My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter 7 — The Mark of the Black Turtle They woke me like a thief — silently, the way smugglers must rouse each other before slipping away.

Someone tugged on my leg, and just like that, the day began.

Cold morning air hit my face, and outside the tent I heard a soft whisper: "Psst!

Toma!

Come out!"

I sat up and saw a pair of bare feet visible just outside the tent.

Then a tousled head poked through the tent flap — Maren.

I heard Elen's stifled giggle.

I crawled out and mumbled a greeting.

"Come on!"

Maren hissed.

"Arina came up with something epic.

Quick!"

I followed.

Ded, curled up at the entrance, huffed disapprovingly.

But catching the scent of mischief, he raised his head, yawned dramatically, and trotted after us.

We ran across the still-sleepy camp to Arina’s tent.

She sat cross-legged on a thin blanket, with the solemn look of someone about to hand me Captain Nemo’s will, clutching her notebook like a sacred document.

"Ready?"

she asked, barely smiling.

"Then look."

She opened the notebook and turned it toward me.

There, drawn in black ink, was a giant sea turtle, its shell adorned with a skull and crossbones.

It looked so cool that chills ran down my back.

Like a proper coat of arms for a pirate island.

"This is the symbol of the treasure you found," Arina said.

"Now this place has its own mark."

I nodded, unable to say anything.

In moments like that, silence works best — so you don’t scare off the magic.

"We need a plaque over the cave!"

Maren declared, shaking his fist like he was starting a revolution.

Everyone jumped on the idea without a word.

Maren dashed off toward the shore, hoping to find a good board among the tide-thrown debris.

I went to the supply tent and found plywood, nails, and a hammer.

We borrowed glue and varnish from Elen.

Half an hour later we were working fast — hammering, gluing, painting.

Ded supervised the process like a general contractor.

At one point he yawned so theatrically we all burst out laughing.

"Perfect," said Arina, and sealed the drawing with varnish.

When it dried, we mounted the sign by the hatch — so it would be visible from afar.

Now the place had a face.

And that face grinned with a crooked pirate smile.

"This place is officially dangerous now," Maren declared.

Ded growled in approval.

By then the camp was waking up: footsteps, clanging dishes, someone laughing near the fire.

From beyond the tents came Thierry Roche’s voice: "Breakfast!

Everyone to the table!"

We exchanged looks and laughed.

The job was done, and the smell of food pulled stronger than any adventure.

We had only just sat down at the table when the morning turned upside down.

I was reaching for a slice of toast when I heard it.

Not a hum — more like a growl.

Low.

Growing louder.

Somewhere beyond the lagoon.

"Engines," Maren said.

"More than one."

Elen turned pale.

Three black speedboats burst from behind the reefs, foam trailing behind them.

At the bow — armed figures in bandanas.

Pirates.

Someone screamed.

Ded’s fur bristled.

Captain Branc shouted: "No panic!

No sudden moves!

Everyone down, lie flat on the ground!"

The boats hit the shore.

Out poured the bandits — modern-day pirates.

First among them, waving his rifle, was the leader.

I knew him — he’d been to the island before, trading rice for pearls.

Bald, with a thick beard, a shark tooth necklace on his chest.

His name was Antoine Levasseur, but everyone called him Harpoon.

The pirates stalked through the camp like they owned it, rifles raised.

They rummaged through supplies, searching for valuables.

Harpoon approached Captain Branc, who remained standing with his hands raised in calm defiance.

"Brave one?"

the leader asked in a rough voice, aiming his rifle.

"We respect the brave."

I wanted to be brave too.

Like the captain.

So I stood and walked toward them.

"He doesn’t understand you," I said to the pirate who turned to me.

"And the kid... looks like you got hit hard too.

The sea didn’t spare anyone, huh?

Where’s your granddad?

Got any pearls for trade?"

Harpoon sneered.

"No pearls.

Everything’s lost.

Grandpa’s dead.

These people — they’re a rescue team.

They came to evacuate the wounded and survivors."

"Harpoon, look!"

someone yelled, pointing at our new sign.

