‘Stellar!’ he grinned. ‘Then you can show me later, Lightning Ling.’
Ling sat up. ‘How do you know my nickname?’
Brad tapped his nose confidentially with his index finger. ‘I do my research. Now finish your brekkie and follow me.’
Leading them up to the sun deck, he stood by the gleaming rail and with a wide sweep of his arm gestured at the almost 360-degree outlook. Connor was once again struck by the majestic beauty of the island: all lush forested slopes, coconut palms and colourful tropical birds, their gleeful chatter filling the scented air. And, judging by the number of other yachts and sailboats moored in the harbour, this slice of Eden attracted the super-rich like bees to a honeypot.
‘Vigilance is the key to protection on board a boat,’ Brad explained. ‘A constant watch is needed, both at sea and in anchorage. Don’t rely on the crew to do any security detail; they’re fully engaged in their normal crew duties.’
Leaning against the rail, he pointed down at one of the deckhands, a lanky South African called Jordan, who was mopping the main deck while listening to music on his headphones.
‘When in safe harbour, the crew are generally relaxed and unobservant, but we can’t afford to be.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of a rubber dinghy buzzing by. ‘Small craft like that tender are scooting round all the time, so the approach of a suspect boat can go unnoticed. In a popular harbour like this, anyone with criminal intent has lots of useful cover, and it’s even harder to spot them at night. That’s why gangplanks should be raised whenever possible.’
He glanced down at the Orchid’s lowered gangway and clicked his tongue in irritation.
‘In practical terms, the need for shore access means this only happens late at night. The problem is that harbour areas attract thieves and other low life. So suspect anyone approaching our yacht, even officials in uniform. Don’t be afraid to question them. Deception is a common tactic of the criminal. I’ve known ruses from people masquerading as pier-side pizza delivery boys, to parading a pretty girl in a bikini as a distraction. Not that I’ve fallen for that one, of course.’
He shot Connor a sly wink, then beckoned them both to follow him back down the stairs and along a short corridor. Brad knocked on an open bulkhead door.
‘Request permission to come on the bridge, Captain.’
‘Request granted,’ replied Captain Locke.
As they entered, Captain Locke nodded a brief greeting in their direction, then returned to the ship’s systems check with Chief Officer Fielding.
The bridge wasn’t anything like Connor had envisioned. Gone were the traditional wooden wheel for the helmsman, the brass compass tower and table overspilling with paper charts. Instead, this super-yacht’s bridge was decked out with computer monitors, dynamic positioning systems, integrated communication units, electronic radar displays, and a sports car-style steering wheel and throttle, complete with leather-upholstered captain’s chair.
‘It’s like the Starship Enterprise,’ remarked Connor.
The chief officer grunted a laugh. ‘That’s why you need a master’s degree in computing just to pilot her.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Ling as she stared perplexed at a screen of concentric circles, bearings and electronic waves and blips.
‘That’s the radar display,’ explained Brad. ‘Later I’ll take you through the basics on how to read it, but the radar’s main function is to detect land or other vessels. From a security point of view, it’s the vessels we’re interested in. If tuned correctly, the radar can give us early warning of a possible attack. See that blip there.’ Brad indicated a green dot, then pointed out of the window. ‘It’s that fishing boat coming into harbour.’
Connor and Ling looked out to sea and spotted the trawler approaching. Another smaller dinghy with an outboard was crossing its path.
‘Where’s that boat on the radar?’ asked Connor, checking the display.
‘Ah, that’s the problem with radar. It has limitations,’ replied Brad. ‘Small craft like that are often missed or appear as haphazard blips. If the sea is choppy, then this degrades the radar’s operation further. And if the pilot of the boat steers in a zigzag pattern they become even more difficult to detect. On top of all that, you’ve got the radar’s infamous blind spot directly to the stern of this yacht. For those reasons, when at sea, there must be someone on watch 24/7.’
Brad looked at them both. ‘Remember, when it comes to detecting a threat at sea –’ he pulled at his lower eyelid with a fingertip – ‘the Mark One eyeball is always the best defence.’
