Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

Amazingly, the air in the interior of that aluminum airplane was even hotter than the air outside. My heart rate was getting back to normal, but sweat poured off me, soaking my shirt. I noticed Grafton looked a little travel-worn, too.

“Enough money for me to retire on?”

“Only if you want a shack in Somalia.” He must have thought that was droll, because he knew I was a Paris kind of guy.

I fished the Kimber out of the backpack and stuck it in my belt. Put the radio in the bag and zipped it up.

“How was your trip?” I asked.

“Long.”

Another minute, and our pilot cut the left engine. The plane rolled to a stop in front of the terminal. Grafton opened the door while I got the duffel bag and luggage-my backpack and his soft travel bag. I passed them out to him. The pilots never left the cockpit. Ben and Zahra followed us off the plane, their AKs in one hand and a little bag of personal possessions in the other, and wandered off.

As I stood on the dirt in front of the terminal, with the tower and machine-gun nest to our left, Grafton closed the door and made a vague wave at the pilot. We humped the stuff toward the terminal as the left engine made noises and spewed smoke while the prop began to turn.

Then dirt was flying and the plane was moving.

I tossed the duffel bag on my shoulder. I guessed it weighed at least eighty pounds. Grafton got our two bags and we strolled toward the half-dozen armed Somalis waiting for us.

“I’m Grafton. Anybody here speak English?”

“Aye, yes, sir,” came a voice from inside the tin terminal shack, and a white man appeared. Fat, balding, wearing a dirty button-up shirt, filthy slacks and sandals. “Welcome to Eyl. My name is Noon. I’m the airport manager.”

Grafton took a good look around, his first. “Who paved the runway?”

“The Chinese, in a fit of capital expenditure designed to capture our hearts and open Eyl to international development … by the Chinese. About twenty years ago, before the unpleasantness started.”

Grafton nodded and glanced over the armed men. “Who are these guys?’

“Your bodyguard. Ragnar wanted to extend every hospitality.”

“The customs of the country, I suppose.”

“Precisely. Every man of substance has an entourage.”

Grafton sighed. “You have a restroom?”

Noon smiled and gestured grandly. “All of Africa is your urinal, sir. If you have other ideas, you might try the brush behind the building. Other people have been there before you, so watch where you step.”

“Welcome to Somalia,” I muttered as I readjusted the duffel bag on my shoulder. I saw Noon glance at the pistol behind my belt.

Grafton said, “Mr. Carmellini, my aide.”

“Well, gentlemen, after you refresh yourself, we will depart for town and your interview with Sheikh Ragnar.”

* * *

Carrying that eighty-pound duffel bag full of folding green up six flights of nonventilated stairs in the desert heat was the mustard on the shit sandwich. Fortunately I was a studly young man in the pink. Even so, by the time we reached the top I would have traded the entire contents of the damned bag for a cold beer.

The room at the top was full of pirates-and one woman, a white woman, who sat in the corner. Her clothes were not the cleanest, and she wore no makeup. She eyed me coldly. I ignored her and concentrated on the men, standing around their leader, Ragnar. There was no doubt who he was. He was the tallest and fattest, and in absolute command. He radiated power.

I looked the entourage over while Noon mopped his brow with a mechanic’s rag and fought to catch his breath while giving Ragnar the lowdown on us, I suppose. Most of the guys to the right and left wore sidearms, and a few had AKs cradled in their arms.

When Noon ran down, Grafton introduced himself and me. Noon translated.

I lowered the bag to the floor and held it upright with my left hand. I could see some of the pirates eyeing that Kimber in my belt. I ignored them and watched Ragnar.

He introduced his sons and a couple of his lieutenants. Skinny, medium-sized guys, the Somali body type I had come to expect. None of these people got enough food when they were growing up, regardless of who their daddies were.

“I have come on behalf of the ship owners and insurers, and the governments involved, to negotiate a release of the ship Sultan of the Seas, and its passengers and crew.”

Ragnar set his jaw and jabbered awhile. Noon said, “Ragnar says the ransom amounts and time deadlines are nonnegotiable. If you have come to arrange payment, you are welcome. If you have come to try to save yourself some money, you waste everyone’s time.”

Grafton didn’t blink. “I have authorization to arrange to pay one hundred million. Nothing else. For the ship and crew and passengers. Before I pay that, I will have to talk to the captain, ensure everyone is well and in good health, treated with dignity and respect, given adequate food and water.”

Ragnar waved a sheet of paper and made a statement. Noon said, “He says he wants another million each for these eighty-five people. Unless you pay, they will stay behind when the others leave.”

Their positions staked out, they thrust and parried back and forth. After about five minutes, when Ragnar was obviously beginning to lose his temper, Jake Grafton suggested a change of course. “If you will let me visit the captain and his crew, and the passengers, I will communicate with my government and tell them of your demands. Perhaps they will change their minds.”

Ragnar was petulant. Negotiating was not one of his skill sets. He was accustomed to giving orders and watching people jump.

Jake Grafton was old Mr. Smooth. “As proof of my government’s serious purpose, and as a sign of respect for Sheikh Ragnar, I have brought with me a gift for him. Tommy?”

I picked up the bag with my left hand and took a step up beside him. One of Ragnar’s boys stepped forward eagerly as Noon talked, so I tossed the bag at him with my left hand. He put both hands up to catch it, and was unprepared for the weight. He lost his balance and fell. He gave me a murderous look while his pards beamed and Ragnar laughed. Grafton pulled a key from a pocket and passed it over.

The kid unlocked the padlock and spread the top of the bag. He reached in and pulled out bundles of money.

“I have brought the sheikh a gift from my government of one million American dollars as a sign of our good faith.”

Ragnar looked at the bills, dug out a handful for himself, smiled and gave orders. We were going to see the prisoners.

Noon led us out. I got a glimpse of the woman sitting in the corner. Her eyes followed me, but her face was expressionless.

* * *

Aboard the grounded Greek freighter, Lieutenant Bullet Bob Quinn and his men made an interesting discovery. The ship contained several demolition charges set to blow holes in her bottom, and to set her on fire. She still contained a reasonable quantity of fuel oil, perhaps eight hundred or so tons, and the charges were laid to breach the tanks and ignite the oil.

Quinn and his men quickly determined that the charges were radio controlled, and soon had disassembled the devices by removing the wires from the batteries to the fuses. The bombs were now inert. Quinn turned on his encrypted radio and reported his discoveries to Chosin Reservoir .

“Tonight,” the controller said in a few minutes, “could you and one or two of your men swim over to Sultan and board her? If that ship you are on is wired to go, Sultan might be, too.”

“At dark,” Quinn agreed.

He and his men sat on the bridge with binoculars and studied the Sultan. The pilot port was open, and the anchor chain looked inviting.