Testament

by David Gibbins

  Jack huddled beside the outboard, checking his equipment with his spare hand, making sure the regulator hoses were wound around his neck to keep them from catching on anything, feeling for his holster. He remembered what had happened to Zaheed, the look on his face in those final moments, and what Ibrahim had told him about their adversaries ahead: that these were not fishermen forced into piracy but sadistic thugs from inland, murderers and torturers and rapists. He felt his adrenalin flow, his body tense. He would show them no mercy.

  22

  Twenty minutes later, Jack angled the Zodiac into the wake of the trawler, now no more than five hundred meters ahead. He could see a dim light from the deckhouse, but still no sign of movement. With the skiff having departed for the island full of men, it was impossible to know how many were left on the trawler, but he and Ahmed had guessed at least half a dozen, perhaps twice that. Ahmed extended the retractable stock on his MP5, pulled the cocking handle to check that a round was chambered, and held it slung over his shoulder, the silencer poking out above the pontoon. His job was to take out anyone who might happen to appear at the stern railing; the silencer would reduce the chances that the noise might alert any others. They had entered the critical phase of the operation, within gunshot range of the trawler. A single round from the pirates into the inflatable and it would be game over, with any hope of rescuing Costas instantly lost.

  They were closing in now, with less than two hundred meters to go. Jack concentrated on keeping within the slipstream of the wake, riding the wave that was angling out from the starboard quarter. A momentary lapse of attention and the Zodiac might be swept off the wake into the sea alongside, where it would be more visible; getting back into position would mean gunning the throttle, also attracting attention. As they followed the churning phosphorescence behind the trawler’s screw, Jack ran over what he would do once Ahmed had leaped aboard. He would need to make sure that the Zodiac was not pushed away, that he kept it against the hull so that he could attempt to get on board himself. With nobody to man the throttle to keep it in position, it was going to have to be a split-second leap, a matter of finding any handhold before the inflatable was taken by the waves and spun away out of control.

  In the pre-dawn glimmer, he could now see the condition of the trawler more clearly: the rusting hull, the derricks for dragnets at the stern, which had probably been unused for months, the deckhouse above the accommodation block. He had never encountered pirates before, but he had been thoroughly briefed by Ibrahim and Ahmed and he had some idea of what to expect. Hostages released after ransom had said that the Badass Boys were continuously high, making their behavior erratic, more dangerous. Jack was sure that he could smell the marijuana above the diesel fumes that were now enveloping them. It meant that the danger for Costas was multiplied, the risk that one of the pirates might decide on a whim to murder him, but it could also mean that his guards were less alert, easier to overwhelm. Jack’s role was to go below and search for him while Ahmed held off any opposition above. He checked the holster with the Beretta on his right side, making sure it was shut. He would know the nature of the opposition soon enough.

  They were less than fifty meters away now. One of the pirates suddenly appeared at the back rail, lurching, a Kalashnikov swinging from one hand, a joint in the other. Without hesitation, Ahmed snapped up the MP5 and fired a five-round burst. The man toppled over the rail and fell into the wake, his body bobbing past them. The gunshots had barely been audible, little more than a staccato coughing, but the man had dropped his own gun with a clatter and one of Ahmed’s bullets had pinged off something metallic behind him, ricocheting into the distance. Another man appeared, evidently alerted by the noise, and Ahmed repeated the exercise, this time dropping the man onto the deck.

  Jack gunned the boat forward. It was now or never. Ahmed slung the MP5 over his back and picked up a grapple line from a bucket in the bow. The Zodiac rammed into the stern of the trawler, bounced against it and then held fast, the engine screaming. Ahmed threw the grapple, watching as it caught on the stern rail, and leaped out, impacting the hull hard as he pulled himself up above the wake. Jack throttled back, swerved sideways out of the wake, and came back again at the trawler along her starboard side. Above him he heard a ripping sound as Ahmed emptied his MP5 forward, and the noise of ricochets and shattering glass. He squatted up on the floorboards, holding the tiller with one hand and his own grapple with the other. He swung the tiller hard, threw his grapple and then leaped out himself, slamming into the side of the trawler just as a deafening burst from a Kalashnikov ripped into the inflatable, shredding one pontoon and causing it to flip over and spin off in the wake.

