Old Harbor

Chapter 12 of Microcosmia

Microcosmia

Chapter Twelve

Old Harbor

The first sign of a weak enemy is a relaxed guard.

The tug should never have slipped past Old Harbor’s cruising sentries. She shouldn’t have reached Scheherazade at all, but she’d almost rammed the ship when a deck spotlight lit her up like a deer in headlamps. Within seconds, a hundred flashlight beams were crisscrossing madly on the water. There was an urgent clatter of firearms. Suddenly dozens of men were barking down in Arabic. The brightly-lit little man with one eye barked right back up.

The ensuing verbal dogfight stopped on a dime. Gold Eye stalked into the cabin and returned with a bound Cristian Vane. The stumbling American rolled his head against the light, cursing his captor up and down, using both English and an ingenious, spontaneously created pidgin Arabic. Gold Eye, jabbering viciously in return, manhandled him across the deck.

Vane bellowed up, “Not without my man! I can’t understand a word you freaks are spewing. I’ll sit right here all night if I have to.” To make his point, he deliberately dropped on his rear. Gold Eye howled in frustration. He kicked Vane repeatedly while shaking his fist at the clipped voices pounding down like rain. Two diseased-looking characters ran out of the cabin and tried wrestling Vane to his feet, but he tangled his legs in theirs, butted their faces with his head and knees, rocked side to side and back and forth until a single rifle shot pierced the night. Everybody froze. Gold Eye’s assistants scrambled to their feet and dived below.

From behind the light came a cool command. Gold Eye hopped into the cabin, reappearing a minute later with an unbound Mudhead, his crippled hand hugged to his chest. Gold Eye really tore into him, screaming up and down. The African glumly dropped his eyes.

“Bossman get up now.”

Vane could only glare.

They hauled him upright and walked him to the tug’s stern. Gold Eye released him and plunged a hand under his kaftan. The cloth binding Vane’s wrists was severed.

A dropped line was secured to the tug’s rail, followed in half a minute by a dirty rope ladder. Gold Eye prodded Vane up, with Mudhead dragging the rear. Once on board they were surrounded. Two ranks of facing soldiers simultaneously formed a rifle-spired tunnel five feet wide. Down this bore sauntered a slender, darkly handsome man wearing an open coat bearing the stacked chevrons of an Eritrean army major. He’d been interrupted: a delicately embroidered bib was snagged on a brass button of his shirt, brown flecks of Moroccan tajine clung to one corner of his mouth. He studied Vane up and down in a shower of flashlight beams, slipped off the bib and tenderly dabbed his lips, then watched like a hawk as an orderly very carefully folded the bib and placed it in a satin-lined cedar box. His eyes slid back.

“The American, Va’en. Interesting attire.” He turned on his heel. His men followed automatically. “You will not need your interpreter here. Or do I flatter myself? The occasional literate informs me I speak the American well.”

“Mudhead’s coming along anyway,” Vane mumbled, wondering if that ‘attire’ comment was a crack. “He’s way more than a mere translator.”

“This is kosher,” said the major, watching Vane closely.

“Whatever.”

The major sighed. “Such a vexing contrast this must be for you. One moment you walk in the fire of neon and jewels, the next you tread one of the smelliest, dirtiest vessels any man was ever forced to haunt.” His eyes swept the ship systematically as he spoke. His face twisted with distaste. “Among the foulest, least-cultivated specimens…” He appeared about to spit, but his vanity caused him to grimace and swallow.

The men were forced to step side to side as they navigated the sprawling mounds of foodstuffs and soil nutrients. Several times Vane saw shadows scurrying between piles. A healthy disgust, and a jealous regard for his doomed property, made him halt with his fists clenched, ignoring the rifle barrels sticking him like pins. “Don’t you know there are rats on this ship?”

