Sandstorm

9
Blood on the Water

SAFIA STOODat the rail, staring at the dark coastline as it floated past. The ship creaked and groaned around her. Sails snapped as the winds twisted over the midnight seas.

It was as if they had been transported to another time, when the world was just wind, sand, and water. The smell of the salt and the whisper of waves sliding along the boat’s sides erased the bustle of Muscat. Stars shone above but clouds were blowing in. They would have rain before they reached Salalah.

The ship’s captain had already relayed the weather reports. A squall was raising swells to ten feet. “Nothing the Shabab can’t handle,” he had said with a grin, “but it’ll make for a bit of a roll and yaw. Best stick to your cabins when the rains hit.”

So Safia had decided to take advantage of the clear skies while they lasted. After the excitement of the day, she found it too confining in the cabin. Especially now that the sedatives were wearing thin.

She watched the dark coastline glide past, so quiet, so smooth. The last oasis of light, an industrial complex on the very outskirts of Muscat, began to disappear around a spur of land.

A voice spoke behind her, sounding intentionally indifferent. “There goes the last vestige of civilization as we know it.”

Clay Bishop stepped to the rail, gripped it with one hand, and raised a cigarette to his lips. He still wore his Levi’s and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the wordsGOT MILK. For the two years he had served as her grad student, he never wore anything but T-shirts, usually advertising rock bands in garish colors. The black-and-white one he wore now was clearly his formal wear.

Slightly irritated at the intrusion, she kept her voice stiff and scholarly. “Those lights,” she said, nodding to the fading complex, “mark the city’s most important industrial site. Can you tell me what it is, Mr. Bishop?”

He shrugged, and after a moment’s hesitation, guessed, “An oil refinery?”

It was an answer she expected, but it was also wrong. “No, it’s the desalination facility that produces the city’s freshwater supply.”

“Water?”

“Oil may be the wealth of Arabia, but water is its lifeblood.”

She allowed her student to dwell on this fact. Few in the West knew of the importance of such desalination projects here in Arabia. Water rights and freshwater resources were already replacing oil as the hotbed of contention in the Middle East and North Africa. Some of the fiercest conflicts between Israel and its neighbors-Lebanon, Jordan, and Syria-were not over ideology or religion, but over control of the Jordan Valley’s water supply.

Clay finally spoke up. “Whiskey is for drinkin’, water is for fightin’.”

She frowned.

“Mark Twain,” he said.

Once again, she was surprised by his astute intuitiveness and nodded to him. “Very good.”

Despite his slacker appearance, there was a sharp intelligence behind those thick black glasses. It was one of the reasons she had allowed the young man to join this expedition. He would make a fine researcher one day.

Clay raised his cigarette again. Studying him, she noted the slight waver in its lit end and, for the first time, his white-knuckled grip on the ship’s rail.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Not a big fan of the open sea. If God had meant for man to sail, He wouldn’t have ground the dinosaurs into jet fuel.”

She reached over and patted his hand. “Go to bed, Mr. Bishop.”

The desalination plant finally vanished around the spit of land. All went dark, except for the ship’s lights, reflected in the waters.

Behind Safia, solitary lanterns and strings of electric lights lit the decks, aiding the crew in working lines and rigging, preparing for the rougher seas of the approaching storm. The crew was mostly trainees, young men from the Royal Navy of Oman, practicing while the ship was home, running short trips up and down the coastline. The Shabab was due in another two months to compete in the President’s Cup regatta.

The murmur of the young men was interrupted by a sudden shout from the middle of the deck, a flurry of Arabic cursing. A crash erupted. Safia turned to see a middeck cargo hatch thrown wide, knocking a sailor back. Another man came flying out the open doorway, flinging himself to the side.

The reason for the sailor’s mad flight appeared at his heels, hooves smashing down onto the planks. A white stallion galloped up the hold’s ramp and out onto the deck. Tossing his mane, he stood silvery in the moonlight, his eyes two pieces of smoldering coal. Shouts now echoed all around.

“Jesus!” Clay blurted beside her.

The horse reared up, neighing threateningly, then crashed back, hooves dancing on the planking. It was haltered, but the rope end was frayed.

Men ran in circles, waving arms, trying to corral the stallion back down the hatch. It refused to budge, kicking out with a hoof, butting with its head, or snapping with its teeth.

Safia knew the horse was one of four stalled below-two stallions, two mares-all headed to the royal stud farm outside Salalah. Someone must have been careless in securing the animal.

Fixed at the rail, Safia watched the crew battle the stallion. Someone had freed a length of rope and attempted to lasso the horse. The roper earned himself a broken foot, hopping backward with a sharp cry.

The stallion crashed through a tangle of rigging, ripping bodily through. A line of electric lights struck the deck. Glass bulbs popped and shattered.

New shouts arose.

Finally, a rifle appeared in one of the sailor’s hands.

The stallion’s rampage risked life and damage to the ship.

“ La! No!”

A flash of bare skin drew Safia’s eye in the other direction. Amid the clothed sailors, a half-naked figure ran from a foredeck door. Wearing only a pair of boxers, Painter stood out like some wild savage. His hair was a mess, as though he had just woken. The cries and crashing of the horse had plainly roused him from his cabin.

He snatched a tarp from atop a coil of rope and sprinted barefoot through the others. “Wa-ra!” he shouted in Arabic. “Get back!”

Clearing the ring of sailors, Painter fluttered the tarp. The motion caught the attention of the stallion. It reared up and pounded back down, a threatening, warning stance. But its coal black eyes remained fixed on the tarp and man. A matador and a bull.

