Authors: Erik Williams
Everyone was silent. Yusuf looked every individual over. They were all visibly nervous. So was he.
“Very well,” Yusuf said. “You know my plan as I see it. Will it work?”
The chief engineer nodded. “Yes, it will. It will take some time, but it will sink the ship.”
“Then let us get to work.”
F
ahad sat up to the sounds of gunfire and death. The pain that had torn at his insides ceased. The tightness of his chest eased. And the vision he had lost returned. He did not know what had happened. One moment, he had guarded the locked door as the ship's bosun had ordered. The next, everything had gone dark and the pain had attacked. He had dropped to the deck, every muscle twitching; and for a few seconds, Fahad had prayed for death.
Now, as he took in his surroundings, he began to pray again. Three dead bodies dotted the passageway around him. Blood covered the floor and bulkheads. Around a corner echoed screams followed by the unmistakable sound of an automatic weapon. He looked to his sides for his gun. Gone. Someone had picked up the Kalashnikov.
And that someone was using it.
Fahad pushed up to his feet. His head spun and he braced against the bulkhead to prevent himself from falling down. Then his stomach turned over and he leaned forward and vomited blood and tissue all over the side of the wall.
More screams and gunfire.
Fahad looked from his vomit to the end of the passageway, where the screams originated. He wiped his mouth with his wrist and backed away, not wanting to know or see what happened around the corner.
As he took a few steps in the opposite direction, primal yells from the other end of the passageway assaulted his ears. Fahad froze and listened as the yells became cries and shrieks. Then he heard thumping, like a rubber mallet striking a hollow well.
Fahad wretched and vomited again. More blood and tissue. His throat burned and his breaths came harder. He was surrounded by a symphony of death and he did not know what to do.
His hands shook and his knees buckled. The dizziness combined with fatigue sapped what strength he had left. Kneeling, his hands moved from the bulkhead to the deck as more blood and tissue forced its way out from within.
Through his heaves, Fahad heard footsteps. He looked up and saw two men with their arms wrapped around each other, backpedaling into the passageway. Their mouths snapped at each other. One bit the other's neck and tore. Blood gushed from the wound.
Fahad stared in disgust as he watched the one man sink his teeth back into the neck wound and tear and tear and tear. Then Fahad scrambled to his feet as fast as he could and tried to run away.
Yet everywhere he went, there was blood. Around the corner, one man stomped the head of another into the deck. Further down, he found an engineer slamming a door on the face of a now unidentifiable comrade. Up a ladder, his friend Nazir beat a crewman with a fire extinguisher.
“Nazir,” Fahad said, his voice trembling. “Nazir, stop.”
But Nazir paid no attention to him, as if he could not hear him, as if Fahad did not even exist.
Then Fahad saw his friend's eyes. They were wide and glassed over, completely locked on the destruction of the man below him.
Fahad hurried away, not able to watch anymore. But every corner he turned, every door he passed through, and every passageway he looked down, a fresh scene of murder greeted him. He could not move more than a few feet now without stepping through blood. And the vomiting grew worse. Every minute or so, he had to stop and heave.
“What is happening?” he said and ran down another passageway. He did not know where to go or what was happening. He just had to get away from all the death. Unfortunately, everywhere he went, death waited.
Y
usuf was finalizing the plans with his leadership when the report came.
“Gunfire, port side aft near engineering.”
His heart sank and his stomach contracted. He had failed to stay ahead of whatever it was. Before he could lament further, more reports came in. Not just gunfire. Reports of screams, lots of screams on multiple decks. All aft at first. But then moving up a deck. Then forward. Then up another deck.
It's spreading,
Yusuf thought.
“I need to get to my engineering plant,” the chief engineer said.
“No,” Yusuf said. “Radio down to the machinery spaces to secure to all outside personnel. But you will stay here.”
“What?”