Captain Branc began gesturing, trying to explain something.

But the pirates and I spoke only Creole French.

The captain used clean French.

None of us understood him.

"What’s he saying?"

Harpoon asked, gesturing toward Branc.

I had to improvise — I couldn’t let them know about the treasure.

"He says this area’s dangerous.

It’s all mined.

That sign’s a warning.

The whole site’s marked off.

A single blast could blow the whole island apart.

They’re waiting for a military boat with sappers."

"How soon?"

Harpoon narrowed his eyes.

"Very soon," I replied.

"They’ll be here in thirty minutes, maybe less."

The pirate frowned.

He glanced toward Doctor Varma, then at the women crouched near the tents.

Something shifted in his face — weighing his options, calculating next moves.

Then, with a curse — half in Spanish, half in Creole — he barked an order.

His men backed away from the hatch, then flooded through the camp, snatching anything in sight — wallets, watches, bags.

In a blur of motion, they clambered into the boats.

The engines hissed and barked before dissolving into a full-throated roar.

Within minutes, they were gone.

Even the sound of the engines had faded into the sea.

Everyone slowly began to recover, tallying up what had been lost — phones, wallets, jewelry, tools, devices — all missing from both teams.

“Captain!” Arina’s voice rang out, tense.

“Captain, we’ve got a problem.

They stole my camera — it had all the treasure photos!

We need to act, fast.” “We will,” Branc said, and asked Jean-Luc Forge to contact the coast guard, the Bahamas, and the UN Maritime Bureau.

“Sending SOS,” Jean-Luc confirmed, speaking crisply into the radio.

“Reporting armed attack and the risk of pirate return.” “Let’s play it safe,” Louise added.

“Duplicate the alert to the French Navy.

Maybe someone’s nearby.” An hour later, the roar came — low and deafening, tearing through the sky.

A shadow streaked between the clouds — a jet, black and fast as lightning.

Toma froze, mouth open.

“Is that them?” he whispered.

“It’s them,” Louise nodded.

“Ours.” And behind the jet, a tiny speck grew larger on the horizon.

A speedboat.

The French flag flying from its mast.

Soon, a squad of marines landed at the shore — figures in dark navy jumpsuits, rifles slung, eyes scanning everything.

Their commander, a sturdy man with a scar across his chin, introduced himself without ceremony: “Lieutenant Dumont, French Navy.

We’re here to secure the camp.” Captain Branc gripped his hand like he was clinging to rigging in a storm.

“Thank you,” he said with a breath.

“You arrived just in time.” Among the Mangroves Meanwhile, the pirates had returned to their hideout — a secret base buried in the mangroves.

The loot was meager: cash, jewelry, phones, equipment — and Arina’s camera.

The leader — Basil Roche, known as Doc — sat slouched in a leather chair, scowling at the table.

He was not impressed.

Too long scraping by on scraps, and today’s haul looked like more of the same.

Pedro Cordova, nicknamed Moose — the mechanic and helmsman — fiddled with the camera, flipping it on and scrolling lazily through the pictures.

Then he stopped.

On the screen — a cave.

Gleaming coins.

A massive, ancient hatch.

Moose went still.

“Hey, Harpoon!” he called.

“Come see what you brought back!” From the shadows stepped Harpoon.

He grabbed the camera, flipped through the frames.

A cruel smile curled on his lips.

“They tricked us,” he rasped.

“But the kid... he’ll pay.” Black Turtle Island That night, a deep calm settled over Black Turtle Island.

For the first time, everyone could sleep — knowing they weren’t alone, but guarded by strength.

On the horizon, the lights of a frigate shimmered.

In the sky — the rare flicker of air patrol beacons.

Just before dawn, the fast boats reappeared on the horizon.

The pirates had come to settle the score.

Three boats — three trails in the black water.

Suddenly, a patrol helicopter roared overhead.

Its spotlight sliced through the darkness, sweeping over the black water and picking out boats, silhouettes, and bursts of spray — the whole snarl of the pursuit.

“Left one!

