by Stephen Cole
‘Let’s be sure it stays that way,’ Motti murmured. He leaned over the railing and signalled to Con and Patch. ‘You wanna scout ahead?’
Jonah nodded, and padded away through the muggy gloom, staying close to the rails so he could swing himself overboard if worse came to worst. He doubted the sea could make him any wetter – beneath the black linen shirt he was sweating like hell.
Suddenly, maybe ten metres ahead, he saw a tiny flare of yellow and froze. It was the flame from a cigarette lighter. Someone was having a smoke on deck. Jonah caught the dull gleam of moonlight on metal and realised a machine gun hung from a strap on the man’s shoulder.
Cautiously, he turned and made his way back to the stern. But suddenly someone jumped out from behind one of the vents to his left. A man, little, black and agile, blocking his way and wielding a machete. Jonah barely had time to react before the man was swinging at him, babbling in an excited voice.
Willing himself to stay cool and focus, Jonah blocked the man’s swinging arm and punched him in the jaw. It shut him up but didn’t floor him, so Jonah kicked his attacker in the balls and wrestled the machete from his grip. The man staggered back and tripped over a cable. But by now, the man with the cigarette was rushing towards him, swinging up his machine gun while reaching for the radio in his belt. Rather than run away and make a target, Jonah charged towards the man and brought the machete down on his gun, knocking it aside. Then he thumped the man in the stomach and shoved him against a lifebelt holder. Thinking fast, he grabbed the lifebelt and pulled it down over the man’s head and shoulders. Now the man couldn’t use his arms or reach his radio, so Jonah cracked him on the side of the head with the hilt of the machete. Silently, the man crumpled – the cigarette, improbably, still clamped in his lips.
Motti came running up. ‘Good work.’
‘There’s another one back there,’ Jonah told him. ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’
‘Sorry. Had one of my own to take out.’ Motti mimed hitting someone with his borrowed baton. ‘Patch found your man and dragged him off to Con. He should be nicely under by now.’ He reached down and snatched the cigarette from the sleeping man’s lips. ‘We better hide this sucker and regroup in case someone heard the fighting.’ He took a deep drag on the cigarette then threw it overboard, while Jonah hauled the man across the deck, laid him down beneath an old rusted winch and draped some heavy plastic sheeting over him. The man’s silver lighter had fallen out; Jonah scooped it up for a keepsake and headed after Motti.
Jonah and Motti found Patch and Con crouched in the shadows with a very docile guard.
‘Don’t know his native language,’ said Con crossly. ‘But at least he speaks some English – says there are ten men aboard.’
‘Three down, seven to go,’ Patch muttered.
‘Have this guy tell his buddies to come running,’ said Motti. ‘That he’s found a grappling hook and someone jumping overboard. We’ll hide him out of sight, let them scoot by and then get going.’
‘We hope.’ Jonah looked over the side, scratching nervously at his neck. There was no sign of the boat – Tye had retreated out of sight again.
‘While the crew are looking for him, we should be able to get what we came for.’
Con looked into the little man’s eyes and started speaking in some weird mixture of English and Tagalog. The man was nodding, so he must’ve understood some of it. He picked up the radio and started gabbling into it. Then he jumped up and hid inside one of the big coils of wire.
‘Like a self-basting turkey,’ Motti remarked. ‘Pretty smooth sweet-talking, Con.’
She prowled away across the rusty deck. ‘Now we’re here we should move, no?’
Jonah followed her lead, sticking to the thickest shadows and moving cautiously. If the crew really were to come running, they would make enough noise to be heard a fair way off. But so far, nothing.
Then suddenly, they heard the pound of footsteps approaching from out of the darkness, and low, urgent voices. Jonah ducked behind the vast square lid of a cargo hatch, and the others joined him as five men hurtled past, each clutching an iron bar or an automatic.
‘That’s most of ’em,’ breathed Motti, and the second they’d gone by, he was edging out on to the deck walkway again. ‘So far, so good.’
Jonah followed close behind as they made their way towards the prow of the ship, where the front decks would be found, a stack of state rooms, bridge and wheelhouse above and with stairway access to all decks below. He wondered how long they would have before the angry crewmen discovered their hypnotised buddy and went raging in search of the intruders. The thought made him quicken his step and edge past Motti, taking the lead as they rounded a large storehouse.
