Captain Arch Penney got the news via telephone on the bridge. He turned to Mustafa al-Said, who was strutting back and forth, keeping his eye on the airplanes and helicopters that buzzed about at least a mile away from the ship.
“Your men are raping the women. I thought you said they wouldn’t do that.”
Mustafa’s concern showed in his face. His boss, Ragnar, had told him in no uncertain terms that he and his men must leave the women strictly alone. “We will ask for ransom, and they will demand to speak to the passengers and crew. If they report they have been raped or tortured or abused, we risk our political position.” Ragnar well knew that his lair of Eyl was only safe because the allied governments had refused, so far, to attack it. He didn’t want to give allied decision-makers a reason to change their minds.
Ragnar had been very explicit. “We want money. Not blood. Not revenge or terror or sex or any of that nonpaying shit. Money. Money we can spend. Don’t fuck this up, Mustafa.” Those were not his exact words, of course, but close enough. “Your men can wait until they are back in Eyl, then they can have all the women they can stand. If they have money, the women of Somalia will line up to fuck them.”
Mustafa left his two pirates who could read a compass in charge on the bridge and went below. He didn’t really care what the infidels thought of rape or his men; he cared greatly about pleasing Ragnar, who had a nasty habit of killing people who displeased him. People who thought they had a tough boss had no idea what a really tough boss looked like.
Radio talk-show host Mike Rosen had been using the Internet computers in the computer room just off the ship’s library when the pirates boarded the ship. He heard the shooting and the captain’s announcement. Pirates had taken the ship.
Rosen was no hero, but he was a journalist, and he knew that he was sitting in the middle of the biggest story he had ever covered. Maybe as big as 9/11. He logged off the Internet and grabbed his computer bag, which held his laptop, and retreated into the office just off the computer room. It wasn’t much, just a desk and chair, a computer and monitor, and a telephone. The computer on the desk was an old Dell, just like the ones in the computer room for the passengers to use. Rosen carefully closed the door and turned on the computer. His hands were shaking as he logged on to the Internet.
Voilà! It still worked. He was on. He was busy typing out a flash to the radio station in Denver when an automatic weapon burst went off outside the door.
Rosen grabbed his computer bag, slid the chair back and crawled under the desk.
More bursts from the computer room outside the door. And laughter.
When the blasts had finally subsided, maybe fifteen bursts, he estimated, he wasn’t really counting, the door flew open. He didn’t see it; he heard it. Another burst of rifle fire, this time so loud he cringed. Bits and pieces of the computer rained down on the carpet.
Then the door slammed shut.
Rosen waited a good five minutes, then went to the door and, as quietly as he could, opened it a crack. All he could see was remnants of the computers that had been lined up on one credenza facing the wall. The entire dozen were shot to shit.
Rosen carefully closed the door and examined the knob. It had a lock button. He pushed it.
He thoughtfully unpacked his laptop, raked the shards of the old monitor and keyboard off the desk and began setting up. The cord from the Internet connection to the late computer was intact, so he plugged it into his MacBook. Automatically he dug into his bag for the power supply and plugged that in to ensure his battery didn’t run down.
Then he tried to log on again to the Internet. Holy damn, it worked.
But what was he going to report? He didn’t know beans about what was going on.
He began searching the desk. Pulled out a board that acted as a writing extension, and there he found taped in place a list of the ship’s offices and phone numbers.
Might as well, he thought. He examined the telephone. It was intact. He picked a number, the ship’s head steward, and dialed.
“Yes.”
“How many people are dead? How many injured?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“I’m a spy for SMERSH, you moron. Now answer the question.”
“At least four dead on the bridge. Two passengers were shot before the pirates boarded; one of those has died. The other is in the infirmary. One woman was apparently raped to death.”
“That’s seven dead and one wounded.”
“There’s more wounded.”
“How many more?”
“Listen, you bloody American twit. Tying up the ship’s telephone lines to satisfy idle curiosity is wasting my time. Bugger off!” The phone went dead.
Rosen called the ship’s infirmary, a small space with three beds and one doctor.
A man answered.
“This is the second officer,” Rosen said firmly. “What do you have down there?”
“Four raped women. The men who carried them in weren’t shot, thank God.”
“Injuries?”
“One had a crushed eye socket. Two had all the usual damage of a gang rape. The fourth woman is dead.”
“Passengers or crew?”
“Crew.”
“Names.”
The male voice gave them to him.
“How many dead?”
“At least eight that I know of. Six crew, two passengers. There may be more. Probably are.”
“Thank you,” Rosen said and hung up abruptly.
He whistled absentmindedly to himself as he consulted the telephone list.
He called the aft dining room.
“Third officer.” He decided to give himself a demotion. “What’s your situation?”
“Fuckin’ pirates are gobbling everything in sight.”
“Any casualties up there?”
“Who the fuck are you, mate? You ain’t the bloody third.”
“Thanks for all your help. I’ll call you back in a while.”
He tried the radio room. No answer. Ship’s cruise director. A cultured female voice.
“Hello, this is Mike Rosen. I’m one of your passengers. Do you know how many pirates are aboard?”
“We have everything under control, Mr. Rosen. Please hang up and leave this line for crew to use. We’ll tell you all we can when the pirates allow us to again use the PA system.” He could tell that she was frightened.
“I really appreciate that. But do you or anyone there have any idea how many pirates are aboard?”
The woman took a deep breath and whispered, “One of the pool barmen said he thought about three dozen climbed aboard, but he didn’t get an accurate count. They’re swarming all over.”
“I see.”
“I have one in the passageway outside my office, strolling up and down, looking rather fierce. Please stay in your stateroom, obey the public address announcements.”
“You bet. Thanks for your help.”
He called the engine control room.
“What’s our speed and heading?”
“Eighteen knots, heading one-eight-zero.” Rosen couldn’t place the accent.
“What’s our destination?”
“Hell, maybe.”
“They haven’t told you?”
“No one ever tells me shit. You’ll get there when the rest of us do, shipmate, then you’ll know. Now bugger off.” He hung up on Rosen. Australian, the reporter decided.
Rosen thought for a minute, then called the engine room again. The Aussie answered after two rings.
“Why don’t you just shut down the engines?”
“You again! There are two nigger pirates down here, and they are primed to kill somebody. If the engines stop, they’ll kill the whole bleedin’ lot of us. The bastards don’t speak a word of English, yet they made that wonderfully clear. Marvelous communicators they are, regular MPs. Don’t call this number again.” He hung up.