by Rob Jones
“It’s like a spaceship from a science-fiction movie,” Ryan said, amazed.
“Concentrate, Ryan,” Sophie said, asserting control. “We’re here to disable the engine, not talk about sci-fi movies. Although, I do like sci-fi movies...”
Ryan glanced at Sophie’s face for as long as he could without looking weird. She was only a few years older, he considered, but her eyes had seen much more of life than his ever had, that much was obvious. The only thing that had ever gone wrong in Ryan Bale’s life was the night his wife came home from work and told him she was quitting the army and they were leaving Ireland.
Ryan was shocked, but pleased he could move home to England. When he asked why, Lea had finally told him about what had happened so many weeks ago in Syria, and he had tried to comfort her. She had changed after that tour, but never spoken of it until that moment, and then he understood.
They would be fine. His skills as a freelance computer programmer would keep them afloat. He had just finished a certified ethical hacking course as well, and that could be very lucrative. As for his wife’s change in moods, he had no idea of the train wreck their marriage was about to become.
“Ryan – let’s get on with it,” Sophie said.
“But where the hell do we start?” he said, taking in the massive engine room.
“A good question,” said Sophie, her eyes crawling over the wall of pipes and gauges. “So I think we just start wrecking it, no?”
*
Now, Lea was on the upper deck, and she saw an open doorway filled with sunshine. She could smell the sea air blowing on the breeze through the gap, and slipped outside on to the side of the yacht, gun at her side. Covering every angle, she moved towards the rear of the Thalassa in the bright sunlight.
Daytimes she could handle. But sometimes she would wake in the night, covered in sweat. She never saw the faces of her men in the night-terrors, only ever their screaming shadows as the enemy carbines opened up on them in the clearing and they scattered for their lives.
The bodies of those who never made it were captured by the enemy and paraded through the streets. It was all her fault. Even now she could hardly bare to think about the pain she had caused their families. Not even leaving the army had assuaged the crushing guilt she felt when her tortured mind wandered back to that terrible day.
She wanted to tell everyone that it had destroyed her life too, that her mistake that day had ended her career, that it had ruined her relationship with her husband and led to divorce, that she doubted she could ever be happy again, but none of it could weigh up against leading the men in her charge to their premature deaths.
The only slit of light in her life had been offered by Sir Richard Eden, an old family friend of her father’s, long ago before he died. He had taken her in after the disaster and given her work, looked after her, become almost another father.
Dedicating her life to Eden’s work could be her only salvation, even if it had to be kept from the world. He had offered her a way out and she had taken it. How Hawke could fit into things would not be up to her, but up to Sir Richard.
Ahead of her she spied the chopper. It was a black Bell 429, silent and still on the rear deck, glistening in the sun. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed, and when she saw she was still on her own she moved forward to the chopper.
*
“Agreed. I think we just start smashing things,” Ryan said.
“C’est une bonne idée, je crois,” Sophie muttered.
Ryan lifted one of the spanners and took out a gauge, smashing the glass panel to smithereens. He then hit another, and another. Sophie did the same, and a few moments later they had taken out most of the controls in the engine room.
After a few minutes of total vandalism they forgot their situation and began to enjoy themselves. Ryan made a few jokes and was pleased when Sophie laughed warmly in response.
Then Ryan located the fuel system and shut off the valves. The engines quietened and the yacht began to slow.
*
Lea Donovan had no aviation training at all, but she knew it couldn’t be the hardest thing in the world to make sure a helicopter never took to the air again. She glanced around the cockpit for a few seconds and decided that sabotaging the collective was the best option, because without one of those this bird wasn't flying anywhere.
She removed the panel at its base and was faced with a thick bundle of multi-colored wires. She was about to pull them out when she heard his voice.
“Come out with your hands up, Miss Donovan.”
It was Zaugg, and he sounded pleased and in control.
Lea climbed out of the helicopter with her hands raised.
“Give Herr Baumann the weapon, please.”
She tossed the submachine gun on the deck, cursing herself for screwing things up yet again.
“I want you to know I already have men searching the ship for your two friends. There’s nowhere to hide on the Thalassa and they will be caught in good time.”
“It’s too late, Zaugg. They’ve already taken out your engines.”
“We shall see about that... I’m very disappointed in you, Lea,” Zaugg drawled. “And I think we both know what happens to people who disappoint me.”
As he spoke, Baumann unfurled a length of rope from a mounted holder on the side of the yacht. For you, it is time to join Senor Grasso.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The silhouette of the Thalassa appeared on the horizon, and Hawke and the others prepared to go to war. He’d done enough fast rope drills in his time to know what was coming, and for that reason Yannis Demetriou would be staying on board the chopper with the crew until the yacht was secured.
Hart’s V Squadron men readied the abseiling equipment at the doors while Pavlopoulos and his men were calmly talking in Greek and pointing out the window at the water below. Scarlet checked her weapons and tied her hair back.
Hawke watched her and smiled.
“I want to look my best for when I kill Zaugg,” she said.
Then the chopper veered heavily to the right, causing everyone to hold on to the grab handles and steady themselves. “They know we’re here!” shouted the pilot. “We’re coming under heavy fire.”
