ShipLog Story: Shadow in the Bab el-Mandeb
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One man adrift. One ship off course. In one of the world’s most watched waterways, a quiet rescue turns into something no one expected.
Ship Universe Note
- This post is part of our Wednesday ShipLog Stories series at Ship Universe
- We spotlight the human side of the maritime industry through fiction that is based on real-world scenarios.
- For questions, feedback, or to share your own story, please get in touch with us
Captain Elias Navarro hated this stretch of sea.
It wasn’t the narrow lanes or the frequent radio miscalls. It wasn’t even the threat of pirates or drone footage of armed skiffs that kept popping up in industry briefings.
It was the fog.
That same thick, soupy curtain was clinging to the windows of the Nereid’s bridge, refracting the light into eerie halos. The same kind of fog that had rolled in the night the Halcyon went silent.
Elias closed his eyes for a moment and saw his brother’s face again. That last grainy video call, the joke about the bad coffee in Djibouti, and then, just static. The distress beacon hadn’t lasted long enough to triangulate.
He opened his eyes.
The deck was quiet except for the occasional hum of the HVAC and the gentle vibration of the hull under steady RPM. First Officer Rafiq had stepped out for a systems check, and Mira was on console duty.
Her voice broke the stillness.
“Captain… I’ve got something weird.”
Elias moved beside her.
“Show me.”
Time: 14:52 UTC+3
New contact: 1 NM NE bearing, static
AIS: Not broadcasting
Visual: None
“It's not transmitting. Just sitting there. Could be a small fishing boat, but I don’t like the signal. It’s bouncing.”
Elias studied the faint blip on the screen. No ID. No echo variation. No heat signature.
The fog thickened outside.
“Let’s watch it for a few minutes,” he said.
“And Mira… log everything. Timestamp it all.”
She nodded, already typing.
Rafiq Mahfouz stepped back onto the bridge, wiping condensation off his tablet with his sleeve. He had a steady gait and the quiet confidence of someone who’d grown up near these waters. Born in Hodeidah, Rafiq knew the Red Sea like a second language. His calm under pressure had made him Elias’s most trusted officer.
He gave Elias a quick nod, then glanced at the radar feed.
“Still tracking the ghost?”
Mira turned in her seat.
“It’s not moving. No course. No ID.”
Elias stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the screen. He hadn’t blinked in nearly a minute.
“Could be a wreck,” Rafiq offered. “Or a skiff with a dead battery. We’re close enough to see a light if it had one.”
“It doesn’t,” Mira said flatly. “I checked three times.”
Outside, the fog seemed thicker now—like something was holding it there. The kind that made you question shadows.
Then the signal came.
A faint clicking. At first, they thought it was interference. Then Mira muted the radar display, and it was still there.
She patched it through to audio.
click-click-click… click... click-click… click-click-click
Mira paled.
“It’s Morse.”
She opened a console overlay and began typing as the signal repeated. Her hands hovered, unsure for a second.
Then it formed:
need help
engine stalled
no crew
drifting
Elias exhaled slowly.
“Someone’s typing it manually,” Mira confirmed. “They’re asking us to approach.”
A heavy step echoed in from the companionway.
Jerome “Jero” Molina, the Nereid’s bosun, stepped onto the bridge, rubbing his weathered hands together. Sixty-one, built like an anchor winch, and not known for talking unless something was bothering him. He’d done his time in naval security and had the scars and superstitions to prove it.
He squinted at the radar display, then looked out into the fog.
“Be careful,” he said quietly.
Mira glanced at Elias, but he was still staring into the mist, trying to make out a shape. Any shape.
Nothing.
15:06 UTC+3
Unknown vessel remains stationary. Morse message received.
Captain reviewing response options.
“We can't just leave him,” Rafiq said quietly.
Elias turned toward the crew, expression unreadable.
“Log it all,” he said again. “Every minute. Every word.”
The radar pinged once more.
Same ghost. Same silence.
The bridge of the Nereid felt smaller than usual.
The radar continued to ping softly. Same static blip. No movement. No AIS. Just that strange, silent presence one nautical mile ahead. Elias folded his arms, leaning against the console. He wasn’t ready to say it, but his gut was already turning.
“How long’s it been broadcasting?”
“Six minutes, maybe seven,” Mira replied. “No pattern change. Same Morse, same wording. They’re typing it out every thirty seconds like clockwork.”
Jero crossed to the forward window and peered into the gray beyond.
“If they had a fire, a flare would be in the air by now.”
Rafiq leaned against the bulkhead. His voice was calm, but there was something in his eyes — a quiet urgency.
“They could’ve run out of signal gear. Might be using the last power they’ve got to call for help.”
“Or they’re stalling,” Jero said. “Waiting for us to come close, nice and slow.”
