He went to the door of his stateroom, unlocked it and jerked it open. His guard was squatting in the passageway, two doors down, taking a shit. Making progress, too.
Revulsion swept over him. Rosen slammed the door shut and locked it. Stalked back through the stateroom, around the bed, to the French door. Opened it and went out onto the little balcony.
No one in sight on the other balconies, no heads visible on deck above him …
Rosen made an instant decision. He leaned out to the next balcony rail, grasped it and scrambled over. The stateroom was empty. So was the next one, and the next.
Getting more comfortable now, he stood on the rail, grasped the stanchions of the balcony above and managed to haul himself up. He did it one more time, so he was on the same deck as the e-com center. He tried the French door on this stateroom. Unlocked. It slid right open. No lights except the emergency
EXIT
sign over the door and the faint glow of Eyl coming through the glass. He unlocked the door to the passageway and eased it open just enough to allow him to take a look aft. The passageway was lit by low-level emergency fixtures mounted near the floor. Empty. Another look forward. Also empty.
Listening carefully, hearing nothing, for at least a minute, Rosen looked around for a way to block open the door, since it would lock when it was closed. He stepped into the dark bathroom, got a towel and used a corner of it as a doorstop.
Listened another few seconds, screwed up his courage and stepped into the passageway. The door closed to within an inch. He checked the room number, then set off.
Made it to the e-com center without running into anyone.
His computer took its own sweet time booting up, giving Mike a bad moment. What a time for the thing to catch a virus! Boot up it did, though, and in seconds he was on the Internet.
He tried to get some news video from the reporters in Eyl, giving up after the computer stalled on each of several attempts. Not enough bandwidth.
Checked the KOA Radio Web site. Yep, plenty of news there, along with his picture and some of his e-mails reporting from the
Sultan.
Management was playing their access to Ragnar, through Rosen, for all it was worth.
Wire service reports were more current. The government was coordinating negotiating efforts. The ship’s insurance company had agreed to pay what it could. The government had sent a negotiator, not named, to treat with Ragnar. The governments involved had pledged to do everything possible to ensure the safe return of the hostages. There were lengthy quotes from bigwigs: secretary of state, defense secretary, foreign secretary of the U.K. government, the foreign minister of France, some Saudi prince …
Rosen read it all.
Well, he thought, at least the politicians were reacting to the spotlight of public opinion.
Finally he tackled his e-mails. His producer was begging for all the info he could send. His ex-wives were worried, his kids were worried, his mom was worried, his brother was worried. His stand-in host for his morning talk show while he was abroad was also worried, but happy. “You’re going to be famous,” he said. “Someone will hire you away and I’ll inherit your time slot.”
Sure enough, there was an e-mail from his agent, who said he had fielded inquiries about Mike’s contract from two networks, who were talking about an hour cable television show five days a week.
Mike Rosen turned off the computer and sat in the dark thinking about the situation. About the crewmen and passengers the pirates killed. About the semideserted ship. About how hungry he was. About the guard taking a dump in the hallway. About High Noon and his gin bottles. About scavengers rooting though cabins and storerooms. About starving Somalis. About pirates!
Aauugh!
His ruminations were interrupted by his stomach growling. He stood, looked out the window at the old fortress. The light seeping out the gun ports made tiny squares in the evening gloom.
He thought about taking his computer with him, then recalled the scramble along the balconies and left it on the table.
Listening, carefully looking around corners, Rosen made his way to the forward stairwell and went down it one deck to the dining room. It appeared empty, but in the semidarkness of the emergency lighting, he wasn’t sure. Moving as quietly and stealthily as possible, he sneaked into the room and headed for the kitchen.
He had almost made it when he tripped on something.
Caught himself. Looked hard … and realized he was looking at a body. A pirate, by the look of his dark pullover shirt and trousers and sandals. A pool of blood by his throat. His head was tilted back at an unnatural angle, his arms and legs akimbo. No weapons visible.
Rosen stood frozen, with only his eyes moving. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his collar. His armpits were wet, his legs trembling. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.
