Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

He looked, he hoped, like a pirate’s idea of a successful senior bureaucrat or political appointee. Not the Sal Molina type, but the Jurgen Schulz type. On a sabbatical from Wall Street or the Ivy League. A guy who could talk about a couple hundred million as if it were small change.

Jake Grafton ensured all the drawers and cabinets in his office were locked, then picked up his small suitcase and walked out, turning the lights off before he pulled the door shut.

* * *

Ten miles north of the promontory that formed the northern side of the Eyl harbor, six SEALs in wet suits crawled through the surf onto the beach. They put out sentries, checked the consistency of the sand, which was hard above the high water line, then hoisted their boat, which contained their bags of gear, and trotted into the dunes.

Thirty minutes after they arrived, they established radio contact with Chosin Reservoir and reported beach conditions, distance to the dunes, the fact that the beach was deserted in every direction as far as they could see. Inland, the dunes turned to desert scrub and ran on for a mile or so before the foothills started. The hills were low and irregular, covered with scrub.

The senior man, a first-class petty officer named Ben Bryant, thought this beach would make an excellent landing area for marines, and he passed that observation on to the ship.

The only problem, as he saw it, was the tracks of pickup trucks in the sand above the high water mark. Up and down the beach, again and again. They had made a rutted road. Apparently they liked to drive the beach and look for things or people who shouldn’t be there, like shipwrecked millionaires or stranded submarines … or U.S. Navy SEALs.

Ben Bryant told the folks on Chosin Reservoir about the tracks, and began looking for an ambush site. He figured the time might come in the not-too-distant future when the bad guys’ beach rides might become an annoyance. If and when, that was an itch he could scratch.

* * *

Another SEAL team landed on the beach six miles south of Eyl. Again, the beach was straight, the sand was packed hard above the high water mark, and the dunes behind were empty. A half mile south of their landing place stood a fisherman’s shack on the edge of the dunes. A boat rested on the beach, tied to a rock so a large wave couldn’t carry it away.

Without a word, two SEALs trotted that way to check it out.

There were two men and a woman asleep in the shack. No kids. No weapons. No food in the place except for a couple of half-rotted fish. The SEALs used plastic ties on the Somalis’ wrists, binding them in front, and fed them MREs. They wolfed the food down.

There were tire tracks on the beach here, too. The Somalis couldn’t speak English and the Americans not a word of Somali, but through signs the Americans came to believe the pickups came by every two or three days.

The SEALs looked at each other. A pickup truck with a machine gun in the bed would be a nice souvenir of their African adventure. Perhaps they could even find a proper use for the gun.

* * *

Ten miles farther south along the beach, a helo settled onto the dirt road that led to Eyl and a team of six Force Reconnaissance marines piled out. They carried two machine guns and several cases of ammo in addition to their packs and personal weapons. The chopper was on the ground less than a minute, then rose and skimmed the earth eastward, toward the sea.

Two other roads led into Eyl. One from the north and one that wound its way through the mountains from the interior. Both were dirt, mere rocky tracks through the desert. Teams of Recon marines were landed in both places.

The teams quickly took positions, positioned their machine guns to control the roads, sent out scouts and reported back to the ship.

Eyl was cut off. No one was going in or out without a fight.

* * *

It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning in Eyl, Somalia, when the door to Mike Rosen’s stateroom opened and Geoff Noon walked in. “Good morning.”

“Knock next time, shithead.” Noon was wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. Maybe he slept in them.

“And a pleasant morning to you, too, sir. If it’s not too much trouble, the gentlemen of Eyl request that you accompany me to the computer center, where you can check the news from Merry Old England and the former colonies. If you please.”

Noon smelled of gin. Already. Bastard had already had his morning tots. More than one, Rosen was sure. As they walked, with the pirate guard trailing, whiffs of Noon’s body odor nauseated Rosen.

“When was the last time you had a bath?”

“What a coincidence you should ask! My chambermaid is drawing my bath as we speak. When we are finished with our errand, I shall leave you to enjoy the squalor of this abandoned ship and go home to my mansion on the hill, to a luxurious hot bubble bath, clean clothes and a noon feast prepared by my personal chef and served by professionals in white livery. Then gin fizzes on the verandah and a wonderful Cuban cigar. One can live quite well in these climes on a modest income, as I do.”

“I haven’t had anything to eat since noon yesterday.”

“I’ll talk to the pirates.”

“Great.”

“They’re roasting a goat on deck by the pool. Perhaps-”

“No goat. I can root around in the galley and find a can of something, if they’ll let me.”

In the e-com center Noon settled into a chair like a bird returning to its nest and took a nip from his gin bottle. Rosen fired up his laptop, which was sitting just as he left it. As long as the pirates left it alone, Rosen mused, it was probably less likely to be stolen here than at Rosen’s condo in Denver.

Almost sixty e-mails awaited his attention. He scanned the list. A U.S. military sending address caught his eye, so he opened it.

This is what he read:

Mr. Rosen,

The company that owns MV Sultan of the Seas, the company that insured it, and the governments involved have appointed me chief negotiator for the release of the passengers, crew and ship. I will arrive in Eyl tomorrow evening. Please pass this message along to the pirates and ask them to meet me at the Eyl airport.

Sincerely,

Jacob L. Grafton

Rosen printed out the message and handed the copy to High Noon, who put on his glasses and perused it. “Any previous messages from Mr. Grafton?”

“No. That’s the first one.”

“What does ‘MV’ mean?”

“Motor vessel.”

“Tomorrow evening. Didn’t give a time. Probably arrive after tea, on the flight from Mombasa. The wogs have plenty of time to arrange a reception.”

Noon read the e-mail again. “Chatty chap, isn’t he? Why don’t you google Mr. Grafton and see what comes up.”

Rosen did so. Noon pried himself out of the chair and came over to squint over his shoulder at the screen. The gin and body odor made Rosen breathe shallow.

“You can sit here if you like,” he offered.

“This is fine. Hmm … American naval officer. Two star. Retired. Well, that should be enough for Ragnar, I think.”

Noon went back to his chair and settled his bulk.

Rosen continued to scan the list of documents that mentioned Grafton. “This guy has testified at various congressional hearings, on at least three occasions.”

“Ragnar won’t be interested in that,” Noon said dismissively. “He’s a pirate. Pretty good one, as a matter of fact, but quite ignorant. Doesn’t know a thing about Congress or condoms. Educating the wog bastard would be a complete waste of time and brain cells. Let’s do the rest of the e-mails. Print out each one, and if something deservers an answer I’ll give you any hints that pop to mind.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you. I would have been quite at a loss.”