Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  Hopper raised his head like he had heard something. He turned to look ahead into the darkness. Stratton noticed the sudden interest and watched him. Hopper signalled Stratton to cut the engines. Silence fell over them like a heavy shroud. The swell gently lapping against the inflated rubber sides of the boat became the only sound. Sabarak sat up, alert.

  ‘I thought I saw something,’ Hopper said in a low voice. ‘It was white. Another boat maybe.’

  They all remained quiet, looking ahead and to the sides.

  A noise came to them through the mist, like something heavy rolling across a deck. Then a creak. Then a man’s voice. Hard to tell how far away it was. It sounded foreign, to Hopper and Stratton at least. But possibly not to Sabarak, who got to his feet as if in expectation. Another voice shouted a response from a different direction.

  ‘Fishermen?’ Hopper suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ Sabarak said. ‘But not Yemenis. They are not speaking Arabic.’

  The voice came again. It sounded closer.

  ‘The winds of fortune,’ Sabarak muttered. ‘How they change.’

  Stratton had a feeling he knew what Sabarak meant and made ready to start the motors, when a big black shape appeared on their port side. It was the painted wooden hull of a boat. About a metre and a half out of the water. Stratton started one of the engines, gave it some power and turned the wheel to bring the boat hard about.

  ‘Ahead!’ Hopper warned.

  Another vessel appeared, blocking their way. It glided out of the mist, a figure standing in the prow with a stubby brown and black rifle in his hands.

  Stratton slammed the outboard into reverse and swung the boat around. As he pushed the gears into forward drive another craft arrived to block his way. Boats appeared from every direction, surrounding them. Stratton had little choice but to keep the engine in neutral.

  The boats closed in, with men standing in all of them. They were all slender, dressed in grubby clothes, their dark brown skin smooth, their hair tight short curls. The kind of features hard to miss. Somalis, several carrying AK-47s, one holding an RPG on his shoulder. It didn’t need a genius to figure out that fishing was probably a low priority for these men.

  One of the Somalis shouted something as he aimed his weapon at Stratton.

  Stratton put his hands up to show he was unarmed. Hopper did the same.

  ‘He wants you to turn off the engine,’ Sabarak said.

  Stratton reached down and cut the motors. It all went quiet again but for the lapping water and the boats gently bumping against each other.

  A steel tug-like boat came out of the mist and nudged its way through the crowd of smaller craft. It was about twenty-five metres long, Stratton estimated, and covered in rust. It had Somalis lining its sides to look down on their unexpected catch. It was the mother craft to the rest of the pirate flotilla.

  3

  A Somali in a weapon harness scooped a hand over his shoulder at Stratton, Hopper and Sabarak and said something guttural-sounding. He pointed at the hooked ladder beneath his feet over the side of the tug. Stratton hesitated, as did Hopper. They had a few problems they needed to take care of, namely their equipment. Most importantly the guns. Stratton also had a spare knock-out gas canister. He could see no point in going on the offensive with the pirates. They had him seriously outnumbered and outgunned.

  He and Hopper exchanged glances as Sabarak climbed up to the pirate boat. Hopper stepped on to the edge of their rubber boat and suddenly made a show of losing his balance. Stratton grabbed hold of him in an effort to save him and both men toppled into the water. Much to the amusement of the Somalis.

  While both men struggled to get hold of the side of the inflatable, they dumped their holsters and guns, spare magazines and communications devices. No point in keeping any of it. They would be searched and all items of interest would be taken.

  The two operatives finally managed to haul themselves back into the boat with help from a couple of the Somalis. Dripping wet they climbed up on to the pirate mother craft. The Somalis manhandled them down the side deck, which was a mess of rope coils and fuel drums. The pirates shoved them down on the cold, greasy metal deck area behind the raised superstructure that housed the bridge, galley and probably a couple of accommodation rooms.

  A powerful-looking, well-fed Somali stepped out of the superstructure on to the deck and surveyed the three prisoners. Judging by the quality of his clothing, the jewellery around his neck and on his wrists, and his authoritative bearing, he was the man in charge.

