by Chris Ryan
'Steady her,' he muttered to Reid.
They were approaching the tail-end of the wake, five hundred metres from the boat. 'There's someone there,' muttered Ivan from the front of the boat.
Matt looked up towards the target. There was the faint trace of a green object towards the stern. He steadied his head, letting the goggles get a lock on to the object – a round, green blob with things that looked like arms. No question – it was a lookout. The man was pacing up and down, and, as they got closer, Matt could see that he was smoking.
Stupid. He should know that night-vision goggles work on heat. You might as well wave a placard above your head saying COME AND SHOOT ME.
'Wait till we're down to fifty feet,' Matt muttered. 'Cooksley . . .'
The plan was that they'd fire simultaneously. Matt picked up the Bushmaster rifle and held it tightly in his right hand. 'Move her up,' he muttered.
Now they were positioned right in the centre of the wake: the turbulence of the water would smother the noise as effectively as the silencer on a pistol. The prow of the dinghy jumped up as the engine roared forwards, the thick white water of the wake breaking over the top. Matt could feel the waves bouncing off the surface of his wetsuit but clinging to his hair and face. The glass of his goggles was constantly soaked, and he had to keep wiping them. They were within three hundred metres. 'Forwards,' he muttered to Reid.
He looked again to the surface of the ship. The green blob was pacing back and forth, the cigarette still dangling from its lips. Ahead, Cooksley was holding his rod, gripping it firmly between his fists. Ivan was at his side, both hands gripping the sides of the dinghy, his body swaying as the vessel rolled through the waves and the swell.
Two hundred metres. They're so close I can practically smell them.
Matt knelt forwards, struggling to find the perfect balance as the boat rocked through the wake. He took his goggles off, letting them hang freely around his neck. His forearms rested on the sides of the dinghy, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder, putting his eye to the kite-sight. Two yards ahead he could see Cooksley doing the same. He trained the sights on to the green blob, aiming precisely two inches above the cigarette. That, he calculated, should lodge the bullet directly into the man's brain.
He looked towards Cooksley. 'Now,' he muttered. If they both shot at the same time there was a greater chance of hitting the target, and no extra risk of alerting the rest of the crew.
Matt squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked back against his shoulder as the bullet flashed through the night sky. A wave hit the dinghy, and Matt struggled to stay upright. He kept his eyes locked on to the stern of the target. The blob was down – but whether he was dead or just wounded Matt had no way of knowing.
Piss off to meet Allah, you bastard.
Matt could hear the roar of the propellers as they drew closer: two massive blades of steel, cutting through the water. Another hundred metres to go. The smell of diesel and oil caught on the wind, filling Matt's lungs.
Reid turned the dinghy left then right, steering through the narrow channel of water dead in the centre of the wake. On either side of them, banks of white water were starting to rise, reaching six or seven feet into the sky. The water poured down on them, covering Matt's face in spray. 'Keep her steady,' he muttered.
The stern was looming above them now. It rose twenty feet, a solid wall of black steel, its surface pitted with rust. The tips of the prop blades could just be seen slicing through the churning surface of the water. They were twenty metres away. Matt could feel the engine starting to drag them towards it, the dinghy gliding across the surface of the water as if it were being sucked up by a vacuum. 'Turn it around,' he said.
Reid spun the engine into reverse. At this point in the approach, the suction from the ship's engine was enough to drag them forward: they needed the outboard to stop them moving too quickly towards it. If they collided with the propellers it would slice up the boat.
'Got it,' Reid said, looking back at Matt.
The dinghy was moving more steadily towards the stern now – forty, thirty, then twenty feet. Cooksley stood up, Ivan gripping him at the sides, and slung the hook forwards. It clanked against the metal of the stern, bounced, and started falling backwards.
Christ, man, don't drop it.
Cooksley gripped tighter to the pole, slinging it forwards again. This time the hook settled into the stern, the metal catching on metal. Cooksley tugged once. It was secure.
Ivan grabbed a thin aluminium caving ladder, holding it steady as Cooksley used the hook to pull them closer to the ship. Ivan slipped the ladder on to the stern, holding it steady, a ramp between the dinghy and the boat. 'She's ready,' he said.
Matt moved swiftly forwards. His feet bounced off the surface of the dinghy, his hands gripping on to the sides of the ladder. He steadied his balance, then yanked himself forwards.
The first man over the top faces maximum danger. That's my job.
