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Where there is Sea...

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“Where there is sea…”

 

I

 

MERCHANT VESSEL SAN MIGUEL,

ONE HUNDRED MILES OFF THE COAST OF EAST AFRICA…

    

     The ship lay still in the middle of the night-time ocean. On deck, a door burst open. Two men armed with AK-47s dragged out a lifeless body. They hauled him across the floor, and pushed him through an opening in the guard rail.

     They stood donned with makeshift items. The smallest of the pair, in a black bulletproof vest and bandana, gagged. <You shouldn’t have done that!> he spoke in his mother tongue.

     His partner, in a blood-stained plain vest, just stood calm. <Why’s that?> he replied.

     <He wasn’t even armed! Surely you know the boss’s orders. Isn’t that how we work?>

     <Our boss, if he does exist, only gives orders by radio. Besides have you seen the cargo? We’ve enough stuff to set us up for life!>

     <But if the boss doesn’t get you, won’t the warships?>

     <You mean the navy that’s had to cut back thanks to rising costs which we caused? Even if a warship does come, it’s the same story every time.> He fished out a pair of binoculars and scanned the ocean. <The ship’s taken, the hostages are secured. By the time a ship travels here, they can’t do anything without bringing harm - like when that warship destroyed those refugee boats. That really upset social media!> He laughed as he lowered his binoculars. <Well, I see no ships. I’m going back inside to move the ship onward. You stand guard out here.>

     The boy stood fixed on the not-long-ago-living body. <Nobody needed to die,> he muttered. <The sea will not forgive you.>

     His commander turned from the doorway. <You fishermen are always so superstitious when it comes to death! You’ll believe anything you hear!> he said clunking the door behind him.

     The boy stood alone on deck panting. With a heavy sigh, he paced away, trying to ignore the ocean.

     Overboard, the body lay face down. Blood sank deep into the depths.

     Something followed it up, and surfaced next to him, its eyes glowing red. They turned for the cargo ship, and glided silently toward it.

     Way up on deck, the boy kept to the opposite side of the ship.

     He ultimately returned to the other side, with his eyes on the railing.

     Then - just before the gap - he heard a metallic rattling.

     He spotted small movements further down as he drew closer.

     A glossy hand-like shape lay on the rail with tattered material behind it. It held firm as though it were reaching out from the ocean.

     He found a grappling hook, its old rope led all the way down to the speed boat that brought him here. With a groan he wondered whether to dump the boat as taught, or leave it for a getaway. He saw no other ships or helicopters - only the drifting body.

     Then, a tingle rode up his spine. He spun round, pointing his rife at a cargo container.

     He stepped forward. Water splashed.

     Peering down he found his foot in a puddle. Next to it lay a trail of footprints that weren’t boot shaped. They led into the gap between two containers.

     “Hello?” he called out in English.

     No answer.

     He reached for his gun belt, but remembered his commander had the only torch and a walkie-talkie. Step by cautious step, he entered the dark passage.

     “Hello?” he called again to no answer. He walked further and further on. “Listen, you shouldn’t be up here. My boss has already killed one hostage. I can take you back downstairs without him finding out.” He lowered his rifle. “I swear on my father’s life I won’t hurt you.”

     His view now lay in pitch blackness. He stroked the wall of the container, until he felt nothing on his right or his left or in front. With a pause and a sigh, he turned back.

     The path now lay blocked. He looked up and gasped. In the darkness before him, a pair of bright red eyes stared back at him.

     Suddenly, his rifle came away from his hand, and he flew out onto the deck, banging his head on the rail.

     He clambered up and looked back to where he’d ventured.

     The outline of a figure stood before him, creeping gently out from the shadows. The shine of the soaked body showed the sleekness of an otherwise manly shape. The figure seemed to wear nothing, showing the dark grey skin of its whole body. The head ended in a point - like a dorsal fin, now gliding straight for him.

     In the flash, his fists flailed against the thing’s chest. But it felt tough, like its skeleton was on the outside.

