A Captain's Duty

started the engine and revved it high. It was clear he knew where he was going.
    The Leader erupted, screaming at me to shut up. The other Somalis began chanting again, just a brief version this time, as the Leader pushed the throttle forward and the lifeboat lurched ahead.
    “When we kill you, we’re going to put you in an unclean place,” the Leader said. “That’s where I’m taking you now.”
    “What does that mean?”
    They explained that they knew about this shallow reef where the water was stagnant. It wasn’t part of a tide pool that came in and washed the bay every twelve hours. Any body dropped there would rot and bloat and stink to high heaven.
    “Very bad place,” Musso said.
    I couldn’t hold it any longer. I felt a rush of wetness on my pant leg. They were letting me piss myself like a goddamn animal.
    The rage just welled up in me. I felt degraded. I was screaming at the pirates, just cursing at them and telling them they were going to die.
    The Leader yelled back, “Shut up! Shut up!”
    The Leader arrived at our destination and killed the engine. I could see the Bainbridge out the aft hatch. It seemed like the navy ship was trying to catch up to us, but the pirates had outrun it.
    Now the Somalis started giving me water and food. The Leader insisted I eat Pop-Tarts.
    “Fine, I’ll eat the food,” I said. They were reversing their normal rituals. It appeared I wasn’t worthy of a clean death anymore.
    “Eat more,” the Leader said, practically force-feeding me the Pop-Tarts.
    “Fuck you,” I said.
    “You’re not halal, you’re filthy, an animal,” he cried. He forced food down my mouth, to make me dirty. He laughed at me. He walked away and went back up to the cockpit. Turning dramatically, he took his right hand and made a cutting motion, first across his throat, then both wrists and finally across his balls.
    “You son of a bitch,” I said. “If you kill me, I’ll follow you. I’ll come back and haunt you.”
    They tried to force my feet onto a blue bag lying on the floor. I was sitting on the outer edge of the seat arm, with my feet across the aisle on the opposite arm. I was still trussed up. It was too dark to identify who was doing what, but a pirate with an AK was behind me, shining a flashlight. All I could see was my head in silhouette against the far wall. There was another Somali lying by my side, another AK pointed up at my gut. The boat was really rocking in the swells.
    “You can’t die a clean death,” someone said in the darkness.
    I felt warmth on my leg again. I was pissing myself. It was so degrading, to have to sit there like a farm animal. I cowered, drained of strength, while the pirates were sniggering all around me.
    This is the end, I thought. It’s over. And something in me was happy about it. I wanted the navy to open up on the lifeboat with that .50-caliber gun and just end everything. I didn’t care if I died at that moment—I just wanted the whole thing over with. My frustration boiled over and I was ready for the end.
    But then I thought of my family and I told myself I had to go on.
    My thoughts were going in two different directions at once. I believed the pirates were going to kill me and I didn’t. I wanted this to be over and I wanted five more minutes of life. I think what was really confusing me was the pirates’ motives. Why would they try to intimidate me? I thought. I have no power to give them their ransom. What is this about? Could it really be just a test?
    I heard someone move behind me. It was so dark I couldn’t even tell which of the Somalis it was. He began dry-firing the AK-47 and he ordered me up on my feet. I staggered around, trying to stay upright. He was timing the click of the rifle to the starboard roll of the boat. It was this strange dance. It seemed to go on for three hours. “Sit,” they cried.
    I was ready for death. I straightened my back and sat up as tall as I could. The sweat was pouring down my face. My stomach was a knot, like I’d just done three hundred sit-ups at Four Corners back at the Massachusetts Maritime Academy.
    “Military posture, verrrrry good,” the Leader mocked.
    This went on for hour after hour. I staggered around trying to get ready for a dignified death while the click, click, click beat like a metronome.
    Finally, I’d had it.
    “Get someone back here who can fucking shoot that thing,” I said, collapsing on the chair, drenched in sweat. “I’m done. Do whatever you