He started hauling himself upwards. Three rungs up, a wave crashed over the side of his body. The force of the water knocked him sideways, his left hand breaking free from the ladder. His left foot was bashed out, leaving all the weight on his right foot, and a bolt of pain ran up to his knee. He could feel himself starting to be washed down towards the propeller. His right hand gripped tighter to the ladder, desperately hanging on. The salt of the water was stinging his eyes. When he managed to get himself squarely back on to the ladder he moved swiftly up five more rungs. Christ, he thought. That was close.
Using his forearms he pulled himself up on to the deck, then crouched down low, ripping the Bushmaster from his back. He held the gun to his eyes, looking out over the deck. For forty feet it was empty metal, with two cranes at the side and a lifeboat. To his right he could see a body lying crumpled on the deck, a pool of blood seeping out of the hole in the head just above the ear, and a cigarette still smouldering at its side. Matt glanced back down to the men behind, giving them the thumbs-up sign. Reid was already on the ladder pulling himself upwards.
Ahead, Matt could see the back bridge. One light was illuminating the deck, and he could hear the tinny sound of radio music being carried on the wind.
Behind him, Reid landed on the deck, then Cooksley, then Ivan. Matt checked the dinghy was secured to the stern with a rope. All four men then lay flat on the cold, wet metal: blacked-up, out of sight of the bridge.
'There's two up there, I reckon,' Matt whispered. 'Move up to twenty feet, then we'll drop them.'
Matt rose slowly and started walking stealthily across the deck, holding his breath, taking care not to make a sound on the metal surface. Right now, surprise was the best weapon. A single sound and they would lose it. Reid walked two paces behind him, ready to give him covering fire if any shooting started.
When they were twenty paces from the bridge, Ivan and Cooksley moved up ahead to attack from the front. Ivan was following standard operating procedures as if he'd been in the Regiment all his life.
No wonder those bastards were so hard to kill when we crossed the water.
Matt paused until they were in position, and watched as Cooksley glanced through the front windows of the bridge. Cooksley waved two fingers in the air, indicating that there were two targets on the bridge. Matt pointed to the ladder that linked the bridge to the main surface of the boat, then with Reid at his side walked up the metal stairs.
Matt stood by the metal door of the bridge and waited until Ivan and Cooksley were in position by the front windows of the bridge.
'Fire!' Matt barked, putting a thumb up.
Matt heard four shots firing in unison, the tracer fire lightening their faces. He watched as the man on the wheel spun round then collapsed, his body colliding with the deck. The sound echoed down the length of the boat. The second man reeled back on his heels, staggering towards the hold. He was clutching his shoulder, his face clenched in agony. Wounded, Matt judged – but not yet fatally.
'Forward!' he shouted. 'Let's get in
there.'
Matt sprinted the last few feet, Reid right behind him. He swung open the door and burst on to the bridge, running forwards, his rifle held out before him. Immediately a hail of bullets filled the tiny metal room. Matt could see the wounded man leaning down towards the hold, blood streaming down the side of his neck. His ear had been shot clean from his face. 'Hajaba!' he shouted. 'Hajaba!'
Matt didn't know much Arabic, but he knew that word.
The bastard is telling them to hide.
Cooksley and Ivan's initial burst of fire must have been deflected by the strengthened glass. That was the only way the men could have survived the initial attack. The man now held up a pistol. He tried to steady himself but blood was pouring from his ear, dripping over his eyes and obscuring his vision. One shot rang out as he fired. Matt heard the metal somewhere behind him cracking as the bullet hit it. Another shot. This time it seemed to have winged Reid, as his arm dropped in agony.
Matt levelled his Bushmaster to his eye, steadied his arm and pulled the trigger. The shot was true. The bullet exploded between the man's eyes, sending him reeling backwards, his mouth wide open and blood trickling down the side of his face.
Matt rushed forwards, put his rifle to the head of the first man, and fired a double-tap into his skull. He looked dead, but there was no point taking any chances.
'You OK?'
'Just grazed my arm,' said Reid.
'So the rest are in the hold,' said Matt.
They had no way of knowing for sure how many men were on board. MI5 had reckoned six, meaning there could be three below, but it could be more. A metal stairway led down from the bridge into the hold, but it was pitch black. Matt knelt down, level with the stairs, swivelling his eyes through the space. Even with the goggles, he could see nothing.
'Torch!' he shouted.
Reid collected a torch from his belt and shone it down the stairwell. A bullet broke through the silence, striking the wheel and ricocheting into the window of the bridge. It had flown through the three-yard opening to the stairwell, but it was impossible to tell exactly where in the hold it had come from, or who had fired it. The sheet of glass shattered into fragments, tumbling on to the floor. Matt ducked. If they were in the hold, and this was the only entrance, they were well dug in.
This could be a nasty fight.
