Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

He had almost made it when he tripped on something.

Caught himself. Looked hard … and realized he was looking at a body. A pirate, by the look of his dark pullover shirt and trousers and sandals. A pool of blood by his throat. His head was tilted back at an unnatural angle, his arms and legs akimbo. No weapons visible.

Rosen stood frozen, with only his eyes moving. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his collar. His armpits were wet, his legs trembling. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

For the first time he was aware of noises. Little noises, random, of mechanical things. Little clicks and creaks and groans. And movement. Almost imperceptible, but definitely there, a gentle, rhythmic back-and-forth as the ship rode the Indian Ocean swells.

Steeling himself, Rosen stepped over the body and eased into the kitchen. His eyes were adjusted to the low illumination, and he had no trouble seeing that the space was empty of people. Full of stoves and sinks and cold lockers and worktables and pots and pans strewn about … and cans of food … Trying to be quiet, he found bread. Cheese. A knife. Not much of a knife, but a sharp kitchen paring knife, which he pocketed. Some kind of canned spread. It was too dark to read the label, and he had no can opener.

Moving on, he found frozen bags of cooked food, to which he helped himself. It would thaw.

With his arms loaded, he looked for a bag, some way to carry his loot. Found a tray. Well, why not? He’d never get it over those balconies, but he could store the food in the stateroom he had exited from and nibble on it from time to time.

When he turned to go he got another shock. A man was standing in the kitchen doorway looking at him. A man all in black. Wearing some kind of goggles and headset. Carrying a weapon on a strap over a shoulder.

Rosen tried to speak, but it came out a croak.

“You crew or passenger?” the guy asked conversationally. American accent.

“Passenger.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Getting something to eat.”

A chuckle. “Got a name?”

“Mike Rosen.”

“Ah, yes. They said you might be aboard. I’ve read some of your e-mails. Informative. Tell you what. Spread out your staff and have a picnic right there while I keep watch. I think we’ve got all the bad guys, but I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it.”

Rosen eased his burdens to a worktable. He was acutely aware of the knife in his pocket. The American was talking, apparently on a radio headset. “Okay, I found Rosen. He’s here grazing in the eighth-deck galley … Roger.”

Now Mike could see the man was wearing a black wet suit and had things strapped to him, pockets and such. “You kill that guy behind you?” Mike asked.

“One of my colleagues did, I’m sure. I don’t know which one.”

“Got a name?”

“Duff Finnorn. U.S. Navy. Petty officer.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Eat.”

Finnorn was moving, checking the other entrances to the space.

Mike Rosen sat down and tore off a piece of bread. He stuffed it into his mouth and chewed. Finnorn came back in a few minutes, and they talked as Rosen ate.

Finnorn was a SEAL. Had boarded the ship about an hour ago, just after dark, along with six mates. They were eliminating the pirates.

“Killing them?”

“Or capturing them. Obviously, we can’t take them anywhere, but we put ties on their wrists and hands and put them in a compartment, which we lock. Maybe they’ll get rescued by their mates one of these days. Or they won’t.”

Finnorn spoke again into his headset. Rosen was drinking room-temperature tea from a quart container when two more SEALs came in. They ignored him and spoke to Finnorn.

“We’ve got them all, we think. Five dead, four locked up. Joe and Walt are checking the machinery spaces. Two Brits down there. The guy guarding them didn’t make it. The Brits are coming here for food.”

“I’ll keep Mr. Rosen company for a while.” The other SEALs flipped hands at Mike and strode away, their weapons at the ready.

From somewhere Finnorn produced a flashlight and began rooting in the cupboards and coolers, which were off. The food in there was spoiling. He found a can opener, however, and said, “Eureka. Now we feast. Better look at these cans. Heck, they got marmalade and caviar … How about caviar on crackers?”

Rosen was feeling human again. Americans. SEALs.

“Where you from?”

“Oh, hell, everywhere, I suppose. My dad was in the service and dragged us all over. You?”

“Denver.” Mike swallowed hard. Trying to keep his voice normal, he asked, “You guys gonna get us outta here?”

“Absolutely. No question. Isn’t that what the sports announcers say? Me and a lot of other folks. Let’s not get into that. Sorta a secret. Oh, look! Peanut butter.”

* * *

I was standing on the roof of the old fortress when the two helicopters approached from over the water. Their lights were on, they made lots of noise, and their landing lights were almost too brilliant to look at.

Captain Arch Penney was there beside me, along with the doctor and crewmen helping, half-carrying sick people. Almost two dozen of them sick with diarrhea and vomiting and a few other ills.

Three or four pirates were standing to one side, AKs on their hips, pointed up. They were young and I guess trying to look tough, but they only looked nervous. This was big doings for Eyl, I suppose.

The choppers settled down on the roof, raising a cloud of dirt and grit, and men sprang out with boxes of supplies and drums of liquid. Water. Wouldn’t be enough for all these people, but it would help for a day or so. The water and supplies they stacked out of the way. One of the guys saw me, came over and handed me a radio headset. I put it on and was instantly on the net.

Crew chiefs were giving orders. An officer in blue navy camos, carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder, walked over to where I was standing. He talked to Penney, then began looking at the patients. The doctor, I figured.

The evolution went with little lost motion. When all the supplies were off, the crewmen began carrying the sick people out to the choppers and passing them to people on board.

Captain Penney escorted a woman to a chopper, got her aboard, then came over to where I was standing. “That’s a woman named Dol Bass. Her husband jumped into the ocean and a pirate shot him. She doesn’t need any more of this.”

He made a few more remarks, and I gave him a smile. He looked as if he needed it.

These helicopters weren’t large machines. I am no expert on choppers, but these were armed and had machine guns on them. Sensors sprouted like warts from their chins and sides.

I didn’t think there would be enough room for the two dozen passengers, but the navy guys put them aboard anyway, then scampered aboard themselves. The lead chopper lifted off. More dirt flew around.

The second bird was right behind. They swung out over Eyl, turned and headed out to sea. The noise and lights faded.

I turned my attention to the doctor, who went down the stone stairs into the building with Captain Penney. In just a moment the top of that old place was empty except for me and the pirates.

I went down into the fort to see how things were. The Sultan crewmen were unloading the boxes, which contained MREs. To keep the pirates from getting ideas, I put my radio and headset in my backpack.

Penney pointed out one of the pirates to me. I had seen him with Ragnar and knew he was a big cheese. “Mustafa al-Said,” Penney whispered. “He was the leader of the crew that captured my ship.”

I made sure I would recognize him when I saw him again, then ignored him. He didn’t know it, but he wasn’t going to get much older.