He resisted an impulse to cut nearest line. Doing so would only have served to attract the attention of the men below, and Kismet doubted even the razor sharp edge of the Bali-Song could slice through all the thick ropes in time. Instead, he melted back into the darkness, waiting for a better opportunity.
The armed boarding party swarmed over the railing, expecting no opposition and meeting none. They carried AK-47s or possibly a regionally produced variant; the sturdy assault rifle was easily obtainable from a number of different sources. The men, a scattering of Chinese among a majority of Indonesians, wore ragged jeans, cast-off military fatigues and t-shirts with English and Chinese language advertising logos. Despite their unprofessional appearance, Kismet recognized that they were trained combatants, not formally trained perhaps, but men who had honed their survival skills in an arena far more exacting than any military school. They fanned out as if they had intimate knowledge of the cruise vessel and her decks. Kismet didn’t doubt that such was the case; the seizure of The Star of Muara had not been merely a spur of the moment attack on a target of opportunity.
He figured there were probably more groups like this boarding the vessel elsewhere. Additionally, there was an unknown number of pirates who had patiently waited, perhaps performing duties as members of the ship’s crew, until the signal to strike was given. Though it was impossible to verify, Kismet estimated a force of at least fifty men were now swarming over The Star of Muara. There seemed to be little he could hope to accomplish against such overwhelming odds, but he couldn’t bear to simply hide out in the shadows.
He moved toward the rail again and peered over the side at the boats below. The two jet boats were already pulling away, leaving the scaling ropes to dangle purposelessly against the side of the ship. Another vessel however, hove into view, slowly navigating toward the ocean liner. This craft appeared to be a Chinese junk, drawing motive power from a large diesel engine, rather than the sails which hung limply from the mast. Even with the modern power source, the craft would never have been able to match the cruise ship’s speed. Here at least was an answer to the question of why the pirates’ first objective had been to reverse the cruise ship’s engines. The mystery of why were the attackers utilizing such a slow boat when they had so much speed at their command, both from the cigarettes and the cruise ship itself, continued to gnaw at him.
They’re not staying, he realized. This is a simple heist; take what they can grab and run like hell. And if the pirates intended to use the junk to haul away their booty, they evidently had no intention of keeping the massive cruise ship as a prize.
Kismet didn’t stop to think about what he was doing; under the circumstances it seemed like the right thing to do. Clipping his butterfly knife to his belt, he drew one of the grapnels from off the rail and carefully coiled the scaling rope over his shoulder.
The junk drew nearer to The Star of Muara, close enough for Kismet to see the figures moving about her deck. A moment later, its hull scraped against the larger craft as it pulled in parallel beside her. Kismet leaned out a little further, risking discovery, in order to observe the crew of the junk in action. The Indonesian men were using long strips of adhesive tape to affix something to the hull of the cruise ship.
Shaped charges, Kismet thought. Probably detcord. Once ignited, the substance could burn through steel in a heartbeat, even underwater. But the pirates were not placing their charges below the water line. Instead, they had marked off a section as big as a garage door that was roughly level with the deck of their own craft. Despite the immediate risk of discovery, Kismet was fascinated by what he was witnessing.
One of the pirates shouted something in Chinese, and the rest of the group sought cover. Without waiting for an all clear, the leader of the group activated the fuse. There was a resounding boom from near the water line as the ship’s hull became instantaneously hot enough for the metal to actually begin burning. The pirates were ready for this however. Two men stepped forward with pressurized carbon dioxide fire extinguishers to rapidly cool the molten steel, after which a third used a pry bar to pop the excised portion of the hull loose, allowing it to slip into the depths.
A few minutes later, the process was repeated on the cruise vessel’s secondary hull, breaching her completely and leaving a gaping wound in The Star of Muara. The gap was significant enough that even a modest rogue wave might inundate the ship, sending her to the bottom. The pirates evidently cared little for the ultimate fate of the captured ship or her passengers. The hole served only one purpose: it was a doorway through which they might bring whatever treasures they could seize. A dozen more armed men crossed over from the junk, entering the bowels of the ship and leaving their own vessel evidently unmanned.
Kismet saw his opportunity. He quickly repositioned one of the grappling hooks so that the rope trailed down above the junk’s stern, then unhesitatingly climbed over the rail and rappelled down. Only as he slid down the thick line did it occur to him how ridiculous he must appear in his tux and shiny black shoes; he had dressed for the wrong party.
Although he was abandoning the cruise ship, his primary concern was the safety of her passengers and crew. He had not heard any more gunfire since the initial moments of the assault, but he did not take this as a sign of the pirates’ goodwill. Doubtless, they knew that once they started killing people, the fear of certain death might push some of the hostages to attempt a counter-attack. It was much more likely that the intruders would first concentrate on seizing the Sultan’s treasures, and then simply scuttle the ship, sending all the witnesses to their crime to the bottom of the South China Sea. Kismet reckoned the best chance the hostages had lay with his finding the junk’s radio and sending a distress call to the mainland. Hopefully, rescue boats would arrive in time to pluck the survivors from the water.
He dropped stealthily to the deck of the junk and darted once more into the shadows. With the folding knife again in hand, he crept around to the opposite side of the boat, hoping to place its superstructure between himself and any lookout posted on the cruise ship. He then stole forward, cautiously exploring the unfamiliar vessel to locate its radio room. It was impossible to know where to turn next. No two junks were alike and most were haphazardly thrown together in response to the needs of the moment.
As he rounded the superstructure, he got his first look at the demolition work carried out by the pirate crew. The detcord had carved through the ship’s hull with surgical neatness, opening her to the despoilers. The bottom cut of the rectangular hole was almost perfectly level with the deck inside; the intruders had chosen their point of entry carefully, further evidence that their actions had been directed by someone among the crew. The pirates would be able to come and go with relative ease. Kismet knew he didn’t have much time.
The sound of approaching footsteps sent him hastening once more for cover. A young Chinese man with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder, strolled by his hiding place a few moments later. Kismet breathed a sigh of relief that his presence apparently remained unnoticed, but then he heard something that caused his heart to freeze in his chest. It was the electronically reproduced melody of a cellular telephone ringtone.