will tell you once. What I ‘plan’ is of no concern to you, and you are in no position to negotiate. I can kill you all in five minutes, much sooner than any help can arrive, and I will do so if I must. My men and I are not afraid to die, and in fact, assume we will, so there is no threat you can use against me. Whether or not we complete our mission is the will of Allah, but you should hope for our success as well. It is the only way you and these other infidels will survive. Now, will you cooperate?”

Arnett glared at him. “Yes,” she said at last.

Arnett lay face-down on the chart-room settee, bound hand and foot and once again blindfolded with duct tape. Mukhtar kept her there, always within sight, allowing her to use the bridge toilet and having food brought up sporadically. From the sounds around her, she knew he’d released at least a few crew members to run the ship, their good behavior guaranteed by threats against their shipmates.

It was hard to judge the passage of time, but she’d been hauled to her feet to participate in three more communications checks, so she figured they’d been running at least a day or so. She felt dull and lethargic, drugged by failure, racked by doubt, and denied any visual stimulation. She tried to keep herself alert, but monotony and fatigue overcame her at times, lulling her into fitful sleep. Sleep full of dreams of Gomez, a kid just out of high school and on his first big adventure. She remembered his eagerness to please, and the unmerciful but good-natured teasing he got from his shipmates, herself included.