Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

Ten feet of water was plenty for the SEALs. Five of them swam in after darkness had fallen and used grappling hooks to scale the seaward side of Susan B. Grant . Once aboard, they began inspecting the ship, searching for pirates and weapons and anything else that looked interesting.

Petty Officer First Class Doggy Reed was the senior man, and he kept Chosin Reservoir Ops appraised of his progress. Thirty minutes after he and his mates had boarded, he was convinced that the SEALs were the only people aboard. They went into the hold and began testing the cargo. It was fertilizer, all right, with a lot of ammonium nitrate mixed in. A few simple chemical tests proved that.

The bad news was that hundreds of tons appeared to be missing. The stuff had apparently been shoveled out by hand; mounds of it were strewn about the weather deck. Not to worry, however; at least five thousand tons remained aboard in the holds.

Someone had squirted a large quantity of diesel fuel from the ship’s bunkers into the fertilizer, perhaps a hundred tons of it, and the fuel had been absorbed by the fertilizer, discoloring it and giving it a distinctive petroleum odor.

The people who had rigged this crude bomb then placed five explosive charges to ignite it, charges that would be triggered by a radio signal. The radio receiver was there, the trigger mechanism, batteries, a capacitor and the explosive charges, the detonators, to ignite the whole mess.

Simple, crude and effective, Doggy Reed concluded, and relayed that opinion over the radio to the ship.

The SEALs then set about taking the pirates’ radio receiver and controller out of the system. They merely unhooked the wires and carried the radio unit topside.

While his men finished the work, Doggy Reed went out on deck for a careful squint at the fort. Just for kicks, he used a laser range finder to establish the exact distance that separated the ship and fort. Three hundred twelve yards.

Oh boy. If the AN in the ship’s hold exploded, the blast would probably collapse the nearest walls of the fort, which would bring the ceiling down and bury anyone inside.

Reed turned his night-vision goggles toward the town of Eyl, which lay about a mile away. The explosion might well flatten Eyl, too.

It would take a callous man to set off this bomb, Reed decided. He wondered who had rigged it, the pirates or the Shabab?

Five thousand tons of ammonium nitrate. God almighty!

His next thought followed that one. Had his team found all the original radio triggers? If they missed even one …

* * *

Aboard Sultan of the Seas, Mike Rosen was getting frustrated. His ship had swung enough on the tide that he had a quartering view of the Eyl plaza from his stateroom. He saw the television reporting teams’ lights, and the bonfire, and knew in his bones that something important was happening. Unfortunately, High Noon hadn’t been aboard all afternoon to escort him to the e-com center, so he had missed his evening Internet fix. He also hadn’t had anything to eat since he gobbled some stale bread this morning, and he was hungry.

It was Tuesday night. The pirates’ deadline wasn’t until Friday noon, but there must be news on the Internet, maybe even e-mails from the newsroom of his radio station, about whether someone was going to pay the ransom. Or talk Ragnar into joining civilization.

He went to the door of his stateroom, unlocked it and jerked it open. His guard was squatting in the passageway, two doors down, taking a shit. Making progress, too.

Revulsion swept over him. Rosen slammed the door shut and locked it. Stalked back through the stateroom, around the bed, to the French door. Opened it and went out onto the little balcony.

No one in sight on the other balconies, no heads visible on deck above him …

Rosen made an instant decision. He leaned out to the next balcony rail, grasped it and scrambled over. The stateroom was empty. So was the next one, and the next.

Getting more comfortable now, he stood on the rail, grasped the stanchions of the balcony above and managed to haul himself up. He did it one more time, so he was on the same deck as the e-com center. He tried the French door on this stateroom. Unlocked. It slid right open. No lights except the emergency EXIT sign over the door and the faint glow of Eyl coming through the glass. He unlocked the door to the passageway and eased it open just enough to allow him to take a look aft. The passageway was lit by low-level emergency fixtures mounted near the floor. Empty. Another look forward. Also empty.

Listening carefully, hearing nothing, for at least a minute, Rosen looked around for a way to block open the door, since it would lock when it was closed. He stepped into the dark bathroom, got a towel and used a corner of it as a doorstop.

Listened another few seconds, screwed up his courage and stepped into the passageway. The door closed to within an inch. He checked the room number, then set off.

Made it to the e-com center without running into anyone.

His computer took its own sweet time booting up, giving Mike a bad moment. What a time for the thing to catch a virus! Boot up it did, though, and in seconds he was on the Internet.

He tried to get some news video from the reporters in Eyl, giving up after the computer stalled on each of several attempts. Not enough bandwidth.

Checked the KOA Radio Web site. Yep, plenty of news there, along with his picture and some of his e-mails reporting from the Sultan. Management was playing their access to Ragnar, through Rosen, for all it was worth.

Wire service reports were more current. The government was coordinating negotiating efforts. The ship’s insurance company had agreed to pay what it could. The government had sent a negotiator, not named, to treat with Ragnar. The governments involved had pledged to do everything possible to ensure the safe return of the hostages. There were lengthy quotes from bigwigs: secretary of state, defense secretary, foreign secretary of the U.K. government, the foreign minister of France, some Saudi prince …

Rosen read it all.

Well, he thought, at least the politicians were reacting to the spotlight of public opinion.

Finally he tackled his e-mails. His producer was begging for all the info he could send. His ex-wives were worried, his kids were worried, his mom was worried, his brother was worried. His stand-in host for his morning talk show while he was abroad was also worried, but happy. “You’re going to be famous,” he said. “Someone will hire you away and I’ll inherit your time slot.”

Sure enough, there was an e-mail from his agent, who said he had fielded inquiries about Mike’s contract from two networks, who were talking about an hour cable television show five days a week.

Mike Rosen turned off the computer and sat in the dark thinking about the situation. About the crewmen and passengers the pirates killed. About the semideserted ship. About how hungry he was. About the guard taking a dump in the hallway. About High Noon and his gin bottles. About scavengers rooting though cabins and storerooms. About starving Somalis. About pirates!

Aauugh!

His ruminations were interrupted by his stomach growling. He stood, looked out the window at the old fortress. The light seeping out the gun ports made tiny squares in the evening gloom.

He thought about taking his computer with him, then recalled the scramble along the balconies and left it on the table.

Listening, carefully looking around corners, Rosen made his way to the forward stairwell and went down it one deck to the dining room. It appeared empty, but in the semidarkness of the emergency lighting, he wasn’t sure. Moving as quietly and stealthily as possible, he sneaked into the room and headed for the kitchen.