  Stratton watched him, hoping to get an early impression. But the pirate commander’s expression was hard to read. He barked a command and a Somali began to search them thoroughly, then removed their belts and boot laces and tied their hands with nylon fishing line. The Somali handed his finds to the commander, who examined the three wristwatches – two practical timepieces, the third expensive. He flicked to the back of the passports, noting the two sodden ones were British. He eyed his captives again, now with a little more interest.

  He handed the items back to the man who had given them to him and walked away along the side of the ship.

  The Somali guard made the three prisoners sit among a pile of rolled nets, large fishing weights and stinking fish pallets. The smell cut through the night air. These guys obviously did some fishing, Stratton reasoned, probably just enough to feed themselves. He looked up at the rear of the boat, illuminated by a bright light at the top of the cabin superstructure. He could hear the rhythmic thump of the engines below the deck, the sound of the waves lapping against the side of the craft. Two of the pirates sat outside the back door holding AK-47s, smoking and talking quietly. They had no shoes, they looked unwashed. He noted that some of them wore what might have once been expensive clothing. But hard, constant wearing and no cleaning had taken all the value from them. They acted more business-like than unfriendly and didn’t appear unfamiliar with foreign prisoners.

  Stratton couldn’t believe his bad luck. He was a prisoner of Somali pirates on their way, he assumed, to the Somali mainland. This wasn’t going to go down well in London. The incentive to change the direction of events was immense. It was a duty of course, and a matter of self-respect. He had too many reasons to get away from these pirates.

  Sabarak hadn’t said a word since the pirates appeared. Which wasn’t what Stratton had expected. But then again, he probably had his own reasons for not wanting them to know who he was. Before Sabarak could do anything, he needed to know a lot more about these Somalis. Most important was what kind of relationship they had with his Islamic brothers, the Al-Shabaab fundamentalists who controlled many parts of Somalia. Not all of the pirates had any great interest in the cause. Most simply saw themselves as businessmen. Sabarak didn’t know where these guys fell yet. So he wasn’t a danger to Stratton for the moment. While he remained unsure he would keep his mouth shut. The Saudi wasn’t guaranteed a positive reception from anyone just because he was an arms trader to jihadists. He’d have to find an interested or sympathetic party and then prove he was who he said he was. That might not be so easy. They would have to know people in common.

  Stratton hadn’t learned much about the Saudi during the operational briefing because little was known about him. There had been a comparison made with the background of Osama bin Laden because like bin Laden, Sabarak came from a wealthy Saudi family and at some stage during his education, he developed a keen interest in the Wahhabi way of life. Sabarak’s family made its wealth from retail as opposed to construction. Sabarak chose to hide his extreme beliefs no doubt because bin Laden had not and had been a hunted man even before 9/11. Sabarak enjoyed frequent trips to Europe and America, staying in fine hotels and spending serious money. What you could call the usual Western entrapments: fast cars, state-of-the-art electronics, generally appearing to fully embrace the secular way of life. The guy had clearly plotted to bide his time and wait for an opportunity to take part in the anti-Western cause. He’d made the move at some per
iod in the previous two to three years. As soon as he did, it was always going to be only a matter of time before his head popped up into the sights of Western intelligence agencies. But Sabarak would have been aware of that and he would have prepared as much as he could before he stepped into the light. Stratton wondered how far the Saudi had got in his planning, if he had a clue before his kidnapping that he had actually made the wanted list.

  As things stood, while the pirates didn’t know anything about any of them other than their nationalities, Hopper and Stratton stood a chance of being offered up to the British authorities for ransom. But Sabarak only had to find the connection to Al-Shabaab.

  Stratton decided to tests the waters. ‘Well, Sabarak,’ he said. ‘It would seem as if fortune has indeed changed in your favour.’

  Sabarak looked at him and in the dim light the operative could see the man grin. ‘I am well aware of that,’ the Saudi said.

  ‘You think you’ll be able to sell your story to these guys?’

