Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

As the SEALS topped the stairs, they saw Yousef el-Din viciously kicking the boy lying in the rubble, and cursing him and his ancestors. The SEALs swarmed them both, immobilized them in seconds with plastic ties and confiscated the radio controllers.

Outside the shooting was dying down. A burst or two now and then, and silence for long seconds. Then nothing.

In the fortress, people began cheering as the shooting trickled off. When the night was silent they filled the old stone fortress with shouts of joy and cheering.

* * *

One of the SEALS found Grafton and me in the basement, ready for anything. The generator was still snoring, the light was on, and the wet-suit-clad man with a submachine gun looked like an apparition from the black lagoon. Still, he was the best sight I had seen in years. I almost kissed him while he tried to salute Jake Grafton.

“Admiral Grafton, Admiral Tarkington’s compliments, sir. He said we would find you and Mr. Carmellini in the basement.”

Even though he wasn’t in uniform, Grafton saluted him back. “The fortress? The hostages?”

“They’re okay, sir. The building is still standing. The Royal Marines secured it.”

Grafton got a sappy grin on his face, grabbed the SEAL, who was built like a middleweight prizefighter, and gave him a hug that nearly crushed him.

We went up the stairs, through the lobby, and walked out onto the plaza. The stench of burning trucks and tires almost gagged me. We were just in time to hear the swelling of jet engines passing overhead.

“Globemasters,” he said by way of explanation. “C-17s. We’re flying the hostages out of here.”

Even as he spoke, two choppers with landing lights ablaze were landing on the roof of the fortress to pick up people and transport them to the airport. They settled in like birds on their nests. Over the water were other choppers, all with their external lights shining brightly and landing lights stabbing the darkness.

Grafton was soon surrounded by officers, SEALs and marines. The senior marine was Colonel Zakhem. He saluted, and Jake Grafton grabbed his hand and wouldn’t let go. Kept pumping it.

I wandered off and found a place to sit. My leg was throbbing and I felt drained. Exhausted.

I looked at my watch. Only nine thirty. The whole damn thing hadn’t taken an hour.

* * *

The arrival of the choppers, the news that they were leaving tonight, now, flying home, reduced many of the hostages to tears. Suzanne and Irene cried and laughed at the same time and hugged each other fiercely, then started hugging everyone in sight.

The Sultan ’s crew began herding passengers up the stairs to the roof in groups of twelve or so. There they were led to the idling choppers and helped aboard. When the chopper crew made a sign, the passengers backed away to wait for the next one, which was hovering nearby. The loaded chopper lifted off and the next one landed.

Two marine armored personnel carriers pulled up to the door, and the Royal Marines led people out. Someone suggested the women leave first, but Arch Penney nixed that. Families, he said. Keep the families together. So they went in couples, usually holding hands, carrying what little they had. Some were sobbing, all were joyously happy.

Arch Penney stood with the Royal Marine lieutenant keeping an eye on the operation, and he wore a broad smile.

Julie and Marjorie materialized beside him. “Go,” he said. “You two get on the next vehicle. I’ll be along after a while.”

“We’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll see you wherever the planes take us. I have to ensure we get all the crew out of here.”

Julie locked him in a hug, and Marjorie did likewise. And they went.

Penney murmured the names of his passengers, all those he knew, as they walked past. “Mr. Jones, Harriet, Reverend Franklin, Mr. and Mrs. Cohen … Benny. I’m sorry about all this. I’ll get your address from the company and write you when I have time. Thank you for your courage and example.”

Others got the same treatment. Von Platen with his three friends, a farm implement dealer from Iowa, a bookseller from Birmingham, a retired schoolteacher and her companion from Stoke-on-Trent …

Over their heads the helicopters were coming and going. More APCs rolled up, more smiling marines helped people into them …

Arch Penney wiped the tears from his eyes and kept shaking hands.

* * *

Sitting in the plaza made me restless. Everyone was busy except me. I tried my headset. “E.D.?”

No answer. I tried three or four more times, but he didn’t reply. Willis Coffey called from the airport and wanted to tell me all about what had happened out there, but the controller aboard ship shut him up with a curt admonition to keep the net clear.

The shooting seemed to have stopped, but who knew? Anyone could take a potshot at an infidel at any time. I kept my Kimber in my hand and started walking toward the location where I had left E.D.

Found him there. Dead. Chopped up pretty badly by shrapnel. Looked like an RPG warhead to me. The Sako was there, damaged. I scanned about with my penlight. Found six empty.338 Lapua cartridges lying near him in the dirt.

He hadn’t moved from this position after he started shooting. I told him to, but he didn’t.

I picked him up, got the corpse over my shoulder, managed to bend enough to snag the rifle and walked toward the plaza. I wasn’t leaving E.D. in Somalia. We could bury him back in the States.

I laid the body in the plaza. Had blood all over me, and I didn’t give a good goddamn. Blood everywhere on everything. My leg screamed.

I sat a while. Some marines came along with a body bag and took E.D.

They were bringing the prisoners in trucks. Marched them into the building. Other marines were carrying in armloads of weapons. Machine guns, AKs, RPG-7 launchers and bags of warheads.

I don’t know how many prisoners they put in there-at least fifty, maybe seventy-five. More or less. I wasn’t counting, and I don’t guess anyone else was.

The two Mossad agents showed up with one, a guy who had been shot through the lower body sideways, it looked like. He was obviously bleeding from a torso wound. The two Israeli agents were supporting his weight, but his feet were dragging along. So they had found the Palestinian bomber, al-Gaza.

They dragged the guy into the building.

One of the marines, a sergeant with lots of stripes, checked the prisoners as they were led out of the truck, or carried out. Some of them were bleeding from horrific wounds. I saw him pick out a few, and they were loaded into another truck.

Curious, I walked over. “You’re letting these guys go?”

“Kids. Got one who weighed sixty pounds and was just five feet tall.”

As I was standing there I saw a woman with an AK approach one of the vehicles. She came out from behind a pickup. How long she had been there I don’t know. A group of prisoners was being herded toward the building.

The marines tensed.

“Stand easy, men,” the sergeant said in his parade-ground voice, not shouting, but with a voice that cut through the noise.

The woman was perhaps middle-aged. She didn’t hesitate or break stride. She was staring at one Somali. She stopped about fifteen feet from him, lifted the AK and gave him a burst in the gut. Two Marines swung their weapons, ready to kill her, but the sergeant roared, “No.”

He walked slowly over to the woman, held out his hand, and she handed him the rifle. Then she turned and walked away, back toward the huts that comprised the town.

“What was that all about, Gunny?” one of the marines asked.

“God only knows,” the gunnery sergeant said. “Maybe he killed her man. Or raped her. Or raped her daughter. She figured he earned it. You people pick him up and carry him inside.”