Deadly Coast (26 page)

Borgdanov shrugged. “We both have unit tattoos. Sooner or later, they will figure it out. Then it will not go so well with us. But you are American. You, I think, they hold for ransom.”

“Thanks for the thought,” Dugan said. “But apart from the Fruit of the Loom label in my underwear, I suspect we’re all going to look alike to these guys.”

Borgdanov smiled and clapped Dugan on the shoulder. “Is true, and also I now remember I make you honorary Russian. So,
tovarishch
, do you want rifle or Glock?”

Dugan shrugged. “I doubt I’ll hit anything anyway, but I have a better chance with the rifle.”

The sergeant passed Dugan the assault rifle, as Borgdanov dug in his backpack for the Glock, the spare magazines, and a roll of duct tape he used to tape the magazines to his thigh. Dugan held the unfamiliar weapon and looked back and forth at the Russians, then down at himself and his bright orange suit, and wondered if this was how the redcoats felt.

He heard the muted mutter of the outboard now as the pirate boat crept along beside the ship at two knots. Borgdanov dug in his backpack again and pulled out a small mirror on a collapsible extension, and then discarded the backpack on the deck. He pulled the extension out full length, and then crouched low and crept near the port side, examining the water near the ship. He nodded and motioned the others to join him.

“Is good,” Borgdanov said. “He is very close. And he looks forward, at the others, not up. I think we can make nice surprise for him,
da
?”

Dugan nodded, and Borgdanov spoke to the sergeant. On the next roll upright, both Russians stood and moved to the rail, and Dugan followed suit. The sergeant scampered over the rail and stood with his heels on the deck edge, holding the rail behind him.

Dugan looked down and saw the pirate in the boat below him, just as Borgdanov had described, oblivious to their presence. The ship rolled back to port, and the sergeant timed his drop perfectly at the lowest point of the roll, a mere ten feet above the pirate’s head. He entered the water feet first beside the boat, close enough to grab the side as he flashed by the startled pirate. His head submerged, but he kept his hands on the edge of the boat, and heaved himself upward, propelled by both his tremendous arm strength and the additional buoyancy of the survival suit.

The Russian shot out of the water like an orange porpoise, and flopped far enough into the boat to wrap his massive right hand around the pirate’s bicep. He fell back into the water, attempting to drag the pirate with him, but the terrified man clung to the tiller of the outboard, pulling it hard over and sending the boat into a tight circle, as he found his voice and began to scream. Desperate to silence the pirate, the sergeant gave a mighty heave and pulled the man into the water, then clung to the boat with his left hand as he held the now-thrashing pirate underwater with his right.

Dugan and Borgdanov watched as the tightly circling boat slipped astern, no longer matching the drillship’s speed. Dugan looked forward, relieved no one seemed to have heard the pirate’s cries.

“I must help Ilya,” Borgdanov said. “Stay here,
Dyed
. We will be back with boat.” Without waiting for Dugan’s concurrence, he slipped over the rail and dropped into the sea.

Terrific. Dugan looked after the boat, alone on a sinking ship with three dozen bloodthirsty pirates. He was moving back to the shelter of the machinery casing when they spotted him. He saw one of the pirates shout, then point, and several moved down the deck toward him. His first instinct was to run, but there was nowhere to go, and if he jumped overboard, he’d draw attention to the Russians and the boat, and both he and the Russians would make nice orange targets for pirates shooting off the stern. No, the best option was to keep them forward awhile. If they didn’t
see
him jump overboard, they might be cautious about charging aft. And every second they delayed, the drillship would move away, increasing the range.

Dugan raised the assault rifle and opened fire, sending pirates scrambling for cover. His fire was indiscriminate—he had no illusions about his own marksmanship—and he emptied the magazine in seconds before moving to the cover of the machinery casing. Out of sight, he moved aft, keeping the bulk of the machinery casing between him and any approaching pirates. At the stern rail, he dropped the now-useless rifle overboard and crawled over the rail to drop feet first into the water.

“Is it one of Mukhtar’s fanatics?” Waabberi asked.

“I don’t think so. He was a big white man in orange coveralls with a hood.”

Waabberi scratched his chin. “One of the crew then. But where did he get the weapon? Crews aren’t normally armed.”

His underling shrugged. “Perhaps he took it from one of the fanatics.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Waabberi said, looking up at the derrick as the ship started another roll to port. “Put one man on guard in case he returns, and get everyone else back to the silver. We don’t have time to waste on—”

He ducked at the crack of a gunshot, then realized it wasn’t a shot at all, but the forward mooring line on the doomed Yemeni fishing boat parting at last. Deprived of this last crucial bit of support, the boat’s bow dipped below a swell, and the forward motion of the drillship drove it deeper still, increasing the load on the remaining forward lines that, stretched to the limit of their elasticity, snapped in quick succession. Attached to the drillship now by only her stern lines, the bow of the boat swung away from the hull, and for one critical moment, the sinking boat acted as a rudder.