Mira looked from one to the other.
“What if it’s real?”
Jero didn’t answer. He just tapped a finger once against the glass, then kept it there.
“You never know. Not until it’s too late.”
15:12 UTC+3
Still no movement from contact. AIS remains blank. Crew divided on response.
Weather worsening. Decision needed soon.
Elias exhaled through his nose, long and quiet.
“We’ll hold course for now. Keep our distance, just outside half a mile. Mira, prep the drone for a flyover. I want visuals before I even think about getting close.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The first officer nodded and left the bridge without a word.
Outside, the fog pulsed like a living thing.
Mira knelt beside a black case mounted near the port bulkhead and popped it open with practiced ease. Inside sat a compact quadcopter, custom-modified, stripped for weight, rebuilt with reinforced rotors and a wide-spectrum camera. The drone wasn’t standard issue, but Mira had cleared it with the captain months ago.
“Winds are light,” she said, running a systems check. “Visibility’s garbage, but we’ll be right above it. Should be enough.”
Elias watched silently as she clipped in the battery and pulled up the controller interface on her tablet. A live radar overlay blinked in red, centered on the unknown contact.
Time: 15:17 UTC+3
Flight ID: MIRA-07
Target Zone: 0.5 NM NE
Status: Airborne
Camera: Infrared + Visual + Low Light Assist
The drone lifted off with a high-pitched whine and vanished into the fog. On the screen, white mist gave way to faint outlines. The hull of a small vessel emerged slowly like a ghost surfacing from the deep.
The drone banked on its final pass.
Mira adjusted the tilt of the camera, and for a moment, there was only fog. Then something moved.
“Hold on,” she said. “I see someone..."
A lone figure stood at the aft end of the small vessel, hunched, barefoot, waving slowly with both arms. He staggered, leaned against a bulkhead, then raised one arm again, barely.
“Looks injured,” Mira said. “Probably dehydrated.”
“No life vest,” Rafiq noted. “But he’s trying to be seen.”
Elias stepped forward.
“Get the drone closer. I want a clear visual.”
The feed zoomed in. The man’s face was pale. Hair plastered to his scalp. Lips cracked. He looked half-dead.
“If that’s an act,” Jero said, “it’s a damn good one.”
Elias stared at the monitor for another few seconds, then nodded.
“We bring him aboard.”
Adem saw it before he heard it, a flicker in the mist overhead, something unnatural slicing through the sky.
Then the sound came: a high, steady whine, like a dentist’s drill softened by fog.
They found me.
He raised his arms slowly, staggered once for effect, then leaned against the rail of the ghost ship. The drone hovered like an insect, blinking red and blue in short pulses.
He didn’t look at the lens directly. That would seem too aware. Too sharp. Instead, he let his body sag. Bent knees. Shaky hands. A slow second wave. The pain in his side was real, a cracked rib, maybe. He was always clumsy, and he proved the point again when he slipped on deck that morning. His back still ached from the fall, sharp reminder that he wasn’t cut out for this kind of work much longer. But pain was useful. Believable.
Adem kept one thought pinned to the center of his mind.
This is it. One step closer to the final drop.
He had ninety thousand waiting in escrow. Another fifty coming on confirmation of uplink. That would put him at $140,000. After conversion, more than enough to buy the Tayana 42 he'd been staring at online for three months.
Mexico. Indonesia. Maybe the Med for a season.
No more terminals. No more cold-data smuggling jobs. No more middlemen named "Captain" who showed up in faded polo shirts and smelled like fear. Just him and the wind.
The drone lingered.
Adem let his knees buckle and dropped hard to one side, curling over. The camera adjusted.
Buy it, he thought. Come on. Be a hero.
The red light blinked twice. Not random. He’d seen that blink before. It was a return signal, a human response. Then the drone zipped away into the fog. Adem lay back, eyes closed, listening to the drone fade, then to the silence beneath it. He didn’t need to hear an engine. He’d played this part before.
They’re coming.
Adem Salisne, former maritime radio tech turned freelancer, grinned faintly against the cold steel deck.
One last job. Just one last job.
70 minutes later...
Mira stood at the starboard rail, watching as the deck crew steadied the ladder.
The man below barely looked conscious. He clung to the side of the Nereid, one arm hooked weakly through a rung while Rafiq shouted down instructions.
“Hold the line! Keep his weight off the rail. We’ll pull him once he clears the side.”
Salt spray misted the air. The fog hadn’t lifted.
Mira tightened her grip on the rail and squinted at the man’s face. Sunken cheeks. Cracked lips. Eyes half-shut.
But something about him...
She couldn’t name it. Maybe it was the silence. Or the way he never looked up. Something didn’t feel right, but she dismissed it. Her mom always said she worried too much.
