The Tears of Dark Water (30 page)

“Ibrahim,” Paul said, allowing a hint of desperation into his voice, “please listen to me. I can’t do this on my own. I need you to help me—”

At once he realized he was talking to himself. The line had disconnected.

“Shit!”
he exclaimed, slamming the phone against his palm.

“He’s made his decision,” Redman said harshly. “I’m sending in the boats.”

Derrick disregarded all decorum. “Did you not hear what he just said? We don’t have leverage anymore. The Parkers are in danger. We need to move this ship back
now
!”

“Agent Derrick,” Redman countered. “I’ve watched you play footsy with these assholes for nearly a week, and look where it’s gotten us.” He toggled on his headset. “All units, this is Arcturus—”

“Frank,” Masters interjected before the SEAL commander could give the order. “You agreed to give him ten minutes. He has eight left. He might change his mind.”

Redman swore under his breath. Then just as quickly he regained his composure, conscious, no doubt, of the many young sailors staring at him. “All units, standby,” he said into his microphone. He looked at the clock on the bulkhead. It read 18:22. “Eight minutes then,” he barked and opened the door to the bridge wing, disappearing into the night.

For Derrick, watching the seconds count down opened up a wormhole into the past. All at once he was in the house in Annandale again, listening to the march of the wall clock as Kyle contemplated what to do with the gun in his hand. He saw the whole story playing out before him, like a cord unraveling—the years of insults his brother had endured, the way his father had mocked his drawings and ridiculed his interest in drama, calling it a “refuge for fags and sissies,” the humiliation Kyle had suffered when John read his private journal at the dinner table, exposing the feelings he had for a boy in his class, and the final shame—being forbidden to attend his senior prom because he wouldn’t go with a girl. That was the moment when Kyle had finally cracked.

Derrick remembered how the house had stood in the gray light when he and Megan pulled into the driveway after football practice. He could still smell the fresh paint on the door when he opened it and heard shouting coming from the back of the house. Megan reacted quickly, leaping into the fray to take up Kyle’s defense, but Derrick stopped and listened, weighing the gravity of the confrontation. His father and brother had fought before, but the outcome had never been in doubt. This time, however, he heard in Kyle’s cries something more sinister and dangerous.

He remembered the scene as it was when he reached the den: his mother, Ellen, weeping on the sofa; John and Kyle screaming at each other in front of the fireplace; and Megan waving her arms and yelling at her father to leave her brother alone. His mother pleaded with Derrick to do something, and he tried to intervene. But Kyle shoved him aside with a strength that shocked him.

“
Get out of the way, Paul!
” he shouted. “
This isn’t your fight!
”

For long moments, father and son traded expletive-laden barbs, and then, at once, Kyle’s face went rigid and his hands curled into fists.

“
You think I’m a mutant, you sack of shit? Here’s a mutant for you!
”

Before anyone understood what he was doing, he took the poker from the fireplace and slammed the butt against John’s head. As his father fell to his knees, Kyle slipped the pistol out of his ankle holster and pointed it at him.

“
Get up!
” he hollered, his voice shredding from the strain. “
Be a man! You made me what I am!
”

In the seconds that followed, the world seemed to hover in suspension. Derrick heard his mother crying, heard Megan begging Kyle to put the gun down, but he blocked all of it out, focusing instead on two things—the clock on the wall and his brother’s face. He knew in his gut that Kyle was on the brink, but he also understood that there was a way back and that it hinged on a choice. In pulling the gun on his father, Kyle had begun to sever his ties to the future, but he wasn’t all the way gone. He could still choose life over death.

Just as Ibrahim could still choose.

Derrick watched the bridge clock with mounting dread. 18:24 . . . 18:25 . . . 18:26. He trained his night-vision binoculars on the
Renaissance
. In the falling dark, the portholes were cutouts of light. He saw shadows moving beyond the curtains. Something was going on between Ibrahim and his men. In the last two calls, he had detected a subtle shift in the pirate’s language. For days, Ibrahim had spoken on behalf of his crew using “I” language, as if he was in complete control. After the helo took off, however, his speech had been dominated by “we” language. Derrick clenched his teeth.
We have no clue what the other Somalis are like. What if someone else is making a power play?

The minutes continued to tick away—18:27 . . . 18:28 . . . 18:29—but the sat phone and the radio remained silent. Suddenly, the door to the bridge wing opened and Redman appeared again.

He looked at Derrick. “I spoke to Admiral Prince and he agrees with my assessment. We’ve given the pirates innumerable chances to do the right thing, and they’re still dragging their feet. At this point, action is imperative. Doing nothing will endanger the hostages as much as doing something.” He pointed at the clock. “Their ten minutes are up. Arachne is a go.”

For an instant, Derrick considered lodging a final objection, but he knew it was pointless. A knot formed in his stomach and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened until his body felt like it was bound in a straitjacket. He watched the sailboat through his binoculars, bobbing on a sea of iridescent green, as Redman issued the orders to his team.

“Gray One, Two, and Three, Red One and Two, this is Arcturus. Execute Arachne. Gray Team, keep your distance to seventy-five yards. Light up their world, but keep your weapons safe. Do not fire even if fired upon. Red Team, good luck and Godspeed.”

Derrick watched the SEAL boats throttle up. They rounded the bow of the
Gettysburg
in a cluster and headed quietly across the water. At the mid-point, the boats on the wings fanned out and the lead boat slowed to a crawl, approaching the
Renaissance
cautiously. Thirty seconds later, they reached their stations, surrounding the sailboat in a triangular embrace. In an instant, they painted the yacht with blinding light.

