Charlie

by Finn Óg

  The market on Jaffa Road was a cacophony of colour. Fruit tumbled from the pitched stalls left and right, the produce of a land of milk and honey. This was a place where streams of children trotted along in single file, a rangy youth before and aft, each carrying a rifle.

  There were arguments everywhere. Some might call them debates, but they were heated and heavy, and haggling seemed to be the local currency. Not once did I see shekels exchanged. At either end of the closed street were bitter-looking soldiers, young and conscripted, bored by their sedate posting. I had watched them wave their detector wands over the torsos of shoppers, in half-arsed fashion. It was useful to see that almost every building had a guard of some sort, and that weapons were not just tolerated, they were expected. What these people were scared of were suicide vests.

  Money would have been a pain, but for the fact that Shannon had handed me a bundle as we left Gaza. I’d discarded my kit in Ashdod, bought some cheap clothes, and boarded a Sherut to Tel Aviv. That was an experience, a kind of shared mini-bus taxi affair, in which companionship was frowned upon. Suited me just fine.

  Tel Aviv to Jerusalem was a similar arrangement. Nobody paid me any attention, until the driver insisted on an extra ten dollars to take me into the Arab section east of the city. He claimed Jews were afraid to go there, which was bollocks, as I soon discovered.

  The American Colony Hotel was my only point of reference in the city. Some colleagues in the SBS had performed close protection there for a former prime minister, and had spoken fondly of its underground cavern. So that’s where I told the driver to take me, but my mind changed instantly when I inquired about the cost of a room. I had no credit cards, no identification, and I would need more cash in the very near future. Not far around the corner I found the cheaper Christmas Hotel. There I got the first proper rest I’d had in a week. Still, the pause before sleep often brings anxiety, and I had plenty to worry about.

  *****

  I’d left my team to paddle west for a pick-up. They weren’t too happy about it, and in the end demanded to know what was going on. I left the sergeant with a clear message to pass on to our CO; I’d had to do a deal to get the Op completed, and I would explain everything when I returned. Of course, I had no intention of explaining everything, but the operation had been successful, and I prayed for the wind to be at my back for the de-brief.

  Against the odds, Ashdod had been a doddle. The mercy ship, as the campaigners had called it, was of little interest to the Israelis, and as such had been tied to a wall normally used by fishing boats. That harbour was poorly lit in comparison to the naval quays, which could have been seen from space. The effect was to plunge the surrounding water into almost complete darkness. Thus, we paddled in without detection, and boarded by climbing the Mercy Ship’s seaward quarter.

  The only tricky part was locating the explosives. One of my team stayed afloat, keeping the kayaks together with an eye on the blind side. Another lay in the lee of the starboard gunwale, keeping watch through the anchor eye. I needed the youngest man to come with me, as he had bomb disposal experience.

  We combed through and cleared every inch of that stinking boat, which was packed to the teeth with tinned food and blankets. We’d been briefed that the Semtex, a plastic explosive, could be kept in just about anything because, as explosives go, it was pretty stable. To make the search more difficult, the stuff we were looking for was old. This meant that the markers, the colouring and the odour added to it since the 1990s, would be absent. It would be in a black wrapper, in oblong strips, and would have the texture of marzipan. I quite liked marzipan.

  We were tired. The adrenaline charge from climbing aboard undetected quickly wore off. It struck me that the IRA might have managed to conceal the stuff in some tinned food, and so I began to scan the labels for a tell. A hopeless pursuit – there were thousands of cans on board.

  I stood still, and began to rationalise the process that the arms smugglers must have gone through. Although resistant to heat and impact, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to store that stuff close to the engine, to fuel, or in their own quarters. If the Semtex went up, it would take the boat to the bottom, so I couldn’t see someone wanting to sleep beside it. I was looking for somewhere cold, and free from the clattering and banging of the waves, and away from the bunks.