Which meant it was him who first saw the two guards blocking the entrance to the front decks.
And him who became the target for their M16s a split second later.
‘Two, armed!’ Jonah yelled, throwing himself to the deck as the Filipinos raised their guns to fire. But forewarned, Patch had produced one of the spare grapnel launchers and fired it now – sending the miniature anchor smacking into the chest of the nearest guard. The metal missile slammed the man back into the doorway and the gun flew from his flailing arms.
Even as he fell, Con was circling round behind his startled companion. By the time the man glimpsed her foot flying towards the side of his face, it was lights-out time.
‘Nice decoy, geek,’ said Motti, offering Jonah a hand up which he gratefully took. ‘Patch, do your stuff.’
Patch had already pulled out his torch, shining it over the locking mechanism on the bulkhead door just to the left of the main entrance. ‘Looks like a time-delay mechanism twinned with digi-combination lock …’
‘Lemme see.’ Motti took a look himself, ready to assist. ‘Jonah, Con, get up to the bridge and take care of the captain. Could be a useful guy to have on our side – or a useful hostage, whatever’s easier.’
Cranked up on adrenaline, Jonah pushed open the door to the bridge complex and flew up the stairs with Con. The wheelhouse was on the third floor – Jonah guessed as much when a wiry Filpino man in a stained white vest and a peaked captain’s hat jumped out from inside. He had a revolver in his sweaty hand, pointing right at Jonah. He barked at them, his face twisted with fear and rage.
But Jonah wasn’t stopping. By the time his brain kicked in with a yell of This is a really dumb idea he was scaling the final staircase, closing on the captain fast – racing towards a loaded gun aiming at his face. He saw the man’s finger twitch on the trigger, twisted aside desperately even as he threw himself up the last steps. He wound up headbutting the captain in the groin. The man yelled and the gun went off harmlessly at the ceiling. Jonah rolled clear, as Con arrived. She kicked the captain clear out of consciousness.
‘Prop him up,’ she murmured. ‘I must mesmerise him.’
‘He won’t be awake for ages, you nearly took his head off.’
‘He nearly took off yours.’ She smiled as the captain started to moan softly. ‘Ah! You recover already. What a strong specimen you are, Captain. I think we could use such a man on our side. You hear me …?’
The captain stared at her, too dazed to struggle.
‘You are on our side, the side of the intruders,’ Con went on. ‘Listen to me, my ally. Anyone you do not recognise on this ship – why, these persons are your greatest friends, no? And you will do all in your power to aid and protect them. Yes, listen to me …’
As Con’s voice grew deeper and softer and strayed into other languages, Jonah staggered inside the wheelhouse, his whole body trembling. The room reeked of stale BO and cigarettes. He gazed out over the shadows of the sea. The skinny moonlight in the water glittered like some precious treasure was just beneath the surface. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ he whispered. Then he pulled out his walkie-talkie and radioed Tye. ‘It’s Jonah.’
Her voice crackled back at him, terse and urgent. ‘D’you need me?’
Yes I do, he thought, as the giant ship thundered on into the widest, darkest night, with no one at the helm now. Out of control.
Back on the toratora, Tye shook the radio. ‘Jonah? Please copy, are you –’
‘I’m here. It’s OK.’ Even through the crackle of the radio set, Tye could hear something in his voice that suggested it wasn’t. ‘Con is brainwashing the captain and Patch is breaking in downstairs.’
She bit her lip. ‘We need to keep this frequency clear, Jonah. Give me the word when you’re ready and I’ll move into range. The blast will give me visual of where you are. Just jump and I’ll catch you.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Soon,’ she told him. ‘Out.’
Tye looked out of the cabin window at the hulking silhouette of the Aswang against the purple sky. It looked just as ghoulish as its namesake.
Suddenly she heard something outside. A quiet rattle. The wind knocking something? An uneasy feeling took hold. She’d been distracted when Jonah called in – just for a few seconds, but it could’ve been enough for someone to get past their radar, just as she’d sneaked under the Aswang’s.
