by Tony Park
‘I know I’m away from home on business a hell of a lot, but I do try to be a good husband and father,’ George had said, looking back out to the channel.
He was a handsome man whose tan and callused hands attested to the fact he didn’t spend more time than necessary in his London office. His broad shoulders sometimes looked constrained in a suit, but out on his yacht in an old T-shirt he looked free and cool, in his true element.
‘Elizabeth and I have grown apart, as the Americans would say.’
She’d smiled at his awkwardness.
‘It’s been . . . well, rather too long since . . . Oh, bugger, this is what my kids would call TMI. I’m so sorry, Jane. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
‘It’s fine, George. I like to think we’re friends, and you can talk to me about anything. Really.’
He’d laid a hand on her forearm – the first time she could recall him touching her – and it had sent a ripple of electricity throughout her entire body. She’d had to catch her breath.
‘God, now I suppose you expect me to say my wife doesn’t understand me. I feel like a walking bloody cliché.’
‘Does she?’ Jane had asked.
‘No.’
They’d had dinner ashore at a brasserie George had frequented often enough to be greeted warmly by the maître d’. Afterwards, in a boutique hotel he’d booked for the evening, Jane again found herself alone with her boss, over coffee and Cointreau. There were even candles.
‘I know it’s wrong, but I’m attracted to you, Jane.’
She’d had a moment of panic. She, too, was drawn to him, though she had never in her life been with a married or otherwise attached man. She told herself she was not the kind of woman who’d try to take another’s man, though she’d never actually found herself in such a situation. She thought of Elizabeth and the children, and said, ‘I’m so sorry, George.’
‘Forgive me,’ he’d blurted out.
‘No, no. I’m flattered, believe me, and I do like you, George. I really do. And I’m not just saying that because you pay me an inordinate amount of money.’
He’d laughed it off, but she’d had the distinct feeling he would try to woo her again. She was right. Two weeks ago after sharing two bottles of wine at a posh restaurant, she’d gone with him to the empty company flat in Soho and they had made love.
She pushed thoughts of George from her mind for the moment. There would be plenty of time to think about him on the long voyage to Africa.
The normal route from the UK to Cape Town would have taken the Penfold Son down the west coast of Africa, but there was nothing normal about this voyage. George had his sights set on acquisitions in Africa and north Asia. The Penfold Son would be taking a slow trip, through the Suez Canal, across to Mumbai and then back to Africa, stopping at Mombasa, Durban, Port Elizabeth and, finally, Cape Town. The costly voyage was as much about public relations as it was about trade. ‘Britannia used to rule the waves,’ George had told The Times recently, ‘but in the twenty-first century it’s going to be Penfold in charge.’ George wanted to show off his new ship and let his competitors know that he was a major player with money to spend.
Jane wasn’t sailing away to forget George, so much as put some distance between them while she thought through a lot of things.
There was also a business reason for her travel to South Africa. Penfold Shipping had begun negotiations to purchase a South African company, De Witt Shipping, and Jane would play a key role in the talks. A round of intensive meetings was planned for the end of the month and George and other members of the senior executive team would be flying out to Johannesburg. Jane, of course, would rather jump out the window of her twenty-third floor London office than be stuck on an aircraft for nine hours.
The cruise on the Penfold Son – which had been named after George by the old man – would arrive in Cape Town three days before the meetings were due to begin. Jane would then catch a luxury train, the Pride of Africa, from the Cape to Johannesburg.
She’d come to an arrangement with George about taking so much time out of the office. She would, in fact, be in contact with her colleagues and boss by satellite phone and email while on board. She unpacked her laptop and booted it up. Her BlackBerry beeped in her handbag, reminding her she was still very much on the job, but it would soon lose its signal. As a goodwill gesture she had offered to take two weeks’ leave as well, but George had refused.
‘It’s high time you got a look at the sharp end of this business. Call it an extended familiarisation trip. Besides, you’re saving me the cost of a business class airfare by taking a slow ship to South Africa,’ he’d said.