The big ship veered to port, at the very bottom of her port roll, and never recovered. The rest of the drill pipe in the derrick broke free to join the loose single string that had been producing the doleful clanging, and the ship pitched on her side, spilling pirates and silver into the storm-tossed sea. Despite Waabberi’s warning, two of the boats were caught in the shadow of the derrick and disappeared, while the rest sped away from the ship in panic, then returned to circle the sinking ship, like flies disturbed from a dead carcass.

Dugan plunged through the water, turned end over end in the powerful prop wash from the drillship’s thrusters. He felt a moment of disorientation and panic, but then he was free of the turbulence and the buoyancy of the survival suit carried him to the surface. He panicked again when his head broke the water, and he looked around in the driving rain. His visual range in the water was considerably less than it had been from the higher vantage point on the ship, and it was reduced even further as he bobbed up and down in the waves. How would he find the Russians? Even the huge ship was becoming a blur as it moved through the rain away from him and intermittently disappeared as he got caught in wave troughs.

A massive groan reached him, like the death rattle of some great beast, and he rode up on the crest of a wave in time to see the dim outline of
Ocean Goliath
rolling over. Then things went quiet, the only sound the hiss of the rain on the water.

And Dugan felt very, very alone.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea

Kwok looked aft and eyed the edge of the rainsquall, now stretched across the near horizon like a gray-white curtain, obscuring his view of the threat he was trying so desperately to escape. The storm front had passed with remarkable speed, and
Kyung Yang No. 173
had run out of it, into clear skies and troubled but calming seas. She struggled over a big wave as Kwok turned to watch the helmsman fight the wheel, compensating for the increasing starboard list.

Kwok dropped his gaze to the Russian bound on the deck, blood dried on the side of his head, glaring up at Kwok with hate in his eyes. Kwok ignored him and looked back out to sea, as he mentally parsed the possible outcomes of his current situation. His reverie was disturbed by hurried footsteps on the stairs, and moments later the chief engineer burst into the wheelhouse, soaking wet and dripping water on the deck.

“I found the leak!” the chief said in Korean, “but we must—”

“Is it fixed?” Kwok asked.

The engineer shook his head and tried to speak, but Kwok cut him off.

“Why not? Can you do it?”

The chief nodded. “Yes, but I must —”

Kwok exploded. “Then don’t stand here talking to me! Repair it at once! Why’d you even come here?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” the chief said. “It’s the most forward of the concrete patches the Americans placed. They left some materials onboard, so I think I can make the repair, but the force of the water against the hull is making the leak worse. I must slow it down a lot before I can hope to patch it. We must reduce speed until I can get it patched and the concrete sets.”

Kwok looked back, as if trying to peer through the curtain of rain.

“Out of the question,” he said. “The pirates could overtake us and capture us before the Russians arrive. We must get as far away from them as possible.”

“And if the boat sinks?” the chief asked.

“Then we take to the raft,” Kwok said. “The Russians should be here anytime to rescue us.”

“And how do you intend to explain abandoning their countrymen, or the fact that we’re floating around in a raft with a bound Russian?”

Kwok shrugged. “Dugan and the other two fools won’t survive the pirates, so no one will know we abandoned anyone, and as far as our friend here goes”—he looked down at the Russian—”I don’t think he’ll be joining us in the raft. I suspect he’ll drown if the ship sinks, or perhaps fall over the side before then.”

The chief glared at Kwok. “
We
didn’t abandon anyone, Captain. You’re the one who ran away.”

“And saved your neck in the process, you ungrateful fool,” Kwok said.

“I doubt it was
my
neck you were concerned with,” the chief said. “And it remains to be seen whether you saved any of us. Besides, running away is one thing; murder to cover it up is quite another.”

“I’ll deal with the Russian as I see fit,” Kwok said. “Now stop your insubordination and get below and fix the leak. Without stopping the engine. Is that clear?”

“But I can’t—”

“I said, is that
CLEAR
?” Kwok screamed.

The chief fixed Kwok with a silent glare. “I’ll try,” he said at last, and turned to the stairs.

