Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

Carrying his two pieces of toast and his full coffee cup, Rosen joined Sarah and Benny Cohen at a table for six. Benny was toying with his food with his fork, glancing at the pirate in the doorway occasionally.

Sarah said hello. Before long she was telling him about the man who had jumped, Warren Bass. About the bullets churning the water and the spray of blood.

“His wife didn’t jump. Just him.”

“Maybe she was going to jump and chickened out,” Rosen ventured. “The high board always scared me.”

“Maybe he told her it was every man for himself and leaped.”

“Now, Benny, you don’t know that. Don’t be unkind.”

“Maybe,” Benny Cohen repeated, scrutinizing Rosen.

“You know I can’t swim very well,” Sarah said.

Her husband covered her hand with his.

“We wouldn’t have made it, Benny,” she said.

* * *

Captain Arch Penney stood on the bridge of his drifting vessel trying to get his thoughts together. There was an armed pirate on each wing, and Mustafa al-Said walked back and forth, looking at everything, listening to every report on the intercom, every conversation on the handhelds. All that remained of the carnage on the bridge was the bloodstains, and the three hostages seated against the aft bulkhead, out of the way. Two men and a woman.

The woman was about sixty, Penney thought, Canadian or American. Her name was Marjorie Andregg. She was one tough female. Hadn’t complained or cried or even whimpered, hadn’t asked to use the restroom, which was right off the bridge, unlike the man seated beside her. He had been in the restroom twice and had still managed to pee his pants. He was shaking now, kept his hands in front of his face. The captain didn’t know his name. Penney wondered if he was going to do something really stupid, like jump up and run.

The other man was obviously nervous. His name was George Something, from New York, if Penney remembered correctly, perhaps a worn fifty-five or a well-preserved sixty-five. Somewhere in there. George’s eyes swept the bridge like a flashlight, checking on the pirates, watching Mustafa, even glancing occasionally at Penney with a beseeching look. Penney tried to ignore him-and resented the man for his silent pleadings. Bastard!

An hour after they came up from the engine room, forty-five minutes before Mustafa’s announced murder deadline, Mustafa left the bridge, whispered to the men on the wing, then went out.

Penney had little to do except try to figure out what was coming and how to handle it. He figured Mustafa would return with more hostages … and at the designated time shoot one. Or two. Or three.

Penney wondered why he believed Mustafa’s threats. Had the man achieved that much of a psychological advantage?

Yes. Watching Mustafa murder Jerry Robinson in the engine room had made Penney a believer. The man would kill as casually as breathing.

Thirty-five minutes left.

The woman wanted to go to the restroom. Penney nodded and pointed. She rose and took three steps to the door, opened it and went in. Closed it behind her.

Penney used his binoculars to examine the ships in the vicinity. Then he put the binoculars down and looked at the pirates, who were lounging negligently against the railings. One of them was looking at him, the other was looking at the surface of the sea.

Thirty-four minutes.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-two.

Marjorie Andregg came out of the restroom. She looked around, then walked over to him.

“What are we going to do?” she asked softly, so only Arch Penney could hear her.

“I don’t know.”

“Why are we stopped? Not moving?”

“Engines sabotaged.”

“Those commandos?”

“Yes.”

One of the pirates shouted at her, gesturing with his rifle barrel.

“Better sit back down,” Penney said.

“We only have to die once, Captain,” she said and sat back down beside the men.

Arch Penney stared at her. When he finally looked again at the clock, he saw he had only twenty-nine minutes until Mustafa’s deadline. He reached for the handset that gave him a direct line to the aft engine room, then put it back on the cradle. They were working as quickly as they could. Why waste thirty seconds of their time merely to settle my nerves?

Twenty-two minutes before the deadline, Mustafa returned. He had a woman with him. Julie Penney.

The captain felt the blood draining from his face. He had to put a hand on a control panel to steady himself.

Mustafa said nothing. He told Julie to sit beside the other three hostages, then strolled toward the far wing of the bridge.

Arch and his wife stared at each other. The man with his face in his hands was sobbing.

The moment was broken when Marjorie Andregg squeezed Julie’s arm.

* * *

Toad Tarkington watched Ospreys ferry more marines to Richard Ward . The marines ran aboard, eight of them to a plane; the loaded Osprey lifted off, flew for about two minutes to the destroyer and hovered over the stern. There the marines ran from the stern of the plane and cleared the area as their transport lifted off to go get another load and another Osprey made its approach.

The warships were about two miles from Sultan. Chosin Reservoir was heading into the wind, and the destroyer was backing down so the wind came over the fantail. The ships were gradually getting farther apart, but when the transfer was complete, both ships would head for their rendezvous with Sultan.

Toad looked at Sultan through his binoculars. The pirates had to be watching this evolution and wondering what it meant. They didn’t have many options because their ship was DIW, thanks to Lieutenant Angel Cordova.

* * *

Four minutes.

Mustafa al-Said put down his binoculars and walked back into the covered portion of the bridge. He had the butt of his AK braced against his hip, the muzzle pointed at the overhead, his hand wrapped around the handle and his finger on the trigger. Arch Penney could see that finger, see that the assault rifle would go off with the slightest squeeze of that trigger.

Mustafa turned toward him and made a show of looking at the clock on the bulkhead, a clock that had somehow survived the RPG attack and all the shooting. He strolled back until he was in front of Penney, who was standing in front of the unmanned helm.

“Which one?” he asked.

Penney stared at him without expression. He hoped. Actually the revulsion he felt was plain to see, and Mustafa saw it.

The pirate snarled, “You think, he will not shoot. He is not serious person. He is reasonable. You think that, do you not?”

Mustafa’s fetid breath washed over Penney, who thought the smell was caused by rotten teeth. Mustafa’s body odor was undoubtedly due to the fact he never bathed. “No. I think you are a bloody raving murderous asshole,” the captain said evenly.

“Call engine room,” Mustafa said.

Arch picked up the direct line handset. He could hear it ringing. Finally someone answered. Harry Wooten. “Captain here. How much longer?”

Mustafa put the rifle barrel under Penney’s chin and took the handset from him. “Two minutes,” he said. “In two minutes I shoot someone on the bridge.”

Arch could hear Harry Wooten’s strident voice. “It will take at least another thirty minutes. I promise you-”

“Two minutes. I let you listen.” He dropped the handset, which fell to the length of its cord, an inch or so above the deck.

“Which one?” he asked Arch Penney.

“Me.”

“Ah, you think I would not. Your officers can drive the ship. I do not need you.”

“Shoot and be damned.”

Mustafa glanced at the clock, took a few steps toward the bridge wing, leisurely, just strolling, then turned back. He stood there with that rifle pointed up, glancing occasionally at the clock.