Don Pendleton - Dangerous Tides

“They are here,” he said in English, as much to worry the cowering captives as because it was the closest thing his band of thugs had to a common language. Forgetting his minor irritations, he looked out over the men, women and children sitting on the floor of the lounge. Most of them had their heads in their hands as they knelt or sat cross-legged amidst the colorful slot machines and other gambling tables. Tranh smiled a gap-toothed smile, jerking his chin toward a female couple near the middle of the multilevel lounge. Two of his crew hurried to obey, the worn French MAT-49 submachine guns in their hands no less deadly for their age.

They were a motley collection, Tranh and his pirates. The majority were Javanese, castoffs from the coastal scum that Tranh found easily enough when he made port and recruited in the local dives. One was even American, a man named Jones, whom Tranh used for his most brutal tasks. A couple were Indonesians of Chinese descent, and one was Vietnamese like Tranh. They wore ill-fitting and cut-down clothing, a mixture of military surplus fatigues—like the sleeveless camouflage BDU jacket Tranh wore open over his jutting ribs—shorts, combat boots or sandals, and whatever civilian clothing they liberated in raids. Thrust in their belts or worn in mismatched holsters and web gear were the weapons they had accumulated—everything from Kalashnikovs like Tranh’s, to modern and even antique handguns. They had a few M-16s, and a Soviet-made rocket-propelled grenade launcher that, Tranh had been told, had once been the war trophy of Afghani mujahideen.

All but one of his group were men. The woman among them, known only as Merpati, was as vicious a creature as Tranh had ever encountered. It would be wrong to say Tranh’s men passed her around. It was more accurate to say that Merpati chose to go from berth to berth among them, doling out her favors at her whim, drawing her knife on those who offended her or who would not stomach refusal on those rare occasions she offered it. Tranh himself had put mutilated corpses overboard on two occasions, after Merpati’s ill humor claimed the would-be lover of the moment.

The pirates’ backgrounds could not have been more diverse, really, but they had things in common. They were, to a man, killers and cutthroats, criminals wanted for all manner of brutal, miserable crimes. Theirs was almost a club, a gang, their predatory lifestyles joining them in a kinship none of them would have been able to express had they been fully aware of it. Tranh himself was only dimly capable of defining it within his head. It did not matter, ultimately. Only profit, only their continued success, mattered to Tranh. He had taken on this job as much for long-term goals of survival as for the short-term gain of the pay the Russian had offered him. One fed the other. One was the other. It was enough.

Adnan bin Noor chattered something in Malaysian, which Tranh understood well enough. Noor held one of the small walkie-talkies they’d liberated from a small fishing trawler raided months ago. Noor was not happy, and when Tranh heard what he had to say, Tranh was not happy, either.

Jones was not answering.

Tranh had picked Jones for the critical task of guarding the Russian’s tanks because he knew the man was not easily distracted. Jones lived to kill and seemed to take no pleasure in the other distractions Tranh’s crew pursued. He did not drink, to Tranh’s knowledge, and he never took his pleasure with those few women they encountered when raiding vessels.

If Jones was not at his post and not answering his radio, something was probably wrong. And that was bad, for if Tranh was to collect the ransom for the hostages and then fulfill the Russian’s demands in order to get the remaining half of the payment promised, he would have to adhere to the Russian’s timetable.

It was exactly the wrong time for one of the few men on whom Tranh was depending to stop being where he was supposed to be, to stop answering when he was called.

Tranh snatched the radio from Noor. “Jones!” he said. “Jones! Answer!”

He heard nothing but static.

Tranh began barking orders. The hostages sensed the sudden tension in his words and manner, and began to cower, whimper and cry even more. Tranh was tempted to have a few of them pistol-whipped, but he didn’t have time.

He instructed several of his men to take up arms and head to the deck below. They would find Jones and find out what had happened, what had gone wrong. Tranh, in the meantime, would do the only thing he could, and that was stick to the schedule the Russian had given him. He searched the room again for those he had just located.

“You,” he said, moving to stand over two of the captives. One was a blond woman in her forties, the other a brunette female in her twenties. They looked enough alike to be mother and daughter, which in fact they were. According to the pictures and names sent to him by the Russian, their presence confirmed by the passenger manifest, the two were Mrs. Pamela McAfferty and her daughter, Patricia, wife and daughter to Jim McAfferty. McAfferty was, Tranh had been told by the Russian, a “hawk,” whatever that meant, a congressman in the American state of New York.

Tranh did not know or care what the significance of any of that might be; he did not follow politics in any nation, much less the United States. He knew all that was required for his task. The woman and her daughter were family to a government official in the United States, and thus their presence would ensure that the Russian’s message was not ignored. They would also, hopefully, prompt the rich Westerners to pay the ransom he had demanded. The Russian had warned him the ransom was a ruse, a means of lulling their victims into thinking this was a typical hijacking, and that meant there might not be time to have it paid. That was all right. The Russian would compensate Tranh for any losses in that quarter, and so far he had made it clear that he had the money to do so.

It was really that simple. Tranh despised complications and sought to keep things as simple as possible, always.

“We weren’t doing anything, I swear!” The mother looked up at Tranh with tears in her eyes. “Please don’t hurt us! We’ll do what you say!”

“Mom,” the younger woman spoke. “Stop.”

“Yes,” Tranh said, smiling. “Do what the girl says. Your husband. Her father. Jim McAfferty, the government man.” It was not a question, and Tranh’s mediocre English did not diminish the menace in his words. “Yes?”

The mother began sobbing. It was the girl who looked Tranh in the eye, impressing the pirate captain with her mettle. “Yes, my father is Jim McAfferty. You know that already or you wouldn’t have asked.”

Tranh laughed, crumpled the printout of the ship’s manifest and tossed it casually aside. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you right. Wu!”

The Chinese pirate known as Wu, one of the two with a submachine gun trained on the women, stepped forward. He knew his role. Wu had been educated in the West and was fluent in English. He would therefore deliver the written message the Russian had prepared. Wu was easily among the more intelligent members of Tranh’s crew, and could be trusted to do this properly. The Russian had demanded Tranh’s assurances on this, as it was a very important component of the operation. Tranh had no fear of making such guarantees. He had heard Wu drone on in English often enough, about matters that were well above his head. Tranh knew himself just well enough to know that he was not smart. He was cunning. He was ruthless. He was clever. But he had never considered “smart” to be one of his qualities. He did not care, either, so long as he was able to lead his crew and make money.

Of course, also unlike Wu, he was not a child molester and a murderer who had been forced to flee more than one small nation when his habits became known. But such were the paths taken by the floating debris of the world’s people before they came to the docks that Tranh frequented in his recruiting.