Take the left!” came the voice on the radio.

One boat veered toward the shoals.

The helicopter dropped low, almost skimming the surface.

The beam swept across the deck.

Warning shots stitched the water directly in front of the boat.

The pirates froze, throttled down, and raised their hands.

The boat drifted.

A coast guard vessel moved in.

The other two boats split, racing for open sea.

“Cut off the sectors!

Intercept!” snapped a command.

Toma and the others watched from shore.

Searchlights scanned the darkness.

A silver blur tore through the water, cutting across the second boat’s path.

The third — the fastest — vanished into the mangrove maze.

The helicopter gave chase but had to turn back.

Low fuel.

“Pursuit terminated.

Returning to base,” the pilot reported.

One boat escaped.

Two were taken.

The captured pirates were brought aboard the French ship.

Resistance was minimal.

Several of the pirates agreed to reveal the base location.

The Pirate Camp The marines didn’t wait for daylight.

Several boats departed at once.

When they reached shallow water, they switched to night vision.

The shapes of structures emerged from the dark — a few hangars, ruined huts on stilts.

“There,” nodded one of the bound pirates.

Basil Roche, nicknamed Doc, was known in certain circles — once a mission doctor, now a backroom broker in ransoms and petty piracy.

The signal for the assault was given in silence.

Three teams moved in a wide arc.

Team A — frontal breach.

Team B — cut off escape.

Team C — clear the storerooms.

Three armed guards at the door were stunned with tasers.

Inside: — People in cages: fishermen and two tourists.

— Crates of stolen goods.

— Arina’s camera on a table.

A spotlight lit the prisoners’ faces — gaunt, but alive.

Doc tried to slip out the back.

But he was met at point blank — a taser burst dropped him to the ground.

“You’re under arrest for piracy, kidnapping, and armed assault,” the sergeant said calmly.

The night ended in the rattle of handcuffs and the stomp of heavy boots on wooden planks.

By dawn, the base stood empty.

The third boat was gone — along with the most dangerous pirate among them.

Basil Roche was captured.

But his younger brother — Laurent Roche, known as the Shade — was still at large.

Angry, free, and circling like a shark in warm water.

Hidden among the mangroves, Laurent watched through a spyglass.

He saw them take his brother away in chains.

His lips moved: “I’ll find them.

I’ll strike back.

I’ll burn it all.” Moonlight caught his face — young, scarred, with the squint of a hunter.

To be continued...

My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Someone tugged on my leg, and just like that, the day began.

Cold morning air hit my face, and outside the tent I heard a soft whisper: "Psst!

Toma!

Come out!"

I sat up and saw a pair of bare feet visible just outside the tent.

Then a tousled head poked through the tent flap — Maren.

I heard Elen's stifled giggle.

I crawled out and mumbled a greeting.

"Come on!"

Maren hissed.

"Arina came up with something epic.

Quick!"

I followed.

Ded, curled up at the entrance, huffed disapprovingly.

We ran across the still-sleepy camp to Arina’s tent.

She sat cross-legged on a thin blanket, with the solemn look of someone about to hand me Captain Nemo’s will, clutching her notebook like a sacred document.

"Ready?"

she asked, barely smiling.

"Then look."

She opened the notebook and turned it toward me.

There, drawn in black ink, was a giant sea turtle, its shell adorned with a skull and crossbones.

It looked so cool that chills ran down my back.

Like a proper coat of arms for a pirate island.

"This is the symbol of the treasure you found," Arina said.

I nodded, unable to say anything.

In moments like that, silence works best — so you don’t scare off the magic.

"We need a plaque over the cave!"

Maren declared, shaking his fist like he was starting a revolution.

Everyone jumped on the idea without a word.

Maren dashed off toward the shore, hoping to find a good board among the tide-thrown debris.

I went to the supply tent and found plywood, nails, and a hammer.

We borrowed glue and varnish from Elen.

Half an hour later we were working fast — hammering, gluing, painting.

Ded supervised the process like a general contractor.

At one point he yawned so theatrically we all burst out laughing.