The pilot took more evasive action before swinging around to a parallel position along the portside. Chief swung open the door and unleashed a terrific burst of fire from the M60 clamped inside the chopper. It spat fire all over the boat, splitting the wooden deck and taking out two rows of cabin windows on the superyacht’s upper deck.
“Damn that’s fun!” he shouted, spinning the gun around to take out an offensive position on the rear deck. Down on the boat, the surviving men scattered to take cover.
“We can’t get near the rear deck and the helipad,” the pilot told them over the radio. “Too heavily defended. We’ll go to the front as per Plan B and you fight your way back.”
The pilot brought the chopper down to a hovering position over the broader front deck and Hawke led the way down the ropes while Chief provided cover with the M60. Then with Chief on the deck, the chopper banked hard to the right and flew to safety.
It was time to fight.
*
As soon as they were on the deck, they fanned out in a standard position and began their assault. Hawke staked out his territory by firing into the bridge and taking out two men in a hail of hot lead and smashed glass. Maybe he would get back in the saddle faster than he thought.
He approached the lower deck, submachine gun raised, butt in his shoulder and eye firmly down the sights. A man appeared at the top of a flight of metal steps on the starboard side of the yacht. He was holding a pistol, but a cool double-tap from Hawke and he was over the side of the boat, gun and all.
Between Hawke, Scarlet, Pavlopoulos and one of his men, they made the classic four-man SAS patrol, with Sparky set up behind them on the bow with the M60, pinning down Zaugg’s men inside the boat. On the other side of the boat Hart
led Chief and the other two Greek men.
Hawke’s unit arrived at a door on the starboard side which he smashed open with a solid kick from his boot. Behind them they heard more blood-curdling screams as Sparky took out another man on the bridge.
Hawke was beginning to wonder if their small military unit was more than a match for Zaugg’s crew of sloppy part-timers and unpredictable mercs. But now, as they moved closer to the heart of the yacht, the fighting got more intense. Zaugg’s men fought hard to protect not only their boss’s life but their own.
Hawke charged the next door and burst inside, his bullets taking two men with Uzis totally out of the game and redecorating Zaugg’s plush interior with unsettling amounts of their blood. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, he thought, but this time he questioned the morality of the thing. Was he losing it? He shook the thought from his mind and stormed forwards.
“We have to find Lea and the others!” he shouted, ducking behind a well-stocked bar. As he spoke, a volley of submachine gun fire from two directions raced over his head and slammed into the wall behind him, splintering the oak veneer and sending shards of smashed vodka bottles into the air like chiselled ice.
This was going to get nasty.
He made a swift double-roll across the glass-encrusted carpet and slid into the main corridor on the starboard side of the yacht. Somewhere to his left he heard Hart’s team hard at work fighting what sounded like a heavy general purpose machine gun. Zaugg had this place armed like his own private military base, he thought.
The others joined him, with Pavlopoulos at the rear covering them with his M4 carbine and making a serious mess of the yacht as he did so. He looked like he was enjoying himself.
Hawke saw a staircase ahead, and knew it must lead to the rear deck and the helipad. He had noticed that they were now meeting less resistance. Either Hart and her team had too many of them tied down on the port side or Zaugg was planning a retreat to somewhere he could gather more forces for his main attack on Poseidon’s final resting place.
Then, he heard a familar voice. “Joe!” It was Ryan and Sophie.
“Bloody hell!” he said, relieved to have secured two of the hostages. “You’re alive, Rupert.”
This time, Ryan was too relieved to comment. “We’re alive, but only just.”
“All good?” Hawke asked.
“They keelhauled someone, Joe!” Sophie said. “A man named Matteo Grasso – a worker here on the boat. He was under the water for several minutes and when they dragged him back on the deck he was cut to ribbons.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Ryan said. “These guys are total maniacs.”
“Where’s Lea?” Hawke asked.
“We disabled the engine and she went to sabotage the helicopter.”
Hawke smiled. “Smart girl. Let’s get to the helipad. That’s Zaugg’s only way out now.”
They ascended the carpeted stairs, and Scarlet went into the lead. She turned the corner at the top of the steps and was out of sight for a few seconds.
“If this is as good as it gets, I’m disappointed,” Pavlopoulos said, smiling. He had a flesh wound on his left temple. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and reloaded the M4. Somewhere on the deck was another burst of machine gun fire followed by hoarse screams. “Hopefully not one of ours,” he added, breathing hard.
“Nope,” Scarlet said, returning with a smoking gun. “Turns out he wasn't my type.”
They hit the landing and went through a door leading to the rear deck. Pavlopoulos’s man took the lead. He moved too fast, and then Hawke saw it but it was too late.
“No!” he shouted, but the soldier had already tripped the wire, and was blown to pieces by a booby-trapped grenade.
Pavlopoulos could do nothing to save him, and watched with uncontained horror as the smoke cleared and the devastation appeared before him. He gritted his teeth. “For this, they will pay a thousand times over.”
Before Hawke could stop him Pavlopoulos sprinted onto the deck with his carbine spitting fire.