There was a flare gun in the cabin, and Tye picked it up, cradled it in both hands. The night was warm but she felt cold and clammy as she edged out of the red-lit cabin and into the dark, trying to tell what was real and what was shadow.
Suddenly a hand clubbed down on her wrist and the flare gun clattered from her grip. Immediately, she spun round and jabbed with her other hand at face level; her knuckles cracked against bone. Her attacker was a man in a wetsuit, and a knife blade glinted in the moonlight. She kicked him in the stomach, danced back as he doubled up and smashed the knife from his grip. Then she delivered a high kick to his chest that propelled him overboard. Warm spray arched over her, but she knew from the sound of the splash her attacker had hit the water well, twisted in the air and dived. Which meant he would most likely come back for more.
Instinctively she stooped to snatch up the flare gun – without first checking the deck was clear. Another attacker came up from behind and grabbed her in a crushing bearhug. Tye felt the air driven from her lungs as struggled to free herself.
Then, she heard a quiet phut, and a sharp stab at her neck.
Her eyes widened as she saw a small fishing boat bobbing out of the dark towards her. Two people were rowing, and another figure stood behind them, but the night hid their features, and Tye’s vision was already blurring. Curare, she thought fearfully, maybe it’s Sorin, he wasn’t dead, he’s come back –
Desperately she tore the dart from her throat. Then she grabbed hold of one of the arms round her chest and heaved her body forward; using her attacker’s weight and momentum against him she flipped him over her shoulder and he crashed down on his back.
She swore. Heidel’s face was looking up at her. ‘You’ve let everybody down, Tye Chery,’ he said, smiling. ‘Whatever would Coldhardt say?’
Tye stamped down hard on Heidel’s sternum, stunning him. ‘For that he’d probably say “thanks”,’ Tye hissed.
‘Just you wait, little girl,’ Heidel said through gritted teeth.
Tye staggered backwards, almost overbalanced. She could feel the drug taking hold. It felt like a crowd of drowsy flies had flown inside her head. She straightened and saw how close the approaching rowboat was now as she blundered back to the cabin. She had to outrun them, had to fight off the drug.
But it’s curare and it’s going to kill you. Tye felt a shard of terror knife through her insides. How can you fight?
It seemed there were two cabin doors. She clutched for one and missed. Maybe this was best, though – the red light inside was burning blinding bright as hellfire now, and Tye didn’t want to go to hell. Although she kind of doubted there was space in heaven for someone like her.
‘Think of the chances we take,’ she’d told Patch. ‘Our luck’s going to run out.’
She had to reach the radio, warn Jonah and the others. Couldn’t let them down. Couldn’t let him down. But a big wave bumped the boat and she stumbled, fell on her side. She rolled on to her back but couldn’t get up again.
Tye looked up at the stars that had dared peep through the dark and terrible sky. They started to spin about, chasing their tails like Catherine wheels before erupting into comets, the original bad omens. As her eyes flickered shut, as the people came aboard and rough hands held her down, I’ll miss you, Jonah, was the last thought to slip away.
Chapter Eighteen
Jonah watched the captain, back at his controls, smile over his shoulder at them as they headed down the steps. He called something after them.
‘That is sweet, no?’ Con smiled demurely. ‘He wished us luck.’
‘We could use it,’ said Jonah.
By the time they got back to the main deck, Patch had cracked the bulkhead door. Motti was holding one of the guards’ M16s in one hand and a bunch of what looked to be slim lipsticks in the other.
‘The weapons have been converted to fire simulated ammo,’ said Motti. ‘Wax bullets. Without protective clothing they’d hurt us bad but wouldn’t kill us.’
‘Comforting,’ said Jonah. ‘The captain might only have maimed me just now.’
‘They must want any intruders taken alive for questioning,’ said Motti.
‘Interrogation?’ Patch shuddered and held the door open. ‘Think I’d rather take the bullet. You lot coming?’
‘He’s right, we should split,’ said Motti, dropping the wax cartridges. ‘The crew ain’t gonna need three guesses to work out where we’re headed.’