“If this is spreading, you may get stuck while trying to reach your spaces,” Yusuf said. “All of you will remain here. No one moves.” Yusuf turned to Mahmoud. “Contact spaces above, below, and around the last areas of reported violence within a few frames. We will track its movement via sound.”
“We need a visual report,” the chief engineer said.
“No,” Yusuf said. “Proximity is the key. Wherever this thing goes, violence follows.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the incidents are always isolated to a specific area. Whatever happened in the refrigerator the first time affected two men in the berthing directly above. If it did not relate to proximity, the whole ship, including us, would be experiencing . . . the sickness, so to speak. A visual report puts a person too close to it.”
“Just like Basra,” Mahmoud said.
“What?” Jibril said.
“Basra did not erupt. The riots spread from one location to another. It created a very specific path of destruction. Then it just stopped.”
“How do you know these details?”
Mahmoud shrugged. “I listened to the port security radio band. They were broadcasting on public frequencies until they switched over to their secure ones.”
“So the Americans lied,” the chief engineer said. “They told us it was a chemical attack.”
Yusuf held up a calming hand. “I do not think they knew what they were dealing with. They probably still do not. We know it was not a chemical attack only because of what we saw down there. And now it is spreading. But if it is like Basra, hopefully it will stop soon.”
“And then what?”
“And then we take advantage of what little time we are granted and sink this ship.”
A
s more blood and tissue and bile rose from his gullet, Fahad's vision failed again; and he was tossed back into darkness. He collapsed to the deck but felt no pain. Everything seemed to drift, like a small boat on the sea. He could not hear anything anymore. All the screams and other sounds of death faded away. The stench of blood and vomit dissipated.
Fahad's grip on life and the earthly realm lessened and lessened. The more he released, the better everything felt. And then he surrendered completely and found peace.
T
he people they could reach in spaces about five frames from the most recent report of screams and gunfire and other violence said they no longer heard anything. It had once sounded like all-out war, but then it just stopped. And they had not heard even a rat move since.
Yusuf wanted to allow another twenty minutes or so to pass before he would permit anyone to move from their stations. He needed to avoid sending his people into the heart of a possible reflash. Yet he also knew he could not wait forever. Time was against them. If they were to sink the ship, they had to start now in case violence did break out again. And all indications said it would. It was just a matter of when.
Twenty minutes came and went. Yusuf smoked three cigarettes as he watched the clock. Then, when his deadline passed, he stubbed his cigarette out and turned to his senior leadership.
“It is time,” Yusuf said. “Mahmoud, take your people and investigate the locations in the reports. Do not get too close. Then secure those areas as you clear them. Once done, prepare for the order to abandon ship. Everyone else, proceed as planned.”
They all nodded and left the wheelhouse with determined eyes. Yusuf knew his people did not like this solution, but once it had been decided, they would execute the task like the professionals they were.
Before the chief engineer left the wheelhouse, he turned to Yusuf. “Once the water intrudes the engines and generators, there will be no restarting them.”
Yusuf nodded. “Understood.”
The chief engineer left to commence his tasking. Yusuf watched him and prayed the remainder of his crew would escape safely.
S
emyaza had no idea what it felt like to die but imagined it was very close to what he experienced now. Every part of his being felt as if it had been set on fire and extinguished with acid. The battle with the soul had almost destroyed him. Now he had wounds to heal.
He did not bother to dive into the memories of his new vessel or take in his surroundings. He located a door, opened it, and discovered a small space full of cleaning equipment on the other side. He crawled in and shut the door and focused on recovering his strength and slowing the decomposition.
M
ike stepped off the plane at Camp Lemonier and was welcomed by the blistering heat of Djibouti. After grabbing his bag, he found a ground crewman and asked for directions to the officers' quarters building.
Twenty minutes later, he had a room. It was small, but the bed was soft and the shower inviting. He took a quick cold one to rinse off the sweat and grime that came with flying in the back of a military C-130. Then he pulled on a pair of khaki pants and a green polo shirt. He slid his shoulder holster on and eased into his windbreaker and headed out.