  He hung on to the line, the spray lashing his face, his body half in and half out of the water. He summoned all his strength and pulled himself up until he reached deck level, swinging his left leg until his foot caught behind one of the railing posts aft. He heaved himself up against the railing and looked across the deck. A few feet away lay the crumpled body of the man who had fired the Kalashnikov, rivulets of blood spreading along the divides of the deck boards around him. Ahmed had already advanced forward of the main hatch, and was squatting behind the derrick machinery, his MP5 aimed at the deckhouse. Jack stared at the hatch, the place where fish would normally be spilled through into refrigerator compartments below. If Costas was anywhere, that would be it. He looked forward again to Ahmed. There was no need for stealth now, just speed. “I’m right behind you,” he bellowed. “I’m going for the hatch. I need suppressing fire.”

  “Roger that.” Ahmed dropped the half-empty magazine from his weapon and loaded a new one. “On your call.”

  Jack flexed his arm muscles and peered at the top of the railing, judging his timing. He took a deep breath and yelled, “Ahmed. Now.” Ahmed fired a long burst that shattered the remaining deckhouse windows, spraying rounds from left to right. Jack heaved himself up the railing, dropped over the other side, unholstered his Beretta, and scrambled over to the hatch, pulling at the handle. From somewhere ahead a Kalashnikov opened up and rounds went everywhere, ricocheting off machinery and gouging sprays of splinters from the deck boards.

  Jack ducked down, his hands over his head, and looked across at Ahmed, who had taken out a stun grenade and pulled the pin. “Fire in the hole,” Ahmed yelled. They had agreed not to risk fragmentation grenades until they knew for certain where Costas was being held, but a stun grenade might at least buy them time. Jack pressed his hands against his ears, and watched Ahmed toss the grenade at the deckhouse. Seconds later there was a deafening crash, followed by a few seconds of silence and then sounds of commotion, high-pitched voices yelling orders in Somali. “I can just about make out what they’re saying,” Ahmed called. “I think there are three of them, and one down below. He must be guarding Costas. You need to get down there now.”

  He fired another long burst at the deckhouse, and Jack got up on his knees. Over the port railing he could see the island clearly now, no more than half a mile away. He held the Beretta ready with one hand, and pulled hard at the handle with the other. It suddenly gave way, and he pushed the hatch up, staying behind it for cover. A burst of fire came up from below, two rounds tearing through the wood only inches from his torso. He let the hatch drop open, in that instant seeing his assailant and firing half a dozen rounds into him, the impact throwing the man back down the ladder. Jack followed, Beretta at the ready, swinging it round as he peered into the gloom. “Costas,” he yelled. “Costas. Are you there?”

  He listened hard, hearing only the throbbing of the engine and the slapping of the sea on the hull outside. He reached the bottom of the ladder and turned forward, slopping through fish entrails in the scuppers, trying to keep himself upright as the ship pitched and rolled. He called again, but there was still no response. Then he saw a body splayed backward between the hull frames, the head an unrecognizable pulp. Whoever it was had been killed some time earlier; the blood had dried and was swarming with flies. It look
ed like an execution. He suddenly felt sick. They could not be too late. He peered more closely, seeing the unfamiliar clothes, the brown skin. He heard a moaning from further forward and squatted down beside the body, pistol at the ready. As he crept slowly ahead, he saw the Hawaiian shirt, matted and bloody, and the battered face. “Costas. Can you hear me? It’s Jack. We’re here to rescue you.”

  One eye opened; the other was black and sealed shut. “It’s about time,” he mumbled. “Got whacked on the head. Dude over there with the tattoo.”

  “Okay. He’s gone. Anyone else down here?”

  “Nobody alive.”

  “We need to get out of here. Can you manage it?”

