The Devil's Waters by David L. Robbins

Author:David L. Robbins
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2012-11-13T08:00:00+00:00

CMA CGN Valnea

Gulf of Aden

Drozdov sat with his officers and the Filipinos beneath the long windshield of the darkened wheelhouse. Yusuf came for him, asking that he take the captain’s chair.

“Please,” Yusuf said.

“Spasiba. No. I will sit with crew.” Since Yusuf had come aboard twenty minutes ago, the Russian, already thin and angular, had grown more pallid. Duskiness deepened his eye sockets.

“But you are the captain.”

Drozdov mimed spitting on the floor. “And you are murderer.”

Suleiman was on the ship’s deck, putting guards in place. Guleed, younger and more hot-tempered, took a stride forward behind his Kalashnikov.

Yusuf said, “Then, with that in mind, please come to your chair.”

A chubby, whispering officer prevailed on Drozdov to rise from the floor. The Filipino crewmen approved with nods that he retake his place while they sat herded and hostage in front of Yusuf’s guns. Drozdov stood, and Yusuf ushered him around the wide dash to the leather chairs.

The two sat side by side. The bridge remained gloomily lit to preserve night vision, the only radiance coming from the gauges and radar screens. The ship coursed darkly across the gulf, save for red and green running lights fore and aft, and a white steaming light atop the bow mast. Amber glows off the dash made Drozdov appear even more cadaverous.

From the copilot seat, Yusuf surveyed the ship’s instruments. Compass heading 110º SE, engine turning rpms at twelve knots. The radar showed the Valnea with her naval escort Nicholas holding off the port beam. Eighty miles of empty sea stretched ahead to the Somali coast.

“Captain.”

“What?”

“I want to ask you for waawaan. A truce.”

“Not possible.”

Yusuf leaned into the space between the pilots’ chairs. He lowered his voice.

“I was not born into a violent world. I had parents who taught me stories and poems. I’m sure you understand, Africa is a changeable land. In the last twenty years, Somalia has changed more than others. We have seen civil war. We’ve been invaded by foreigners, driven them off, and fell again into civil war. We are torn apart. Little men have become lords of little lands. The greed of greater nations has made us beggars. Some of us cannot beg, so we chose instead to become thieves. I have no course but this, Captain. I cannot choose what I do, only how. I do not wish for more violence, but you must know it is a tool at my command. I want your cooperation to be willing. But I will force it.”

Drozdov listened without looking at Yusuf, fixing his gaze forward into the night.

“Yes, I know begging.”

“Do you.”

Drozdov nodded, solemn.

“Three years ago, I am captain of MV Stanislaus. Crew of twenty-two. Malta to Mombasa, five thousand containers, famine relief. We carry nothing but food for starving people. Somali skiffs came at dawn, rockets and guns. They took half hour to get on board, not so good as you. We were taken to Somali coast, to Eyl.”

Drozdov swung his head heavily, sadly, to Yusuf.

“We anchored there eight months. Pirates and shipping company, insurance, negotiators, all bosses, played games with ransom.

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