At the check-in desk, Mike said, “Is there an officers' club on this base?”
The quarterdeck watch, an army sergeant, nodded. “Here's a map.”
He pulled out a photocopied map of the base and circled where they were. Then he drew another circle around the O-Club.
“About a five-minute walk.”
“Thanks.” Mike took the map and headed out.
He found the officers' club without problem. It, like the officers' quarters, was one of many new structures built on the old French Foreign Legion base. When the US Marines and Navy had moved in back in 2002, they'd found a base that had not been used since the legion had left years before. The concrete buildings had been hollowed out. The pool had been used as a trash dump. The infrastructure had been crumbling.
Now, though, the base thrived as the central headquarters for the DOD's young Africa Command. New buildings had risen, new had been streets paved; and other modern Western amenities had been imported, including enlisted and officers' clubs. All thanks to the navy's Construction Battalion and a bunch of civilian contractors.
At the club, Mike flashed the identification card for Jeremiah Hosselkus to a civilian sentry outside. The man barely glanced at it and waved him in. Mike nodded and thanked him.
A narrow room designed to resemble a British pub in North Africa circa 1937 greeted him inside. The walls were painted the color of sand. Pith helmets and aviator goggles and other old military garments covered almost every square inch of vertical space. An old wooden airplane propeller hung mounted on the other side. The bar, made of dark wood and polished to a high gloss, stretched most of the length of the room. Two other men, both wearing camouflage uniforms, sat there conversing.
He walked over and pulled up a seat a few stools down from them. His eyes passed over a row of tap handles, all American brews with the exception of Heineken and Stella Artois. Then he looked at the shelves of liquor.
The bartender, a tall dark-skinned African who looked Kenyan, walked over. “Would you like something to drink, sir?”
Mike nodded. The guy's English was better than his own. “Johnnie Walker Black Label, neat.”
The bartender bowed his head and made Mike's drink and pushed the glass to him on a napkin. “Will there be anything else?”
“Ask me again once I'm done with this drink.”
The bartender bowed his head again and moved to check on his other customers. Mike picked up the drink and sniffed it, taking in the sweet scent of oak before he took a small sip. The mellow taste of smoke rested on his tongue a moment before he swallowed. He enjoyed the burn down his throat and how it warmed his belly.
Mike smiled. It had been a long flight, and the flask had lasted only so long.
He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed Glenn.
“You in Djibouti?” Glenn said after picking up on the second ring.
“Yes.”
“Good. I've got a job for you. Call you back in two days.”
Glenn hung up.
Mike looked at the phone, thankful for such a brief conversation. He slid it back into his jacket and motioned for a refill.
E
ight glasses and a few hours later, Mike stumbled out the front door and made his way back toward the officers' quarters.
“Do you need a ride to your quarters?” the sentry said.
Mike turned. It was a different guy from earlier. “No. Thank you.”
It took him a lot longer to walk back than it had earlier to find the club. He made a wrong turn at one point and had to retrace his steps. Then, finally, he found the officers' quarters and flashed his ID as he staggered in.
The quarterdeck watch, a lance corporal this time, nodded and waved him in. Mike walked past him toward the elevators, when he heard the slow beat of a blues song. Over his right shoulder, he saw what he'd thought was a café earlier when he'd left but now appeared to be a small lounge. Curious and not ready for bed yet, Mike walked into the lounge to check it out.
The room was dimly lit by track lighting. There were several overstuffed chairs and a sofa. A couple of tables. Mike realized why he'd thought it was a café earlier: it looked like the inside of a Starbucks. With one exception. In the back there was a coffee bar with two pots and an espresso machine. But it also had two tap handles and a small shelf of liquor behind it. If Mike had noticed the alcohol earlier, he would not have left the building.
The lounge was empty with the exception of two older men in civilian clothes seated at one of the tables. They drank beer. Mike overheard them discussing contracts.