When an American ship on an emergency mission is captured by murderous pirates and the crew held hostage on a steamy tropical island, a courageous sailor and a captivating Muslim widow lead a daring attempt to retake the ship.
But between hotwiring cars, jumping off trains, and disarming bombs, will there be time for love?True To Life Action
The manuscript was proofed by a licensed US Merchant Marine officer serving aboard a tanker, offering insights on anti-piracy procedures, firearms rules, hazards to navigation, and emergency firefighting. Because Sailors and Scumbags presents a solid representation of ship’s safety procedures (and how they can be circumvented to my own nefarious ends).
Mayday!“Mayday, mayday,” crackled the VHF. “This is the Kobayashi Maru. We are on fire.”
Flames sprouted from her portholes, yellow and hot, and black smoke billowed from the ship’s superstructure, pouring into the sky like an inverted waterfall. The Maru was drifting into the opposing traffic lane. She was a tanker, like the Paine, and Chief could see that the fire had spread to the port side of her house.
The clacking gunshots rang out again and three bullet holes spider-webbed the bridge window, prompting everyone to duck.
“Those aren’t cops!” shouted Erik.
On the Paine’s deck, a small blonde-haired woman in a blue hard hat yanked back on the brass lever that opened up her fire nozzle. She held on tight as the hose became iron hard in her hands, bucking against her. Leaning back against her teammates, she aimed the jet of water over the ship’s side at the rapid inflatable boat.
All Hands to Repel Boarders!
Here the pirates' boat was hidden beneath the ship’s fantail but it was difficult to steer through the turbulent wake. The sound of thrashing water echoed against the steel hull and the men worked silently, going through the moves just like they’d practiced.
Closer now, the stink of diesel fumes mixed with salt air. Bubbles from the ship’s propeller-wash fizzed around them like champagne. The Stars and Stripes stretched above them in the warm evening breeze, lit up by little floodlights.
It was now or never, and Bingo worked the throttle, moving in closer to the giant propeller. The duffel was passed forward and each of the muscled thugs armed himself with a razor-sharp parang. With the shotgun across his back, Squirrel hefted the long bamboo pole. He balanced carefully in the middle of the boat, braced by the sturdy hands of the others, and raised the spindly bamboo straight up, maneuvering the mangrove-root hook toward the iron railing, thirty feet above.
"“He drank! And he beat us!"
Sinta’s sudden outburst, the strength in her voice, surprised everyone, including herself. Tears sprang from her eyes.
"And spent all his money on happy-happy!”
“He was a good man!”
“A good man? Like you are a good man? I saw how you make your money! Blood was everywhere!”
“And some of it was mine!”
Bingo ripped the yellowed bandage off his sweaty neck, revealing an open wound glistening green and white, and charred black around the edges.
“You’re just worried about your looks!” Sinta screamed, rising to her full height and pointing at him with one long, outstretched finger. “You don’t care about us!”
Dwi’s eyes were huge with fear. Erik’s muscles tensed.
“Well, don’t worry!” she accused. “The whores of Batam will still sleep with you!”
Man Overboard
Squirrel had been lying on his back for hours with his arms spread wide, floating across the rolling waves with his face turned skyward despite the terrible sun. But then something had brushed against his foot, jolting him awake.
Now he treaded water nervously.
His eyes stung – they were caked with salt and sunburned – but he forced himself to look anyway. The water was astonishingly clear here, which was not a comfort. A dark shape, streamlined, sinister, sawed back and forth silently through the depths beneath Squirrel’s pale, bare feet.
After Squirrel’s feeble kick, the shark had widened his circle, patiently stalking the fragile human, waiting for his body, which was built for land, to succumb to the harsh environment; an environment in which the shark was perfectly at home.Squirrel’s fingers closed around the handle of his sheath knife. Don’t draw it, yet, he thought. Don’t want to drop it. His thoughts were slow.
He licked his lips and was surprised to find them huge and scabby. His dry tongue scraped across the rough skin and the thought of what was happening to him made him cry.
A single tear squeezed out of his eye and dripped into the sea. A tiny ring expanded across the surface and was gone. One tear drop in the largest ocean in the world, he thought. How unimportant.
Tired of RunningA shadow passed over, just inches above his shining bald head; the size and shape of a soccer ball.
“What was that?”
With a heavy thunk it landed far down the hillside.
Then another passed by, exploding into the head of the little man in front of Sneer. With a splash of crimson, the man’s skull caved in, distorting his face around the rock as he plunged backwards over the bushes.
Sneer ducked and dodged to the side, coming up behind a large boulder wrapped in the roots of a massive hardwood. His men took cover wherever they could, dodging a sudden hail of rocks.
Sneer poked his head up to take a peek up the hillside. He could just barely make out their profiles, head and shoulders above the rocky saddle, as they heaved stones with both hands overhead like Neanderthals.
Sneer pulled the clip, slapped it home, checked the chamber, and flipped the selector to full auto.
Tick Tock
Clay watched Erik poking around in the bag, carefully lifting the vinyl out of the way so he could see how it was rigged.
“I see something.Looks like a brick of clay. Like Play-Doh or something, wrapped in Saran Wrap. Hold the light steady.”
“Sorry.”
"I see a cell phone or something. There’s writing.”
“What’s it say?” Clay asked.
“Says Radio Shack.”
“That can’t be good.”
"It's a timer! And there’s like a camera battery or something. And what looks like a spark plug pushed into the clay.”
Clay’s heart was in his throat. His pulse was frantic, pounding in his ears.
“How much time?”
“Eight seconds.”
“What!?”
“No, eight minutes.”
“Eight minutes!”
“Well, it’s better than eight seconds!” Erik said, trying to stay calm.
“What do you want to do?”
“What do you want to do?”
Erik rubbed the red stubble on his chin with a filthy hand.
“We could cut some wires but there might be a booby trap. Wouldn’t be hard to rig a relay. Kill the power and the relay detonates the bomb.”
Clay was sweating.
“Yeah.”
“Or we could throw it overboard.”
Clay swallowed hard. Erik opened the bag again and stared inside.
“We have to move it.”
“No! What if it goes off?”
The two men kneeled there in the muck, staring at the yellow bag.
photos: Ship Fire by gcaptain.com; Anti-pirate Patrol by kotare.typepad.com; Woman in White Hijab by AP; Woman in Black Hijab by i328.photobucket.com; Shark by whyfiles.org; volcanoes by Britannica.com; Lengthwise Cutaway of Ship by Doug Pearce; Map by Doug Pearce; Ship's Deck Plans and Cutaway Diagrams by Jeff Pearce; M/V Paine at Anchor by Doug Pearce.
Original Web Design by Tery Williams