The Orchid’s tender, a seven-metre luxury launch with 260-horsepower stern drive, powered across the bay leaving a foaming wake in its trail. As Ling opened up the throttle, the wind whipped through Connor’s tousled brown hair and he had to grip the armrest for balance.
‘Steady as she goes,’ said Brad, keeping a careful watch for other craft in their vicinity. ‘She’s not a racing car.’
But, judging by the grin plastered across Ling’s face, she clearly thought it was. Connor had already received full instruction on how to start, steer and dock the tender. Now it was Ling’s turn to get some practice. As she swung the boat round for another run, she hit an unexpected wave and Connor was bounced out of his seat so hard that he tumbled over the side.
‘MAN OVERBOARD!’ Brad shouted as Connor hit the water, skipped once across its surface, then plunged beneath.
The sea, warm as it was, still shocked Connor’s system and the rushing thunder of water in his ears and eyes momentarily disorientated him. Brad had warned them both that any man-overboard situation was potentially fatal. Drowning, exposure, hypothermia and impact injury were all very real risks, especially if the person wasn’t wearing a life jacket. Fortunately, Connor was and he rapidly floated back to the surface. By the time his head cleared the water, Ling had cut back on the throttle and was starting to make a controlled turn towards him.
As the tender approached, Ling tried to keep a fix on his location. He’d already drifted further out to sea with the current and it would be easy to lose sight of a head bobbing in the water, even in a little swell.
‘Slow down,’ Brad warned Ling. ‘You’re approaching too fast.’
Ling cut back on the throttle but it was too little too late.
‘Careful!’ said Brad. ‘You’re going to run over him.’
Ling tried to correct the tender’s direction, but without enough power the rudder responded too slowly. The fibreglass hull cut through the water on a direct collision course with Connor’s head.
‘Go astern,’ Brad ordered as Connor, unable to dive due to the life jacket, held up his arms to shield himself.
‘Astern? What’s astern?’ cried Ling, her voice rising in pitch as the tender ploughed towards Connor.
‘Reverse!’
Connor could no longer see what was happening, but he heard a crunch of gears. When it came to piloting a boat, Ling was clearly more adept at speed than steering. The tender’s engine roared and the hull stopped within a fraction of Connor’s head.
‘Switch off the engine,’ shouted Brad, ‘before the propellor chops him to sushi.’
He leant over the bow rail and offered Connor a broad grin. ‘That was a close shave in more ways than one, wasn’t it?’
By the time Ling appeared to help pull him aboard, the boat had drifted and Connor was once again beyond reach.
‘You’ll have to make another pass,’ said Brad.
Ling let out an exasperated sigh. She returned to the helm, started the engine and put it into reverse.
‘No,’ said Brad. ‘If you go astern, you’re in danger of butchering him.’
‘Why can’t he just swim to us?’ said Ling, her jaw set with frustration.
There was another crunch of gears. Brad raised his eyes to heaven and Ling caught him in the act.
‘Don’t you dare say anything about lady drivers,’ she muttered, hammering at the gears.
�
��Heaven forbid!’ replied Brad with his most guileless expression. ‘You girls are capable of running over just about anything. That takes some skill.’
After three further attempts, Ling finally managed to pull alongside Connor and safely haul him aboard single-handedly.
‘Well, we got there in the end,’ said Brad, patting a seething Ling on the shoulder. ‘But I think we need a bit more practice at the man-overboard drill, don’t you?’
He raised an eyebrow at Connor, who stood dripping wet on the deck.
‘Are you willing to throw yourself over for another drill?’
‘Sure,’ said Connor. ‘But only if Ling promises not to try to run me over again.’
Ling narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Well, hotshot, perhaps next time I’ll leave you to the sharks!’
‘Pirates always hold the high cards,’ explained Brad, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table in the sky lounge. ‘As the hunter, theirs is the choice of time and place. And, of course, they know that a yacht like this is virtually defenceless.’
‘But what about NATO’s counter-piracy operation?’ asked Connor.
‘Yeah,’ said Ling, through a mouthful of tuna salad. ‘They’ve got warships that can protect us.’