For the first time he was aware of noises. Little noises, random, of mechanical things. Little clicks and creaks and groans. And movement. Almost imperceptible, but definitely there, a gentle, rhythmic back-and-forth as the ship rode the Indian Ocean swells.
Steeling himself, Rosen stepped over the body and eased into the kitchen. His eyes were adjusted to the low illumination, and he had no trouble seeing that the space was empty of people. Full of stoves and sinks and cold lockers and worktables and pots and pans strewn about … and cans of food … Trying to be quiet, he found bread. Cheese. A knife. Not much of a knife, but a sharp kitchen paring knife, which he pocketed. Some kind of canned spread. It was too dark to read the label, and he had no can opener.
Moving on, he found frozen bags of cooked food, to which he helped himself. It would thaw.
With his arms loaded, he looked for a bag, some way to carry his loot. Found a tray. Well, why not? He’d never get it over those balconies, but he could store the food in the stateroom he had exited from and nibble on it from time to time.
When he turned to go he got another shock. A man was standing in the kitchen doorway looking at him. A man all in black. Wearing some kind of goggles and headset. Carrying a weapon on a strap over a shoulder.
Rosen tried to speak, but it came out a croak.
“You crew or passenger?” the guy asked conversationally. American accent.
“Passenger.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting something to eat.”
A chuckle. “Got a name?”
“Mike Rosen.”
“Ah, yes. They said you might be aboard. I’ve read some of your e-mails. Informative. Tell you what. Spread out your staff and have a picnic right there while I keep watch. I think we’ve got all the bad guys, but I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it.”
Rosen eased his burdens to a worktable. He was acutely aware of the knife in his pocket. The American was talking, apparently on a radio headset. “Okay, I found Rosen. He’s here grazing in the eighth-deck galley … Roger.”
Now Mike could see the man was wearing a black wet suit and had things strapped to him, pockets and such. “You kill that guy behind you?” Mike asked.
“One of my colleagues did, I’m sure. I don’t know which one.”
“Got a name?”
“Duff Finnorn. U.S. Navy. Petty officer.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Eat.”
Finnorn was moving, checking the other entrances to the space.
Mike Rosen sat down and tore off a piece of bread. He stuffed it into his mouth and chewed. Finnorn came back in a few minutes, and they talked as Rosen ate.
Finnorn was a SEAL. Had boarded the ship about an hour ago, just after dark, along with six mates. They were eliminating the pirates.
“Killing them?”
“Or capturing them. Obviously, we can’t take them anywhere, but we put ties on their wrists and hands and put them in a compartment, which we lock. Maybe they’ll get rescued by their mates one of these days. Or they won’t.”
Finnorn spoke again into his headset. Rosen was drinking room-temperature tea from a quart container when two more SEALs came in. They ignored him and spoke to Finnorn.
“We’ve got them all, we think. Five dead, four locked up. Joe and Walt are checking the machinery spaces. Two Brits down there. The guy guarding them didn’t make it. The Brits are coming here for food.”
“I’ll keep Mr. Rosen company for a while.” The other SEALs flipped hands at Mike and strode away, their weapons at the ready.
From somewhere Finnorn produced a flashlight and began rooting in the cupboards and coolers, which were off. The food in there was spoiling. He found a can opener, however, and said, “Eureka. Now we feast. Better look at these cans. Heck, they got marmalade and caviar … How about caviar on crackers?”
Rosen was feeling human again. Americans. SEALs.
“Where you from?”
“Oh, hell, everywhere, I suppose. My dad was in the service and dragged us all over. You?”
“Denver.” Mike swallowed hard. Trying to keep his voice normal, he asked, “You guys gonna get us outta here?”
“Absolutely. No question. Isn’t that what the sports announcers say? Me and a lot of other folks. Let’s not get into that. Sorta a secret. Oh, look! Peanut butter.”
* * *
I was standing on the roof of the old fortress when the two helicopters approached from over the water. Their lights were on, they made lots of noise, and their landing lights were almost too brilliant to look at.
Captain Arch Penney was there beside me, along with the doctor and crewmen helping, half-carrying sick people. Almost two dozen of them sick with diarrhea and vomiting and a few other ills.
