Facing Fire
Obviously this image is AI generated. This week I have a treat of a tale from one of my entries in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. For this unfortunate assignment, I received the challenge of writing a spy thriller story in 1,000 words or less. To top that off, the story had to include a flamethrower. I have forgotten what the third prompt was – just reading the story again brought flashbacks of the trauma induced by having only 48 hours to churn out something resembling a thriller. With a flamethrower.
I did not advance in that round, and the story stayed buried deep in my electronic files until now, when I have recovered enough from the embarrassment of writing it to allow it loose upon the world.
Ladies and Gentlefolk, I present to you:
Facing Fire: An undercover agent accepts a dangerous assignment to prove herself. When an unexpected threat occurs, she must face her fears in order to survive.When I left the Navy, I swore the next time I set foot on a ship, it would be to cruise to some exotic location. I got the exotic part, but there’d be no poolside margaritas. Three weeks until Christmas, I stood on the dock in the Port of Santos, Brazil, and stared up at the 40,000 deadweight ton freighter that would be my home for the next twenty-six days.
The ship carried a crew of 25. In the time we would travel from Brazil to Baltimore, I had to determine which of them had ties to a terrorist organization, and which of the 9,000 containers on board held ten tons of cocaine they would sell to finance their operations. I would share a bunk with the only other woman on board—the medical purser, a petite black woman who spent her free time cross-stitching flowers and Bible verses on tea towels. She was either the most unlikely suspect or the one with the best cover.
I met Captain Burke my first day aboard. He was the only person who knew I belonged with the organization with three initials and not the merchant marine union.
“You’re here against my will, Miss Leary. I can’t afford an untested officer.”
I pulled at my sleeve to better hide the burn scars on my arm. “With all due respect, sir—for my last four years in the Navy, I served as Navigator. I can do the job.”
“Fine. As Third Mate, you’ll have the 4-8 watch when you’re not in the control room.”
Night watch meant 4:00 am. Not a problem—I hadn’t slept all night since before the accident that landed me at a desk. I’d fought for this job to prove myself capable of active duty again. I owed it to the ones who hadn’t survived that day.
A week passed, and I didn’t get any closer to identifying the terrorist or finding the drugs. Only one in ten of the huge metal boxes was searched in port, so the chances of its being picked at random were low. International maritime law ruled at sea. Domestic law enforcement had their hands tied until the ship docked. Not so for my group.
Halfway to Baltimore, I stood alone in the pitch-black early morning. Bundled against the cold, I shivered as the frigid salt spray hit my face. I gripped the handrail on the bridge and let my gaze roam over the white-tipped waves below. The stink of diesel didn’t cover the ocean’s saltwater scent. I turned at the sound of footsteps. The Chief Mate, Mark Simms, stopped beside me.
“Quiet night?” He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it.
“So far. I thought you weren’t on nights. Why the early stroll?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check, see if you needed help.”
I opened my mouth to ask why I’d need help when a noise sputtered through the silence. An outboard motor. Spotlights lit the gray water, illuminating a tiny craft zipping alongside the ship.
“Pirates!” Simms flipped his cigarette over the rail and took off. I thumbed my walkie-talkie and radioed the bridge. A klaxon alarm blasted. I imagined the crew stumbling like ants whose nest someone had kicked.
I jogged toward the stairs. Unarmed, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter any of the pirates. Halfway to safety, the ship went dark. Protocol— something we’d drilled on just the week before. The alarm died with a moan.
Footsteps pounded behind me. I spun to face a pack of men. One of them held a machete. These weren’t my fellow crew members. The lead guy had something strapped to his back, and the long, stick-like contraption he pointed at me wasn’t a rifle. I dived behind the nearest container. The night exploded in heat and orange light. The pirates were armed with flamethrowers.
With my back pressed against frost-covered metal, I shivered and let out a fog of breath. The cold reassured me I wasn’t on fire.
The pop of gunfire sounded. Someone screamed. I eased out from behind my cover. Five feet away, a body lay stretched on the deck in a pool of dark blood, flamethrower still strapped to his back. Ahead, the pirates had taken cover behind a stack of metal drums. Bullets pinged past. At any moment, the bad guys might turn and run for the stairs and the control room. I reached a hand to grasp the flamethrower and slip it from the body.
Motion in the cargo stacks drew my eye. Captain Burke crouched beside one container. He tugged on the straps holding the box, then startled when he noticed me. He should have been locked down in the control room.
Burke crept over to whisper, “What are you doing?” He reached to his side and drew out a pistol.
I shouldered the flamethrower, and before the pirates could charge, I aimed a burst of flame at the metal straps holding the nearest stack of containers. The straps glowed white hot, then snapped as the boxes tilted. They tumbled onto the deck, blocking the pirate’s escape.
With no way out, the bad guys surrendered. Captain Burke appeared at my side. He studied the collapsed containers with a look of relief. Once we secured the pirates in the freighter’s brig, I used my satellite phone to call in my suspicions.
Homeland Security and the DEA met the ship in Baltimore and arrested Burke. His first duty should have been to the crew. Instead, he fled to check on the cargo. One stack of containers in particular, and his look of relief when that load wasn’t the one that fell, gave me the idea that the drugs would be in the one he’d checked. Turns out I was right, and he was glad to exchange his testimony for immunity. He’d only been in it for the money.
Me, I’m booked on another ship. This one sails from Galveston to Cozumel. Warm sand, cold margaritas, and not a flamethrower in sight.
