Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

The shards of war were scattered all over. Burned-out pickups, bodies, pieces of bodies, crap from the face of the building, glass all over, spent cartridges … Even with the breeze, I could smell cooked meat. A couple of women were examining the bodies. Maybe looking for their men. Or sons. Nora Neidlinger was upstairs carving on Sheikh Ragnar, the terror of the Somali coast.

Here came the television people with flashlights, picking their way through the trash, absolutely certain no one would ever want to shoot them. Poor deluded fools. Cameramen, reporters, engineers toting gear … Donatelli looked tired and a little the worse for wear. One-star accommodations can wear you down. Still cute, though.

The group came toward me and obviously intended to enter the building. I stopped them. “Don’t go in there. Off-limits to the press.”

“That’s the best vantage point for filming,” Ricardo explained, pointing upward toward the penthouse. “Great background. Anyway, we want to interview Ragnar. He’s still in there, isn’t he?”

“I am not his press secretary. He has other people for that. But I doubt if he wants to talk to you. Beat it.”

That got them.

“Who are you, anyway?” the BBC man demanded.

“Nancy Pelosi. How do you like my disguise? No one is supposed to know I’m here.”

“Don’t you understand? We’re the press! The whole world wants to know what is happening.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re the pope’s eldest son. Take your act and git. Go interview a corpse.” I waved the Kimber around.

They went, carrying their gear, threading their way through the remnants of the pickups and bodies and pieces of everything, some of it bloody. They hiked off toward the fortress. If they knew about the trench bomb, they were the pride of their networks. I doubted if they did. Ricardo hadn’t impressed me as that kind of guy.

* * *

I was sitting in the doorway with my back to the pillar watching the sky brighten to the east when the drone controller announced that apparently the Shabab had won and were boarding pickups. They would be here in short order, he said. I looked at my watch. Almost 5:30 A.M.

I hiked back up the stairs to collect Nora Neidlinger. Met the two Mossad guys coming down. Each of them was carrying a couple of those Communist claymores. Souvenirs.

I found Nora sitting in a chair in the main room calmly smoking a cigarette. She had bloodstains to her elbows and on the front of her blouse. Lots of blood. The remains of Sheikh Ragnar were there on the floor, still trussed up. I tried not to look.

“Come on. Some bad guys are coming and we gotta get you outta here.”

She was in no hurry.

“I mean now. Unless you want to let the holy warriors rape you to death.”

She picked up her purse, stood and headed for the stairway. She didn’t even glance at Ragnar.

“I’ll need my knife.”

She jerked her head back toward the chair and kept going. I found the knife on the floor. Used a wad of currency to wipe as much of the blood and gore off the knife as possible-taking care not to look at Ragnar-put it in its sheath, threw the bloody money on the floor and followed her down the stairs.

Jake Grafton was waiting when I came out of the building. He had one of the pickups. Ben and his buddy were sitting in the bed, one on either side of Mohammed Atom, whose wrists were held together with a plastic tie. Grafton took a look at Nora and then at me. Didn’t ask any questions.

“Get her in the surf,” he said. “Wash her off.”

I took her elbow and walked her toward the ocean. We passed a couple of SEALs lying on the beach. They were wearing those black wet suits and were difficult to see until I almost stepped on them. If Nora saw the SEALs, she paid no attention. We passed them by, walked into the water to our knees. It was warm, wet and black, with rollers flopping on the beach and running back into the sea.

She handed me her purse, then took off her blouse and began handwashing it in saltwater. Dark as it was, I couldn’t see any blood. She scrubbed her hands and arms and shoulders slowly, as if she were washing up after a tennis workout. She was calm. Dead calm. I was worried about her. Wondered if she’d crack.

I suppose I should have been horrified about what she did to Ragnar, but I wasn’t. If she hadn’t been in that penthouse, I would have shot him. Good-bye, and bang. Can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Hell, all these pirates deserved it. Arch Penney would swear to that. One of the great philosophical issues of our time is why so few people get what they deserve. Good or bad.

Grafton was waiting for me when we walked off the beach. He was standing beside the pickup. The Israelis were not in sight. Grafton’s headset was draped around his neck. He must have had a dozen questions for me and Neidlinger, but he didn’t bother. One of the lessons he had undoubtedly picked up somewhere along the trail was that you can’t testify about things you don’t know about. It was a thing to remember.

“The Shabab will be here in five minutes,” he said. “I’ll stay to meet them. Tommy, you get Ms. Neidlinger up to the fort. Get her some food and a place to lie down.”

“Too bad we can’t gun them and waltz our people out of here.”

“Too many of them, and the planes won’t be here until tomorrow evening. Getting the radio controls to that trench bomb was the best we could do tonight. And eliminate some of the opposition.”

“What about that ship full of fertilizer, the Susan B. Grant ? If she explodes-”

“She won’t. The SEALs blew a dozen holes in the side of the ship while the battle was going on. The seawater will ruin the fertilizer. Ship’s still there, of course-can’t sink, since she’s already resting on the bottom.”

“What about-”

“No time. Hustle out of here and get that leg looked at.”

I went. Got Nora to march. We got into solid darkness and walked as fast as my leg would allow. The wound was bleeding again. We were climbing the hill when a dozen or so pickups rolled into the plaza, one after another, and braked to a stop. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Grafton wandering over to the first one. I quit watching and climbed on up the hill, steering Nora along.

* * *

Yousef el-Din watched as armed men from the pickups behind him piled out and ran for Ragnar’s lair. Others set up a perimeter. Men at the machine guns mounted in the bed of every truck kept their weapons moving as they searched for targets. The vehicle headlights lit up the plaza as if it were a baseball field.

More pickups rolled through the plaza and took the road to the fortress. The bed of each contained eight to ten men, all armed, all hanging on tightly as they bumped and rattled up the dirt road.

Jake Grafton stood watching with professional interest. Any ambushing force could have decimated the column as it drove up. Yousef had a lot to learn, if he lived long enough. On the other hand, he obviously knew more about ground combat than the pirates-he was still alive.

El-Din climbed from the passenger seat of the lead pickup and was instantly surrounded by a small retinue of armed bodyguards. They kept their AKs at the ready.

Grafton stood with his arms folded. El-Din strolled over, in no hurry.

“Your men made short work of these pirates,” Grafton remarked, looking around. One of el-Din’s aides translated.

The bearded terrorist sneered. “Where are your men?”

“Not here. We used drones for this.”

The word “drone” threw the translator.

“Little unmanned airplanes. They carry weapons.” Grafton pointed toward the sky.

“Are they up there now?”

“Of course.”

From his pocket Yousef el-Din produced an object. He displayed it to Grafton, who recognized it. It was a modified garage door opener. Yousef talked, and the translator jumped in without waiting for a pause.