Don Pendleton - Decision Point

FORTY HOURS INTO THE journey, more than halfway there, the sound of booted feet running on the metal deck caught Daniels’s attention. In her experience, sailors didn’t run unless something fairly dire was happening, and unless the weather had suddenly changed, the skies had been clear that morning. She closed her laptop and set it aside before moving to the small porthole that served as a window in her tiny cabin. Three more people ran past, and she turned and moved to the door. Her instinct was to throw it open and rush out to see what was going on, but she had spent enough time in dangerous places to know that caution would serve her better in this situation.

She peered through the porthole in the door and felt her entire body tense as two men with guns ran through the short hallway toward the bow of the boat. Both of them were wearing all-weather coats with a large patch on the back, depicting a great white shark with an eye patch curled tightly around a half skull sitting atop a pile of gold. A shudder of panic ran through her body as she realized that these could only be pirates of some kind. The Bay of Bengal had been a haven for pirate activity for years, and the countries affected appeared unable to do anything serious to curtail it.

Shots rang out and Daniels involuntarily flattened herself against the bulkhead. She needed to hide, and fast, before she was found. Running to her bunk, she grabbed her medical bag and the precious laptop, stuffing it in on top. She quickly slung it over her head, then grabbed a rubber band off the tiny table next to her bunk and pulled her long, brown hair into a ponytail, so it would be out of the way. Her mind raced as she considered ways that she might get off the boat and came up with only one idea. The pounding of footsteps on the metal plating of the deck outside, the shouting of orders and demands, made her heart race.

Daniels ducked low as she moved to the door. She heard more shouting as the pirates began rounding up the few passengers aboard, along with the still-struggling crew. Forcing herself to breathe, she waited for the sounds to move toward the bow, and when they did, she risked one peek through the porthole, then swung open the door. Her only chance was the stern, where an emergency launch boat was stored. She ran for it, trying to keep her steps as light as possible, but her feet contacting the metal rang out like a gong to her ears.

A shot tore through the air in reply to a sudden yell of anger, and Daniels felt her heart stutter in her chest. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw two men lifting a body over the railing. The first mate. She didn’t stop moving, because there was no place to hide, anyway, but the emergency launch was in sight.

She could hear their boots connecting with the deck and ignored the yelling once they spotted her. Daniels could see the boat, but knew she could never get it launched. She ran to the railing and looked down at the water being churned up from the propellers, just as the high-pitched whine of a bullet passed over her shoulders.

“That would not be a wise choice.”

She froze, slowly raising her hands. The low, accented baritone sent a chill up her spine. She turned to see a tall man with a scar across his cheek staring at her. He took a long drag on the cigarette he held. If he wasn’t trying to kill her, she might have thought he was handsome, but the gun pointed at her squashed that flickering thought.

Daniels took a deep breath and tried to remember her father’s advice about panic. “Being scared to death is fine,” he’d once said. “Just don’t let your enemies see it.”

She pushed her shoulders back and stared into the man’s dark brown eyes. “I don’t know, chopped up by a propeller seems a little more merciful than raped and tortured by thugs.”

For almost a full minute he simply looked at her, then a smile touched his lips. “It appears that our catch today is more lucky than we could’ve known. Some days the sea favors the fisherman more than the fish.” He offered an odd little half bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Daniels.”

“You know who I am,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Then you know that harming me would be a disastrous choice on your part. The U.S. doesn’t take kindly to its citizens being kidnapped, especially ones that belonged to the first family.”

“We’re not here to hurt anyone,” he said. “It’s not profitable.”

“Tell that to the guy that was filled with holes and dumped over the rail.”

“An unfortunate necessity. This is not the White House and you will not find anyone waiting for you in the West Wing. Here things are not so easy to discern,” he said, shrugging. He pointed at her shoulder bag. “What are you carrying in your bag?”

“Medical supplies,” she said. “I’m a nurse.”

“Give it to me,” he demanded. When she hesitated, he gestured impatiently with his gun. “Now.”

She handed it over to him and he opened it and removed the laptop. “This is not a medical supply,” he said. Without another word he flung it over the rail and Heather watched it disappear into the water. Part of her heart sank along with it. Two years of missionary work was detailed on that hard drive—her journal chronicling the highs and lows of the life she’d chosen, her joys and her failures, not to mention GPS tracking—all gone in a brief, floating moment.

He finished digging through the bag and then returned it to her. “Come with me,” he said, gesturing with the gun once more. “My name is Daylan Rajan. I’m in charge of this group. I know you Americans like to cause trouble, but if you can manage to behave yourself you will be allowed to wait with the other passengers until we reach a safe harbor.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you will be bound and gagged and tied to the railing where I can keep an eye on you.”

“I guess I’ll go with option one. Where are we going, anyway?” she asked, heading toward the bow where the other missionaries and crew were being held.

“An island that does not welcome outsiders,” he said. “Once we are there, the commander will decide what to do with you.”

She stopped and looked back at him. “You speak fluent English,” she said. “And you don’t dress like a band of raggedy pirates. You’re too organized. Who are you people?”

“We are people that you don’t want to make angry,” he said. “Now move to the front of the boat.”

“You could stop this, you know,” she suggested. “Take the boat and the supplies and just let us go.”

“Supplies are helpful to our cause and we always need more vessels, but hostages are worth far more. And you are worth more than all the other hostages here combined. So you see, I cannot let you go.”

“You can,” she said shortly. “What you mean is that you won’t.”

“As you will,” he said. “Enough talking. Do not make me regret my leniency, now get up front with the others.”

Daniels nodded and kept moving, taking her place by the other hostages who huddled together for the illusion of safety. She watched carefully, trying to remember faces and names, and decided after a time that these were not pirates in any traditional sense. These were soldiers and while many of them were young—some were teenagers—they acted more like military men than the grasping pirates that haunted the waters near Somalia.

The soldiers crewed the boat, while the craft they’d arrived on gave them an armed escort. The hostages were kept up front, under constant armed guard, and only allowed to move around in the small area of the bow. It took the better part of twelve hours for them to reach their destination, a small island with a well-sheltered cove.

Numerous boats were lined up at the docks. Not far inland, she could see several buildings, including what looked like a main house. Most of the buildings were typical for the region, old wood siding with thatched roofs on stilts, but the main house was more modern. Quite large, with sloping rooftops and a large deck on one side. It was on stilts, as well, and Daniels expected that floods were quite common on many of these islands.