There would be time to relax, though. Plenty of time, in fact. She unpacked a dozen chunky paperbacks and stacked them on the shelf next to the bed. She opened her handbag and checked the BlackBerry.
Hi. Hope you’ve settled in and Igor hasn’t offended you too much. They’re a good bunch and you’ll get used to washing dishes and swabbing the decks soon enough. George. x
The kiss at the end of the message struck her as slightly improper, even in such a relaxed, abbreviated form of work communication.
Improper, but exciting. Just like George.
Indian Ocean, off the coast of South Africa
‘Two targets, six miles ahead,’ Hans, the first mate, said.
Captain Are Berentsen put down his cup of coffee and shifted his position on the bridge of the MV Oslo Star so he could see the radar screen. ‘No AIS,’ he said – neither boat displayed the Automatic Identification System code that any vessel of substance would display. That wasn’t unusual, though, in African waters, where the transponder was a luxury not everyone could afford. ‘Fishermen, I suppose.’
It was the mate’s watch and Are had come to the bridge to drink his coffee with his old friend, and to find an excuse to get away from the computer and the paperwork that was sadly so much a part of a master’s job these days. A lookout, a Filipino able seaman, stood at the far end of the bridge.
Berentsen picked up a pair of binoculars himself and scanned the horizon. Beneath his feet the twenty-one thousand tonne deadweight Pure Car and Truck Carrier, or PCTC as it was known, was packed with row after row of new motor vehicles, tractors and earth-moving equipment. The fifteen-deck floating car park’s last stop had been Port Elizabeth, where she’d taken on scores of South African-manufactured Hummer H3 luxury four-wheel drives bound for Australia. They’d take on some more cars from the Toyota plant at Durban and disgorge half-a-dozen mining trucks before the long haul across the Southern Ocean through mighty swells spawned in the empty expanses between the Antarctic and Africa.
‘They’re not moving.’ Are lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. They were close to shore, less than three nautical miles, hugging the coast in order to stay out of the Agulhas current. No, it wasn’t unusual to come across a couple of trawlers here. So why was the hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickling to life?
‘Captain, I see them.’ Hans pointed to the tiny specks.
Berentsen refocused his own glasses and saw two fishing trawlers, line astern and close to each other. A streak of smoke scratched a path from the lead boat across the otherwise perfectly empty blue sky. ‘Orange flare. Try to raise him on the radio.’
The mate repeated the Oslo Star’s call sign three times into the radio handset and asked the trawlers to identify themselves. There was no reply. He picked up his binoculars again. ‘He is flying N over C, Captain.’ The flags – and the orange flare – were internationally recognised distress signals.
Berentsen swore to himself. Any delay in their tight schedule meant money, but he was obliged to render assistance to any vessel at sea that needed it.
‘Turn into the weather, starboard five, dead slow ahead,’ Berentsen said.
‘Turn into weather, starboard five, dead slow ahead,’ Hans repeated, signalling he had understood the order to use engines and the onshore breeze to starboard to slow them down. Had they s
imply stopped the ship’s single engine, it would have taken more than two kilometres to stop the Oslo Star, which had been travelling at close to twenty knots. By turning away from the stricken fishing vessels Are was using the elements to reduce his speed.
Having dropped to just six knots, Are gave the order for the mate to turn to port, back towards the fishermen. He blinked away the glare and refocused the glasses as they neared the two fishing boats. They were both sizeable trawlers, he noted. It was a sad coincidence that both vessels’ diesels had given up.
‘Stop engine,’ Are said.
‘Stop engine,’ Hans said. ‘Captain, should I ready the rescue boat?’
Are rubbed his red-gold beard. Through the binoculars he could now see a white man on the lead boat waving frantically. He saw, too, the flash of sunlight on water and steel as a cable between the tow boats was pulled taut. Some instinct from generations of ancestors who had sailed the open seas since Viking days made him hesitate. ‘Radio MRCC. We’ll stand off.’
