Chapter 8 – Friday, October 28th
South China Sea – 03:10 Local Time; Thursday 19:10 UTC
Buffeted by wind and rain, Allan Valdez stood on the cargo ship’s deck and gazed down at the waves, trying not to throw up as the vessel began its next laboured roll. For some reason it felt far less stomach-churning to be outside in the open air, the darkness broken by the shimmering glow of the moon and the lights from the ship’s bridge. It was bright enough for Valdez to see the waves directly below him, and they certainly looked far less intimidating than he’d expected, just an occasional speckle of white amongst the dark-blue of the ocean swell. He could also breathe easier standing here, the cabin a stinking prison of sweat and vomit, four of its six occupants suffering with differing degrees of sea-sickness.
No-one had expected it to be a problem: at 1600 tonnes, the Sierra Leone-registered MV Anaconda was of a similar size to the ferries they were all familiar with, and in four months of working with the Zodiac inflatable, they’d only ever had one bout of sickness between them. Yet it had taken less than twelve hours before Valdez began to feel queasy, another two until he threw up. Sea-sickness wasn’t the best preparation for the task ahead and their roundabout route meant it would be two more days until landfall. A plane flight to the island group’s only airfield would have been a far quicker and less gut-wrenching option, but not ideal when your hand luggage included assault rifles and explosives.
It was a lot to ask of six men, especially with one of them half Valdez’s age and the others still in their mid-twenties. Whatever their age or experience, six was barely enough – but it would have to do. With six Valdez could send a message that would be difficult to ignore; with six he might even persuade the doubters and cowards that it was better stand up to the Chinese invaders than lie down and hide.
Valdez smiled at the thought, knowing that he was making light of the potential difficulties – but there was nothing wrong in daydreaming. What else could he do stuck on a floating metallic box just sixty metres long and ten metres wide?
Strangely, he didn’t even know what official cargo the Anaconda carried. But then, he didn’t actually care. Valdez glanced again at the moon, his thoughts moving a thousand kilometres to the south, praying that those carrying out the next part of McDowell’s grand strategy would do their duty: timing was the key and by now they should be no more than a few kilometres from their target, a bullet in the back far more of a worry than something as trivial as sea-sickness.
The Trust Of The People Page 13