“This,” the major replied distantly, “is no fault of mine. I do not do the recruiting.” He gestured his men along with a bored forefinger-flick. His nose crinkled as he ambled, for Scheherazade stank, as bad as Port Massawa and worse. Yet she was no simple overblown garbage scow; German engineers had fitted her with four tremendous frigate screws for fast unprotected Mediterranean runs. “Mind your robes around these pipes,” the major warned. “There are occasional projections.”

The “pipes” were enormous sections of rusted flanged steel tubing, eight feet in diameter by twenty feet long. The lengths were secured with frayed cables, and stacked in tier-formation upon rolling jumbles of straw. In settling they had taken out cabin walls, caved in sections of deck, and crushed yard upon yard of piled canned goods. The major waved his hand airily as they proceeded alongside, randomly drawing additional soldiers. “Your escort intimated that you might find some of the goods aboard this swamp bucket familiar.”

“Not some. Most.”

“And you have come to reclaim these goods? And found it convenient to be bound and dragged aboard in the process?”

“As you say, I was escorted.”

The major popped a long Turkish cigarette into a silver-tipped, hyena bone holder. “An indulgence of mine,” he explained while lighting. “I am not one of these men who blindly baa to their Ka’bah, refusing every sophisticated pleasure in life. Ordinary rodents,” he sniffed, “have more sense than ordinary men.” He offered Vane a smoke.

“Not one of my indulgences, I’m afraid. But thanks anyway.”

“So? A pity. But certainly you are no stranger to the many delights of the palate, and to the manifold pleasures of…the flesh?”

Vane stopped dead. The whole group halted with him. Again with the pricking rifles.

The major went on hurriedly, “I am certain that the sweets of this world, for a man such as yourself, must be virtually limitless. And such is the market that, even in this forsaken toilet Eritrea, a discerning shopper might daily squeeze--ah…the fruit more tender.”

Vane said nothing.

The major waved his cigarette nervously, creating a crazy shooting star with a serpentine tail. “Although the produce here,” he managed, “is certainly of an inferior quality.”

“I,” Vane said icily, “wouldn’t know.”

“Of course not. Of course not.”

The major worked himself back together, regaining his haughty mien through the practiced act of leading his men, barking, “Your captor--this soiled old ignoramus with a bauble for an eye, apparently feels your name, in America at least, would command a handsome ransom. However…you are not so well-known here.” He spat out a lungful of pugnacious Arabic as he strolled. The man with one eye spat right back.

“He wishes,” the major snarled, “to see General Franco a’ Muhammed en Abbi--as though Massawa’s frightfully busy commander exists merely to do the bidding of water spiders.”

Vane turned his head sharply. “General?”

“Yes. Apparently General Haile Mdawe Mustafu suffered a fatal accident on a visit to Massawa this very afternoon. His personal plane seems to have set down on a fuel spill before crews were able to close the runway. Sparks ignited the undercarriage and the plane was instantly consumed by flames.”

“You should watch those fuel spills.”

“The problem is already remedied. All personnel involved have been disciplined and removed to remote posts. Muhammed en Abbi was immediately awarded the vacated rank.” The major was struck by a funny thought. He nodded at Gold Eye while jocularly nudging Vane. “He thinks he is in Washington.” The major pronounced the capitol Woe-sheen-town. “He thinks he is soliciting his congressman, who will introduce legislation into the…into the…” The major was cracking himself up.

“The House,” Vane said absently, wondering if his below-deck perishables were rotting as they strolled. The whole ship smelled vilely. “We Americans just never seem to get it.”

Even in the act of recovering from his laughter, the major whipped round and strafed Gold Eye with godawful abuse. Gold Eye’s responding barrage made Vane’s head spin. Mudhead translated impassively. “Everyman agree.”

“Good,” said Vane. “I’d hate to see these guys argue.”

“We agree,” the major said witheringly, “only that this dog is truly a dog. Although he brays like a beast of lesser repute.” He rolled the tension from his neck. “But he is not entirely stupid. He has learned that Muhammed en Abbi has designs on a …partnership with you, sir. This is no great secret. The general speaks long and often of his plans.” His nose turned up. “But this…this monkey wrench seems to think the general is easy prey for a blustering half-witted showman, believing he would pay any sum rather than see his future partner eliminated.” The major shrugged. “It is of no moment to me.”