"Perfect," said Arina, and sealed the drawing with varnish.

When it dried, we mounted the sign by the hatch — so it would be visible from afar.

Now the place had a face.

And that face grinned with a crooked pirate smile.

"This place is officially dangerous now," Maren declared.

Ded growled in approval.

By then the camp was waking up: footsteps, clanging dishes, someone laughing near the fire.

From beyond the tents came Thierry Roche’s voice: "Breakfast!

Everyone to the table!"

We exchanged looks and laughed.

The job was done, and the smell of food pulled stronger than any adventure.

We had only just sat down at the table when the morning turned upside down.

I was reaching for a slice of toast when I heard it.

Not a hum — more like a growl.

Low.

Growing louder.

Somewhere beyond the lagoon.

"Engines," Maren said.

"More than one."

Elen turned pale.

Three black speedboats burst from behind the reefs, foam trailing behind them.

At the bow — armed figures in bandanas.

Pirates.

Someone screamed.

Ded’s fur bristled.

The boats hit the shore.

Out poured the bandits — modern-day pirates.

First among them, waving his rifle, was the leader.

I knew him — he’d been to the island before, trading rice for pearls.

Bald, with a thick beard, a shark tooth necklace on his chest.

His name was Antoine Levasseur, but everyone called him Harpoon.

The pirates stalked through the camp like they owned it, rifles raised.

They rummaged through supplies, searching for valuables.

Harpoon approached Captain Branc, who remained standing with his hands raised in calm defiance.

"Brave one?"

the leader asked in a rough voice, aiming his rifle.

"We respect the brave."

I wanted to be brave too.

Like the captain.

So I stood and walked toward them.

"He doesn’t understand you," I said to the pirate who turned to me.

"And the kid... looks like you got hit hard too.

The sea didn’t spare anyone, huh?

Where’s your granddad?

Got any pearls for trade?"

Harpoon sneered.

Everything’s lost.

Grandpa’s dead.

These people — they’re a rescue team.

They came to evacuate the wounded and survivors."

"Harpoon, look!"

someone yelled, pointing at our new sign.

Captain Branc began gesturing, trying to explain something.

But the pirates and I spoke only Creole French.

The captain used clean French.

None of us understood him.

"What’s he saying?"

Harpoon asked, gesturing toward Branc.

It’s all mined.

That sign’s a warning.

The whole site’s marked off.

A single blast could blow the whole island apart.

They’re waiting for a military boat with sappers."

"How soon?"

Harpoon narrowed his eyes.

"Very soon," I replied.

"They’ll be here in thirty minutes, maybe less."

The pirate frowned.

He glanced toward Doctor Varma, then at the women crouched near the tents.

Then, with a curse — half in Spanish, half in Creole — he barked an order.

His men backed away from the hatch, then flooded through the camp, snatching anything in sight — wallets, watches, bags.

In a blur of motion, they clambered into the boats.

The engines hissed and barked before dissolving into a full-throated roar.

Within minutes, they were gone.

Even the sound of the engines had faded into the sea.

Everyone slowly began to recover, tallying up what had been lost — phones, wallets, jewelry, tools, devices — all missing from both teams.

“Captain!” Arina’s voice rang out, tense.

“Captain, we’ve got a problem.

They stole my camera — it had all the treasure photos!

We need to act, fast.” “We will,” Branc said, and asked Jean-Luc Forge to contact the coast guard, the Bahamas, and the UN Maritime Bureau.

“Sending SOS,” Jean-Luc confirmed, speaking crisply into the radio.

“Reporting armed attack and the risk of pirate return.” “Let’s play it safe,” Louise added.

“Duplicate the alert to the French Navy.

Maybe someone’s nearby.” An hour later, the roar came — low and deafening, tearing through the sky.

A shadow streaked between the clouds — a jet, black and fast as lightning.

Toma froze, mouth open.

“Is that them?” he whispered.

“It’s them,” Louise nodded.

“Ours.” And behind the jet, a tiny speck grew larger on the horizon.

A speedboat.

The French flag flying from its mast.

