Gulf of Aden, off Somalia, 2:53 AM
Carlos leapt from his bunk, ran into the passageway, headed for the ladder.
Tarita’s athletic legs were disappearing at the top of the ladder. He clambered up after them.
He could hear the rasping of small motors outside.
Carlos: “Sounds like we’ve got pirates.”
Tarita: “That’s why we’re here.”
Their mission was to track down the Somali warlord whose pirates had hijacked one of Fisk’s oil tankers in the Gulf of Aden. They had sailed up the Indian Ocean around the Horn of Africa into the Gulf of Aden – the Somali pirates’ favorite hunting ground.
Owners of hijacked ships invariably paid ransom to the pirates, recovered their ships and crews, moved on.
Not Fisk. He wanted retribution. His vast business empire hadn’t been built through accommodation.
Carlos Madrid was a troubleshooter for Fisk, Tarita Lee a film actress who worked undercover for him.
His 120 foot yacht was their decoy to attract pirates seeking hostages.
Tarita entered the bridge a step ahead of Carlos. The captain was at the helm. Small, rasping motors could be heard in the dark night outside the boat.
Captain: “They’re taking the bait.”
Tarita: “See if you can get them in the spotlight.”
Carlos found the spotlight, flicked the switch.
The beam’s ambient light revealed how fast they had scrambled topside. Each was wearing only the shorts they’d been sleeping in.
Carlos: “Wow…If they’re not gay, you’re in trouble.”
Tarita: “And if they are, kiss your butt goodbye. Now let’s get to work!”
The spotlight beam cut a swath into the dark night. Carlos guided it to the water close around the yacht. A large object whizzed through the beam, heading aft. He spun the light, trying to catch up with it. Couldn’t find it.
Another motor, moving just as fast, was approaching from ahead. Swinging the spotlight beam forward, Carlos got ready to track whatever was coming.
And there it was… What he saw made no sense here, in the middle of the ocean, hundreds of miles from land.
It appeared to be a motorized skiff, maybe ten feet long, with three or four men in it.
One of the men pointed something in Carlos’s direction. It flashed, with a sharp cracking sound.
The spotlight shattered.
Total darkness again. Carlos grabbed the captain’s shoulder.
Carlos: “Captain - go check the fantail. I’ll take the helm.”
The buzzing motors stopped moving. They were stationary, idling - two of them, one on each side of the yacht.
Closer now. Then…contact!
The small boats scraped against the yacht’s hull. Tarita and Carlos heard people scrambling aboard, scuffling with the crew. Foreign voices. Coming toward them.
Suddenly they were caught in the glare of flashlights. Five. Surrounding them.
Then voices. All male. Muttering to each other in an unknown language. Probably Somali.
Laughter now. Lascivious. Flashlights focused on Tarita. On her mostly nude body.
Unheeded, Carlos moved slowly away from Tarita as the raiders moved toward her. He sidled to the bridge desk, found a flare gun.
The intruders were surrounding Tarita, groping her. They were kidnappers, and she was ransom bait. But she was also half-naked and gorgeous.
One man’s fingers hooked the waistband of Tarita’s shorts, pulling her to him. She steadied herself and clenched her fists.
An instant before she swung her fist at the nearest flashlight, she heard Carlos’s voice.
Carlos: “Close your eyes, Tar! Now!”
Carlos aimed the flare gun, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger!
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