Brad laughed, a deep booming sound as loud as a foghorn. ‘That naval task force is pretty much useless! It’s not their fault, mind. With just one small fleet in an ocean this size, it’s like a single police car trying to patrol the whole of France. An impossible task. Therefore, at sea we’re on our own. And we must be prepared to defend ourselves.’
The week of intensive MARSEC training had flown by. The two of them were now proficient in reading radar, interpreting charts and using the yacht’s comms equipment. Brad had also shown them how to tackle on-board fires, deploy a life raft, fire a flare gun, and what the emergency procedure was for abandoning ship. Now, over lunch, their mentor was briefing them on the ship’s security plan in the event of a pirate attack.
‘Our defence strategy is to Detect, Deter, Destroy,’ he said, thumping the table top to emphasize each stage. ‘As you already know, the key to thwarting pirates is to detect any possible attack before they can get alongside and board us. Once they know they’ve been spotted, they lose their element of surprise. From my experience, many will back off to wait for a less observant crew to sail past. So, to help us with that, we’ll use the radar, binoculars, night-vision goggles and a twenty-four-hour watch shift.’
‘Will we be on lookout duty?’ asked Connor.
Brad shook his head. ‘No, the crew might question your involvement. Between myself, the chief officer, Mr Sterling’s bodyguard and one of the deckhands, we’ll cover that. But both of you still need to keep a sharp lookout. The more eyeballs, the better.’
Brad took a sip of iced water and a chunk of sandwich.
‘If we do run into pirates, our next step is to deter them,’ he continued, wiping his mouth with a serviette. ‘On a commercial ship, we would use razor wire, electrified fencing and water hoses. But I don’t think Mr Sterling would appreciate his fifty-million-dollar holiday yacht being turned into a battleship.’ Brad raised his eyebrows at his own suggestion. ‘So initially we’ll have to rely on Captain Locke outrunning them and performing evasive manoeuvres. Meanwhile, we’ll try to attract attention with distress flares, searchlights, sirens and of course the radio.’
Ling set aside her empty plate. ‘I hate to say this, but we’ve seen a video clip of a pirate attack. Their skiffs are pretty fast. And they have rocket launchers. I don’t think a few flares and a bit of fancy sailing is going to dissuade them.’
‘Fair point,’ admitted Brad. ‘But most pirates prefer an easy target, so such a strategy can and often does work. Although you’re right, some can be more determined. If that’s the case, then we destroy them.’
‘So what weapons do we have?’ Ling asked eagerly.
Brad offered an awkward smile. ‘That’s a tricky issue. At sea, international law allows merchantmen to possess and use firearms for self-defence. But in most ports it’s illegal to carry guns. So it’s a bit of a catch-22 situation.’
‘Then what are we going to use?’ asked Connor.
Brad raised his hands, palms up. ‘Pretty much anything goes. Although the Orchid is his pride and joy, I’ll persuade the captain to ram the pirates. That’ll be our most effective tactic. But it carries its own hazards, including damaging the screws and even holing the hull itself. So we’ll also toss storage nets over the side to foul their outboard motors, and use the foam fire extinguishers to make the most accessible decks and stairways slippery. And, of course, fire flares directly at their skiffs.’
He finished off his sandwich and put aside his plate.
‘Once, I was on a ship where pirates managed to attach a grappling hook to the side. We threw a fridge full of Coca-Cola into their skiff!’ Brad laughed at the recollection. ‘Their skiff took in so much water they had to cut loose.’
He waved a hand around the yacht.
‘The prime objective is to stop the pirates boarding the Orchid. Think of the hull and gunwales of this boat as castle walls. As long as they’re not breached and the pirates don’t reach the main deck, we’re in a strong position.’
Connor glanced down at the stern to where the tender garage was. The bay doors were open and he could see the ship’s engineer, a silver-bearded man by the name of Geoff, overseeing the delivery of a brand-new pair of jet skis. The tender garage was the lowest point of the yacht and appeared very vulnerable to Connor.
‘What if the pirates do get aboard?’ he asked.
‘Then our last resort is the citadel,’ replied Brad.
Connor and Ling both gave him a perplexed look.