Beyond the bulkhead was fetid, salty blackness with a metallic reek. The floor beneath them was pooled with puddles and rust. Patch’s torch cut slices from the dark, revealed the stairwell in pieces as he searched for a light switch. Then dim, low-watt light hummed into life, hardly enough to see by.
Motti jammed the M16 through the door handle, wedging the muzzle behind a pipe running vertically beside the frame. ‘Should slow ’em down anyway,’ he muttered, facing the staircase. He was first down the steps, and Jonah brought up the rear. Their footprints echoed in slippery cascades, as they went down one level … two levels …
‘Vault’s the other side of this bulkhead,’ Motti whispered. He studied the door built into it and nodded as if it was familiar. ‘Three-part steel frame, internal rock-wool insulation. Not bad.’
‘Lucky we don’t need to blow it open, then.’ Patch had a couple of small tools in his hand and was setting about the entry-coder beside the door. ‘Just a bit of friendly persuasion …’
With an echoing clunk, the deadlocks keeping the door closed retracted. Patch grinned at the others – but Motti shoved him aside, carefully opening the door in case of other traps. It was dark inside, with a stench of dead fish.
‘How could anyone call this a shrine?’ Con was breathing through her sleeve. ‘It stinks.’
‘Whoa,’ said Patch, training his torch inside. ‘Tripwire there. See it?’
Jonah jostled with Motti to see. A gleaming thread of silver was pulled taut across a narrow access corridor.
‘Probably gas,’ Motti noted. ‘Wouldn’t want an explosion in here in case his collection went up in smoke.’
‘So do we just step over the wire?’ Jonah asked. ‘Keep our eyes peeled?’
‘That would make sense. Too much sense.’ Motti pulled a pair of weird-looking goggles with crimson lenses from inside his jacket and wore them carefully over his spectacles. ‘Uh-huh. We got us some infrared tripwires here too. You can bet the silver wire’s just a dummy to get us to step over it and wade right through the real thing.’
He took off the goggles and offered them to Jonah. He could see a crazy criss-cross of red light beams stretching beyond the tripwire.
‘If any one beam’s interrupted for more than a second,’ said Motti, ‘game over.’
‘How do we get past them?’ said Con tersely.
‘Defeat the trigger mechanism.’ Motti
snatched Patch’s torch and played the beam on a black box with a dull metal capsule wired on top. A cable connected the box to a computer keyboard with built-in LCD, just inside the doorway at ankle height. ‘Being controlled from this thing. Know the type, geek?’
Jonah pulled off the goggles, squeezed into the narrow space and checked out the screen in the torchlight. His nerves were too frayed already to feel any extra apprehension. ‘Password override will be in Filipino,’ he muttered. ‘But if I can hack into the clock mechanism and freeze it, we’ll have the world’s longest second. Then we can trip the beams as much as we like and the processor won’t register a thing …’
Con smiled. ‘Amazing how something so clever can be so dumb.’
‘Don’t talk about the geek like that,’ Motti mock-chided.
Jonah concentrated. It didn’t take long to hack in, isolate the code and disable it. ‘OK, fingers crossed we’re clear.’
Motti pulled his baton from his belt and warily waved it into the invisible beams. Nothing happened.
‘Mate, you’re a genius,’ said Patch, as Jonah led the way through the access tunnel to the next door. There was seemingly nothing attached – no clever locks, no scanners. Nothing. Only a sign which Jonah couldn’t read, except the number ‘one’.
‘This is the right cargo hold,’ Con breathed.
‘Motti?’ Jonah called back down the corridor. ‘What’s keeping you?’
The torch beam showed him crouching beside the disabled computer, holding still. ‘It’s OK, I just …’ Motti straightened up. ‘Thought I heard something up above.’
‘Let’s get going,’ said Con. ‘At least we don’t have to get out the same way.’
Patch tapped his eye patch. ‘Not when I can give you the best bang of your life,’ he joked nervously.
Motti stalked towards them. ‘OK, open it up, Patch.’
Patch cautiously tried the handle. The door opened outwards a little. ‘It ain’t even locked. They must never have thought anyone would get this far.’
‘Or there’s a trap the other side,’ Motti reasoned. ‘Stand clear.’