  I ruled out the wheelhouse, and opted to focus on a lower centre of gravity, where the movement of the sea would be less pronounced. I was gazing at the interior of the bilges, when my eye began to follow the steel piping around the hull. The tubes were painted the same colour as the walls. I knew one would carry cables, another seawater to cool the engine, and the third would take fresh water to the heads or toilet, and the galley. I started tapping them, seeking any disparity in the tone. As I got closer to a bulkhead, the sound dulled considerably. All three entered a timber boxed-off junction, and when I ripped the lid off, I found an extra pipe. It was fixed to the others. Unless one was counting how many tubes went through the bulkhead, and how many pipes were on the far side, it would have looked utterly normal.

  We cut the pipe free and lifted it gently onto the table. The caps at either end were easily removed, and a slight tilt and gentle persuasion did the job. The pipe was packed, and it was clear that a lot more stuff had made it aboard than had been anticipated. It took another twenty minutes of pipe chasing to convince ourselves that there was no more, and we extracted.

  We mustered one mile outside the harbour breakwater, and I fired up the phone and sent a message. While we waited, I broke the news to the others. The night was calming, but the mood turned rough.

  “I need to go ashore again, I have unfinished business. I need you to get the explosives to the ship, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

  That’s when the argument began, and I had to pull rank. They weren’t being disrespectful. Quite the opposite. They didn’t want me to go alone, they wanted to know what was going on, and to help. But there was no option. In the middle of the discussion the phone lit up. We had orders.

  “Your course is two-nine-zero. Sixteen nautical miles off shore is the RV. A Zodiac will pick you up,” I told them.

  The Sergeant led them reluctantly into the dark Med. I turned north, seeking a sheltered spot to come ashore, and sort myself out.

  *****

  The call to prayer woke me. A six-hour sleep had taken the edge off my unease. I stared out of the hotel window at the exodus of men streaming towards the Old City and the Mosque. There was something exciting about the uncertainty of what was happening around me. I was watching a Friday routine, as the shutters came down and the dust went up, and I decided to follow the sandals through the sandpit to Herod’s Gate. I tried to put my worry aside and get on with what needed to be done. Acquiring a sense of place was as good a way to begin as any.

  The smells of the old, walled city were dreadful, intense, and exotic in sequence. The stench of donkey dung at the perimeter was quickly replaced by sweetness and the must of age, and eventually, by burning incense sticks. The Muslims filtered towards the raised domes of their devotion, as nodding orthodox Jews prayed beneath the Western Wall, filling the cracks in the enormous stones with folded paper. It was quite a distraction, and it filled me with awe. My mind was drawn back to Iraq and Afghanistan. For the first time, I felt I was observing the genesis of the conflict which had drawn my pals and I into those wars, and so many of them into their graves.

  I sat long into the evening, as Friday prayers became Shabbat, the occupation of the city rotating from one faith to another. Security tightened. The police were well-armoured. I wanted to avoid being asked for ID I didn’t possess, so I reluctantly sidled off into the night.

  I knew that my status would shift to AWOL, and that someone would now be tracking my smartphone, regardless of whether or not I switched it off. So, it felt pointless not to use it to guide me through places familiar from the Bible stories of my childhood. From Mount Olive, I stared at the city. The light licked o
ff the Golden Dome, the shadows cast from the church spires and synagogues and minarets. All reaching for God, each battling for space and primacy. To my left the dead were crammed, buried in the Promised Land at great personal expense. I thought of the cost of their repatriation, and then of the price paid by the families of my fellow bootnecks. Then I thought of the kids in Gaza, who’d had their futures destroyed by a rapist, before their existence had even properly begun. And I decided that there was nothing more important than life, and that for the deserving to live free, others might not live at all.

  Fourteen

  Dublin Bay

  ‘“First comes dignity, Captain!’”

  ‘“First comes discipline,’” screamed the epauleted Russian.

  Not for the first time, I questioned the wisdom of my new career choice. I thought of Shannon, and what she would have made of what I was doing. My eyes tightened and my lips thinned at the reflection.

  So I died, you left the navy, and jumped straight into a shit fight? Well done Sam, that’s just what Isla needs.