The Maritime Rescue Co-ordination Centre at Silvermine near Cape Town in South Africa was responsible for organising assistance for vessels in trouble. If the fishermen had been able to send a signal before losing radio communications there could be a rescue vessel already on its way. If not, then the MRCC might task the Oslo Star, as the closest vessel, to render assistance.
‘Smoke, sir. The rear boat’s on fire!’
Are couldn’t ignore the greasy black plume erupting from the towed boat’s engine compartment. He focused on the trawler and saw the lick of orange flames. No mariner would be stupid enough to set fire to his own vessel as a ruse. ‘Hans, sound a general alarm. Ready the rescue boat and fire hoses.’
The mate gave the orders while Are kept watch as the Oslo Star closed slowly on the stricken trawlers. He lost sight of the trawlers as smoke engulfed them.
It took his brain a few precious seconds to realise something was very wrong.
‘Boat’s ready to launch, Captain. Lowering now,’ Hans said, having just been talking on the radio to rescue crew in the forward mooring station, where the craft was stowed.
‘They’re moving!’
‘Captain?’
Are swung to check out the lead boat again and noted a cable rising from the ocean’s surface between the two craft. ‘That bloody fire’s a fake. It hid the exhaust smoke from the lead trawler. He’s moving and the fool’s heading straight across our bow.’ He pushed the button to sound the ship’s alarm and let the glasses drop so they hung from their neck strap.
‘Engine full astern.’
‘Engine full astern,’ Hans replied.
Are didn’t like this. The car carrier was as manoeuvrable as an elephant in quicksand and she couldn’t take evasive action to avoid the other vessels. He punched the typhoon air horn button on the console in front of him and sent out five short blasts, signalling he couldn’t understand their actions.
‘Retrieve the rescue boat,’ Are said.
Hans looked at him. ‘Captain?’
‘Just do as I bloody say. Get that boat back.’
Are sounded five more blasts on the horn. The tow cable flickered in and out of sight between the two fishing vessels, which were set on a course to intercept them.
Something clicked in Berentsen’s mind. ‘Engine full ahead.’ He pushed the general alarm signal and klaxons started blaring throughout the ship.
The mate’s face had turned ashen. ‘Captain, if we keep on this course we’ll ram them.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Hans. Faster . . .’ Putting the engine astern had all but stopped the ship. They were moving forward again, but painfully slowly.
The fishing boats chugged on. The lead vessel increased its speed slightly, until the tow cable was raised taut between it and the smoking boat behind. Are assumed they were in radio contact. He switched channels to try to pick up their private conversation.
‘. . . ease off. Now make fifteen knots. That’s it. Hold it.’
‘Got you,’ Berentsen said.
‘Cut your engines in five, four, three, two . . .’
Are looked away from the radio’s speaker, which had mesmerised him for a second. Surely this couldn’t be happening to him.
‘Idiots. They’re stopping in front of us, Captain. Why would they, now they have power? Don’t they know we’re going to hit them?’
‘That’s exactly what they want us to do. Get ready to go full astern as soon as I tell you . . .’
‘But Captain, why don’t we stop now, and –’
‘Shut up, damn you.’ Berentsen turned and strode towards the rear of the bridge.
Are clapped a hand on Hans’s shoulder in a gesture of apology. ‘Steady. Here it comes. Pray we have enough speed to cut that cable or pull them under on either side of us.’
The fishing boats held steady, using their throttles to keep in position across the path of the oncoming leviathan. The tow cable’s wet steel strands glittered and winked in the sunlight like a strand of dew-covered spider web.
Are Berentsen held his breath as the blunted, overhanging prow of his mighty ship obscured the cable from view. Even at this height, nearly forty metres above the water’s surface, he and his crew heard the agonising scrape of metal on metal. ‘Come on, my beauty,’ Berentsen willed his ship. For a moment the captain thought he had won.
The cable had snared the Oslo Star’s bulbous bow which jutted forward of the hull beneath the water and Berentsen had not been able to summon enough speed to snap the stout wire rope.