  Costas blinked hard. Jack picked up a half-empty water bottle that had been beside him and put it to Costas’s lips, holding his head up. He drank noisily, shook his head, grimaced, and then pushed himself up on his elbows. “Okay, Jack. Get me out of this hellhole.”

  Jack squatted beside him, heaved Costas’s arm up over his shoulder, and helped him to his feet. Costas lurched sideways, and Jack caught him again, holding him upright. “We’re going up the ladder through the hatch. Ahmed is there and most of the crew are gone. It looks as if the Boss has already gone ashore with some of his boys.”

  “He’s the one I want,” Costas said, reeling. “Point me in his direction.”

  “Time for that soon enough. Right now we’re going for a swim. Some friends of ours are about to light this boat up, and we need to be out of here.”

  “You’re wearing a three-liter cylinder with an octopus rig,” Costas slurred, staggering sideways. “So I kind of guessed that. The tool belt I like. Anything in it for me?”

  “All in good time. We need to get you out of here first.” Jack shouted up through the hatch. “Ahmed, I’ve got him. We’re coming out now.”

  “Roger that,” Ahmed shouted back. “Suppressing fire now.”

  Jack heard the familiar rip of the MP5 as he pushed Costas ahead of him up the ladder and then jumped round to finish pulling him out. He helped him to his feet and they staggered to the back railing. “A swim will do me good,” Costas murmured. “Clear the head. I need that if I’m going to take on that guy. Which I am.”

  Ahmed backed off from his position until he was alongside them. The shoreline was now alarmingly close, only a couple of hundred meters away, and the engine was still going full blast. Ahmed took the second grenade from his pouch and pulled the pin. “Fragmentation this time. Fire in the hole.” As he tossed it, Jack pushed Costas behind the port-side derrick, holding his hands against his ears. A deafening blast blew a hole in the left side of the deckhouse, sending burning chunks of wood clattering onto the deck around them. “There might still be a couple of them left,” Ahmed said. “We need to get out of here now.”

  Jack turned to Costas. “There’s a Somali navy patrol boat commanded by Captain Ibrahim closing in on us. As soon as they see this flare, a P-15 Termit missile will be launched at this trawler. Do you understand?”

  Costas looked back at him, less groggy now, nodding. “Sounds like a plan.”

  A burst of gunfire erupted from the remaining part of the deckhouse, one of the bullets grazing Costas in the left forearm and another knocking the flare pistol out of Jack’s hand. He lunged for it, catching it just in time as it spun across the deck toward the stern. Ahmed leveled his MP5 at the deckhouse, firing off the remainder of his magazine, then quickly loaded another, emptying that too in one long burst. He dropped the gun, grabbed Costas and yelled, “Now!” just as another burst erupted from the deckhouse. Jack fired the flare gun high in the air, and then hurled himself at the other two, all three of them going over the stern railing and hitting the sea together as rounds jetted into the water on all sides.

  He pulled them underwater, swimming down as hard as he could. After a few meters he stopped and quickly unwound one regulator, passing the mouthpiece to Costas, who began breathing off it as he helped Jack with his; Ahmed did the same a few meters away. They equalized their ears as they sank deeper, and Jack struggled out of his backpack, opened it and passed Costas a mask and fins. He grabbed his own and let the pack drop, then put the mask on, blowing air into it to clear it and seeing that Costas had already done the same. Pulling on their fins, they powered away from the shadow of the hull, Ahmed close behind, knowing that every second counted.

  A minute after they had hit the water, a shock wave threw them forward, and a flash of red lit up the surface. Looking back, Jack could just make out the shattered form of the trawler sinking to the seabed, the bodies of the gunmen pirouetting away from it, smudges of blood shrouding the ones who had just been killed in the missile strike.

  Costas tapped Jack on the shoulder and pointed at the blood curling up into the water from the bullet wound on his arm, then made a biting motion with his hand. Jack peered at the injury, a nasty graze rather than a penetrating wound, and scanned the reef around them. Costas was right: blood in the water would act as a magnet for sharks, and they would go for the living before they went for the dead. They were only a hundred meters or so from the rocky shoreline of the island, but even that would consume most of the air in their tanks. He pointed emphatically up the slope, and Costas and Ahmed both gave okay signals. Without buoyancy compensators or weight belts, they were struggling to counter the natural tendencies of their bodies to sink or float—Jack the former, Costas with his greater bulk decidedly the latter, with only Ahmed having something close to neutral buoyancy.