There was a sudden commotion at their backs. Gold Eye shoved a handgun up Vane’s spine so that the barrel rested at the bottom of his skull, buried deep beneath his turban’s billowy nape. Nine rifle barrels immediately surrounded the principals.

“It is,” Vane gasped, “of considerable moment to me.”

The major addressed his men with a passion incomprehensible to his silk-clad prisoner. Rifles were lowered grudgingly. Using Vane as a human wedge, Gold Eye now plowed through the knot of useless soldiers. After ten yards’ progress he stopped to deliver a half-shouting, half-wailing diatribe.

The major turned to Vane. “He demands access to the helm. I have explained to him that the pilot of this vessel is a civilian: in charge of nothing! This fat steamer is a commercial vessel impressed during wartime; the hoariest of tramps. I have also made clear that General en Abbi is utterly inaccessible at this point, and that I am the man he must address.” The major’s mouth turned south. “He is uninterested in these data.”

Vane nodded with care. “I had trouble with him too.”

The major stared coldly. “There is a gun at your brain stem, sir. Your future can perhaps be measured in minutes, rather than in witty comebacks.” He reprised his nonchalant stroll. The group followed closely.

“Do I,” Vane grunted, “detect a note of anxiety? Could it be that this scurvy little b*****d’s got your number? Could it be that a certain light-footed major’s head will roll if Goldie here makes good on his threat?”

“He never should have boarded with a firearm. I blame myself. And, though speaking with the helm will do him no good, he simply will not be persuaded otherwise. So he will have his way. He will meet with the wheel, and discover that the man is indeed as mindless as he. I do not know what he will think of his situation then. He will surely see himself a cornered brute, and I deem it likely he will, out of frustration alone, blow your clever fair head off its mounting. I do not know. My sole concern will be to soar free of the pulverizing volley certain to follow.”

“Out of the frying pan,” Vane gasped, “and into the fire. Because once you’ve successfully flitted free, you’re gonna have some real explaining to do. Believe me, I know where your general’s head’s at, okay? My corpse will guarantee yours. I’m a lot more important to Franco than you might think, sir--far more important, believe it or not, than you. So, as a very partial commentator in all this, I very seriously recommend that you take very serious pains to keep me alive.”

“Recommendation noted.”

They reached the wheelhouse. Except for a few patches of bluish light, the interior was dark. The major glared. Without another word he stormed inside.

Hard yellow light burst out the wheelhouse doorway, followed by the sound of heated Arabic, a smacking sound, more shouting, and several more sharp reports. A disheveled man wearing a slapped-on ensign’s cap staggered out, the major right behind him. This man’s shirt was open, his feet bare, his black hair a sweaty tangled mess. A three-day growth covered his cheeks and chin. But the story was best told by his bloodshot, unfocused eyes.

“As I said,” the major spat, shoving the drunken man from behind, “a civilian!” He pushed him right up to Gold Eye, cried, “Here!” and flew into a wild verbal Arabic ride.

Mudhead translated. “Moron, meet moron.”

Vane’s captor threw back his head. The gold eye appeared about to pop from its socket as he pointed the gun straight up, screamed “Allah Akbar!” and pulled the trigger.

It was a flare gun.

For an interminable few seconds everyone involved instinctively watched the tracer rise and level off, their jaws hanging. Vane and Mudhead hit the deck.

A moment later night had become hellish day, and the Red Sea was seething. Small outboards and a fan of jet skis converged on the massive ship like ants on an upturned beetle, emitting bursts of machine gun fire that quickly scattered the standing soldiers. Kneeling behind the rail, the Eritreans fired back in systematic spurts while the spotlight sought small craft popping in and out of its hard white pool. Vane stared mesmerized at Old Harbor aboil, reminded of savages circling a wagon train. To either side, soldiers rose to shoot, ducked to reload, rose again.