     The body he helped dispose of he saw next, as though looking over his shoulder into the ocean. His feet struggled to find footing. Then he realized - his body hung through the gap in the rail where he’d helped with the body.

     He tried to grab onto his captor. The dry patches of its body felt rough and scaly, just like the dead sharks he used to carry to market back on land.

     More and more he pleaded in his native tongue. <No! I didn’t kill him! Please not me!> Then his head jerked up, and two rows of gritted teeth met him.

     <Who took his life?> they asked fluently.

     No answer came at first, even though the teeth spoke in the same language. <My commander did! Bloodvest! I told him he shouldn’t have! I didn’t sign up for this!>

     <And how many other innocents are left?>

     <T-T-There’s fourteen left now!>

     <How many of you threaten their lives?>

     <There are twelve! Including me that makes twelve! But I never threatened them! My commander threatened to shot me if I didn’t help with the body! I just want to feed my family!>

     His feet finally caught the deck below.

     The eyes dimmed to black - so black he couldn’t tell what it thought. It held him close, breathing in his odour of sweat and tears. At last there came a reply. <There’s no innocent blood on you. So I give you a choice. You can stay here. Or you can drop all your gear, head back home, and tell them of how you’re alive. Choose.>

     He fell back onto deck. Without peering back, he unbuckled his gun belt, and ripped off his bulletproof vest. In just his camouflage trousers and Bee Gees T-shirt, he hopped over the railing, repelled down the rope, and started the engine.

     He looked back toward the ship, as it disappeared over the horizon. The thing he later dubbed “The Ocean’s Assassin” watched him as he faded out of sight.

     On deck, the figure’s attention turned to his plunder…

     The belt held two TT-30 pistols.

     The AK-47, back in the shelter of the containers, held an adjustable shoulder strap.

     With a cock and a click, the figure placed each item onto his biker-padded wetsuit.

     He tucked his own goggles up and under his pointed cowl.

     A pair of man’s eyes showed through the wet one-hole balaclava. Then, he raised his wrist to his mouth. “This is Great White. Do you read me Whale, over?”

     A woman’s voice answered. “We’re reading you loud and clear.” She then sighed. “How did I draw that codename? I look nothing like a whale …Over!”

     White laughed. “I’m reading you loud and clear too. Well, I’ve boarded the ship. What’s your position, over?”

     “We are directly underneath you, just out of sonar range. What’s your progress over?”

     “I’ve procured some weapons on site. There are fourteen hostages left alive on board. They are being held by eleven pirates, over.”

     “Wow! How’d you do all that so fast, over?”

     “I just interrogated a cabin boy on deck. I let him take the getaway boat back to shore in exchange for information and weapons. He won’t give us any trouble, over.”

     “But didn’t you use your all-purpose knifes in your gloves and heels, over?”

     “Negative, they're still in there, over.”

     “What about that dissembled 8mm lining your wetsuit? Reassembling it is your best party trick; you beat us all every time. It’s hard enough finding weapons that won’t drag while you’re swimming away from base …Over.”

      “I didn’t need them. That fisherman they hired as a guide comes from a region where they’re very suspicious of the sea …and death. They believe that if you shed innocent blood into the ocean, the ocean will rise to claim you, and here I am …Over!”

     “Well first things first. You’ll need to make your way to the engine room and disable the engine so nobody else can escape, over.”

     “Roger - over and out, Whale!”

     “Hey!” she wailed. He just grinned as he pulled his ninja-like balaclava up over his mouth, and silently dashed to the door...

 

II

 

ENGINE ROOM STAIRWELL…

    

     White glided down the stairs, certain no guards were on patrol. Not even his newly procured vest, dual side arms, grenades, and automatic rifle slowed his pace.

     He paused, for he felt a static-like prickling in his skin. It wasn’t just instinct - it was his wired wetsuit picking up electrical waves in the air. Experience told him it was too erratic to be the turn of a turbine. More like the heartbeat of a man on the beat.