Soon, a squad of marines landed at the shore — figures in dark navy jumpsuits, rifles slung, eyes scanning everything.

Their commander, a sturdy man with a scar across his chin, introduced himself without ceremony: “Lieutenant Dumont, French Navy.

We’re here to secure the camp.” Captain Branc gripped his hand like he was clinging to rigging in a storm.

“Thank you,” he said with a breath.

The loot was meager: cash, jewelry, phones, equipment — and Arina’s camera.

The leader — Basil Roche, known as Doc — sat slouched in a leather chair, scowling at the table.

He was not impressed.

Too long scraping by on scraps, and today’s haul looked like more of the same.

Pedro Cordova, nicknamed Moose — the mechanic and helmsman — fiddled with the camera, flipping it on and scrolling lazily through the pictures.

Then he stopped.

On the screen — a cave.

Gleaming coins.

A massive, ancient hatch.

Moose went still.

“Hey, Harpoon!” he called.

“Come see what you brought back!” From the shadows stepped Harpoon.

He grabbed the camera, flipped through the frames.

A cruel smile curled on his lips.

“They tricked us,” he rasped.

For the first time, everyone could sleep — knowing they weren’t alone, but guarded by strength.

On the horizon, the lights of a frigate shimmered.

In the sky — the rare flicker of air patrol beacons.

Just before dawn, the fast boats reappeared on the horizon.

The pirates had come to settle the score.

Three boats — three trails in the black water.

Suddenly, a patrol helicopter roared overhead.

Its spotlight sliced through the darkness, sweeping over the black water and picking out boats, silhouettes, and bursts of spray — the whole snarl of the pursuit.

“Left one!

Take the left!” came the voice on the radio.

One boat veered toward the shoals.

The helicopter dropped low, almost skimming the surface.

The beam swept across the deck.

Warning shots stitched the water directly in front of the boat.

The pirates froze, throttled down, and raised their hands.

The boat drifted.

A coast guard vessel moved in.

The other two boats split, racing for open sea.

“Cut off the sectors!

Intercept!” snapped a command.

Searchlights scanned the darkness.

A silver blur tore through the water, cutting across the second boat’s path.

The third — the fastest — vanished into the mangrove maze.

The helicopter gave chase but had to turn back.

Low fuel.

“Pursuit terminated.

Returning to base,” the pilot reported.

One boat escaped.

Two were taken.

The captured pirates were brought aboard the French ship.

Resistance was minimal.

Several of the pirates agreed to reveal the base location.

The Pirate Camp The marines didn’t wait for daylight.

Several boats departed at once.

When they reached shallow water, they switched to night vision.

The shapes of structures emerged from the dark — a few hangars, ruined huts on stilts.

“There,” nodded one of the bound pirates.

Basil Roche, nicknamed Doc, was known in certain circles — once a mission doctor, now a backroom broker in ransoms and petty piracy.

The signal for the assault was given in silence.

Three teams moved in a wide arc.

Team A — frontal breach.

Team B — cut off escape.

Team C — clear the storerooms.

Three armed guards at the door were stunned with tasers.

Inside: — People in cages: fishermen and two tourists.

— Crates of stolen goods.

— Arina’s camera on a table.

A spotlight lit the prisoners’ faces — gaunt, but alive.

Doc tried to slip out the back.

But he was met at point blank — a taser burst dropped him to the ground.

“You’re under arrest for piracy, kidnapping, and armed assault,” the sergeant said calmly.

The night ended in the rattle of handcuffs and the stomp of heavy boots on wooden planks.

By dawn, the base stood empty.

The third boat was gone — along with the most dangerous pirate among them.

Basil Roche was captured.

But his younger brother — Laurent Roche, known as the Shade — was still at large.

Angry, free, and circling like a shark in warm water.

Hidden among the mangroves, Laurent watched through a spyglass.

He saw them take his brother away in chains.

His lips moved: “I’ll find them.

I’ll strike back.

I’ll burn it all.” Moonlight caught his face — young, scarred, with the squint of a hunter.

To be continued...