‘Safe room,’ he clarified, pushing back his chair and beckoning them to follow him. They headed down the staircase to the main deck and through the galley before stopping beside a large bulkhead door.
‘This leads to the crew’s quarters and is our designated citadel,’ explained Brad. He slapped the door with the palm of his hand. ‘This bulkhead can be double-locked from the inside. It’s made of steel so it’s bulletproof. And down below we’ve got all we need to survive for several days – food, water, sanitation and, most importantly, communications equipment. If we’re attacked, your first priority is to ensure the girls are inside the citadel. Then, God forbid, if the pirates do breach our defences, along with the rest of the crew, we join them.’
‘But won’t we be trapped?’ said Ling.
Brad nodded emphatically. ‘That’s the point. Trapped and safe. Once we’re all inside the citadel, military forces can storm the ship with minimum risk to our lives. However, the citadel is only effective if everyone makes it inside.’
‘What a cheery conversation!’ said a blonde-haired young woman, emerging from the crew’s quarters.
‘Hi, Soph.’ Brad grinned, offering his most charming smile. ‘I was just explaining the emergency procedures to Mr Sterling’s guests.’
Sophie, a young English stewardess from Southampton, gave Connor and Ling a sympathetic look. ‘Don’t let him freak you out,’ she remarked. ‘Brad can be a little anxious before a sailing.’
‘Only because I want to keep everyone safe, including you, sweets.’
Sophie arched an eyebrow at Brad, the corner of her mouth curling into a coquettish smile, before strolling off down the corridor. Brad’s eyes followed her a moment. Then he snapped back to the matter in hand.
‘Well, that just about wraps up your training,’ he said, clapping his palms together and rubbing them. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy. Take the afternoon off.’
‘Thanks,’ Connor replied, a little stunned by the sudden grant of leave.
‘About time,’ muttered Ling under her breath.
Brad was halfway down the corridor before he turned back to them.
‘Soph’s right, though. I do get a bit edgy before a trip. But failure to prepare is preparing to fail. An
d our “security lifeboat”, so to speak, needs to be watertight before sailing.’
An elderly fisherman in a battered wooden skiff tossed a frayed net into the pale blue waters. Then he sat and waited. His cataract-clouded eyes drifted across the desolate coastline of chalk-streaked cliffs and bone-white sands until his blurred gaze reached the headland. It jutted out into the Indian Ocean like a skeletal finger. Behind his little fishing boat lay the rusting hulk of a long-abandoned cargo ship, hulled on a jagged rock. And beyond that on the horizon, like a mirage, were three more container ships. Not shipwrecked, he knew, but hijacked and held for ransom.
With slow, laborious effort, the fisherman pulled his net in, hand over hand, his ancient limbs protesting, until he was rewarded with … an empty net. He cursed the foreign trawlers who plundered all the fish from their waters without permission or conscience. Then he threw the net back into the sea and waited.
As the old man fished for nothing, six gleaming Toyota 4x4s raced across the desolate beach. Spitting sand from their tyres, they were weaving dangerously in between one another in a daredevil game of cat and mouse. One of the vehicles threatened to roll over, but miraculously righted itself at the last second. Another cut through the waves, sending up showers of spray. The 4x4s ground to a sudden halt beside a row of overturned skiffs on the shoreline.
Spearhead got out of the lead vehicle and started shouting orders to his men to unload. The band of pirates flung open their doors and began dragging out wooden boxes and plastic jerrycans. Out of the back of a trailer, several pirates struggled with the enormous weight of a massive outboard motor, the first of four brand-new engines.
Stumbling across the burning sand, the skinny young pirate with the buck teeth dropped one of the boxes and an assault rifle tumbled out, still in its protective packaging.
‘Cool!’ he said, kneeling down to retrieve the rifle. ‘Oracle has got us new weapons.’
‘Move aside, Bucktooth, before you get hurt,’ said the pirate with sticking-out ears. Barging the lad with his elbow, he picked up the rifle, slipped it from its protective wrapper and admired the well-oiled weapon. ‘AK47. Chinese manufactured. Very reliable.’
Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) Page 10