     Peering over the rail, he saw an open doorway at the next flight of stairs. He pinned his back up against the wall, and sidestepped down.

     The deeper he crept, the stronger the heartbeat.

     At the doorway, he gently peered around.       

     Sure enough, there in the corridor stood a masked gunman, hunched on the wall, with eyes to the floor. Guard duty the most boring job a soldier can have.   

     Then, the crackling of a radio stirred them both. 

     White withdrew out from sight. 

     <Silencer, come in, over,> the guard’s radio said. 

     White listened in, fluent in many languages.

     <…Go ahead over.>

     <We need some more help in the cargo hold. Get down here, over.>

     <I’m on my way, over and out.> There were footsteps, each fainter then last, and the heartbeat faded. <Well, finally, some action!> he could barely hear.

     The prickling was gone. No threat for the time being, so White went on down. He felt the engine vibration through his padded split-toed feet. The hum of the engines grew louder and louder as he drew closer.

     Finally, at the very bottom, he found it.

     The engine room stood lined with pipes and turbines. As he weaved in and out of them, his wetsuit - the same dark shade of maritime grey - faded among them.

     Around a corner, lay a line of consoles with dials and buttons. At the end, stood the biggest turbine of all, and underneath it, the biggest console of all - the main terminal for the engines.

     Destroying it wasn’t an option - it would leave the hopefully rescued crew stranded. If he could build-up just a bit more current then what the console could handle, he could knockout the engines without any lasting damage. He knew how to...

     First, pressing on his wrist - he switched the wetsuit’s setting from defensive to offensive.

     Then, he rubbed his hands together, faster and faster. A static charge built up in his gloves as they began to sparkle more and more. With crackling hands, he clamped them onto the desktop. Its lights flashed and flickered as current travelled through it. Before long they faded, and the mighty turbine above slowed down, until it groaned to a complete stop. It worked. “The Old Eel touch” the tech boy who designed his wetsuit called it.

     He raised his wrist to his mouth. “This is Great White, come in, over - over - over - over - over…” His voice echoed about the cavernous room. He quickly ducked behind some nearby pipes.

     “We’re reading you loud and clear, over.”

     “I’ve short circuited the engines. They won’t be going anywhere. But they’ll notice the engine trouble. They’ll bring down a hostage with knowledge of the engines to fix it. I’m going to hide here and wait for them to show. Keep this channel open, over.”

     “Understood - keep an eye on whatever happens, over.”

     He sat still behind the pipes, hidden out of sight, silent and patient.

     Before long, he heard raised voices from outside. A door clunked open, and with a loud clank, something heavy fell across the floor. “My toolbox!” a voice echoed.

     “Just pick it up and keep moving!”   

     White heard the pirate bark orders, all the way up to his vicinity.

     He peeked around his hiding place. With backs turned, there stood a masked gunman, and a dirtied up crewman at the downed console.

     “Well, what’s wrong with it?” asked the gunman.

      “…The main console is down and the engines went down with it. But I don’t know how.”

     “Was it sabotage?”

     The crewman looked it over. “…No. No signs of sabotage.”

     “Good.”     

     The crewman put his toolbox down. When he opened it, White spied some of its goodies…

     A heavy crowbar,

     A blunt hammer,

     A sharp hook,

     And a roll of masking tape.

     Such things might come in useful.

     With a wrench, the crewman unscrewed a panel off under the console, and knelt inside. “I still don’t see what’s wrong.”

     “Don’t muffle me,” the gunman said lighting a cigarette. “Do you know why they call me the Silencer? I earned that name back on land. I’ve silenced many men, women, and children in the conflict.”

     White whispered into his wrist. “I need a background check on a mercenary known as ‘The Silencer.’”

     “Working…” he heard through the small bones of his ear.

     The crewman fiddled around inside the console, making it at least look like he was fixing it. “But how’d you get all the way out here?” he asked the Silencer.