  ‘I’m as confident as you are that I can.’

  Hopper leaned close to Stratton to whisper in his ear.‘Remember the rules. Make escape attempts early.’

  Stratton looked through the anchor cable eye in the side of the boat beside him and down at the dark, cold water. The half-dozen small boats were empty and being towed behind the mother craft. Could they cut them loose and take one back to the Yemen coast? He doubted it. They would have to overcome a myriad of obstacles before they could even attempt it.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Stratton muttered.

  Hopper had gone through a similar thought process and come to the same conclusion. Hopper leaned his head back against the metal side of the tug.

  Stratton lay back and made himself comfortable against a pile of nets. He was cold, his soaked clothes and the chilly night air a bad combination. He decided it was going to be one of those situations when all he could do was wait for the right opportunity to present itself. And when it came he needed to be decisive.

  The rhythmic thud of the engines went on and the rolling motion of the boat had a calming effect. After a while he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. He was awoken by a sudden rush of activity on board as several men ran past him. The engines had been cranked up to what must have been full power. Pirates were hauling in the speedboats ready for crews to jump down into.

  Stratton sat up and squinted at the sun that had appeared low above the water on the port side. It confirmed to him they were sailing south. And from Yemen that meant directly towards Somalia.

  Another man ran past and went up into the superstructure, leaving the door open. They could hear the speedboats revving up and skimming away over the water.

  The chief stepped out of the superstructure and went along the side of the vessel towards the front without a glance at his prisoners, talking energetically into a radio. Several more men ran past the group, one of them kicking Hopper’s legs out of the way.

  Stratton got to his feet, feeling his muscles stiffen. He looked around the vast, uninterrupted ocean. And he saw what all the fuss was about. Half a mile or so up ahead was a large cargo vessel. The pirates were going to work. He stepped along the deckside to see better. The leader saw him standing part of the way along the deck and shouted at one of his men, who aimed his rifle at the operative, moving the tip of the barrel repeatedly, urging him back to the stern.

  Stratton obeyed but remained standing. Hopper joined him to watch the small boats go after their prey. As the mother craft got closer, they watched the half-dozen speedboats, their former craft included, buzz the rear of the ship like a pack of hyenas. It was some kind of bulk cargo carrier nearly a hundred metres long, but it had a couple of significant disadvantages faced with the pirates: the bulker was slow, going little more than ten knots, and it had a low freeboard. The top of the stern itself looked to be only a couple of metres above the water. The bulker’s sides, up until midships, were little more than three metres out of the water. Not enough to prevent pirates climbing aboard. For that the free-board needed to be at least five metres clear of the water and the carrier would need to reach a speed in excess of fourteen knots. It hadn’t because it couldn’t.

  The bulker began to swerve from side to side, as sharply as it could, creating large waves behind it, sending a churning wake towards the pirate boats. From what Stratton could see, the carrier had little or nothing else in the way of physical defences. No water cannon. No barbed wire or fencing. Short of any surprises, the boat looked like easy pickings.

  The crack of gunfire could be heard above the thud of the mother craft’s engines. The pirates were in full attack mode.

  Stratton, Hopper and Sabarak weren’t the only ones transfixed by the attack. So was their armed guard. Stratton looked at the back of the guy, calculating the possible phases after incapacitating him. He looked at the four or five Somalis on the prow. Guns in hand. The odds were not good enough.

  He stood on a pile of fish boxes in order to get a better look at the action.

  The bulker leaned steeply over with each desperate turn, its decks empty. No sign of any crew on board. Stratton could imagine them all inside, hatches battened down, locked inside the citadel, hoping desperately that it would be enough to defend against the pirates. No doubt they would also be wishng they had done more defensive preparation before entering the Gulf of Aden. But like wild dogs, the Somalis had a reputation for pressing the attack for as long as there was a chance of succeeding. Stratton had heard of Somali pirates boarding a boat and staying on its deck for more than a day while trying to gain entry to it.