Three or four pirates were standing to one side, AKs on their hips, pointed up. They were young and I guess trying to look tough, but they only looked nervous. This was big doings for Eyl, I suppose.
The choppers settled down on the roof, raising a cloud of dirt and grit, and men sprang out with boxes of supplies and drums of liquid. Water. Wouldn’t be enough for all these people, but it would help for a day or so. The water and supplies they stacked out of the way. One of the guys saw me, came over and handed me a radio headset. I put it on and was instantly on the net.
Crew chiefs were giving orders. An officer in blue navy camos, carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder, walked over to where I was standing. He talked to Penney, then began looking at the patients. The doctor, I figured.
The evolution went with little lost motion. When all the supplies were off, the crewmen began carrying the sick people out to the choppers and passing them to people on board.
Captain Penney escorted a woman to a chopper, got her aboard, then came over to where I was standing. “That’s a woman named Dol Bass. Her husband jumped into the ocean and a pirate shot him. She doesn’t need any more of this.”
He made a few more remarks, and I gave him a smile. He looked as if he needed it.
These helicopters weren’t large machines. I am no expert on choppers, but these were armed and had machine guns on them. Sensors sprouted like warts from their chins and sides.
I didn’t think there would be enough room for the two dozen passengers, but the navy guys put them aboard anyway, then scampered aboard themselves. The lead chopper lifted off. More dirt flew around.
The second bird was right behind. They swung out over Eyl, turned and headed out to sea. The noise and lights faded.
I turned my attention to the doctor, who went down the stone stairs into the building with Captain Penney. In just a moment the top of that old place was empty except for me and the pirates.
I went down into the fort to see how things were. The
Sultan
crewmen were unloading the boxes, which contained MREs. To keep the pirates from getting ideas, I put my radio and headset in my backpack.
Penney pointed out one of the pirates to me. I had seen him with Ragnar and knew he was a big cheese. “Mustafa al-Said,” Penney whispered. “He was the leader of the crew that captured my ship.”
I made sure I would recognize him when I saw him again, then ignored him. He didn’t know it, but he wasn’t going to get much older.
* * *
Mike Rosen and Petty Officer Finnorn watched the choppers from the
Sultan
’s galley. Finnorn explained to Rosen what was going on. Supplies coming in, sick people going out.
“Ragnar agreed to this?”
“Yep. We got a guy negotiating. Fellow named Grafton. I hear he’s one tough nut.”
As the helicopters flew seaward, Finnorn produced a waterproof pouch from inside his wet suit. He opened it, extracted a piece of paper. “Is your computer still working? Can you still send e-mails?”
“Yeah.”
“Finish up your chow and let’s go up to the computer center. Here’s an e-mail that the task force commander would like you to send.”
“Hold that flashlight so I can read this.” Finnorn did so.
Rosen couldn’t believe his eyes. This is part of what he read: “The militant Islamic group Shabab is planning to wipe out Sheikh Ragnar and his pirates within the next twenty-four hours. Ragnar is aware of their plans, which have leaked, and plans a preemptive strike in the next few hours.”
There was more, including the names of five Shabab officers, and some quoted communications with Shabab forces in southern Somalia. One of the quotes was from some Muslim cleric who gave the Shabab a fatwa concerning the righteousness of killing the pirates and infidel prisoners.
“Is this true?” Rosen asked, aghast.
“Man, I’m just a sailor who takes orders. Let’s go get this on the Internet as written. No editorializing, no extraneous stuff, just the words on this paper.”
“Wait a minute. What guarantee do I have that—”
“No guarantees, no explanations,” Finnorn said bluntly. “The admiral wants this on the Internet. He wants you to do your e-mail trick to get it there. Now. Or sooner. You did a hitch in the army way back when and worked for several years as a civilian in the Pentagon. Maybe you remember how to salute and obey orders. Grab your sandwich and let’s get at it.”
“How do you know about my past?”
“You gotta be kiddin’! Of course the brass checked on you when you started e-mailing the hot steaming poop. If they didn’t like the cut of your jib, you couldn’t get your stuff on the satellite.”