‘Captain, look,’ said the Filipino lookout who had been wise enough to stay silent so far. ‘That boat’s coming right towards our port side!’ There were several different nationalities in Berentsen’s crew but English was the common working language on board.
Berentsen knew very well what was happening without seeing for himself. Both smaller vessels would have cut their engines, allowing the onward progress of the mighty Oslo Star to draw them in against either side of her hull. Are tapped the keys of the Global Maritime Distress and Safety System on the control panel and scrolled down the menu on the small screen through a list of possible problems that a ship at sea could face. When he came to ‘piracy attack’ he selected it and hit the key that sent an emergency signal to the MRCC in Silvermine. He supposed help would come from Durban, but he had no idea how long it would take.
‘Engine stop, Hans. Astern full.’
Below them the engine protested the sudden commands, sending vibrations all the way up through the car decks to the bridge high above. ‘Where are you going, sir?’ Hans said to his captain’s back.
‘To get a weapon.’
‘But why, sir? Who are these people?’
‘Pirates.’
2
Alex Tremain was more than ready for the collision of hull on hull and he rode the rocking deck of the lead trawler with practised ease.
He buckled his custom-made ammunition vest, drew the nine-millimetre Heckler and Koch pistol from the black nylon holster low on his right thigh and cocked it. He tightened the sling of his Austrian-designed Steyr carbine so that it hung, barrel down, snug in the small of his back. A stun grenade was clipped to a webbing strap by his heart, and another, containing CS tear gas, hung from his belt.
Three other men, similarly dressed – their identities disguised by black rubber gasmasks – waited beside him on the deck. The shortest of the trio, Henri, held an Assault Launch Max line launcher at the ready. The ALM resembled a futuristic rifle with a folding shoulder stock, but instead of firing bullets it was capable of sending a rubber-coated titanium grappling hook attached to a sturdy nylon line forty metres straight up into the air.
The side of the massive boxlike ship loomed above them like a sheer white cliff. Alex spoke into the microphone built into his mask. ‘All call signs, standby, standby . . . fire!’
At his command the grappling hook left the launcher with a whoosh as four and a half thousand pounds per square i
nch of compressed air was released. The folded nylon climbing rope hissed as it left the plastic container beneath the barrel of the launcher. The hook arced over the PCTC’s hand rail.
From the other side of the ship Alex heard the sound of gunfire. His men on the trailing fishing boat would be firing carefully aimed shots designed to miss the seamen operating the fire hoses on the top of the car carrier but scare them and any other foolhardy onlookers back inside their accommodation on deck thirteen.
Alex’s earpiece crackled. ‘Mine missed, boss. Loading second now,’ Mark Novak reported from the other boat, on the far side of the target ship. No system was foolproof in battle, which was why they had spare grappling hooks, ropes and cylinders of compressed air. Novak, a burly South African former Recce Commando, was simply following the drill.
Henri tugged hard on the nylon line. ‘Secure.’
‘Go!’ Alex called into the microphone.
He led the way, as always. The fact that Novak’s crew would be a few seconds later meant that he would be first on board the Oslo Star. Adrenaline charged his body like no other drug on earth as he climbed, hand over hand, the line snaking between his boots so that he could use his feet to propel his body upwards faster. Henri picked up a spare ALM and launched a second line.
‘Just once I want to do this with a knife between my teeth.’ Mitch, the pushy American, always had to say something.
Alex ignored the bump and rasp of steel against his gloved knuckles and looked up at the approaching summit. If the captain was smart he’d be in lockdown on the bridge, his men hiding behind secured hatches.
Alex felt the vibration of the car carrier’s engine and the giant ship slowly started to reverse. A glance below confirmed what he knew would be happening. The fishing boats were being gradually left behind as the Oslo Star freed itself of the steel snare which had entrapped it. Mitch was on the second line, climbing steadily, but if Alex couldn’t get on board quickly and secure and unfurl the nylon climbing ladder he carried in his backpack, then he and Mitch would be left dangling, exposed and alone.