  The two longer attack boats each carried five or six men, the others three or four. As Stratton watched, one of the little boats accelerated along the length of the cargo carrier. A bang followed by a rocket with a smoking tail shot from the speedboat and curved over the top of the ship, narrowly missing the bridge and dropping into the sea the other side.

  A second speedboat tore up the starboard side and released a rocket of its own. This one struck the bulker’s funnel and exploded like a hand grenade with a sharp crack, leaving a dramatic black scar and indent on the red-painted metal.

  A guttural shout went up from the Somalis on board the mother craft followed by a cheer from the others. One of the longer attack craft closed on the rear of the ship, which continued to manoeuvre desperately. But the experienced Somali coxswain mirrored the turns as he got closer to the stern. As he closed the gap to a mere metre from the back of the bulker, one of his boarding team raised a metal ladder a couple of metres long, formed into a large hook shape at the end. The carrier turned again. As it did so it leaned over. The pirate boat bumped the ship and the boarding team heaved the curved end of the ladder over the top rail, where it hooked on firmly. A Somali in back loosed off a burst of rifle fire while another scrambled up the ladder, quickly followed by others.

  More shouts from the exultant Somalis on board the mother craft as they watched their comrades create a foothold. Within seconds, every pirate on the speedboat, except for the coxswain, had climbed aboard the cargo ship and was sprinting towards the superstructure.

  The next long speedboat closed in for its turn. Stratton could hear the clatter of rifle fire increase as the Somalis already on board took their positions, tugging on doors, scaling exterior ladders and stairways all around the superstructure in an effort to gain entry. As the second boarding team attached its ladder and quickly clambered aboard, a burst shattered several windows on the superstructure. It looked like the Somalis were violently attacking a door with pieces of wood. Firing guns into locks. The cacophony went on. Smoke began to rise from a fire somewhere on board.

  After a while, the vessel’s erratic swerving ceased and its speed reduced. The bridge wing doors on one side opened and a couple of the Somalis stepped out, their arms waving.

  The cargo ship was theirs. Once again a cheer went up from the mother craft.

  After the leader went on board the bulker, he didn’t return for several hou
rs. By then the day had become warm and Stratton’s clothes had dried out. He and Hopper and Sabarak had been given a dish each of rice mush. Sabarak had begun striking up small conversations with the guards. He seemed to understand the language pretty well but wasn’t fluent, judging by the way the Somalis responded to him. Stratton and Hopper had listened, gaining what little they could. Which wasn’t much. Except for one thing.

  The commander was called Lotto.

  Stratton watched as two of the raiders returned to the mother craft carrying a hefty backpack between them. They looked like two of the original boarders. As they stepped down on to the deck, one of the mother ship’s crew who hadn’t boarded the bulker stepped up to them, put a hand inside the backpack, apparently deciding that a portion of it belonged to him, for whatever reason. He came up with a pair of shiny binoculars. One of the boarders got angry but the crewman walked away to the back of the boat. The situation changed in a second. As the crewman stepped up to the superstructure, the boarder caught him and hooked an arm around his neck. The crewman pushed him off, drawing a knife from his belt. By now a gallery of interested Somalis had formed to watch him. A fight ensued. As the brawl came their way, Stratton and Hopper moved out of the way.

  The fight didn’t last long. The boarder went for the crewman’s arm holding the knife but the crewman twisted free and they fell together and he drove his blade right into the man’s guts. He stabbed him several more times, his final thrust going behind the boarder’s ribcage where it skewered his heart.

  The crewman got to his feet, his hands and clothing soaked in blood. As he picked up the binoculars and inspected them, Lotto stepped out of the superstructure. The chief shouted at the crewman, evidently looking for an explanation. The crewman’s expression changed as he began to explain his side of the story. The man was frightened. Another Somali spoke but not in favour of the crewman, who argued with him. Lotto listened to the comments from one source and another. Then he withdrew a pistol from his side and shot the crewman in the middle of the chest. The man dropped like a lead weight and the binoculars fell on to the deck beside him. He opened his mouth a couple of times and started gasping.