Arabian Sea
Astern of capsized Ocean Goliath

Dugan bobbed in the water and fought rising panic. Staying afloat was no problem in the suit, but that was about the only positive. He imagined a slow death, floating around without food or water—unless, of course, a shark happened along. He compartmentalized his fear and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

Visibility was awful. The raindrops whipped the sea into a fine mist a few inches above the water—inconsequential if you were in a boat, but blinding if the only thing above water was your head. Each time a wave lifted him, Dugan fought to lift his head higher and swiveled it frantically, hoping to catch sight of the Russians. He slipped back into each trough disappointed.

Then he heard it—the muted mutter of an idling outboard. On the next crest, he looked toward the sound and glimpsed a flash of orange before he tumbled back between the waves.

“Help! I’m here,” he cried on the next crest.

“I hear you,
Dyed
,” came the reply. “Keep shouting!”

Moments later, the boat almost ran over him as it crested a wave and crashed down toward him. It sheared away at the last minute, and then it was beside him, and Borgdanov pulled him in. Dugan lay with his back against a mound of coins.

“It’s good to see you guys,” he said, looking around. “Wherever the hell we are. I think I drifted quite a ways after the ship went over.”

Borgdanov pointed through the rain. “Ship is there. Maybe five hundred meters away. We were closer just before she turned over, but still, we could barely see ship. But we heard gunfire and saw flash of orange and think maybe you jump in water. We have been searching.”

Dugan nodded. “Thanks,” he said, as he looked around.

The boat was heavy, plowing through the confused seas rather than riding over them, and the sergeant was fighting the tiller of the outboard to keep her from broaching sideways to the swell. Dugan turned to Borgdanov.

“What’s our situation?”

“I lost Glock when I jumped” Borgdanov said. “But some
piraty
left weapons in boat when they go to take silver. We have two AKs and one RPG.” He shrugged. “Fuel, not so much, but I think we have enough to catch Kwok. Anyway, we must try,
da
? You remember which way he goes?”

“Looked like southwest,” said Dugan, looking around in the rain. “Wherever the hell that is.”

Borgdanov smiled and said something to the sergeant, who patted a wooden case at his feet.

“
Piraty
left us nice compass,” Borgdanov said. “So we go southwest. But
Dyed
, I think you should drive. Ilya and I keep watch with guns.”

Dugan nodded, and moved to change places with the sergeant.

“I suggest one of you keep watch and the other start dumping the silver,” Dugan said, as he pointed the boat southwest. “Loaded like this in these seas, we’ll be lucky not to sink. Much less overtake anything.”

The Russians stared at the pile, reluctant to jettison the treasure.

“Don’t forget,” Dugan said, “some of the dead men on the ship may have handled this stuff. I doubt viruses prefer to live on silver, and it’s had a hell of a lot of water flushed over it, but make sure to keep your gloves on.”

The idea the silver might be contaminated ended the Russians’ reluctance, and Borgdanov jettisoned silver while the sergeant kept watch. As the boat lightened, Dugan increased speed, and the boat labored through the seas to the growl of the outboard.

Arabian Sea
Beside capsized Ocean Goliath

“I warned the fools to stay out of the shadow of the derrick,” Waabberi said to no one in particular, as he studied his band of bedraggled survivors. Miraculously, all of his men had survived the capsizing, except the drivers of the boats caught under the derrick. The survivors filled the five remaining boats to capacity, and floated together in a group in the lee of the overturned drillship, clustered around Waabberi’s boat.

“Beard of the Prophet,” Waabberi said. “If we were so unfortunate as to lose three boats, why did one of them have to be loaded with silver?”

“But Waabberi,” a pirate said, “only two boats perished under the derrick. The silver boat was farther aft. The strange men took it.”

“Strange men? What are you talking about, you fool? What strange men?”

“Big white men, dressed in orange,” the pirate said. “I looked up and saw—”

“And you’re telling me this now!” Waabberi screamed. “Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”

“I tried,” the man said. “But I was farthest away from the ship and I couldn’t get your attention. Then the gunfire from the ship drowned out my shouts, and the ship capsized. Then I was rescuing our brothers—”

“Enough,” Waabberi said. “Which way did they go?”

“I … I don’t know. I lost of them in the rain.”

Waabberi nodded and sat thinking to the combined soft muttering of the outboards, as the boats maintained station against wind and waves in the lee of the stricken drillship. Who were these strange men? Crewmen, no doubt; but where could they go? They didn’t have enough fuel to go far. They must be close by, even now.

“Stop the motors!” he shouted, and the five outboards sputtered to silence. “Now,” Waabberi said, “everyone listen. They can’t be far.”

Several men pointed at once, then Waabberi heard it himself—the distant sound of a straining outboard. He turned to his driver. “What direction is that?”

