by Greg Barron
Reasonable bounds of accuracy are different onboard a slowly rolling boat, in low light, than they are in a range with a clear line of fire and bright natural or fluorescent light. She waits. Hears the sounds of gunfire out on deck. The outboard motors of the other RIBS as they motor in closer.
The popping sounds of AK47 fire is answered by the more definitive Nato 5.56mm and 7.62mm cartridges. The thin bulkheads, made of foam sandwich, offer very little bullet resistance, and a couple of rounds penetrate the hull.
Drake’s handgun drills into Victoria’s side. Another shot rings out. The team are moving through, disarming the hostiles, dead or alive. More than one ‘dead’ hostile has, in the past, come back to life.
‘Drop your weapon and let her go, now,’ Marika shouts at Drake. At least four of them are covering him. If he shoots he will outlive her by only microseconds.
‘Fuck you,’ he snarls.
‘It’s over, Drake.’
The deck has fallen silent and the RIBs bump against the hull. Booted feet hit the deck as men jump aboard.
‘It’s never over until I say it is.’
Jay cuts the boy down from the hatch. Kisira takes his weight, turns and lays him gently to the deck. He is far gone, but Marika prays not only that he will live, but that his first coherent sight will not be the death of his mother.
‘Let her go. Now.’ Marika feels a desperation creep into her voice. The sight of the small boy, golden curls spread out on the deck while Kisira tries desperately to revive him enrages her further. The father, it seems, is in a state of catatonic helplessness, shrinking back against the seat, eyes uncomprehending.
The South African stands, drawing the young woman up with him, using her as a shield. He shouts at the marines blocking the door to the cockpit. ‘Get out of my way, or I’ll kill her.’
Marika watches helplessly as he drags her over bodies, one step at a time, the gun moving to her throat, pushing into the skin of her jawline like a tent pole into canvas.
‘Get back,’ he yells. ‘Out of my way.’
The woman’s eyes, rimmed with red, do not leave her child. No regard for her own safety. Only that of her son.
Marika shadows Drake, every step, as he moves out into the cockpit. ‘Hold your fire,’ she shouts as he exits the door. The marines and 2CG operatives line the gunwales, weapons at their shoulders. Their expressions, shrouded by black grease paint, are impassive and cold.
‘Now listen, hey,’ Drake shouts, his eyes murderous, teeth showing like those of an attack dog about to make a lunge, ‘I’m taking her into a boat. If anyone blocks our way or interferes she gets the first bullet.’
Marika swallows; the situation is slipping out of her control. There is little chance of a kill shot as the South African moves quickly towards the gunnel, half sits on his backside then flips both himself and the woman over the side and into one of the decrepit launches.
The engine roars into life, clicks into gear, and the launch powers away in a cloud of two-stroke exhaust.
Marika climbs over the bodies on the deck, moving to the stern. ‘OK, I want a five man firing party on RIB Three. Jay, I want you to take command here and get the other two vessels back to the ship.’
‘Will do.’
PJ turns to her. ‘The fucker had something else in his hand as they left. Might have been a cell phone.’
Marika feels her heart turn to jelly. She turns, and shouts. ‘Possible IED. Evacuate. Now. Bring the hostages.’ She runs back inside, just as Kisira comes through with the boy in her arms. The male hostage follows, bewildered.
‘What’s happening, why are we leaving?’
‘I’ll explain later. Just get off … go, go.’
The deck cleared of the living, Marika leaps into the final RIB to depart, already untied and drifting away, motor screaming. The evacuation has taken less than thirty seconds. She turns to PJ, at the tiller.
‘Go, get after the bastard.’
He nods and the RIB powers away towards the coast of Africa and the plainly visible sight of the retreating launch. They are scarcely fifty metres distant when an explosion tears the guts out of Clover, a fireball reaching out for them across the water, and a shockwave thumping into Marika’s head. She clenches her teeth, averting her eyes from the flash so her night vision will not be rendered useless.
You fucker, you would have killed us all.