“Ye-ahh!” Painter yelled, waving an arm.

The stallion backed a step, lowering its head.

The American swept forward-not straight at the horse, but to its side. He tossed the tarp over the horse’s head, covering it completely.

The stallion bucked once, thrashed its head, but the drape of tarp was too large for the beast to shake free. The horse settled back to the planks and stood still, blinded by the tarp, unsure. It shivered, sweat gleaming in the moonlight.

Painter kept a step away. He spoke too softly for Safia to hear. But she recognized the tone. She’d heard it on the airplane. Simple reassurance.

Finally, he walked cautiously forward and placed a palm on the stallion’s heaving side. The horse nickered and tossed its head, but more gently this time.

Moving closer, Painter patted the stallion’s neck, continuing to murmur. With his other hand, he reached to the frayed rope attached to the halter. Slowly, he guided the stallion around.

Unable to see, the horse responded to the familiar signals, having to trust the man at the end of the rope.

Safia watched him. Painter’s skin gleamed as much as the horse’s flank. He combed a hand through his hair. Was there a tremble in the gesture?

He spoke to one of the sailors, who nodded. The sailor led him down into the hold, horse in tow.

“Very cool,” Clay said approvingly, stamping out his cigarette.

With the excitement over, the crew slowly returned to their duties. Safia stared around her. She noted that most of Kara’s party had gathered on the deck by now: Painter’s partner in a belted robe, Danny in a T-shirt and shorts. Kara and Omaha hadn’t changed their clothes. They must have still been going over last-minute arrangements. At their shoulders stood four tall, hard-looking men dressed in military fatigues. Safia did not recognize them.

From the hatch, Painter returned, rolling the tarp in his hands.

A small cheer rose from the crew. A few palms slapped his back. He winced from the attention and ran a hand again through his hair, a gesture of modesty.

Safia found herself crossing to him. “Well done,” she said as she reached Painter. “If they’d had to shoot the horse-”

“I couldn’t let that happen. It was just spooked.”

Kara appeared, arms crossed over her chest. Her face was unreadable but missing its usual scowl. “That was the sultan’s champion stud. What happened here will reach his ears. You’ve just made yourself a good friend.”

Painter shrugged. “I did it for the welfare of the horse.”

Omaha stood at Kara’s shoulder. His face reddened, plainly irritated. “Where did you learn that horsemanship, Tonto?”

“Omaha…” Safia warned.

Painter ignored the insult. “Claremont Stables in New York City. I cleaned stalls when I was a kid.” The man finally seemed to note his undressed state, staring down at himself. “I should be getting back to my cabin.”

Kara spoke up, stiffly. “Dr. Crowe, before you retire, I’d appreciate your stopping by my cabin. I’d like to go over the itinerary once we reach port.”

His eyes widened in surprise at the offer. “Certainly.”

It was Kara’s first sign of cooperation. Safia was not surprised. She knew of Kara’s deep affection for horses, a tenderness that she felt for no man. Kara had been a champion rider in dressage. Painter’s timely intervention to protect the stallion had won him more than just the sultan’s appreciation.

Painter nodded to Safia, his eyes glinting in the lantern light. She found her breath catching before she could choke out a good-night.

He departed, passing through the four men standing behind Kara. Others slowly followed, dispersing to their respective cabins.

Omaha remained at Safia’s side.

Kara turned and spoke in Arabic to one of the men, a tall black-haired fellow, wearing an Omani shamag headcloth and military khakis. Bedouin. All were outfitted similarly. Safia noted the sidearms holstered at their belts. The man bending an ear to Kara also bore a curved dagger tucked into his belt. It was not a ceremonial knife, but a wicked weapon that looked like it had been well used. Clearly he was the leader, distinguished from his men by a pale, ropy scar across this throat. He nodded at whatever Kara said, then spoke to his men. The group marched off.

“Who was that?” Safia asked.

“Captain al-Haffi,” Kara said. “From the Omani military border patrol.”

“Desert Phantoms,” Omaha mumbled, using the border patrol’s nickname.

The Phantoms were the Special Forces of Oman. They waged an ongoing war with smugglers and drug runners in the deep desert, spending years out in the sands. There were no harder men in all the world. British and American Special Forces teams were taught desert warfare and survival by ex-Phantoms.

Kara spoke. “He and his squad have volunteered as bodyguards for the expedition. With the permission of Sultan Qaboos.”

Safia watched the men head below.

Omaha stretched and yawned. “I’m off to crash for a few hours before sunrise.” He glanced back at Safia. His eyes were hooded under his brows. “You should try to get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us.”

Safia shrugged, noncommittal. She hated to agree with him on even such a simple suggestion.

His gaze fell from her. For the first time, she noted the passing of years on his face, deeper and longer sun crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a bruising under them. He bore a few more threadlike scars. She could not deny his rugged handsomeness. Sandy blond hair, hard planes to his face, dusky blue eyes. But the boyish charm had faded. He looked tired now, sun-bleached.

Still…something stirred inside her as his eyes fell away, an old ache that was as familiar as it was warm. As he turned away, she caught a hint of his musky scent, a reminder of the man who once lay beside her, snoring in a tent. She had to force herself not to reach out to him, to hold him back a moment longer. But what was the use? They had no words left between them, just uncomfortable silences.

He left.

She turned to find Kara staring at her.

Kara shook her head. “Let the dead rest in peace.”