Behind him, Ivan and Cooksley had entered the bridge. The boat was rocking from side to side as it steamed forwards with nobody at the wheel. 'See if you can shut this bloody thing down, Ivan,' Matt snapped. He looked towards Cooksley. 'See if there's another way down,' he said.
Cooksley ran down the length of the boat, inspecting the cranes, the lifeboat and the engine hatch. 'Just the engines,' he said, returning to the bridge. 'We can get down to that, but I don't know if it leads anywhere.'
Reid shook his head. 'Unlikely,' he said. 'The engine room is usually sealed off from the rest of the boat. Even if it's not, any man going down there will get fucked.'
'We got some stuff to blow away the bastards in the hold?' said Matt.
'We have Semtex,' said Ivan.
'Reckon you can make a small bomb that's not going to sink the ship?' said Matt.
Another bullet rattled out of the stairwell, followed by three more. All four men instinctively moved out of range. 'Give me two minutes,' answered Ivan.
Matt, Reid and Cooksley approached the edge of the stairwell, pointing their rifles down, loosening off a few rounds of ammunition: if there was anyone down there waiting for them, they needed to clear them out of the way. The sound of gunfire echoed through the hold. Matt could hear the metal bullets hitting metal walls and listened out for the familiar sound of bullet ripping into flesh, the cry of a wounded man. But he could hear nothing. This was useless, he decided. They were just shooting into thin air. The men down there had taken cover and were just waiting for them to come down the stairs.
Then they'll pick us off one by one.
It was almost two o'clock, Matt realised, glancing at his watch.
If we hang about, they'll radio someone for help. We need to get this finished off now.
Ivan returned holding a small round ball of Semtex wrapped up with black tape, no bigger than his fist. A detonator cap was fitted to it, with two long pieces of wire stretching out. 'This thing scares the crap out of me,' he said. 'So I hate to think what it will do to them.'
Despite himself, Matt smiled back. The wind was starting to pick up, and the waves were smashing into the side of the vessel.
Ivan motioned to Matt to stand well back. Reid and Cooksley followed, and the three men stood at the back of the bridge, moving out of range of the blast. Ivan joined the two wires together, then dropped the bomb down the length of the stairwell. He turned swiftly on his heels, running to the back of the bridge, and placed the wires on to the battery pack.
The explosion rocked through the vessel. Matt could feel its steel frame shuddering under the force, the bolts and rivets shaking loose. A pale cloud of smoke started to emerge from the hold.
'Nice fireworks,' said Cooksley.
'It's still early days,' said Ivan grimly.
'Let's get down there.' Matt stepped towards the hold. 'Reid, Cooksley, you cover me.'
He held the Bushmaster in his right hand, approaching the edge of the hold. He scanned the stairs, but could still see nothing. Cooksley and Reid stood behind him, their rifles raised to their shoulders ready to fire. Matt lowered his foot on to the first rung.
If one of them gets me, at least he'll go down in a hail of bullets.
He jumped the three feet on to the floor in one swift movement, his knees breaking the fall. The last two rungs had been mashed up by the explosion. He rolled over, using his goggles to scan the room. The smell of the explosion and of melting steel was thick in the air, and smoke still filled the room. He could make out a shape that looked like a man. Correct that, he told himself. Three shapes that each looked like a third of a man.
He walked on through the hold. About ten yards from the staircase lay the head of a man. A couple of yards away, his torso, and on the other side of the room his legs. Blood, guts and intestines had spewed from him, spilling out on to the metal floor.
'That's one,' said Reid suddenly, standing behind Matt. 'Where's the rest of the buggers?'
'Over there, I reckon,' said Matt.
The hold was narrow and dark. At the side there was a small kitchen area and a stock of food. A TV and DVD player was on a chest, but the screen was now blown out. At the back there were six bunk beds and a few travel bags.
'Seven beds,' said Ivan. 'I count four bodies – three upstairs including the lookout, and one down here. That means there are three men left.'
Matt moved further forwards. At the front of the hold there were two thick steel doors. The steel bolts on the outside were open, but the doors were firmly shut. 'They're in here,' he said. 'They've locked themselves into the walk-in safes – the gold and the diamonds will be in there as well.'
Ivan thumped his fist against the door. 'Christ, about eight to nine inches thick,' he said. 'Solid steel. Reinforced. That's not what we planned for.'
'I don't give a fuck what it's made of,' snapped Matt. 'Can you blow it or not?'
Ivan ran his hands across the door, his finger running over its steel skin as if he were giving it a massage. He paused, focusing on the joint where the open outside lock was. 'This is the weakest part,' he said. 'I reckon a strip of Semtex will create enough force to crack this thing open. But it could blow a hole in the hull.'
'What are the odds?' said Matt.