1919
Marika leans forward in the bow to help keep the nose down, one knee on the thwart seat and her free hand gripping one of the rope grab handles. The loss of the yacht is nothing. The presence of a terrified woman on the boat up ahead sends synapses cracking like lightning up her spine and into her brain.
She lifts the sid to her lips and opens comms with Albion.
‘Two pax rescued and returning to ship. Yacht was destroyed with remote detonated IED. Now following one hostile named Drake, with hostage, bearing zero-four-seven, speed twenty-five. Do you have surveillance, over?’
‘ScanEagle UAV tracking, height one thousand. Also have radar fix on all vessels. Out.’
The South African who calls himself Drake holds all the cards. Provided he has enough fuel for the one hundred nautical mile journey, he can simply continue on, all the way to the coast, drag his hostage up past the beach, then kill or dump her before disappearing into the wilds of Equatorial Guinea.
Strictly speaking, the British team will have to stop their pursuit as soon as they reach territorial waters, some forty nautical miles offshore, unless diplomatic clearances have been forthcoming.
Albion again: ‘Report third vessel in vicinity. Wooden fishing vessel, approx ten metres length. Rendezvous appears likely, over.’
Marika turns to PJ. ‘It looks like there’s a support vessel out here. They’re going to meet up.’
They had talked about the possibility of a ‘mother ship.’ The attack had been launched a long way offshore. But this area is alive with fishing vessels. Looking for the right one would have been fruitless. Until now.
Albion: ‘We have been ordered to destroy target vessel at all costs. Harpoon SSM missile standing by.’
Mossel’s words come back to her. Drake’s non-survival must be the overriding objective of this operation. Of course, if they have no choice they will take them both out. They can’t allow this man to escape so he can kill again.
Even so, Marika can sense the reticence in the signals officer’s voice. Killing an innocent hostage along with the perpetrator with a one-million-dollar-plus missile would not be an easy order to follow.
‘Cool those heels, Albion. Give us a minute and we’ll try to resolve this.’ Then, to, PJ. ‘Can we get closer?’
‘Yes, we’ve got ten knots over them. But is that a good idea?’
‘My gut feeling is that we have to do something here, or he’s going to kill our girl and get away from us.’
Either that or Albion is going to blow both of them to pieces.
‘Albion, how far to their rendezvous with the larger boat, over?’
‘Four minutes at current speed.’
She turns and checks out PJ’s rifle. It’s a familiar weapon, a HK417 7.62mm, equipped with a Trijicon 6 x 48 ACOG scope, mounted on a Picatinny rail. With a longer barrel than the SA80s it’s probably the most accurate weapon on board.
‘Here, lend me your weapon,’ Marika says. ‘I’ll try to take him out as we get close. As soon as those two boats raft up, he’s going to be desperate to get aboard. There’s no way he can get up into a bigger vessel and keep the gun on her neck the whole time. I’ll pick him off when he lets her go.’ Then, turning to the others. ‘If someone shoots back from that fishing boat, I want you to take it apart, especially you guys with the SAW. But keep your rounds high and away from any chance of hitting the hostage, got it?’
Marika takes position up in the bow, dropping prone, using a life vest as a rest. She reaches her hand to the selector switch, choosing ‘burst’ mode, which will send a deadly three-round burst
downrange with every touch of the trigger.
Finally, she relaxes, the barrel of the rifle protruding from the front of the RIB like a medieval figurehead. The larger silhouette of the fishing boat is now visible—a typical African fishing vessel, with upswept bow and wide fishing cockpit. Nets swing high from an aft gantry.
‘One minute to contact,’ comes from Albion through the sid.
‘OK,’ Marika whispers, glaring around at them fiercely. ‘No fuckups.’ To PJ. ‘Creep closer now.’
They are one hundred yards distant. An easy shot on land, but much harder from a moving boat, even on a relatively calm sea.
Eighty …
Sixty …
Marika is suddenly nervous. What if Drake is using the fishing boat as a decoy? The last thing they want to do is kill innocent fishermen. ‘Fire only if we are fired upon.’