The major rolled across the deck and came up running. He sprinted straight into the wheelhouse and ran back out waving a megaphone. After a short squeal his voice boomed a flurry of commands in Arabic, sending crouching figures dashing shadow-to-shadow. Scheherazade’s lights were killed one by one. From somewhere on the roof, the ship’s searchlight pierced the heavens. The light was righted and began sweeping the harbor. A moment later a mounted machine gun erupted. The jet ski riders approached from all sides, crisscrossing recklessly, firing from shotguns, from Uzis, from hunting rifles and handguns. In one spontaneous rush the searchlight was shot to pieces, even as two jet skis and a motorboat were blown right out of the water. From the docks rose a complex wailing of sirens.

The second sign of a weak enemy is tunnel vision.

Even as opponents were duking it out to port, half a dozen small fishing craft were clinging quietly to starboard. In all the racket no one heard the grappling hooks striking true on the guardrail, no one saw the spiders slinking up the ropes and rolling aboard. No one saw them making their way along the deck, sliding like grubs over the broken sacks and heaped crates. And, embarrassing to say, not a single defender was prepared for the attacker’s knife pressed to his throat. Each captive timidly obeyed the whispered command to lay down arms.

Truth be told, even the dashing major was taken aback when he gallantly rolled, megaphone in hand, directly into a pocket of highly paid pirates just itching to cut his tender official throat.

The battle, perhaps fifteen minutes in execution, was over in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Mudhead translated as Vane ordered the humiliated soldiers lined along the guardrail. The major shook off his grungy captors and coolly marched up the deck, his head held high.

A couple of horn blasts came off the water, and a moment later deck lights leaped into play. The port gangplank was lowered. A derrick swayed in the dark as the battered lifeboat holding Vane’s little armory was hauled up the side.

Way down the deck an approaching form phased in and out of the swaying light, at last becoming a swaggering septuagenarian barely four feet tall. The little man’s dirty white beard was so long it trailed over a shoulder, his dirty white robes so long they swept the deck left and right as he strode.

“This…” Vane muttered, “this is the ‘great and mighty mariner’ I paid top dollar for?”

Mudhead quite naturally used Vane’s sarcastic tone as part of his verbatim translation, and the baldness of this effrontery made Gold Eye almost chew the African’s head off. He glared singly at Vane, before turning back with an expression of intense adoration. The stranger came right up to Vane, looked him up and down, cocked his head and walked on, his bare feet making tiny sucking noises. With an undisguised scowl for the helmsman, the dirty little robed figure stepped inside the wheelhouse as if he owned it.

The major stood smartly at Vane’s elbow, unable to conceal his embarrassment as he glared at his men’s squared backs. “It must come as an exceptional thrill to best such a worthy adversary.” He produced a cigarette, paused and raised an eyebrow. “You would not begrudge a final request?”

“Go ahead. It won’t be your last.”

The major lit up casually and took an urgently needed lungful. “Then I pray you are not one for shackles. My men, lightning-quick brutes that they are, might erupt with unbridled indignation at the sight of their beloved leader in such a debased state.”

“Don’t worry. Even though I think chains would become you.”

Vane had three of his crew walk the major and previous helmsman to the gangplank. He and Mudhead watched as they were kicked aboard an oarless rowboat containing two dead and three wounded soldiers.

Scheherazade shuddered stern to stem when her two great anchors, embedded for nearly a month, were torn free by winches. A moment later there came another, deeper shudder, as her immense screws bit into the sea with German precision. Aft waters appeared subjected to a feeding frenzy. With a subterranean explosion, Scheherazade lurched forward.

“Here comes the part I don’t like,” Vane breathed, watching lights stream away from the docks. “I sure hope this guy at the wheel doesn’t have an axe to grind.”

“No suicide run, Bossman. Strict cash procedure.”

Vane nodded. “And away we go.”