out, its radar signature on the water small and sketchy.
LB asked, “What’s that?”
“That, Sergeant, is my other problem. Right now, the greater of the two.”
“Is it pirates?”
Drozdov answered by bringing a walkie-talkie from his lap to his lips. He thumbed the talk button. “Mr. Bojan, this is bridge. Bojan, bridge. Respond.”
Before the Serb guard could answer, the captain unclipped another microphone from the console. In clear tones, he said, “All hands, all hands. This is the captain. Officers to the bridge. Crew prepare to take secure position. This is not a drill.”
Razvan pivoted with his papers for the stairs. Drozdov said at his departing back, “Chief, please tend to the engine.”
LB was left alone with Drozdov. The captain’s face was set hard. LB looked for a crack in the man’s composure, some flashback to captivity, thirst for a bottle, a wince, a lick of the lips.
Drozdov locked eyes on the radar screen, measuring distance and time, calculating the next move, staying captain.
LB asked again, “Pirates?”
In a low growl, Drozdov said, “I do not know. I have never seen this from pirates. One vessel at dusk, sitting in the path of a freighter. This is new. The Somalis come at sunup. In two or three skiffs. They race in from both sides, shoot their rockets, threaten on the radio until we stop. This ship ahead”—Drozdov pointed again—”this one is quiet. We will find out shortly.”
He put his chin into an open hand, pulled down on his jowls. Drozdov was not panicked. The gesture spoke instead of calculation.
“And someone I trust has disabled my ship so these mudaki may hijack us more easily.” The captain turned his head to fake a disgusted spit. “Disloyal zhopoliz.”
Who would want to be hijacked? It made no sense.
One of the officers rushed from the stairwell into the pilothouse. Instantly Drozdov ordered, “Go to manual. Starboard five.”
The mate positioned himself between the leather chairs, standing at the console. He punched a button and set hands on the tiny steering wheel. He came starboard five degrees. Moments after, the ship ahead moved to stay in the Valnea’s course.
Drozdov leaned forward to tap the radar screen. He said to LB, “I have seen mornings after storms where containers have been opened and emptied. Leather jackets, Dom Pérignon, motorcycle parts. In storms, Sergeant. Pirates are desperate men. They cannot be predicted.”
Grisha chugged in, huffing. Drozdov instructed him, “Hail the vessel in our path.”
LB had no role on the bridge. If pirates were coming, he belonged where he could do some good.
“I’m going.”
“Where?”
“To get my gun back from Bojan.”
“He will not give it to you. He has orders.”
“Then give him different orders.”
“Bojan does not work for me on this ship of wonders.”
LB stepped back from the console. He flung both arms over his head, swung a boot at his own frustration, infuriated and diminished. “Shit,” he barked through clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch.”
“Yes!” Drozdov sang. “Yes, Sergeant. That’s the spirit!”
Chapter 11
Pirate skiffs
Gulf of Aden
Yusuf raised a fist.
In the center, Suleiman did the same. To his right, young Guleed hoisted his balled hand.
The three cousins stood in the bows of three black skiffs lashed together. They signaled to one another: Courage.
The boats idled their engines. Along with Yusuf and Guleed in the left and right skiffs, one helmsman and one gunner waited in each. Seventeen more pirates crowded behind Suleiman, standing in the bow of the middle skiff. All were armed with Kalashnikov rifles. A dozen rocket-propelled grenade launchers were secured to the floorboards of each of the three skiffs, along with rope ladders and new aluminum grappling hooks tied to long tethers. At Yusuf’s feet lay two hundred meters of coiled hemp rope. The line ran past Suleiman in the middle to an equal coil at Guleed’s bare feet.
Every eye was turned to the enormous bow of the freighter bearing down on them. Yusuf could not understand why the Valnea moved so slowly. A vessel of this class was capable of twenty-five knots, even more running empty. The ship wasn’t in a convoy; she ran alone. Why? Was she wounded? Was this a trap? Yusuf had brooded over these questions, moving to stay in the freighter’s path, skulking to spring his own trap. He had no more time to ponder; the white steaming light on her forward mast charged closer, high in the air like an approaching comet.
Over the skiff’s VHF radio, the freighter repeated its hail on Channel 16. The voice was very matter-of-fact. “Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, CMA