A Captain's Duty

need?”
    “Plenty, we need plenty.”
    Whatever it took. I went up to the deck to the Bosun locker and took out a hose, a pipe fitting, and a clamp. I cut the hose to the right length—the Somalis had never taken my three-inch jackknife off me—and brought it over to the tank for the emergency diesel generator. I knew there were a hundred gallons in there at the very least. I found some plastic five-gallon buckets, lined them up, attached the hose to the drain on the generator fuel tank, and let the diesel flow into the bucket.
    Tall Guy came up next to me and looked at the panel on the emergency generator. He reached up and started flippingswitches up and down. He probably thought he could get the damn ship running if he hit the right combination.
    I yelled over to him. “Can you please leave those alone?”
    He laughed and walked away. I went back to my fueling.
    I’d chosen the buckets carefully. They were the dirtiest ones on that part of the ship, filled with grease and chemicals and the backwash that accumulates when you run a container ship. If that didn’t gum up the MOB’s engine, nothing would.
    The buckets filled up quickly. The pirates helped me ferry them over to the deck near the MOB. Once we had the vessel in the water, we’d lower them down. With that much fuel, they could make it anywhere on the Somali coast.
    As I was ferrying the buckets over, I passed the rope scuttle hatch sticking three feet above the deck. That particular hatch led down to the aft line locker, a little area where we kept all the rope for the Maersk Alabama . And the hatch was standing wide open, with a line running down into it. There’s only one reason that hatch would be open: the crew must have been down in the scuttle, lying on the ropes, trying to catch a breeze and escape the infernal heat of the ship.
    I was hoping the pirates wouldn’t notice. The hatch door had been shut the first time we passed it. Now it was gaping open. But, sure enough, instead of walking by they stopped right in front of it. And after a few seconds of confusion, Tall Guy and Musso leaned over and peered into the darkness.
    I brought my radio up. “Guys, they see that hatch. Get away from it now. The pirates are right above you.”
    Musso brought out his flashlight and pointed it down. I held my breath. If they found the crew now, the deal was off.
    Tall Guy unslung the AK-47 from his shoulder and pointedit down the scuttle. They must have heard the guys moving around down there. Goddamn it , I thought. It’s over.
    He pulled the gun back and handed it to Musso. Tall Guy ducked down and put his head into the hatch and tried to see if he could wriggle through the opening. They were going to go down there and hunt my men down. But not even he was skinny enough to get his shoulders through the hatch.
    “Come on,” I called to Musso from about fifteen feet away. “Do you want this fuel or not? I need some help here or we’ll never get going.”
    Musso looked back at Tall Guy, who was wrenching his shoulders through the hatch opening.
    “Get out of there,” I whispered fiercely into the radio. “Pirates coming down.”
    Musso tapped Tall Guy on the side and said something in Somali. Tall Guy pulled his head out of the hatch and looked over at me.
    “Grab those two buckets,” I called out. “Quit fucking around already. Do you want to leave the ship or not?”
    Tall Guy took another look down the hatch, peering with his flashlight darting up and down. Then he turned and started walking toward me.
    I felt relief wash over me.
    I got in the MOB. The pirates wanted me to teach them how to start and kill the engine. I was more than happy to do it.
    Tall Guy and Musso were really warming up to the idea of sailing away. “We’ll just get off your boat,” Musso said to me, cracking a smile. “We’ll be done here.” Thirty thousand dollars wouldn’t buy them a Mercedes SUV and a mansion, but itwas a hell of a lot more than most Somalis would see in a lifetime of working. Not bad for a day’s banditry. As far as I was concerned, they were welcome to it. It was a small price to pay for getting my ship and my crew back.
    By now, it was late in the afternoon. I was rushing to get the Somalis off the Maersk Alabama before nightfall. I was winching the MOB off its cradle, but the progress was painfully slow.
    “Where are the engineers?” Musso said. “Pains in the asses, those guys.”
    “I hear you,” I said. I smiled to myself.