With a dramatic thump, heard from a distance, Drake’s launch and the fishing vessel come together.
Again Mossel’s words echo in her head. Drake must die. She can’t afford to miss. She can see Drake and the hostage through the lens at first, but then the larger figure scampers to the starboard gunwale, fixing the smaller boat fast to the larger one. Marika knows that she has only seconds before he returns to his hostage. The crosshairs centre on his chest. Her right hand tightens gently, forefinger squeezing the trigger, and the rifle spurts fire from the suppressor on the muzzle. Three shots close together. The butt hammers into her shoulder.
Taking out a target at night, through a telescopic sight, is strange. A human body, with the life taken from it by a high velocity bullet, drops very fast. The first bullet, low in the chest, she reasons, would have killed him; the other two striking the upper chest and head as he went down.
‘Got him,’ she calls. ‘Move in—cautiously.’
They are half way in when automatic weapons open up from three locations across the deck of the fishing boat. This is the signal they’ve been waiting for. The SA80s at first, then the thunder of the M249, the 5.56mm ball tracer rounds taking the wheelhouse apart.
Few people who have not seen it understand the power of concentrated small arms fire. The upper part of the vessel is swiftly turning into matchwood, then pulp. Under PJ’s steady direction the RIB nudges against the enemy launch.
‘Suppressing fire,’ Marika shouts, and there is a new storm of lead into the larger boat as she springs up and over the gunnel into the launch. PJ is beside her and goes directly to where the hostage cowers in the stern, hands over her head.
The gunfire stops, becoming tense silence. No more return fire. If there is anyone still alive on the fishing boat, they’re lying low.
Marika bends over a bloody shape on the floor of the boat. ‘He’s dead—definitely him.’
‘Good shooting.’ PJ replies.
Marika leaves the body and moves to the hostage. She looks small and frightened, tears streaming down her face. ‘You’re police?’
‘Close enough. British Special Forces. Kind of—well, it’s complicated. You’re safe, anyway, and we’ll soon get you into a big Navy ship where they’ll look after you.’
One of the marines helps her climb over into the RIB and settles her into one of the seats, a blanket around her shoulders.
Marika turns to PJ, jabs the rifle barrel at the hull of the fishing vessel. ‘I think we’d better have a quick look on board.’
His face is square jawed and handsome in the moonlight. ‘Do you think it’s worth the risk?’
‘We have to. What if we’ve wounded someone?’
‘OK. I’ll lead.’
They pick their way across the fibreglass launch, feeling it tilt as they balance on the forward structure, climbing onto the rubrail of the larger boat. Marika feels the butterflies in her stomach. This is extremely dangerous. One man inside with an automatic weapon might merely be waiting for his chance.
Marika throws her weapon over the gunnel and fires a burst high over the cockpit while PJ jumps down onto the deck. Small arms fire from the RIB has torn the place apart. Fragments of wood and glass lie everywhere. Marika can see three bodies, assault rifles fallen from their hands.
‘Upper deck is secured,’ she calls back out to the RIB. ‘Bring a flashlight, will you?’
One of the marines appears over the gunnel, holding a black Inova flashlight. He illuminates the bodies, each in turn. One is a woman, in her early twenties, Marika guesses. The other two are both boys, scarcely ten or twelve years old. All three are mere skeletons with skin stretched across the bone.
All have multiple wounds in the body and head. A sob starts in the depths of Marika’s chest before she is able to arrest it. She walks on, reaches out for the flashlight.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she says, ‘these people were starving. I’m going to have a look below.’
Down the companionway steps the smell of the vessel deepens. Fish, timbers, bilgewater and unwashed human beings. The hold is not deep enough for her to stand upright, with massive knee timbers at forehead height. Part of the hold is filled with stone ballast, other sections with stacked timbers. Sleeping places are spread throughout, all unoccupied and dishevelled.
Despite crates of weapons, and loose ammunition, Marika feels a wave of empathy for these people. The depths of poverty that have provoked the need to attack and kill.
Coupled with this is disgust —at being there, invading this private space, and of the deaths of the woman and boys on the upper deck. This is a strange, brutal kind of war, and there is no glory in victory.