  I could hear her as clearly as if she were on the ship with me.

  “Take me to the crew, Captain!”

  I looked on in amazement at the little Dubliner as he squared up to the ship’s skipper. At five-foot-seven, he was dinky in comparison, but this man appeared to know no fear.

  No,” replied the officer, incredulous. “You are not welcome on this ship, you must leave.”

  Even after years in the Marines, the Special Forces, and hauling myself around harbours and oceans, I shared a little of the Captain’s surprise that we had made it onto his bridge. His ship was still at sea, after all. This was not what I had expected.

  Frankly, I’d been reluctant to answer when Charity called with another job. The Dublin airport debacle had left me feeling exposed. Nobody had come looking for me though, and the wrestling match hadn’t made the news or social media. Still, my face was now on record somewhere, and those CCTV images made me want to stay out of Dublin for a while. Then the charity woman mentioned ships, and suddenly, I was interested.

  All I had been told was that a man who dealt with exploited seafarers would meet me at the gates to Dublin Port. I took the bus, and found the bloke sitting in his car, talking on a Bluetooth speakerphone. I knocked the window and he beckoned me into the passenger seat, and then I enjoyed five minutes of his colourful conversation. Basically, he was trying to persuade some foreign bloke to take on his penalty points for speeding on his motorbike. It was a fun listen.

  “If I get any more, I’ll lose my license,” he explained to me. “Yer man won’t care. He’s leaving in a few weeks anyway, back to Poland,” was the only elaboration I got. “Fran,” he said, and leaned over to shake my hand.

  “Sam,” I replied.

  “So, brother, you’ve been with the Brits, have you?”

  Normally this would have put me on notice; so many people in Ireland are inherently hostile to the U.K.’s armed forces. Yet it was immediately obvious that this wee man was taking the piss.

  “Yes,” was all I said, and we settled in, as if we’d known each other forever. He explained the job. A ship full of Filipinos, under a flag of convenience, was heading for the port. It was run by a Russian shipping agency, and Fran had issues with the poor treatment of the ratings, the blue-collar grafters, aboard. I had questions.

  “How do you know about this?”

  “SMS my friend, text message, the wonders of technology.” He held up his phone, and shook it with a roguish grin, before tapping away and reading from the screen.

  “Dear Mr Fran,” he began, “from MV Gallant at anchor in Fort Lauderdale. We due Dublin in six week. Please help. No good on ship. No pay many day. No permitted to leave ship. Many crew Philippines. Not return home in year. Please help us.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Modern slavery brother, but hidden,” he said, dramatically. I liked him from the outset. “Every port has a mission to seafarers, and every mission has a little booklet. And my number, brother, is in the booklet.”

  I knew of the missions, religious organisations designed to cater to the spiritual needs of those in peril on the seas. I’d seen the booklets too, but I’d never read one. “Why your number?” I asked.

  “I’m the rep for the ITF, the International Transport Federation.”

  “A trade union?”

  “Exactly brother, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You are not allowed to organize, being at her Majesty’s Service wha?” He chuckled away.

  We drove into the port, and he waved merrily at scowling stevedores, who obviously knew him. I started to get a sense of why he needed me. “You don’t seem to be too popular around here,” I said.

  “They love me really,” said Fran, his cheery disposition masking a serious determination. “They just get pissed off when I arrest a ship, and their shift runs over.”

  “You can arrest a ship?”

  “I can brother, under maritime law, and that’s what you and me are going to get up to today.”

  That sounded like more fun than trailing hookers out of disease-ridden flats. These were the type of seamen I was used to. As we entered an office, a man who turned out to be the harbour master dropped his head into his hands in despair. “Ah Fran man, not again, I told the wife I’d be home to watch the young one.”

  “Well, comrade, with cooperation and good will towards your fellow human beings, we’ll be out of your way in a jiffy.”

  “What is it Fran?” asked the harbour master.

