It worked. Incredibly, his head was also warmer. He should have been wearing this thing all night!
“Put on your helmet,” he shouted at Flap, who had his tucked under his thighs.
The clouds were just beginning to show pink when they saw the ship. It was almost bows on and coming this way. A little ship, one stack, coming with a bone in its teeth.
Jake pointed.
“Of all the fucking luck!” Flap Le Beau swore.
It was the pirate ship.
21
“They‘ve seen us,” Flap shouted over the wind. “They‘re coming this way.”
“Better ditch the guns and radios,” Jake told him. He drew the Colt .45 from its holster under his life jacket and survival vest and slipped it over the side. In a holster sewn inside a pocket of his survival vest he had a five-shot Smith & Wesson .38 with a two-inch barrel that he kept loaded with flares. He ditched that too.
The radio — he held on to the radio for a moment as he watched the bow wave of the oncoming small ship subside. They were stopping.
Son of a…
He used his survival knife to cut the parachute shroud line that tied him to the radio and lowered it to the water, then released it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Flap slip his .45 over the side.
“The knife,” Flap told him. “Dump it too. They’ll just take them away from us.” Jake opened his hand and the knife made a tiny splash.
The small ship drifted to a stop on the windward side of the two rafts, about fifteen feet away. Her bulk created a sheltered lee. It was a nice display of seamanship, but Jake and Flap were in no mood to appreciate it.
Staring down from the rail were eight brown faces. Malays, from the look of them. They held assault rifles in their hands.
The sides of this little ship had once been blue, but now the blue was heavily spotted with rust. Where some of the paint had peeled glimpses of gray were visible. Apparently she had once been a patrol boat. Forward of the bow was a gun mount, now empty. That was where they had had the twenty millimeter. It must be stowed below.
The men on deck lowered a net and made gestures with their rifles. Jake and Flap slowly paddled over. Flap went up the net first. Jake followed him. The ship was rocking heavily in the swells. The net was wet, hard to grasp firmly. His foot slipped on the wet cordage and he almost went into the sea. When he was clear of the raft the people on deck began shooting bursts of fully automatic fire. He looked down. Holes popped everywhere on the inflated portions of the rafts and spray flew.
By the time he pulled himself up enough to grasp the rail, the rafts were completely deflated and sinking.
Hands grabbed him and pulled. He scrambled on up the net. As he was coming over the rail, someone hit him in the helmet with a rifle butt and he sprawled onto the deck. Flap was already lying there on his back looking upward.
Most of the crew were barefoot. A couple of them looked like teenagers. Their clothes were ragged and dirty. There was nothing half-assed about their weapons however, worn AK-47s without a fleck of rust. Several of them had pistols stuck into their belts or the tops of their pants.
One of them gestured toward a ladder with the barrel of his weapon. Up. Jake glanced at Flap. His face was expressionless. Grafton prayed that he looked at least half that calm.
At the top of the ladder was the bridge.
The man working the helm and engine was a bit larger than medium height, apparently fit, and had a wicked scar on his chin. The ship was already gathering speed and heeling in a turn. The captain, if captain he was, glanced at them, then concentrated on putting the ship on the course he wanted. When he had the helm amidships and had checked the compass, he said, “Gentlemen, welcome aboard.”
Jake looked around. Two of the crew were behind them and the rifles were leveled at his and Flap’s backs. He turned back to the captain.
“Take off all that…” He gestured toward their life jackets and survival vests. “And the helmets. You look very silly in those helmets.”
Jake and Flap unsnapped their torso harnesses and let them fall into the puddle that was spreading away from each man. They got rid of the G-suits and helmets. Jake took off his empty shoulder holster and dropped it into the pile.
“Where’s the pistol?”
Jake shrugged.
The captain took one step and slapped him, quickly and lightly. He stood with his hands on his hips in front of Jake, looking up at him. “I think you will answer my questions. Where is the pistol?”
“In the ocean.”
The captain went back to the wheel and checked the compass. “And your survival radios? Where are they?”
“Same place.”
“Where did you fly from?”
“USS Columbia.”
“Where is she?”
“West of here.” He toyed with the idea of lying for less than a heartbeat. “Maybe two or three hundred miles now.”
“When will the planes come looking for you?”
“Shortly.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Sometime soon. After the sun comes up.”
“My men must learn to shoot better. Now we have this complication.”
“Must be a tough way to make a living.”
The captain continued as if he hadn’t heard. “The question is, do we need you alive? You disposed of your radios so you cannot talk to the airplanes on UHF. You could have warned them that you would die if they attacked us. Alas, we have only a marine band radio. It’s a pity.”
“You speak English pretty well.”
The captain was scanning the ocean and glancing occasionally at the sky. He didn’t bother looking at the two Americans. “But I do not think they will attack. They will look us over and take many pictures. That is all.” His eyes flicked to their faces. “What do you think?”
Unfortunately Jake thought he was right. He tried to keep his face deadpan but his turmoil probably showed. The captain apparently thought so. He said something to the guards and waved his hand. They prodded the aviators in the back and turned them around. As they left the bridge, Jake saw one of the crewmen opening the pockets of the survival vest and dumping the contents on the deck.
They were shoved into a tiny compartment below the main deck. There was a large hasp on the door.
“Can we have some water?” Jake asked the three men who pushed him inside right behind Flap. They ignored him.
The door swung shut and they heard the padlock snapping closed. The compartment was only slightly larger than a bedroom closet and had apparently been used for storage. There was no light and no electrical sockets, although there was one small, filthy porthole that admitted subdued light.
Flap leaned against the door and listened. After a bit he shrugged. “They’ve gone, I think.”
“Maybe there’s a bug.”
“Go ahead and look for it, James Bond.”
Jake sat against a wall and began taking off his boots. He took off his socks and wrung the water out, then put them back on. “They’ll probably shoot us after a while,” he said.
“Probably,” Flap agreed. He also sat. “The captain ain’t sure if he’ll need us or not. The bastard has it figured pretty good. I’ll bet he can get this thing to port before the U.S. Navy can get a surface ship here to board him. He thinks so too. But he’s saving us just in case.”
“What do you think they did with the freighter?”
“Sank her would be my bet. They were probably off-loading high-value items when we showed up.”
“And the crew?”
Flap shrugged.
“Then why in hell did these guys shoot at us?”
“Perhaps someone panicked. Or they didn’t want their picture taken. The airplane overhead was a problem they hadn’t figured on.”