Redman spoke into the radio: “
Renaissance
, this is the
Gettysburg
. We mean you no harm. We had an agreement. We want you to honor it. Let the hostages go and we will let you go. Over.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Derrick imagined the SEAL divers moving stealthily under the black water, their propulsion vehicles and rebreathing systems leaving no trace of their passage. When he first explained Arachne, Redman had predicted that his team would need twelve minutes to complete the insertion, disable the propeller, secure the towline to the keel, and return to the cruiser. Derrick watched the clock, hoping the gambit would work. He tried to get into Ibrahim’s head, but it was an impossible leap.
How are you going to end this? What choice are you going to make?

The gunshots when they came sounded like firecrackers in the night. There was a long burst—at least seven shots in rapid succession—then silence again.

Immediately, the watch officer exclaimed: “
Shots fired! Shots fired on the Renaissance!
”

Derrick felt the clutch of panic. Then his reflexes engaged and he lifted his radio handset and binoculars off the chart table, wrenched open the door to the bridge wing, and raced to the railing, barely conscious of Redman and Masters behind him.

“
Ibrahim, this is Paul!
” he shouted into the radio, zeroing in on the sailboat with his binoculars. “
We had a deal! Don’t do this!
”

He heard nothing in reply.

He grabbed the external phone off the hook and spoke to CIC. “This is Derrick. Patch me through to the
Renaissance
.”

The pulsing ring of the sat phone reminded him of the flatline on an EKG. He heard more gunfire from across the water—this time a four-shot burst—then more silence.

“
Pick up the goddamn phone!
” he yelled when no one answered. “
This is madness!
”

Suddenly, he was aware that there were people around him. Everyone was talking at once. Redman was on the radio with his boat team and snipers, trying to get a handle on what was happening. Masters was deploying his Seahawks and requesting backup from the
Truman
and
San Jacinto
. An officer with a video camera was taking footage of the scene. A few sailors were speculating in whispers.

Then came the last round of shots—a cluster of three. Unlike the earlier bursts, these were deliberate, as if the shooter had taken careful aim.

At that moment, the wormhole opened up again, and Derrick was in the den in Annandale all those years ago. He saw his brother babbling like a child, mucus dripping from his nose and mixing with his tears, as he waved the gun around. He heard his father’s pleading, his sister’s shouts, his mother’s sobbing, and his own words of desperate reason. Then the moment came when Kyle made his choice. His expression hardened and his irresolution vanished.
This is all your fault!
he cried.
You made me do this!
He pulled the trigger twice and watched his father fall. Then he turned the gun on himself.

Derrick stared at the sailboat as the old wound reopened in him. Moisture came to his eyes and bewilderment crowded his heart.
Why, Kyle?
he cried into the depthless well of the past.
Why, when you had so much to live for?
Then the time warp closed and Derrick confronted the awful truth of the present.
Why, Ibrahim? Why, when you swore to me you wanted peace?

It took Derrick a moment to register what he was seeing. Bodies were pouring out of the sailboat, bodies with thin limbs and colorful clothes holding guns and moving with the zeal of the terrified. They leapt over the gunwales and into the Navy RHIB, firing their weapons into the dark. Derrick saw Ibrahim’s red shirt and the flash of a briefcase in his hands. And then he, too, was over the side. The RHIB’s engine came to life with a throaty roar. And then they were off, racing for the coast.

The exodus happened so fast that even Redman took a second to react. “Gray One, secure the sailboat,” he ordered. “Gray Two and Three, take down the RHIB. Seahawks inbound to support. Weapons free. Weapons free. Fire if fired upon.”

As Derrick watched, two of the SEAL boats peeled away from the sailboat and churned up the water in pursuit of the pirates. At the same time, the third boat approached the
Renaissance
from the stern. A pair of SEALs dressed in black vaulted into the cockpit, cradling their weapons. One of them disappeared into the cabin, then returned a second later, waving his arms wildly and shouting something into his radio that Redman repeated for all to hear.

“Cas-evac. Cas-evac. Hostages are down. Repeat, hostages are down.”

Ismail

The Indian Ocean

02°09´11˝N, 45°41´58˝E

November 14, 2011

As Ismail fled the sailboat, he felt like he was in someone else’s body. His eyes were seeing, his muscles pumping, his fingers gripping a briefcase and a gun hot from the firing. But he sensed them from a distance. His ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. All he could hear was a piercing ring that faded in and out, at once near and far away. His thoughts, too, were a chaotic jumble of impressions, as if his mind were a shattered mirror, reflecting the world in pieces.

Everything was scrambled. Everything was inverted. The night sky was dazzlingly bright. His men were jostling him, their mouths forming words, but he understood none of it. A pair of feet—
his
feet—cleared the gunwale and landed in the Navy boat. A pair of hands—
his
hands—flipped the starter switch, rammed the throttle to its stop, and yanked the wheel hard to port, aiming at a gap between the lights. Somewhere beneath him he felt the vibrations as the boat tore across the dark water, leaping the swells, but they were dampened somehow, as if the floor were made of jelly.

The only thing right side up and rightfully his was the crushing weight of pain. The wheel of time had spun the past into the present. The
djinn
of his first victim—the boy he had killed in the camp at Lanta Buro—had become an avenging angel, snaring him in a trap he had laid with his own hands. It was the curse of war. His father had warned him of it. He who lives by the gun shall also die by it.

He saw the black-hulled speedboats converging on him, their torches glowing like white fire in the night. He saw his men huddled in the bottom of the boat, firing wildly toward the light. As the ringing in his ears began to fade, he heard the angry hum of bullets slicing the air around him. He ducked for cover, but felt no fear of the living, only the dead. The living could take nothing from him that had not already been taken. The dead, however, held the power of judgment.