"Not me," Helene said. She lounged topless in the cockpit holding Billy's bottle of champagne. He'd said a while before, hell, why didn't she take her panties off too? She told him it would fuck up her tan lines. "You get a real even tan, the white parts of you look sexier." She said, "How long have we been out, hon?"
"Thirty-four days."
"How much longer will we be…aboard?"
"A hundred and twenty days, give or take."
"But that's"-she paused to get her tone under control-"four more months. Didn't you say it was about a four-month cruise from Marseilles?"
"I don't count doing surveillance or going to parties as sailing. It isn't my fault we have to sit and wait on the gas ship."
"So it's going to take longer than four months, huh? Starting from right now."
"It could take longer we run into pirates in the Malacca Straits we ever get there. I'm told they got it under control, so I'm not gonna worry about it. I doubt I would even if they weren't."
"What?"
"Under control."
Jesus Christ, Helene was thinking, we haven't even started yet. "We're at the party," Billy said, "you meet the captain of that gas ship?"
"The Egyptian? For a minute. I told him I love the pyramids. We did a layout on top the Aswan Dam one time for Bazaar. You know there aren't any regular bathrooms in that entire fucking country? There's a hole in the floor you have to hit. Go in a souk crowded with Egyptians, there's no place to have a whiz."
"What'd you do?"
"Wet my pants."
For two days they sailed among the hijacked ships keeping an eye on Aphrodite. Sunday CNN announced the rescue of Captain Phillips from the lifeboat, the three pirates killed by Navy SEALs. Billy listened to the news grinning. "Bing bing bing, a shot apiece and the captain's free." He said, "Well, the wogs had to learn the hard way."
"Don't fuck with Americans," Helene said. "Right?"
Monday morning she heard Pegaso's engine start up, loud, Jesus, almost underneath her. She came topside in a sweatshirt to see Billy taking in the sails. Helene said, "What's up, Skipper?" Now he was in the cockpit steering toward a little white boat a mile or so off.
"Why, isn't that Buster?" Helene said, being cool. "We gonna visit?"
"Look toward the beach," Billy said. "There's the one coming to visit, with AKs and a grenade launcher."
She could hear the high whine now of the pirate skiff, streaking dead ahead toward the Buster.
Billy raised his glasses to see the pirates unroll a bedsheet and hold it taut, bow to stern, Arabic words painted on it in black. Billy picked up his satellite phone and dialed a number. He said, "Mustaf? This is Mr. Wynn," and read him the words on the banner. "Al Mout Li Amrikas. What's it mean?" He listened and said, "You shittin me? We were all good friends the other day." He listened and said, "No, I'll take care of it," and turned off the phone.
Helene said, "Well…?"
"It means 'Death to Americans,'" Billy said, putting on his shooting vest. XAVIER SAID TO DARA, "You can look it up in the book"-watching the skiff cut its motors to leave a hundred feet between them-"but I know it don't mean 'Welcome to Somalia.'"
"I'll have to talk to them," Dara said, "explain why they were shot."
Billy pulled up on Buster's port side, tied on and stepped aboard with his Holland amp; Holland double-barrel rifle in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.
He said, "I'll confuse them a little first," and held up the rifle, the one he used to destroy two of their boats, saying, "See?" and shaking his head. Touched his chest and said, "Me?" and shook his head again. "I'm not gonna fire this expensive rifle. You are," and gave them time to talk among themselves. Now he waved them to come toward him. One of them started the motor and let the skiff rumble in closer. Billy said, "I know you're sore at us for the way the SEALs took out your boys with only three rounds, a single shot each," Billy sounding sincere. "Come on, I want you all to try this sporting rifle. Tie on here and listen to what I'm gonna tell you. In honor of your dead boys I'm offering this rifle as a tribute. The four of you-that boy driving isn't old enough. You have to be eighteen. The four of you each take a shot at a target we set up." Billy held up the bottle of champagne. "This is the target. If you'd like to have some, my lovely assistant will serve you. You each take a shot at the bottle. Whoever hits it wins the rifle."
One of them said, "What happen we all hit it?"
"Kwame," Billy said, "is that you? How you doin, man? Anybody hits a bottle, we put another one up. Now I want you to step aboard. You're gonna be shooting on the Buster, ten meters bow to stern. You stand here behind the wheelhouse and take aim at the target my lovely assistant Ginger will hang on that lanyard comes down from the mast to the bow. Seven or eight meters from your rifle barrel, that's all. Who wants to be first? Kwame?" KWAME TOOK THE RIFLE, hefted it, aimed at the sky to the west, lowered the front sight to the bottle hanging from the lanyard, set himself, cheek against fine wood and gunmetal, squeezed the trigger and was kicked back to hit the table wedged against the curved bench, in the stern, hit the hard edge before he knew what was happening and dropped to the deck. Kwame pushed himself up saying to Billy, "You don't give us a trial shot to know what we shooting."
Billy said, "Let's see how the other boys do first. Then you can take another shot if you want," injecting another six-hundred-caliber Nitro Express round into the breech.
The next Somali hefted the rifle, aimed it, lowered it, aimed, then hefted it again feeling the weight of the gun, pressed his face against the smell of oiled wood, squeezed the trigger and was kicked back to land on the table and lay there laughing. Now the others were laughing, three of them with the boy on the table. Kwame wasn't laughing. The boy came off the table rubbing his shoulder and arm, telling the next boy how to hold this rifle. The next boy did as he was told, fired, twisted away from the kick and went over the side, the Indian Ocean swallowing him.
Billy said, "The boy know how to swim? He don't he better learn. Somebody fish him out if you will, please. Who's next?"
"You are," Kwame said. "You shoot, let me see you don't move. You show us with this gun."
Billy slipped in a load. He stood back of the wheelhouse, aimed, fired, shattered the bottle and held on to the kick, the barrels coming up, muscled it and barely moved. He slipped another round in the breech looking at Kwame. "Want to try it again?"
Xavier, his ears ringing, filmed the scene from the off side of the wheelhouse with the Sony as Dara was telling Billy there was still another shooter. Billy handed the boy the rifle saying he hoped it didn't tear his shoulder off, reaching to it and feeling bones.
The boy didn't hold the rifle in a tight grip or press his cheek against it. He fired and the kick sent him back six feet against the curved bench. It stunned him, he lay there until the other boys started laughing. Billy watched the lad getting to his feet, trying to make himself laugh. Everybody but Kwame.
Billy slipped another round into the throat of his double-barrel beast, asking Kwame, "You want to try again? Help yourself," and offered the rifle.
Dara watched Kwame reach to take it, but then let his hand drop.
"Who won this game?"
"I told you, the one hits the bottle," Billy said. "I'm the only one did, so I keep the rifle." He said, "Tough luck, my friend," put his hand on Kwame's shoulder and said, "I'm sorry," when Kwame winced.
"Amazing," Dara said.
Xavier heard her. He said, "Yeah, but they still on the boat." BILLY, HIS HAND ON Kwame, moved him to the rail where the skiff was tied. Billy said, "Al Mout Li Amrikas? You must be thinking of some other Americans. You got your new shoes on? I told Idris Mohammed-he's going to London-where to get 'em for you boys. They comfortable?"
Kwame looked down at the shoes, nodding his head.
"Try not to get 'em wet out here," Billy said, "that's an expensive pair of footwear."