  “A big shiny red ship is sitting on the edge of Dublin bay. Belize flag, Russian Captain, fifteen Filipinos on board. No pay for two months. No agreement, no right to leave. I want them unionised, and paid, or allowed ashore for repatriation.”

  “Ah look,” the harbourmaster shook his head. “Why today? I’m about to go on me holidays. Could you not have come tomorrow?”

  “I’ll do you a deal,” said Fran. “I’ll not arrest the ship at the quay, if you can get me out there to sort it out. And then, if I can get an agreement and the men paid, your men can unload it and send it on its merry way.”

  “And if there’s no agreement?”

  “Then I’ll arrest it at sea, and you’ll have the dock clear for the next ship that comes along. But what I’m suggesting leaves you with a chance to get home before dinner.”

  The harbour master stared at Fran for a few moments, then got on a radio and told the crew of the pilot boat to free up a seat.

  “Two,” said Fran.

  “Who’s your pal?” asked the Harbourmaster, tipping his head to the side, meaning me.

  “This is a brother in arms,” said Fran, and winked at me.

  Every major port has a pilot. They board incoming cargo and container ships to make sure that captains unfamiliar with the harbour don’t run aground, and snarl up shipping traffic for days. Ports make money on the speed of a turnaround. From the dockers, or stevedores who unload the holds and steel containers, to the customs officers and administrators, there is an urgency to get a ship in and out, as quickly as possible.

  The pilot boat hammered through the waves, rather than over them, and I felt happy to be back on the water. As we neared the ship, a tiny rope ladder was flung over the side, and for the first time I saw concern in the little Dubliner’s eyes. I was in my element. He stood on the foredeck as the pilot boat leapt and plunged, his hands out for balance, as if he was riding a skateboard for the first time.

  As a wave crest neared, I swept out and grabbed the ladder with one arm, and his shoulder with the other, and hefted him onto the first rung. After that he had no choice, and was up and away like a mortar out of a tube. I followed fast and he treated me to a heel on the forehead as we neared the top. On board he was elated, and ready to rumble. A bulky Russian met us at the top, complete with clipboard. “Pilot yes?”

  “Yes, Pilot,” Fran lied. “Take me to the bridge.”

  The Russian complied, and
off we went, up the steep steps, winding through the ship, and eventually into a modern, well-provisioned command room. Fran rather hit the ground running. “Captain, you’re a cunt,” he said, which took me aback, never mind the man to whom it was directed.

  “Who are you?” asked the wide-eyed skipper. Fran introduced himself, and the Captain realised he’d been rumbled.

  “Get off my ship, get off, you have no rights here!” he screamed.

  Obviously, this was not a new thing on cargo vessels, Fran must have pulled this stunt before. “I have every right, as you well know, Captain,” Fran began in his florid, eloquent way.

  He then reeled off some ancient law of the sea. I began to enjoy myself, watching this little rascal’s performance. He was animated, passionate, committed, and enormously funny. “Sixty days at sea, no pay captain! You have one man on board who hasn’t been allowed ashore for one year, Captain. One year!”

  “No!” roared the Russian. “We pay them.”

  “A dollar a day, Captain. Would you work for a dollar a day?”

  “This is what they sign up for,” said the Captain.

  “Well, where are the contracts, Captain?” Fran shouted back, plainly convinced that contracts would not be forthcoming.

  The ding-dong went on for about fifteen minutes, during which time the First Officer came up and, although I have no Russian, basically suggested to the Captain that we ought to be thrown overboard. This, I felt, was part of my role, so I stepped between the arguing men and the First Officer, and adopted an expression which made it clear that he was to back off. Like a dog scolded, he retreated.

  The Captain radioed ashore, and the Harbour Master refused permission to dock until “matters had been resolved.” His second call was to his shipping agency employer, and after much discussion, he agreed to take us to the crew. In the bowels of the ship we came across ten small, frightened Filipinos in jump suits. The Captain stood in the doorway, imposing his presence, until Fran rounded on him. “Fuck off Captain,” he said, “or you will not get to unload this ship all week.”