     “The same way we soldiers without a cause do - we offer our …expertise to the highest bidders. I still get to see action. When my commander Bloodvest shot the first mate, I only wish I’d done it.” His rants echoed throughout the room.

     The crewman thought out loud, thinking the console confines would muffle it. “An empty vessel makes the loudest noise.”                                              

     “Oh, I know how to silence noise!” the Silencer said, screwing a silencer onto the end of his pistol. “You can’t be the only crewmember who knows how to fix the engine.”

     “Actually I’m the only fully-trained mechanic on board.”

     The Silencer stepped back. “You just don’t know when to shut up do you? There’s nobody else here. I could tell them you tried to escape.”

     White looked over how the Silencer stood…

     The point-blank range,

     The firm aim of the pistol,

     The feet steady for blowback,

     And with the target immobilised,

     No way was he bluffing.

     As he watched, White rubbed his hands together - faster - faster.

     With the hostage unaware, the Silencer just laughed. “I will have silence!”

     White rose up behind him at that moment, and lifted up the Silencer’s arm.

     He shuddered, firing off a muffled shot through the ceiling. Then, he fell to the floor, silent.    

     “W-What happened?” the crewman said, getting up.

     “Don’t move!” White called from behind. The crewman froze gasping. White peered around - making sure nobody else could see them. “It’s okay,” he spoke more softly - “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to save your crew. But the less you see, the safer you’ll be. Understand?”

     “…Y-yes sir!”

     “You can put your hands down if you want.”

     The crewman did. “Wait. What happened to him? You know, the Silencer?” As he stayed still, White examined the Silencer.

     “I tasered him, didn’t want to - too many health complications. But he’s alive. I save that trick for short circuiting equipment mainly, like that console. Can you fix it?”

     “Well, now I know what the problem is. It’ll take at least half an hour to fix.”

     “Mind if I borrow your tools a moment (?)” White fished out the duck tape roll, and wrapped it around the out-cold man’s fists, legs, and after unmasking him – and because of the nickname – his mouth. “Where are the other hostages?”

     “We were all being held in the cargo hold. We were all blindfolded but I know the sound of the crane when I hear it.”

     “What’s the fastest route to the cargo hold?”

     “You have to take the corridor halfway back up the stairwell.”

     White looked over the body. No new equipment of use. Just a pair of dog tags around the neck. He snapped one of them off, and read it. It held the name, blood type, and nationality of the Silencer.

     “You stay here and fix the engines. Hide if you need to. Oh, and this man wasn’t bluffing. There’s a reward for his capture. Hand him over to the port authorities. Be sure to give them his I.D. tag. Keep your Share.”

     “…What do you mean by Share? Are you another pirate?”

     No answer. The room lay silent again. The crewman looked up from his work. He sat alone. It was just him, the broken console, and the silenced Silencer. Only one half of his dog tag lay with him.

     Dashing up the stairwell, White spoke into his wrist. “This is Great White. I’ve left the engine room, and I’m en route to the cargo hold, where the hostages are. Do you read me, over?”

     “We read you. What happened? Did you quiet the Silencer, over?”

     “Affirmative, I’ve restrained him, and I have one half of I.D. tag, over.”

     “Excellent! We can claim the big reward fifty-fifty. That’s to fund this op, and to compensate the hostages – if they’re alive that is. What’s the score so far, over?”

     “Two pirates down.

     One hostage saved.

     Ten pirates left.

     Thirteen hostages left to save…”

 

III

 

CARGO HOLD WALKWAY…

    

     The cargo hold is the perfect battlefield - many places to run, many places to hide. The containers sat moved out of line, forming a maze, or - to think beyond the boxes - an assault course, with spaces to squeeze through, ridges to climb, and gaps to jump from one to the next.

     White crept leftward around the walkway, making a mental map of all the levels, twists, and dead-ends underneath.

    

He spotted a container held up by a ceiling claw at the centre.

Three masked gunmen sat below it.

