Dana Stabenow - Blindfold Game

Sara watched them labor up a wave and disappear into a trough. She looked up at the sky. They’d planned the boarding for this hour specifically, that hour between darkness and dawn when the light played tricks on the mind and at least for a few moments no one could be absolutely sure of what they were seeing.

“I wanted to go with them,” Chief Edelen said from beside her.

“So did I,” she said, and went to stand in front of the captain’s chair. She still couldn’t bring herself to sit in it. She wanted to pace but it would drive everyone crazy, so she refrained.

She couldn’t help following along in the inflatable in her imagination. Were they shipping water? Had they come up on the freighter yet? What if someone saw the grapnel come up over the taffrail and hook on? What if the stern was too high for climbing and Hugh couldn’t get up and over? It wasn’t like he was a field agent; he was an analyst. He wasn’t trained in boarding hostile vessels in the open ocean from a small boat that wouldn’t stay still underfoot.

What if the Star of Bali had had icing problems, too? What if the hook wouldn’t hold? What if the motion of the ship caused Hugh to lose his grip and he fell in?

What if the freighter sank? Would the Scud go off underwater? If it did, what kind of damage would it do? How long before they would know?

Was Hugh seasick yet?

THEY WERE OUT OFthe container and on deck. It was daybreak, and the sky was going from a dour black to a sullen gray. They were rolling hard enough to ship occasional water over the sides, which led Fang to believe that the engine had yet to regain full power, because it was obvious that either the storm had run its course or they had gained shelter in the lee of whatever land they were approaching. The spray was freezing on contact into a pearlescent sheen over every exposed surface, a sight that frightened Fang right down to his marrow. He nudged Smith in the small of the back and pointed at the ice. “Let’s go!”

Smith looked at the ice and appeared to understand, because he moved out.

They were careful, but there wasn’t much need for it. The first crewman they encountered went down without a sound, blood bubbling out of his mouth and chest from Fang’s knife. The second crewman, one of the junior officers if the markings on his shirt were correct, backed away with his hands upraised, but he, too, went down.

Fang motioned to Soo to heave the bodies overboard and followed Smith. They swarmed up the outside ladders to the bridge to surprise the officer on watch with his feet up on the instrument panel, admiring the proportions of this month’s Playboy Playmate. They burst in and he looked up, gaping. He reached for what later proved to be a radio, and Fang shot him. He spun out of the chair and fell on the floor, his eyes wide and surprised beneath the bullet hole in his forehead.

“No,” the helmsman said, backing away, “no, no.” He tripped and fell and Fang’s bullet caught his arm on the way down. “No, no,” he said as he tried to scrabble out of the way. Fang shot him again, this time in the chest. He tried to speak and couldn’t.

Fang wedged a foot beneath his body and flipped him over for a swift search of his pockets. He found a wad of cash inside a wallet otherwise filled with pictures of a young Filipino woman and several toothy children of various ages. The officer was wearing a very nice watch. Fang took that, too. When he was done, he hauled the helmsman out of the bridge and onto the catwalk. “No, no,” the man said faintly, as Fang tipped him into the sea. The officer’s body followed.

The rest of the crew were either in their bunks or at breakfast in the mess and were easily cowed into submission by the automatic weapons the pirates held. The captain, surprised in the shower, was inclined to put up a fight and was clubbed into unconsciousness with a rifle butt, after which he followed the officer on the bridge over the side. It silenced the rest of the crew, as if they imagined that keeping quiet would save their lives. It didn’t.

Fang took over the bridge, sending Liet, his second in command and his best engineer, to the engine room. A while later a phone rang on the bridge. It was Liet, reporting that while all the moving parts were at a stage that could only be described as geriatric they were, in fact, still moving and it looked as if they would continue to do so. Liet, a Thai with almost uncanny intuitions about the internal combustion engine, was completely to be trusted, and Fang breathed a sigh of relief.

His relief was tempered by the southeastern horizon, which was looking very black. The horizon was backed up by the barometer, which was dropping like a rock.

“The AIS,” Smith said, and Fang found it and disabled it.

“Steer this course,” Smith said, handing him a piece of paper.

Fang looked at it and raised his eyebrows. “North?” he said. He looked up and peered at the horizon. “That’s right into that bay.” He realized something else. “Hey. Where’s Jones? Where are the rest of the men?”

“Steer that course,” Smith said. “Watch him,” he said to one of his men.

“What for?” Fang said. “And where’s the rest of my men?”

Smith left without answering. The man remaining behind kept his rifle pointed in Fang’s general direction.

Fang stood at the wheel for a few moments, getting the feel of the ship. The pitch seemed to him to be heavier than it ought to have been, given the height of the waves. He looked out on deck, over the rows of neatly stacked and lashed containers. The gray dawn revealed the topless container they had ridden in, and Smith and his men pulling back the canvas top of the container next to it.

He looked around for Catalino, one of his own men who had also remained behind. “Find me a cargo manifest.”

Catalino, an Abu Sayyaf guerrilla from the southern Philippines who in a shockingly procapitalist gesture had abandoned the fight for freedom for the acquisition of personal wealth without a backward look when Fang recruited him, was back in less than ten minutes with a clipboard and some new blood spatters down the front of his jacket.

The manifest showed the containers to be filled with drilling equipment bound for the port of Seward, Alaska, and a hold full of Chinese steel bound for Seattle. Fang put the manifest down and looked out the window again. He had a sinking feeling that the container Smith was busy with didn’t have drilling equipment inside it.

He headed for the door to the ladder down and was stopped by Smith’s man.

“Let me by,” Fang said angrily.

The man watched him out of expressionless eyes, said nothing, and didn’t move.

Fang headed for the starboard door and the mercenary was there before him. This time the mercenary deigned to speak. “No,” he said.

Fang had set his rifle next to the wheel, and he eyed it now, wondering if he could get to it, click off the safety, aim, and fire before the mercenary shot him.

“No,” said the mercenary, who was evidently also a mind reader.

“What the hell is going on here?” Fang said. “What’s in that container?”

The mercenary said, “No.” He motioned again with the rifle. Fang looked at Catalino.

Smith’s man fired. Catalino’s weapon clattered to the floor and a second later Catalino’s body followed it.

Smith’s man motioned with the rifle again, and this time Fang returned to the helm.

IN THE INFLATABLE, HUGHwas too terrified to be seasick. The walls of water surrounding the small boat were so high he could barely see the sky, and the boarding team was so packed in and so bristling with weapons that even if he was sick he wouldn’t have been able to do anything but puke down the front of his Mustang suit. The coxswain was a square-shouldered young man with a large flat brown mole on his left cheek. He had his teeth bared in what looked more like a snarl than a grin, and his hands on the controls were quick and deft.