Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

Captain Penney was a few years over forty, looked eight or so years younger and was about five feet eight inches tall. He was tanned from years of standing on open bridge wings and wore his hair short so the sea winds wouldn’t mess it up or put it in his eyes. His looks were only average, but his personality made him unforgettable. His smile lit up his face, and he used it often because he was a genuinely nice guy who liked people. His officers liked to speculate about when he was going to retire from the cruise line and go into politics, where his charisma, personality and phenomenal ability to put faces and names together would undoubtedly be richly rewarded.

What his officers didn’t know was that he had been offered the rank of senior officer of the cruise line, in charge of the operations of all five of its ships, and he had turned down the post. He liked what he did, and he liked having his own ship.

Whenever possible, his wife and children accompanied him on his various cruises. Arch Penney was that rarity, a truly happy man.

Last night, leaving his officers to complete the transit of the Bab al Mandeb, he walked about the passenger lounges murmuring names. “Mr. Bass, Mrs. Bass.” He shook hands, smiled, asked the routine questions about how were they enjoying the cruise, were their accommodations adequate, and how was the service?

A German who still used the old “von” was aboard, Von Platen. He was accompanied by three men who apparently were his lieutenants in a car manufacturing company, Juergen Hoff, a man named Schaffler, and a young man with an unruly mop of hair, Boltz. There were some Italians, an Irish construction mogul named Enda Clancy who was apparently out of the house-building business after the housing market collapse, a retinue of British dowagers and the usual mob of Americans, which comprised about half the passenger list.

Last night he greeted the sisters, Irene and Suzanne, by name, and the Denver radio talk-show host, Mike Rosen, a genial, intelligent man with the demeanor of a college professor in mufti. The Americans liked to be called by their first names, so Arch Penney obliged. “Keith, Dilma, Ari, Buck, Chad, Chuck, Betty, Toby, Obed…”

Then there was Meyer Brown, a sixty-something retiree on the make, if Arch’s instincts were right. What he didn’t know was that Irene and Suzanne called Brown “Putty,” since he had made a remark at the bar last night that set them giggling. “I’m just putty in a woman’s hands, although everything I have isn’t all putty.”

Brown apparently had an American woman, Nora, in his sights. Nora’s daughter was nowhere to be seen. Brown was hovering over Nora, trying to keep his eyes off the striking cleavage, and entertaining her with stories of his many adventures.

The North African, Mohammed Atom, was reading something and studiously avoiding his fellow passengers, so Arch passed him with only a head nod, which Atom didn’t return. Penney knew Atom’s reputation, that he was an arms dealer to rebels all over the Middle East, including al Qaeda, although no one had yet caught him with enough evidence to prosecute.

This was, Arch Penney thought, a typical passenger list for this time of year. Almost no children and many gray heads.

This morning there were only three exercise nuts on the upper deck, jogging to burn off alcohol and last night’s gourmet feast. Penney completed his circuit, greeting the crewmen he met by name, running his eye over everything, and headed for the bridge, where he found his first officer had things well in hand, just as Penney knew he would. The chief officer was Harry Zopp, from South Africa. It was, Penney thought, just a matter of time before Zopp got his own ship.

“Captain,” Zopp said respectfully.

“Harry. How goes it?”

“We’re smack in the middle of the northern eastbound traffic lane. We’re five miles behind an empty tanker, matching his speed, which is thirteen knots. Six other ships on the radar, closest point of approach will be four thousand yards.”

“Fishing boats?”

“Fifteen.”

“How are the engineers coming on repairing that evaporator?”

“Expect to be finished by noon, sir.”

“Where and when do you expect to pass this tanker that’s ahead of us?” The Sultan couldn’t remain on schedule if she loafed along at thirteen knots for more than a few hours.

Zopp told him, referring to the chart and the radar screen.

Arch Penney nodded his approval.

Zopp handed the captain three sheets of paper stapled together. Today’s Somali Pirate Update from the NATO shipping center. The captain took the time to read every word.

“November 15, Somali Basin. Latitude 07 01 S, Longitude 041 22 E. Alert Number 165/2011. Warning-Warning-Warning-At 0403 UTC November 15 a merchant vessel is currently under attack by pirates in the above position.

“Alert Number 164/2011.” The position followed. “A Pirate Action Group consisting of 2 x skiff with 5 POB, weapons and ladders reported in the above position.”

There was more, two pages of it. Arch Penney read every entry, taking the time to refer to the chart to check the various positions.

“The murdering bastards are busier than they were last month,” Zopp remarked. “The international task force has a chopper patrolling this sea lane this morning. He went over about twenty minutes ago, heading northeast, probably to check out the Stella Maris. ” The Stella Maris was another cruise ship, one that had sailed from Doha and was on its way to the Suez Canal, backtracking the route just traveled by the Sultan. They were scheduled to pass each other this morning.

Penney nodded and handed the report back without comment. He went out onto the open wing of the bridge to catch a few moments of peace before the passengers all woke up and the day really got under way. There was a high overcast and a nice breeze from the west. This time of year the wind wasn’t warm, but it was very dry.

Novembers had wonderful reputations for perfect weather in the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden. The summer monsoon was over, and the heat of the deserts to both sides was beginning to dissipate. Truly, the Red Sea was something special. Without a river running into it carrying silt and debris, it was the cleanest ocean on earth, with clear water and hundreds of coral reefs.

The Gulf of Aden, however, was another matter. This was merely an arm of the Indian Ocean. Windy and choppy this morning.

Captain Penney drew in a deep breath of the wind off the Arabian Peninsula. Clean and dry. “Pure,” the Arabs liked to say, “like Islam.” Penney thought the desert wind smelled empty, like nothing at all. As he stood there, he watched a freighter with rusty sides pass his ship to port on its way into the Red Sea.

Arch finally walked inside the bridge and took a careful look at the radar picture. He spent a few minutes discussing traffic with his first officer.

The radar was always full of contacts; avoiding collisions required the most careful diligence. Harry Zopp was up to the task, Penney knew. He trusted him. Still, he was the captain, legally, morally and ethically responsible for this ship and the lives of everyone aboard her, so he monitored the bridge team in narrow waters, mentally weighing every decision, every order.

Fortunately they were out of the Bab al Mandeb, so the Sultan had more room to maneuver. Not only did the bridge team need to avoid other ships and fishing boats, they needed to be able to outrun and outmaneuver pirate skiffs.

When Harry Zopp had passed the tanker ahead of them and the Sultan was steaming northeastward at nineteen knots, paralleling the coast of Yemen, Arch Penney went below to have breakfast with his wife.