White lowered his goggles from under his balaclava,

and switched to zoom-mode.

He counted…

nine,

out of what were supposed to be ten.

His eyes turned infrared -

no other red blobs in the shadows.

    

     He whispered into his wrist. “This is Great White. I’m in the hold. But I’m only counting nine of ten hijackers and no sign of the eleven hostages.”

     “You can’t make a move until everybody is accounted for. Try eavesdropping. Keep this channel open so we can listen.”

     White hopped over the railing onto the container below, landing softly. He skipped down the others and onto the floor. With his mental map, he followed the route to the centre.

     He passed a wall with a control box. The toggles were marked “On – Off,” like light switches.

     Now, with one container between them, White listened in, fluent in their home language. <If you ask me, the west is too dependent on exports. Ninety percent of world trade comes by sea! For years big companies have made billions from fancy toys stamped ‘Made in China.’ And they hire poorer and poorer people to bring it all together. No wonder this crew was so easy to overpower!>

     <Ha! Look at them all dangling up there.>

     White looked up to the container hanging from the ceiling.   

     <Can we unload the cargo before someone finds us?>

     <Commander Bloodvest is still on the bridge making sure the tracking systems are off. We’re a ghost ship.>

     So far, only a few knew otherwise - Agent Great White, his company, and the rescued mechanic in the engine room.

     White whispered into his wrist. “All the hostages are out of harm’s way - permission to engage?”

     One against nine were bad odds, but with the right strategy and equipment, not impossible.

     He carried dual-pistols,

     An automatic rifle,

     And a dark flexible wetsuit sewed with biker-style armour plates.

     It was equal ground, if not for his “sharkskin.”

     A gunman broke the silence. <Hey guys, who would win in a fight - a pirate, or a ninja?>

     <Are you on that stupid website again?>

     <But think about it. I bet a ninja could pick us all off easy.>

     <Shut up! Nobody’s coming for us!>

     White’s radio vibrated the small bones of his ear, “Granted.”

     He ran back to the control box.

     He played around with the light switches. If he just shut them straight off, it’d look cliché. But it seemed the power was fading. Finally, he brought the whole hold into darkness.

     <Great! First it’s the engines, now the lights. How old is this ship again?>

     <Who’s got the torches?>

     <Here, I only brought one. You can attach it to your rifle.>

     <Well, I’ll get that mechanic in the engine room.>

     White saw the walkabout torchlight, which gave away the gunman’s position and their field of vision.

     As it drew near, he hid in a tight gap between containers.

    

He saw the gunman walk by,

his eyes fixed straight ahead,

not looking beyond his torchlight.

 

If the gunman had looked behind a second,

he would have seen red eyes closing in…

    

     In the centre, the other eight gunmen saw his torchlight overhead. It dropped for a second, and then it rose upward, and started flashing, like a signal for assistance. <What? I’ll go look.>

     Number two tracked the light through the metal maze. As he edged closer, the torchlight flickered out, covering him in darkness. <Hey, stop playing games!> He gripped his rifle, looking around as he walked.       

     Then he paused.

     He smiled - he thought he saw a figure ducked behind a corner.

     He aimed his rifle and fired.

     A scream rang out.

     As he charged in, his foot hit something on the floor.

     It was the torchlight.

     He picked it up and shone it before him.

     There, riddled with bullets, sat the first soldier, missing his rifle.

     Red eyes appeared behind him. With one swing of the missing rifle, White clubbed the noisy idiot out, as the remaining shouted, <Gunfire! Gunfire! You three go investigate - we’ll stand guard!>

     The three charged eastward. As they scurried about, pointing their rifles at every crack, they thought aloud.

     <How many do you think there are?>

     <Are the others okay?> 

    

     As the three came close, White squeezed through the tight spaces between containers. They stuck to the roomy routes. Soon, they grew more lost. They walked huddled together like fish in a barrel. They were loud, barely coordinated, pointing at their own shadows.

     White felt the racing rhythm of their heartbeats through his electoreceptive suit. He was quiet, calculating, one with the shadows. 

     Suddenly, one of three lifted their hand, halting the other two. He pointed in front of them.

     Following his finger, they saw a container, the door open a crack, with a light shining through it.

     The leader waved with his fingers, the other two nodded. They all knew the container metal wasn’t bulletproof.

     They lifted their rifles together. The leader dropped his hand.

     The flashing of full-auto lit up the hold.

     When it stopped, light streamed through the holes in the container. 

     In the silence, they tore out their empty cartridges, and clicked new ones in.  The pirates back in the centre heard everything. <Squad B report.>

     The leader didn’t answer, he placed his finger to his lips to the other two, and they tiptoed to the container.

     The shining pattern of bullet holes hung unbroken in the air. They crept to each side of the door.

     The leader counted down with his fingers.

     Flinging the door open, they pointed their rifles inside.

     They saw only a torch on the ground, and damaged goods behind it.   

 

Behind them,

through a crack in a container door,

another rifle pointed.

No point playing quiet now.

The door wasn’t bulletproof,

so the fire was full-auto.

    

     The last four pirates at the centre heard and saw the flashing of an AK-47. But whose they couldn’t say. Then silence fell again. <Squad B report! …Report! …Take cover men. It looks like it’s just us four. Whoever they are they’ve got to come this way>. The four gunmen pointed to each of the four gaps between containers that lead to the centre. 

     Using his container door’s sideway ridges, bolts, and poles, White climbed up and on top. Keeping two rows away, he circled the gunmen, jumping each gap, and climbing upward, until he reached the girder that made up the crane. Mounting it, he crawled up to the very top, of suspended the container.

    

Below him,

the four pirates stood at each corner,

with their backs turned,

pointing away.

He climbed silently down the side.

Hooking his feet onto the locking holes underneath,

he hung himself upside down.

He withdrew his dual pistols,

eight bullets each,

four for each gunman.

 

He shot four times into eleven o’clock,

 

then two o’clock, 

 

and five o’clock. 

 

Seven o’clock had enough time to swirl around,

and aim upward.

 

White dropped himself,

falling upside down,

blasting his last four bullets.

 

     Just one bullet through the balaclava was enough.

     They all now lay silent. Were they Dead or Alive? White knew the reward posters don’t have it as a question.

     As he tied them up, and collected their I.D. tags, he found the tablet for the crane. He guided the container down slowly, safely back onto the floor.

     White unlocked the door and swung it open. He shone the torch he had played tag with inside.

     Blindfolded, hands tied behind their back, sat the hostages.

     He counted… eight - nine - ten - eleven …out of what were supposed to be twelve!

     He looked over their uniforms. None of them wore a Captain’s badge.

     Then he realized something his best Intel couldn’t have spotted. The Captain must still be on the bridge with the pirate leader, a man who’d already killed the first mate and dumped the body overboard! No doubt they heard all the noise!

     White approached the quietest hostage who sat the calmest. “It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he whispered into his ear as he untied his hands. “But there’s no time to explain. You untie your crew - I’ll rescue your Captain.”

     When the hostage finally untied his blindfold, he saw only the darkness, but then the lights of the hold lit up again. It was just him, a trail of pirate bodies, and his crew, but no Captain...

 

IV

 

THE HALLWAYS…

    

     White ran through the corridors. It wouldn’t be hard to find the bridge, the uppermost place of the ship. The hallways were clearly marked. The stairs seemed steeper as he challenged gravity. But he kept onward, it was life and death. He might just save him. He’d already restrained the hijackers, untied the crew, now there was just one left of each - the Captain and Bloodvest, the pirate leader.

     White now heard shouting through the walls. The Captain might have been struggling with the gunman. If a gunshot rang out, it was bad news.  

     The noise led him to a lone stairwell. White heard two voices from the doorway above. As he climbed the stairs, he ducked behind the last step - he heard a radio voice speaking a language he could understand. <Bloodvest, I gave you strict instructions not to harm anyone. But men like you are expendable.> 

     The other voice was angry, cursing in the same language. <You’re a coward! One of these days they will find the ones who hide behind the radio waves!>

     <Then so be it!>

     White peered over the step. He saw only a masked heavy in a vest with his back toward him. White stood up and aimed his rifle. <Freeze, hands up!>

     Bloodvest did so.

     As White drew in, he saw Bloodvest only had one pistol in one holster, from what he could see at least.

     Then, as he reached point blank range, something grabbed onto White’s foot. He looked to the ground to see the groaning Captain lying behind a console for one second - enough time needed.

     Bloodvest knocked the rifle from White’s hands,

     drew his pistol,

     swirled and aimed.

     White caught the pistol on his shoulder,

     all eight rounds bursting past his ear,

     piercing his eardrum.

     He grabbed onto Bloodvest’s balaclava,

     blinding him long enough to grab the pistol too,

     and pushed away from him.

     Bloodvest now saw the masked figure that had caused him so much trouble.

     White now saw the face of – and why they call him - Bloodvest. His ear was still ringing as he held up the pistol, and with a pull and a turn, dismantled it into many useless pieces.

     Then they saw the rifle on the floor,

     and leapt for it.

     Bloodvest grabbed the handle end - White the magazine end, both tugging to and fro.

     With a groan Bloodvest pulled the rifle away,

     spun around,

     aimed,

     pulled the trigger…

     It stuck.

     White held up the missing cartridge.

     Bloodvest roared, throwing his rifle down.

     White rolled out the way, the rifle shattering behind him.

     He stood up opposite in a showdown stance. His side-arms were empty, he’d spent them all in the cargo hold, and had no time to procure more from the fallen after realising his mistake. But, he’d disarmed the last pirate. <So you shot the first mate and dumped him overboard. You’re not so tough without bullets.>

     Bloodvest stood slowly up, his face frowning, and lifted up his bare fists.

     White recognised the stance - marine judo champions had trained him. White circled his arms as he crouched back, and then held them out, gloved hands flat.  

     There was a long pause.

    

Bloodvest stood growling –

his body big and muscular.

    

White stood calm –

his frame smaller,

and nimble. 

    

Bloodvest charged,

jabbing once,

twice,

three times.

    

White blocked with his padded forearms once,

twice,

catching the third jab in his gloved hand, 

and with his free hand,

chopped Bloodvest in his ear.

    

     He hobbled back stunned,

off-guard for a moment.

    

White rushed in with one,

two chops to the stomach,

and a third to the head.

 

Bloodvest dodged it,

and four knuckles built like iron spikes slammed into White’s chest.

 

He stumbled back.

His biker-style chest plate absorbed most of the impact,

but it still left burning in his chest.

 

Bloodvest laughed,

the padding was gentle on his knuckles.

         

Then White’s left foot shot up –

kicked him in the chest once,

twice,

spinning the last kick to his face.  

 

Bloodvest grabbed his foot midair,

flipped him onto the metal floor.

Bloodvest towered over him,

looking straight into the eyes of his opponent –

the exposed whites of a one-hole balaclava –

raised his fists high over his head,

and brought them down.

 

White rolled away at the last second,

and stood back up.

    

Bloodvest raised his hands groaning in pain,

fists torn and bleeding.

    

White dashed in,

ready to push him over.

 

But Bloodvest snagged him,

clamping onto White’s head -

right thumb digging into White’s throat,

and his left thumb hooked into the right eye.

 

White grabbed onto Bloodvest’s arms,

trying to pry them open,

at least relieve the pressure.

But he choked helplessly,

his throat burning,

a trickle of fluid that was either blood or a teardrop ran down from his eye.

His knees weakened,

folding onto the floor.

Bloodvest stood tall,

cursing him in his mother tongue.

He pressed harder,

and harder,

and harder,

as White freed his hand,

flattened out his palm,

and swirled it up,

chopping right into the soft spot between the throat and chin.

Bloodvest’s head throbbed as he let go groaning.

They both fell down.

    

     For a while, they sat back panting heavily.

     White looked up, his left eye black.

     Bloodvest peered down, his nose bleeding. He spat. <Who are you anyway? Another polished square-jawed marine who doesn’t know when to keep their nose out? You know nothing of our lives.>

     White climbed up before him. He put his hands to his face. There was a slit in his balaclava, around his eye and nose. He pulled up the top half, revealing military-style Mohawk hair, and then he pulled down the bottom half, revealing a grin.

     Bloodvest gasped, as the other bronzed-skinned man looked back at him. <On the contrary,> he answered in the same tongue, <We’re not so different!>

     Bloodvest scrambled back up. <…It …it can’t be! You’re dead! Years ago, we left you to the mercy of the sharks!>

     <Wrong! Tried to kill me, when I objected to killing all those hostages.>   

     There was a long silence,

     and then Bloodvest roared.  

    

He charged,

fists flailing.

But facing a ghost,

he focus was off.

His brute strength spent.

 

White steadied his feet.

For the first time in battle –

he rolled his palm into a fist.

At the very last second,

as Bloodvest enveloped him,

he swung with all his strength.

 

With the force of his own charge,

Bloodvest’s face twisted sideways,

his cheeks rippled,

his jaw snapped,

his neck cracked.

His head hit the ground first,

and his body fell still.

 

     White rubbed on his hand, remembering what his instructor once said - “Float like a ninja, sting like a pirate.”

     He hobbled over to the Captain, and knelt down over him, face to face.

     He no longer groaned, because he no longer breathed.

     White rolled the Captain over, his body bruised and bleeding.

     He checked for a pulse… none.

     The Captain wasn’t far gone, he’d groaned before the fight. If White could just restart his heart, he might live.

     Pressing on his wrist - again White switched his wetsuit’s electrical settings. Then he rubbed his hands together, building up a static charge. He placed his hands over the Captain’s chest, and pressed down hard.

     With a zap the Captain convulsed,

     and then fell still.

     White checked the pulse… nothing. Once more, he rubbed his hands together, and then pressed down harder.

     Again, the Captain convulsed,

     but fell still.

     White checked the pulse again… still nothing. He rubbed his hands together, for longer, building a stronger charge, and then slammed them down.

     The Captain convulsed and fell,

     coughing and spluttering.

     As he panted deeply, White rolled him onto his side to recover.

     He hobbled over to the console and found the microphone. “Attention crew, your ship has been freed - all the hijackers are either restrained or killed in action. Medic, please report to the bridge.”

     After White collected Bloodvest’s dog tag, he hobbled through a side door outside onto a walkway. His placed his wrist to his mouth. “This is Great White. The Captain is injured but stable. I’ve informed the crew by speaker for medical assistance.”

     “Excellent job White, are you injured?”

     “Well, the last pirate put up one hell of a fight.”

     “I’ve informed a nearby warship of the situation. They’ll attend to the hostages and place the last of the pirates under arrest. We have medics ready for you too. Return to base White.”

     “Roger, over and out.” 

     White unbuckled the empty dual side-arms he had procured on-site and let them fall to the floor. He stood under the moonlight in just his full-body wetsuit with flexible armour plates. No advanced weapons left in the wrong hands, and nothing to trace back to base of operations. At a gap in the railing, he stretched his arms out, and then jumped over into the ocean below.

     He barely left a ripple, but he left a big splash…

This adventure story was originally inspired by headline news of modern piracy off the coast of East Africa, and from that evolved this espionage story involving a ninja-like spy.

It was only while writing the third act that I came across the "ninja vs pirate" meme, and realised that in essence it was a ninja vs pirate story!

The screenshot is of an early draft that I scanned to recover it, as the original file got damaged.

DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, past, present, or future, is purely coincidental.
© 2014 - 2024 he-wolf
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