The Veiled Threat

The most inhospitable place on Earth is not the middle of the Sahara, with its searing heat and parched landscape. Nor is it the top of Everest, with its lack of oxygen and freezing, howling winds. That title is reserved for the Abyssopelagic Zone of the world’s oceans, eighteen thousand feet below the surface of the sea. Here, in the impenetrable dark, frigid waters, the pressure exceeds five tons per square inch. The sun has never brought its cheerful glow to these valleys, and what few creatures live here look like monsters from a child’s nightmare.

One of these deep-sea horrors crept along the floor of the Laurentian Abyss, an albino sea spider with legs nearly a foot long. It was on the hunt, using senses barely comprehensible to science to find its prey. Even if it had eyes, it would not have been able to see anything in the perfect dark. But its other senses were suddenly on alert, the fight-or-flee instinct growing rapidly within it. Something was ahead in the dark, something not of this Earth. Flee won the day, and the sea spider backed away, content to resume its hunt in a safer area of its midnight world.

Had it continued, it would have come to a zone from which most life had deliberately fled. Less than
a hundred yards ahead, a hulking mass lay on the ocean floor. This colossus had fallen from the surface above, dumped by the surface dwellers who wanted no part of it. Dropped in the hopes that with its sinking, a great fear and danger would be eradicated from the universe. Nonetheless, an invisible web of submarines and underwater surveillance devices kept constant vigil. The colossus, after all, had allies.

Four miles above his resting place, the waves of the North Atlantic rolled peacefully over the ruin of Megatron.

The
Pearl of India
freighter, over a thousand feet long and displacing thirteen thousand tons, had an official top speed of twelve knots. But with a following sea and clear weather, she was currently making better than twelve and a half through the Gulf of Aden. Even so, she would be no match for Erasto Khalfani’s small fleet of twenty-two-foot powerboats. Each carried a crew of nine and could make twenty-five knots with ease. Erasto lowered his binoculars and gave the order; he found that early-morning attacks were always the most successful.

Erasto Khalfani, a twenty-nine-year-old Somali ex-fisherman, was now plying the more lucrative trade of piracy. It was riskier than fishing, to be sure, but then the rewards were greater than he could realize in a lifetime of hauling nets. He had made himself and his men wealthy, and they trusted his leadership.

Hijacking a freighter under full steam on the open sea was no mean feat. The main deck of the
Pearl of India
rose thirty-five feet off the surface of the water. To board from a small craft like theirs, the pirates would literally have to scale the side of the moving vessel with grappling hooks and sheer skill. Not a task for the faint of heart. And yet this very band had
been successful several times in commandeering vessels of similar size, and under even worse conditions. No, the
Pearl of India
was ripe for the picking; the prize was his.

As his small craft approached the freighter, Erasto surveyed the deck with his binoculars. There was the usual skeleton crew wandering about the deck, paying little attention to the waters below. Erasto knew that the continuous throb of the ship’s great engines would mask his outboard motors until they were quite close. By then it would be too late for the freighter to take any countermeasures.

In his heart Erasto was a peaceful man. Unlike the pirates of the Straits of Malacca, he had no interest in violence. He found that the show of force was generally more than sufficient to cow the crew of most commercial vessels. Certainly from time to time one found a would-be hero who had to be dealt with, but even then a well-placed blow from the butt of his AK-47 was more than sufficient to remind the gallant man that he was not made of steel.

Erasto took one last sweep of the deck with the glasses; they’d be throwing the boarding lines within the next few minutes. He paused when he came upon some vehicles sitting on the deck: a powerful-looking black pickup truck and what looked like some kind of ambulance. Odd for them to be in the open air rather than in the hold, but that was irrelevant. The ambulance would no doubt provide valuable medical supplies for his village, and the truck, well, that was the perfect ride for the leader of a pirate band. Erasto would ensure that both vehicles were part of his take
when they negotiated with the owners for the release of the
Pearl
and her crew.

The boarding was accomplished seamlessly. Erasto, as usual, was proud of his men. Three remained on board each of the small craft, to pilot around the freighter and, if necessary, provide backup fire. Eighteen men, armed with assault rifles and small arms, scrambled up the side of the hulking vessel and were quickly on board.

In general, this was when panic ensued. The crew, realizing they’d been boarded, ran to fight, or hide, or beg for mercy. The first ten minutes were the most dangerous to pirate and crew alike. If a “hero” was going to emerge and start trouble, this was the time. But this crew did not behave this way, and years later Erasto would look back and realize that this was his first warning.

Instead the crew were completely relaxed as they quietly raised their hands and placed them on the backs of their heads. The looks on their faces betrayed neither fear nor anger, but almost a bemused aspect that one might have after hearing something only mildly amusing. Still, they were cooperative, and Erasto ordered his men to begin the process of evaluating the total take. This started with stripping the crew of their personal valuables, and moved on from there to the cargo.

“Gentlemen,” began Erasto, “there is an easy way and a hard way to do this. My men and I prefer the easy way. Think of us as simple entrepreneurs, and you will be our guests for the next several days. The wealthy owners of this vessel will parlay for your lives, and you will go home none the worse for wear.
Resist, and things may not go so smoothly for you. My men will now come among you and relieve you of your wallets and other personal effects. Your cooperation is most appreciated.”

Erasto watched as his men went through what now was an almost routine process, asking the captives for their belongings, and if necessary patting them down to find the “forgotten” valuables.

He himself walked over to the black pickup. It was impossible not to admire the design. It was, very simply, one badass truck. Two of the captives stood together near the vehicles on deck; the pirates’ arrival had clearly disrupted their card game. Both looked like they could take care of themselves, and Erasto decided to take no chances. Placing his AK at chest level, he addressed the man of color first.

“Your valuables, sir, please surrender them.”

“Back pocket.” The man was incredibly relaxed given that an assault rifle was pointed a few inches from his heart.

“Which pocket?” Erasto continued.