Tom Saric [Saric - Compromised

Samatar Sami Al Jelle couldnt help but think this was the way his life was supposed to be. He sat on a bench at the stern of his fishing boat, holding a fishing rod in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. The turquoise water surrounding the boat looked like glass, broken only by the bobbing of his flaccid fishing line. Yes, this was how he was meant to live: fishing, smoking, and sunbathing.

Sami owned one of the largest fishing boats in the Puntland. Most fishermen managed with fifteen-foot, wooden, peeling-paint boats fitted with small outboard motors. Samis vessel, a twenty-five-footer with a rusting metal hull was gigantic by comparison. He had a seven-man crew with him, so while most other fishermen relied on their family members to help drag in the nets, Sami had over a half-dozen young, strong, skilled workers.

The boat was passed on to him by his father, and it had been in the family long enough that Sami considered it an heirloom. He had worked on the boat since his father and grandfather had taken him out on the sea for the first time when he was nine years old. He remembered what seemed like an endless supply of tuna spilling out from their nets. They landed on the deck and he playfully clubbed them with a broom. It all happened on this deck, on this boat.

But that was then, and it had been a long time since the nets were full.

When Samis father, Abdi Al Jelle, was on his deathbed, being suffocated by tuberculosis, he made his final wishes clear in a rare lucid moment for a man who spent months in a feverish delirium. Minutes before his death, with his entire family surrounding the sweat- drenched mattress he laid upon, Abdi announced that the fishing boat would go to his youngest son, Sami. His fathers dark eyes filled with intensity and squared on Samis. He said, the boat has kept this family from hunger for fifty years; you must ensure that it continues to do so. And then his eyes became glassy again, his breathing shallow and groaning. Then it stopped. This image was so deeply engraved in Samis mind that he saw them each time he stepped onto the boat. The old man had made his point.

For several years, Sami fished daily, the only exception being during Karan, the heavy rains in the springtime. Year by year, the amount of tuna he caught diminished. At first, he was unable to turn a profit at the local market in Bosaso. The problem then worsened; he could no longer make enough money to fill the massive engine with diesel. As a result, his boat was beached. He purchased several goats and sheep to feed his wife and four young daughters. His fathers final words, once comforting, began to haunt him. You must ensure it continues to do so. But he couldnt and his family grew hungry.

Explanations for the declining fish population off the coast of Somalia ranged from pollution to disease to algae blooms. But Sami always suspected, and he was not alone in his suspicions, that the area had been over-fished. Not by Somalis, of course, but by huge commercial boats coming from the Arabian Peninsula, Europe, and India. Somalia was too busy in civil war to have a coast guard to protect its waters. Fishing off its coast was a free-for-all.

But that didnt change his situation.

The boat has kept this family from hunger for fifty years; you must ensure that it continues to do so.

Sami took a hard drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the water. He turned and looked at his crew pulling in empty nets from the calm blue waters. The rusty pulleys creaked as they collected the nets into neat piles on the deck. He imagined for a moment that the nets were full of fish, flopping around on the deck, and a smile broke his stern expression.

Yes, this is how it was supposed to be: simple and uncomplicated.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated, breaking him from his trance. He opened the phone and read the text message.

SHIFT CHANGE - 10 MINUTES.

Sami walked along the deck and entered the open wheelhouse, a claustrophobic six-by- six-foot room consisting of the boats steering wheel, a small folding table, a tiny, humming fan, and a GPS device. Sami spread a nautical map on the table, looked at the set of coordinates scribbled on a piece of paper from his pocket and he traced a line using a parallel ruler. He glanced at the screen on his GPS and compared his current coordinates11.17, 52.51to those on the map. Their position was perfect. The cargo ship was going to pass right by them, almost running them over.

Sami stepped out of the wheelhouse, scanned the horizon and barely made out the shape. The hull was a sliver against the orange sky. She seemed small to him now, but Sami knew the true enormity of the Stebelsky. More importantly, he knew how quickly she would arrive. He bounced back into the wheelhouse, turned off the boats engine and prepared to drop anchor. They didnt need to go any farther.

Sami ran out to the deck as quickly as he could without tripping on a loose deck board. His men sat along the bows outer ledge, talking and laughing loudly.

Is this what I pay you to do?

What do you want us to do fish? one of his men said, to laughter from the group.

At least pretend to. Sami dragged a small a crate along the deck and sat in front of his men. They efficiently formed a semi-circle around him. He leaned in, I want to tell you all a storyan English storycalled Moby Dick .

His men sat with furrowed brows. Ali, the youngest man in the group, and Samis nephew, spoke up, Ive heard this story.

What is it about then, professor? one of the men who wore fluorescent board shorts asked, waving his hand dismissively.

A whale.

Not quite. Sami rose from his seat and walked with deliberate steps to the edge of the deck. It is actually about the biggest catch in the sea. Sami kept his expression serious as he raised his hand with a flourish and pointed out towards the horizon. I call her Stebelsky.

The men followed Samis finger and saw the rapidly approaching cargo ship. The hull smashed through the calm waters, leaving a foamy wake on either side. Along the deck, stacked boxcars towered above the waterline. She moved quickly; moments earlier she had been a sliver against the sky, now she was dominating it. Soon she would be on their doorstep. They had to move quickly.

The men jumped up and smoothly descended below deck through a small square opening on the decks surface. All the men had fought alongside Sami during the clan wars in the 1990s. Two of them had fought the Americans in Mogadishu in 1993 and worked that into any conversation they could. But for the last two years, the only military operations of any sort these seven men had participated in started on this boat.

Three weeks ago, a man contacted Sami, claiming that he had information on a ship coming through the Gulf of Aden. He refused to meet in person, but delivered on his promise. The detailed manifest and shipping route coordinates of a Ukrainian cargo ship were placed inside the pages of a Somali-translated copy of