Marika turns and hurries up the companionway. Away from the distinct odour of life and death that pervades the lower decks.
The RIB surges back into reverse, then with a deft change of gear, accelerates away across the surface of the water towards Albion. Marika opens comms with the ship.
‘Albion, we have three unknown fatalities aboard the fishing boat, and one confirmed as the man known as Drake on a launch tied up to it.’
‘Roger, we’ll make arrangements. By the way, the others are here, and the MO has had a look at the boy. He’s responsive, at least.’
Marika leaves PJ’s side and picks her way aft to where the woman sits, blanket draped over her shoulders, head down, staring at the deck. Marika sits beside her, taking her hand. ‘Hi, Victoria isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sorry. I should be thanking you …’
‘What’s your son’s name?’
‘Tasman. His name is Tasman. Where is he? Is he …?’
‘I just had word from the ship. Your husband and son are both in the infirmary there. Tasman is getting the best medical care possible, and the signs are apparently very encouraging.’
The head lifts, and Marika can see why the woman had been a model. Even now she’s beautiful, her facial structure almost perfect. ‘Really?’
‘You’ll see him very soon, I just want to do a close target recce on the site of the wreckage before we head off the Albion. It’ll only take a minute.’
‘OK. We’re all fine, that’s what matters.’
Yes, Marika thinks to herself, we’re all fine.
1945
They stop where Clover had been anchored just half an hour before. The RIB’s spotlight sweeps over the surface of the sea, picking out floating debris all the way to the white water where the sea meets rocky island.
Marika issues orders for an SAR sweep, then turns to Victoria, ‘It’s sad to see a boat destroyed like that, but I assume that the insurance company will pay up. Clover II will be sailing the world in no time.’
‘If it is,’ Victoria says softly, ‘I won’t be on it. I’m going home.’
‘I guess that’s understandable, under the circumstances.’
‘I want my life back. I want to work. I want to feel safe and comfortable. I want to take Tasman to playgroup, and treat him to an ice-cream after school. I’m not going to spend my life being frightened and uncomfortable, just to make Peter happy.’
Marika sees Victoria’s face in the reflected
glow of the spotlight. There is something appealing about her, and her words strike home. The desire for normality. Something that has eluded Marika herself for so long.
‘I felt sorry for some of those men,’ Victoria says, ‘they were so thin. Like dogs fighting for scraps. It’s not fair, but …’
Marika thinks of what she saw in the boat. ‘I know what you mean, and not many people would be able to say that, not after what you’ve just been through.’
‘Nothing on the surface but debris,’ someone calls out.
Marika nods. A clean-up crew will come out in the morning, and most likely insurance assessors will want to investigate the site of such costly destruction. She turns to give the order to head back to the ship.
Before the words can leave her lips, it happens.
Slick with water, cowrie shell veil over his face, Frederic comes over the gunwale like an apparition. With both hands planted on the gunnel, the muscles of his biceps bulge like inner tubes as he propels himself up and in, so close that no shoulder weapon can be deployed.
Victoria screams, and Marika desperately takes a shielding role, while also reaching for the Glock in its side holster. PJ, she sees, has the HK417 up, but the African is as fast as a striking snake.
The stone knife is in his right hand, but he ignores them all, except for Victoria. The reach of the man is incredible, feinting a thrust towards Victoria’s front, where Marika has her protected, but then going past Marika, stabbing hard into the small of Victoria’s back, the weapon burying itself all the way to the wooden haft.
At this moment a single explosive words leaves the killer’s lips.
‘Koku,’ he shouts.
The word is scarcely out before PJ’s rifle opens up, the muzzle flash blinding in close quarters, the sound deafening. The first shots snap the African’s head sideways and tear a bloody cave where his upper jaw meets his ear, crushing shells and pushing their fragments into his flesh.
PJ stands with the weapon now, roaring out his anger, expunging their helplessness as he pours fire into the killer until he has fallen and it is no longer possible to fire without holing the boat.