Hawke and Scarlet followed him out, taking secure positions and covering him, but he was like a man possessed, wiping out three more of Zaugg’s men without fear of being struck. He had clearly been away from combat situations for too long and was making a serious misjudgment.
His bravado was misplaced, and seconds later he was peppered through from the rear by a man hiding behind a circular staircase winding up to the helipad. Blood exploded through his chest like an over-the-top Hollywood special effect. His eyes widened in terror before he slammed face down into the deck with a sickening crunch as his face hit the hard teak.
Now, renewed chaos reigned. Hawke and Scarlet had no time to grieve for Pavlopoulos, He had reacted unprofessionally to the loss of his man, possibly haunted by memories of his grandfather, and his wreckless act had cost him his life. Hawke wouldn’t make the same mistake.
On the deck they met up with Olivia Hart and Chief. The other soldiers Pavlopoulos had given them were also dead, a stunning testament to the abilities of ordinary soldiers in a Special Forces environment, Hawke thought.
Now all of the Greeks were dead and they were down to a handful of specialists at the stern of the boat, Sparky at the front with the GPMG and Ryan and Sophie. He had to find Lea.
More machine gun fire was pouring down on them from somewhere up on the top deck where the helipad was situated. They returned fire, and a man fell over the rail and sailed past them on his way into the drink. He landed with a tremendous splash and disappeared beneath the waves.
Hawke sprinted up the circular staircase leading to the helipad, followed closely by Scarlet and the commodore. All three of them firing in formation to keep the last of Zaugg’s men pinned down.
A tall man with a flesh wound on his head fired a submachine gun at them but scrambled for cover when Hawke returned fire. His shots tore a line of holes in the mesh support struts of the helipad. Hawke rolled across an exposed section of the deck and rose up to fire on the men guarding the chopper.
“We need to take that chopper out of the equation,” he shouted. “Without that they’re not going anywhere.”
But then Zaugg appeared from the top of the other staircase, with Lea in his arms and a silver pearl-handled revolver at her head, flashing in the bright Mediterranean sun.
“Mr Hawke, I presume,” he shouted across the windy deck. “We meet at last, but sadly, I am sure, only for the briefest of moments.”
“Let her go, Zaugg!” Hawke shouted back.
“Drop your weapons, or I will put a bullet in her head.” Zaugg was no longer grinning, but instead looked mildly rattled. He slowly paced backwards, nearing the helicopter, and shouted some orders at Baumann who then climbed into the Bell.
“Do as he says!” Hawke told the others. He lowered the submachine gun to the deck, never once taking his eyes off Lea’s terrified face.
Everyone put down their weapons and then Zaugg relaxed. “You come at a very opportune moment, Mr Hawke,” Zaugg said. “For just a few seconds ago we were preparing to keelhaul Miss Donovan here.”
Lea struggled in Zaugg’s icy grip.
“You bastard, Zaugg!” Hawke shouted.
“Ah! The English gentleman... You need have no fear. Miss Donovan is saved, because you are the one I want to see keelhauled.”
Before Hawke could react, Zaugg barked some orders in German and some men grabbed him and dragged him across the helipad.
“I do prefer to perform this operation at the bow of the Thalassa so I can enjoy it over my breakfast, but as it is, we shall be forced to do it here, because I have much business to attend to and so little time.”
The men began to bind the ropes tightly around Hawke, pinning his arms at his sides and permanently ending any chance he had of either escaping or being able to swim. Lea and the others held their breath in horror.
“It will bring me great pleasure to watch this,” Zaugg said, and clicked his fingers. Upon that command the men raised Hawke up
over the side of the yacht and dropped him into the water below.
He smashed into the waves feet first, which was a small mercy in the circumstances. Training for the Special Boat Service is among the hardest and most gruelling in the world, being largely SAS training and then on top of that additional specialist underwater training.
Hawke had completed his commando training with ease and was soon a respected NCO in the Royal Marines, easily catching the attention of SBS recruiters. He had sailed through the endurance training, including the notorious ‘long drag’, a forty kilometer trek with a crushingly heavy bergen on his back, to be completed in less than twenty hours.
He had skipped easily over the special weapons training, the anti-terror training and the covert demolition courses. Combat survival techniques, jungle training, white noise torture training, food and water deprivation, piloting a boat from the ocean at full speed into the back of a hovering Chinook, interrogation resistance training that would break the hardest of men – all passed with flying colors.
But the worst was what made the men of the SBS so formidable: the underwater training. Being dropped from a helicopter into the sea in the middle of the night and having to make his own way on board a ship posing as an enemy vessel was as tough as it got, but proved to be useful because he’d had to do it for real since then on numerous occasions.
But as hard as SBS training was, no one ever tied him in ten meters of yacht rope and keelhauled him underneath a superyacht.
He knew what he was going to find down there – he had dived down beneath keels to fix mines on them enough times – and he wasn't disappointed. Despite the yacht’s pristine appearance from the surface, the bottom of the hull was peppered in razor-sharp barnacles, each one a savagely sharp blade. The lacerated body of Matteo Grasso that Sophie and Ryan told him about would have been an illustrated testament to their lethality.