The man looked at his compass. “Southwest,” he said.

Waabberi nodded and took quick inventory of his little flotilla, grateful now that some of his men had ignored orders and left their weapons in the boats when they boarded the ship to load silver.

“Quickly,” he said, motioning over the fastest boat of the five and jumping aboard. “Three men here with me in the chase boat. The rest of you spread yourselves evenly among the other boats and follow. Unarmed men, get in the boat with the silver.” Waabberi looked at the driver of the boat loaded with silver. “You’ll be slow, so bring up the rear. Don’t take risks in these seas. We’ve little enough to show for our efforts, and I don’t want to lose any more silver. Is that clear?”

The man nodded as all the outboards roared to life, and Waabberi squatted in his own boat and pointed southwest.

Arabian Sea
5 miles southwest of Ocean Goliath

Dugan raised his free hand to shade his eyes from the bright sun reflecting off the water. They’d run out of the rainsquall a mile back, and it had been like switching on a light in a darkened room. The wind had calmed as well, and the sea was settling but still choppy, marked here and there with whitecaps. He shot a worried glance over his shoulder at the gray-white curtain of rain and took a chance on increasing speed.

The sun was a mixed blessing. No longer deluged by cooling rain, Dugan once again broiled in the survival suit, and saw sweat running down the Russians’ faces as well. He was contemplating stripping off the suit when a shout rang out in front of him.

“
Dyed
! There!” Borgdanov cried, just as the boat crested a wave. Dugan squinted into the distance in the direction of the Russian’s pointing finger.

He smiled as he made out the unmistakable profile of the
Kyung Yang No. 173.
His smile faded.

“She’s listing badly,” Dugan said.

“No matter,” Borgdanov replied. “I think is better to be on listing fishing boat than in middle of ocean on Zodiac with little fuel and no food and water,
da
?”

“I can’t argue with that,” Dugan said.

“How long before we catch her?” Borgdanov asked.

“Hard to say. She’s not making full speed, but neither are we. I’d guess maybe half an hour—less if the seas cooperate.”

Borgdanov nodded. “Is good—”

The sergeant yelled something to Borgdanov and pointed aft, and Dugan swiveled his head to see a pirate boat emerging from the rainsquall. As he watched, three more boats appeared out of the curtain of rain in quick succession. He looked forward to find the Russians checking their weapons.

“Can we beat
piraty
to fishing boat,
Dyed
?” Borgdanov asked.

“Doubtful,” Dugan said. “Not that it’ll make much difference.”

“Will make big difference,” Borgdanov said. “Is better platform to defend, and we add Anisimov’s gun to our firepower.”

“I’ll do my best.” Dugan increased speed, capsizing now the lesser risk.

Ten minutes later, it was obvious Dugan’s initial doubts were justified. For every yard they had gained on the fishing boat, the lead pirate seemed to gain a yard and a half on them, and the rest of the pirate boats weren’t far behind. Dugan noticed a fifth boat now, breaking the rain curtain and moving more slowly than the others. The pirates in the lead boat began a sporadic, if wildly inaccurate, fire in Dugan’s direction. He took no comfort in the poor marksmanship; when they got closer, it wouldn’t matter.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it to Kwok’s boat,” Dugan said. “And at this speed, we’re burning a lot of—”

The outboard began to sputter and cough, then stopped.

“—fuel,” Dugan finished, as his boat lost power and coasted down a wave.

Dugan tried unsuccessfully to restart the outboard, then threw a worried glance back at the pirates. He moved to the collapsible fuel bladder and opened the fill cap. There was a slight hiss as air rushed into the collapsed container, and Dugan released it from its securing straps, lifting and tilting it so that every last bit of fuel could drain through the attached hose to the outboard. He motioned the sergeant to take his place.

“Hold this up,” Dugan said. “Not much there, but we’ll go as far as we can.”

He returned to the outboard. It started on the second attempt.

Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea

The chief engineer kneeled in the bilge, shoulder deep in oily water as he groped beneath the water’s surface, searching by feel for the crack in the concrete patch. There! He’d found it again, and felt the rush of water on his fingertips. It was about 150 millimeters long from the feel of it. The thin wooden wedges he’d made should plug it enough for the bilge pump to catch up, then he could work on a more durable repair—if he could get one of the damn things tapped into the crack to stay this time. Broken remnants of half a dozen wedges floated on the water sloshing around him, testimony to his failure so far.

He closed his eyes and held his breath in anticipation as the boat rolled to starboard, and the water rose over his head. He grabbed a grating support with his left hand to steady himself, but kept his right hand firmly pressed to the crack—he wasn’t going to lose contact with it again.