  About five minutes into the swim, Costas transferred from Jack’s to Ahmed’s octopus regulator, knowing that Jack’s tank would be close to depletion. They had been swimming at about eight meters’ depth, below the oscillation of the swell, but as the bottom shelved up, they were forced into shallower water where they began to be pushed around by the ocean’s movement. There were fewer coral heads in the shallows than in the deeper water but plenty of jagged limestone outcrops to scrape against, not to mention numerous spiny sea urchins that seemed to loom up toward Jack every time the swell dropped him close to the seabed.

  They had not included pressure gauges with their tanks to economise on space, but Jack knew that he must be down to his final few minutes of air, and he looked along the surf line for a possible egress point. Ahmed and Costas were off to the right, and Costas gestured forcefully for him to follow, his arm trailing tendrils of blood. A white-tipped reef shark appeared below them, swimming in wide circles, and then another joined it. Jack tensed; where there were small sharks, bigger ones were sure to follow. The last thing they needed was for it all to end in a feeding frenzy, just when they were so close to their goal. He swam determinedly toward Costas, keeping at least two meters below the surface. Ahead he saw a cavernous opening between rocky outcrops and the shoreline that he knew must be Costas and Ahmed’s objective, somewhere that promised calmer waters beyond, a place where they might surface unseen. He sucked hard on his regulator, knowing that he only had a couple of breaths left, but kept going. To surface now, still more than ten meters from shore, would be to risk being driven against the rocks before reaching that entranceway, and also being seen by those of the gang who were ashore and might be searching for survivors from the trawler.

  He dropped down to the shingle-strewn entrance to the cavern, took a final breath from the tank and then powered forward behind the other two, swimming beyond the protective rock wall of the entrance and ascending inside, exhaling to avoid an embolism as he came up. As he reached the surface, he spat out his regulator, took a few deep breaths and then looked around, treading water hard to keep afloat. The sun had risen above the eastern horizon and bathed the rocks in light, sparkling off the water. They were in a small pool that formed a narrow inlet, protected on both sides by a rocky shoreline that rose several meters above the level of the water, the shingle sloping to form a rough beach. The other two were already making their way out, and Jack followed them, pulling himself up and sitting in the shallows. He stripped off his mask and fin
s and unstrapped his cylinder, dropping it beside him, and then crawled over to Costas, who was lying inert on the shingle, the sun on his face. He leaned over him, dripping water, and opened Costas’s good eye, inspecting the pupil.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Costas said, sounding half asleep. “This is my beach time.”

  “Just checking for concussion. You look fine. Anything broken?”

  “A few teeth. Maybe my jaw. Nothing too serious.”

  Jack unzipped the main pouch on his belt, took out a bottle of coagulant powder and spilled it on the wound, then wrapped it in a shell dressing and pinned it. Ahmed scrambled down from the side of the inlet where he had gone to check out their surroundings. “Okay,” he said, squatting down, speaking quietly. “There are two guys with Kalashnikovs about three hundred meters west, inspecting the bits of wreckage that have come ashore. Another guy’s marching up and down talking on a phone, gesticulating. I’m guessing he’s the gang leader, the Boss. The skiff’s nowhere to be seen, but I imagine the entrance to the submarine pen must be somewhere nearby, and that’s where it’s gone. I can see where we need to go.”

  Jack peered at Costas. “If you’re not up to it, you can hold down the fort here while we go in. If all goes according to plan, there should be a section of Somali marines coming ashore from the patrol boat within the hour.”

  “Are you in contact with them?” Costas asked.

  Ahmed shook his head. “Radio contact is too risky. There’s a chance of being overheard. But I’ve set a locator beacon on that rock above us, something they can follow. This inlet will be a good beaching point for their Zodiac.”