David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

The interrogator seemed to be losing his patience. There was a smacking sound and the captain let out a wail. The man in charge barked out a few orders in a language that Rafiq didn’t recognize.

He pictured a map in his mind and where the ship would be after — how many days had he been out of it? Two? Three? The answer bloomed in his mind.

Somalia. They were being hijacked by Somali pirates.

A mixture of rage and adrenaline coursed through him. The dull ache in his stomach went away, the feeling of deadness in his limbs evaporated, and the fogginess in his mind was pierced by a sharp white light. He stood up straight.

“ Psst . Boss.” Jamil’s head poked up from the stairwell.

Rafiq crept closer to him.

“Five pirates. Three on the bridge, two searching the ship,” Jamil whispered.

“The cargo is safe?”

Jamil’s stoic face offered up a faint smile. “Farid’s on watch.”

Rafiq chewed his lip. “You take out the roamers — quietly. Then give me a distraction. I’ll handle the bridge.”

Jamil nodded and his head disappeared back down the ladder. The man was efficient, Rafiq had to give him that much. Within three minutes, Rafiq heard the rattle of muffled automatic weapons fire. It was a long blast, undisciplined. Jamil was putting on a show.

Cries of surprise came from the bridge as Rafiq shouldered open the flimsy door. The muzzle of his AK-47 found the first pirate, a rail-thin man with wild hair and a wisp of a goatee. One short blast and the man went down.

The Malay captain and his two mates were on their knees in front of the large round wheel they used to steer the ship. The man who stood over them looked up at Rafiq’s entrance, his mouth open. Rafiq took two steps forward and smashed the butt of the rifle into the man’s face. He collapsed to the deck.

Rafiq could sense the other pirate turning toward him, the man’s weapon coming to bear. The pirate was a half-second ahead of Rafiq, so he dove to the floor behind the chart table. A stream of bullets ripped through the stack of charts, and strips of paper floated in the air like confetti.

Rafiq’s ears rang as silence settled over the bridge. The Malay captain’s hand reached across the space to grip Rafiq’s arm. His lip was mashed into a pulp and he seemed to have even fewer teeth than before. “Bastard pirates. You kill! You kill them!”

Rafiq licked his lips and stroked the stock of his AK-47.

“You come out now. I’ll not hurt you! We just want to leave,” the remaining pirate called.

“Okay, I’m coming out. Unarmed.” Rafiq stood, his arms raised.

The pirate was no more than a boy, really. His hair was cropped close to his head and he didn’t even have a beard. He held the AK-47 in an awkward manner, halfway between his shoulder and his hip, but the muzzle was aimed at Rafiq.

“He’s my father. Let me leave with him and we’ll be gone.”

“You speak English well, boy.”

“I’ve been to school.”

“Why are you doing this?”

The muzzle of the boy’s weapon wavered. “My father owes a debt to a warlord. He’s paying it off with ransom money.”

Rafiq kept his eyes on the boy’s face, but he saw the shadows shift on the wing of the bridge. “Tough way to make a living.”

The boy swallowed hard, and the muzzle of the rifle drooped a little more. He opened his mouth to reply, but he never got the words out — his face exploded in a mass of red that painted the bridge. When the boy’s body fell, Jamil stood behind him, grinning at Rafiq.

“Nooo!” The scream came from behind him.

Rafiq sensed rather than saw the flash of a knife deep in his peripheral vision on his right side. He brought his arm up to block the cut and felt the blade bite deep into the flesh of his bicep. He clamped his hand down on the hilt of the blade so the man could not get another cut. When Rafiq head-butted him, his forehead sank into the mushy wetness of an already-broken nose. The man fell back to the floor, crying.

Rafiq pulled the knife out and clamped his hand over the cut. It was deep, but his arm still worked. His flesh would heal; his pride, not so much. He could feel Jamil’s disapproving eyes on him. Rafiq should have killed the man while he’d had the chance. Dead men don’t fight back.

The captain stood and began kicking the pirate, his sandaled feet making wet smacking sounds against the man’s flesh. Rafiq pulled him back and motioned for Jamil to take the radio from the man. They needed to make sure they took care of the pirates’ boat. No loose ends.

Rafiq knelt down next to the lead pirate. “Listen to me. I don’t want any more killing. Call your boat in, and I’ll set you free.”

The man looked up at him, his eyes streaming with tears, his nose a squashed mass of red blood and snot. The eyes registered comprehension, hope. “You let me go?”

Rafiq nodded and handed him the radio. The Malay captain screeched, but Rafiq pressed him back against the chart table. He palmed the handgun from his belt and pressed the muzzle against the captain’s stringy neck. “You will stay out of this, Captain. You’ll be paid for your cooperation.”

The captain’s yellow eyes grew wide. He nodded and his shoulder relaxed in Rafiq’s grip.

Rafiq turned back to the Somali and offered him a hand up. The man stood slowly. He was older than Rafiq had first thought, his head covered with thinning gray nap and his face lined with wrinkles. He handed the radio to the pirate. “Make the call.”

The man walked out to the port wing of the bridge, stepping over the body of the first pirate Rafiq had shot. Jamil covered his movements with his rifle. Rafiq could hear the Somali talking on the radio. He waved his arm, and the radio squawked in reply. “They come,” he said, reentering the bridge.

He limped to the far side of the room where the body of his son lay. He looked at Rafiq. “I take him with me?”

Rafiq shrugged and motioned for the two Malay crewmen to carry the body down to the main deck. The men grumbled, but did as they were told.

The Somali pirates’ transportation came along the port side of the Lumba . Rafiq had ordered the captain to go dead in the water, and the freighter rocked gently in the light swell. The motion didn’t bother Rafiq. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

But first he needed to conclude this business.

The pirate boat was a large open craft, some sort of fishing vessel, Rafiq guessed, with an immense motor attached to the back. One of the Malay deckhands threw a rope ladder over the side as the boat bumped against the hull. The outboard motor idled into a slow burble.

The pirate leader stopped at the rope ladder. “I need some help to get my son’s body into the boat.”

Rafiq stepped forward. “Allow me, sir.” He gripped the boy’s shirt in his hand and heaved the body over the side. It made a splash as it hit the water.

The pirate’s eyes widened. “You said you would let me go.”

“No, I said I would set you free.” Rafiq kicked the pirate in the chest and the man fell over the side. Rafiq turned to Jamil. “Take care of the boat. I’m hungry.”

Jamil leaned over the railing, spraying the pirate’s boat with bullets, ripping holes in the hull. The pilot slumped to the floor of the boat, bloody water washing over his ankles. The boat began to drift away as it slowly filled with seawater, the outboard engine chortling in a low rumble. Jamil loaded the grenade launcher on his weapon.

It took three grenades to sink the pirate boat, but it was good practice for Jamil.

The Malay captain whistled to get Rafiq’s attention, then pointed at the furthest dock. Rafiq nodded, and lifted his hand to shade his eyes. A few dock hands lounged along the pier, dark-skinned men dressed in ratty T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops.