A Captain's Duty (15 page)

I
lowered the MOB to the water with myself and the three pirates in it. The davit put us down with a nice smooth touch. I looked up at my ship. Suddenly, it looked like an ocean liner. Just huge.

“They can still strafe the ship,” I said into the radio. “Keep the guys out of harm’s way.”

The fuel was still on the deck. Shane’s head popped over the side of the boat.

“Hey, Cap,” he called.

“We’re almost there, Shane,” I said. “Start lowering the fuel.”

The pirates really wanted that extra diesel. They were going to be anxious until it and the Leader were onboard. I
turned to see Tall Guy and Musso sitting on the benches, their guns on their laps, the muzzles pointed toward me.

Shane disappeared. A minute later, the first bucket appeared over the side of the ship and Shane lowered it. When it was five feet above the water, he let it drop. The bucket plunged beneath the surface and then he pulled it back up, water streaming down the sides.

I laughed. Great minds think alike. Shane was trying to foul the gas so it would mess up the MOB’s engine.

“Don’t worry,” I said, keying the radio. “I already got enough water in those things.” The Somalis were going to find themselves two hundred miles from shore with a useless hunk of metal for an engine.

Bucket after bucket came down. When I grabbed the last one and set it down, Musso spoke up.

“Okay, we need more fuel and some food,” he said.

I gave him a look.

“
More
fuel? Where are you headed—Disney World?”

He laughed. The pirates were back on their element—the water—and they had an American captain as a hostage. In their minds, they hadn’t lost a thing. So Musso could afford to crack up at my jokes.

I wanted to get the MOB away from my ship. I took the vessel about one hundred yards off the ship’s port quarter and killed the engine. We drifted, waiting.

I called on the radio and ordered up the extra supplies. Shane went to the mess and rounded up some night lunch. Night lunch is what the cook puts out for the evening and early morning watches, or anyone who is clinically insane enough to
want to eat it. I couldn’t even begin to tell you what’s in the night lunch. But we have another name for it: “horse cock.” That’s actually an insult to horse penis. I’ve had cooks who’ve put out the same stuff for a week straight, until there was so much mold growing on it you could make your own penicillin. The stuff is just unbelievable.

It also contains pork. I did know that. So it was Shane’s final “fuck off” to the Somalis, who wouldn’t be caught dead eating the stuff.

Everything was working fine. We were finally prepared for the exchange. I saw Shane running around, getting ready.

“Okay, we’re ready,” Shane said on the radio.

“Roger that,” I said. I hit the ignition on the MOB.

Nothing.

I hit the ignition again. Nothing.
Don’t do this to me,
I thought. Hit it again and it was silent—not even trying to turn over.

“Fuck,” I said.

The pirates were looking at me.

“Something wrong, Captain?” Musso said.

“It’s dead. Move over. I need to check the batteries.”

The MOB was supposed to be on a constant charge. Both its batteries should have been topped up automatically from its connection to the ship’s grid. But when I checked the charging switch, I saw it was set to one battery only. The right one had been getting all the juice, but now it was drained, too. When I switched from both batteries to the right one, the engine just went
woooo, woooo, woooo
and wouldn’t catch.

“Shane, we got a problem,” I said into the radio.

“What is it?” Shane called back.

“Batteries are dead.”

I heard him breathe out.

“That’s it. Ball game over.”

“Not yet,” I said.

I got some tools out and started working. I checked all the connections, praying there might be a loose wire. But everything looked good. It was the batteries for sure.

Now came mistake 2.5. I didn’t want to get off the MOB. It was an open boat. If anyone did show up to help us, there was nowhere for the pirates to hide. True, we would have been broiling under a hot sun, but anyone with a rifle could have taken the Somalis out as easy as wooden ducks at the carnival.

I should have stayed right there. But I was in a problem-solving mode, eager to get things done. With the MOB dead, I moved to the only option left: The lifeboat.

The lifeboat is an enclosed craft about ten feet high and twenty-five feet long. It’s bright orange, powered with a single outboard, with backward-facing rows of seats inside and a raised cockpit with windows, where you can steer the vessel. It drops from its mount, free-falling forty-five feet into the water with a big splash. And it was the last option left.

“Listen, we have to row back to the ship,” I said. “This boat ain’t taking us anywhere.”

We rowed back and tied up alongside the
Maersk Alabama.
“Level your weapons,” I said to the pirates as we moved in. I didn’t want them pointing their AKs up at the crew as we approached.

The third engineer and the bosun got on the lifeboat up on the deck, after loading the extra fuel and the food. The life-
boat requires only one man aboard during launching, but the third engineer refused to get out. He wanted to be there in case I needed his help.

Shane wanted to be the one in the lifeboat, but I told him he was now the captain aboard the
Maersk Alabama
and he needed to stay where he was.

“But I’ll be putting someone in danger,” he said.

“Welcome to the job,” I said.

When they were ready to go, Shane radioed me.

“Okay,” I said, turning to the pirates. “Don’t get crazy, this thing drops like a stone and it makes a lot of noise.”

They nodded.

With a tremendous splash, the lifeboat dove into the water and then popped back up. My crew members came alongside the MOB and we began transferring food and fuel into our new vessel. We changed places with the bosun and third engineer and, thankfully, the pirates made no attempt to take them with us. What I didn’t find out until later was that the third engineer and the bosun were both carrying concealed knives. They were ready to jump the Somalis at the first opportunity, but they didn’t get a chance.

“Good luck,” I said to the bosun as we were getting ready to shove off in the lifeboat. “Make sure they get you back up quick. And if something happens to me, don’t worry about it. Just get the hell out of here. Don’t worry about the MOB boat either. The pirates might swing around and try to take that, too.”

I started the lifeboat up and the engine came to life. The third engineer and the bosun threw us our lines and we were free.

As I came around, I jammed the throttle down and rammed the stern of the lifeboat into the ship. We hit the hull of the
Maersk Alabama
with a jarring thud.

“What’s that?” the pirates cried out.

“Oh, that’s me getting used to this thing,” I said.

I’d wanted to damage the prop on the lifeboat. I didn’t want to go anywhere with the Somalis. But they build those things for survival and the prop was still pushing water.

My luck was turning. The wrong way.

Back home, Andrea was walking around our farmhouse wearing my Polarfleece jacket, because it still smelled like me. She was mad at herself for doing the laundry after I left for Africa, because that jacket was the only thing in the house that still had my scent. “I wouldn’t let go of it,” she said. “I had it on from the moment I heard you were taken. And at night I’d lay it across the bed and my friend Amber and I would each take part of the jacket and sleep.”

About noon on Wednesday, the media got hold of my name. Suddenly, local news crews started rolling up to our farmhouse and into our driveway. Andrea’s sister, being a true Vermonter, invited them in for coffee. By early afternoon, they had a full house of local reporters and cameramen sitting on our couch and nibbling on cookies, watching Andrea watch the news. Shane Murphy’s father was still calling his son the captain of the
Maersk Alabama
—which was technically correct, as the chief mate takes over when the captain leaves the boat—but it made Andrea feel like I’d been forgotten. There was still no mention of me on the national networks.

At this point, Andrea was thinking,
This is the scenario. A ship got hijacked. They’ll demand ransom. The company will hold out for a little while. Then they’ll pay the ransom. The crew will get set free and everybody will happy and safe.
A couple of merchant mariners who knew me called and said, “Andrea, you know the pirates’ MO. They have a business plan. They just want the money. They don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“I know, I know,” Andrea said.

“Knowing Rich, he’s probably on the lifeboat telling bad jokes. And he’s going to come home with a great story.”

And that’s what Andrea prayed for: just a normal, everyday hijacking. She didn’t want heroics.

Our daughter, Mariah, called back. “Mom, what happened to Dad?” Andrea told her what she knew, managing to keep her composure. That set the tone for the kids. Mariah was strong—deeply worried but not hysterical. “I want to come home,” she said. Andrea tried to convince her to stay, but Mariah was adamant. Dan called, too. Andrea gave him the choice to stay or come back and he chose to stay for the last couple days of exams week. “I want to finish,” he said. “Oh, Mom, I just studied so hard for these things and I know Dad would tell me to stay. He’d say, ‘Stay and finish the job.’”

“You’re right, he would,” she said.

They were right. Do you know how much I paid for that college? Dan stayed to finish his work. By holding it together, Andrea was hoping the kids would be able to handle the news.

When she knew our kids were okay, Andrea went right back to watching TV, flipping channels between all the major news networks. They were her only lifeline to what was happening thousands of miles away. No special arrangements
had been made to keep her or the other families informed of unfolding events.

One thing did help her through that first day, she told me later. I never say good-bye when I leave for a job. I hate hellos and good-byes and want to hear only what Andrea calls “the plain living part” in between. So I always say, “I’ll see you later” or “I’ll be back.” One of the two.

That helped sustain Andrea. “He told me, ‘I’ll be back,’” she kept telling herself. “And I believe him.”

She went to bed having no idea what awaited her in the next few days.

I pulled up forward on the port side where the pilot ladder was. Four or five crew members were standing at the top of the ladder. I could see them through one of the lifeboat’s windows. The visibility was much more constricted than on the open MOB—you had to duck and weave to get a view of what you wanted through the foot-long windows.

“Okay, we’re ready for the exchange,” I said to Shane. “Look, make sure you start the Leader going down as we pull up. I don’t want these guys hopping up on the ladder and retaking the ship. Got it?”

“Roger,” said Shane.

“I’m coming in with the lifeboat,” I said. I saw two crew men escorting the Leader along the deck. He had a white rag around his hand.

“Let him come down and when I get a chance I’ll come back up,” I said. We came alongside, bumped up along the
Maersk Alabama
. The end of the ladder was about four feet above the
canopy of the lifeboat. I saw him descending and then he jumped the last bit and I felt the lifeboat rock.

“Pirate aboard,” I radioed. The Leader came back to me. His hand was obviously hurting him, but he seemed to be in good spirits.

I was grinning, too. I’d done my duty as a captain. Now all I had to do was save myself. If I saw a chance, I could take it. The oldest instinct—survival—kicked in.

“Show me how to run the boat,” the Leader said.

I did. I killed the engine and restarted it a couple of times. I showed him how to steer it, start it, where the compass was. He had a course he wanted to steer—340 degrees—and I showed him how to do that. Then I stepped down and let him up into the con—that is, the conning station, which is elevated above the rows of seats. He took the wheel and turned it away from the
Maersk Alabama
and pushed the speed up.

“What about the deal?” I said, shocked.

“No deal,” the Leader said.

My mistake number three: Don’t make deals with pirates. We should have never made the exchange.

I wasn’t surprised by the double-cross. I still felt I was ahead of the game. I’d solved three of my four problems: my crew, ship, and cargo were safe. And I was depending on my luck and my tenacity to save myself.

The Somalis pushed me toward the front end of the boat. I spotted the hatch up there and I thought of trying to bust out through it and jump overboard. But it was a horizontal hatch door. I’d have had to pull myself up four feet and then dive into the water. I would probably have had a few slugs from one of the AK-47s in my back by then, so I abandoned the idea.

“We’re taking off,” I said into the radio. “No exchange.”

The Leader was getting the hang of steering, sweeping one way and then the other. Once he got a feel for it, he set off in a straight line.
Next stop, Somalia,
I thought. I knew that’s where the pirates would take me. That was their MO. That’s where they would negotiate the price for my head. That’s where their backers and their reinforcements were.

It was getting close to dusk. In the tropics, the twilight is extended because you’re so close to the equator. And the moon was nearly full. We could still see the
Maersk Alabama
not too far away. Its running lights were lit and smoke was pumping from its stack, a wake churning behind it.

The pirates looked back in amazement as if to say,
Wow, the ship’s running. Imagine that.
There it was, the ship that was broken beyond repair, working perfectly. There was the missing crew running back and forth doing their jobs. The pirates were incredulous.