Dangerous Cargo

by Stewart Clyde

  “What does the CSM say about it?”

  “CSM is fine with it; let’s see what Captain Baldwin says.”

  Captain Baldwin jogged over to call them in.

  “Troop meeting in five minutes,” he said, held up five fingers and turned in the rain to run back inside.

  “Sir, Captain Hunt is going down the rope first,” Jock yelled after him.

  They went in and huddled around.

  The briefing didn’t last long. And, as Captain Baldwin was finishing up, one of the medics went up to each man and handed out small plastic bottles.

  “What the hell is this?” Jock asked.

  “Nerve agent medication,” the medic said.

  The boys all looked at one another.

  “You’re all going to want to take those,” the medic said, “who is the medic in the fire team?”

  Matty raised his hand. The medic handed him a pack of antidote kits.

  “Atropine,” the medic said, “use it if anyone is exposed to a nerve agent.”

  “Right, on that note,” Captain Baldwin said, “Captain Hunt has volunteered to go down the ropes first, anyone got a problem with that?”

  The other lads shook their heads.

  “Get your tablets down your necks. Get some rest. See you in a few hours.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was before dawn and the soldiers waited outside the open cargo bay door of the Chinooks. They stood in single file, dressed in black assault uniforms, with compact assault rifles, and Chemical, Biological and Nuclear (CBRN) respirators strapped to their webbing. The rotors turned, and while they whirred and sped up, the soldiers filed in, glad to get out of the rain. The weather had worsened while they had their heads down in their camp beds trying to rest. There was low cloud. The wind gusted and swayed the trees and blew leaves and twigs across the tarmac. The forecast said it would push the swell to over twenty-feet.

  Stirling was first to board. Jock had agreed to go behind him, out the side of the heavy-lift helicopter. The engines screamed and the rotors thumped fast and methodically and they lifted off. It was a quick trip to the coast, and they would overfly the HMS Sutherland as she made her way to intercept the cargo ship. Stirling felt the altitude drop as they crossed over the ocean. Rain battered the side of the chopper. He could see the the boys in the back of the chopper were hyper, knees bounced, and some had their heads back and chewed gum. Only eyes looked out from beneath the black balaclavas and black night-vision mounted assault helmets. The troops practiced their gas mask drills over and over before they went to sleep. They’d have to remove their helmets and balaclavas to put the masks on. It paid to be smooth and have speed.

  Stirling had a sense of even calm. One thing about himself that he’d learned. No matter the adrenaline, no matter the situation, no matter the intensity of his heartbeat; his hands never shook. He first learned this about himself as a child, the night his parents were killed. He’d escaped from being killed himself, and run to the remote schoolhouse three miles from their ranch, concealed in darkness, and hid there. He’d spent the night outside, alone, crying and furious, and in pain. Though filled with fear and agony, his hands never shook. Not once. He remembered staring at them, and wondered if there was something wrong.

  Now, it was an asset, even with his mind ready to kill or be killed. Men who appeared calm in the face of danger were looked at with a sense of awe by those that followed them. First down the ropes was battle cry. The helicopters’ blades beat like drums of war and immortal words thumped in his ears:

  … when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect … Follow your spirit, and upon this charge; Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

  Out in the blackness, the other helicopters sped along with them, eighty-feet above the waves, a hundred-and-twenty miles an hour over the sloppy, selfish sea. They flew in a staggered-v formation, like a flock of geese. Chinooks in the lead, the attack helicopters flanking with the sniper teams. The Sea King’s brought up the rear. Stirling ran through the movements and motions in his mind, he rehearsed over and over. Nothing mattered; except getting to the deck and securing the area for the men that followed. The loadmaster slapped Stirling on the shoulder and brought him back to the here and now. The loadie held up two closed fists. Stirling patted the man next to him and did the same. The signal went all the way down the line.

  Ten minutes to target.

  Everyone checked their weapons and kit again. And the next man checked the man to his right, and gave a thumbs up. Check and test, check and test, should be the real motto, Stirling thought.

  The loadie hit Stirling with a hard open palm to the shoulder. Two fingers this time.

  Two minutes.

  His breathing shallowed. The intensity increased. Some of the boys leaned forward, like they were going to be sick. Everybody struggled to their feet and stood. They held onto the wire cables that ran down the length of the Chinook. Stirling pulled on the kevlar fast-rope gloves. His face was focussed and deadpan under his balaclava. His eyes were fixed on a point on the floor and they didn’t move, didn’t blink. The loadie opened the side door. Stirling felt the cold wind rush in and sweep under his clothing. It whipped around the hold and dove into every exposed part of their black clad bodies. He clenched his jaw so his teeth wouldn’t chatter. He could see the white crested waves below.

  Let’s fucking do this.

  And then he saw the ship below, rising on the crest of swell. First, the sharp nose of the MV Nisha emerged a hundred feet beneath them and then the rest followed. Stirling looked down and saw the main length of the hull move underneath them like a conveyor. It was long and rolled and tilted menacingly over the swell.

  They over flew the tower block-like bridge and superstructure. It was six stories high and looked like the facade of an apartment building. The pilot turned the Chinook so the side door hovered over the flat section of the roof. The loadie kicked the thick black fast rope out and it tumbled into the cold blackness. The Chinook rocked in the wind and the pilot fought to keep her steady above the rolling turmoil of the ship. The image of himself slipping off the rope and falling backwards to his death below, or swept out to sea, flashed in Stirling’s mind.

  “Get a fucking grip,” he said to himself.

  The loadie grabbed him on the shoulder, gave a thumbs up, and shouted, “Go, go, go!”

  The Chinook jolted. It swayed and lurched suddenly in the heavy gusting winds. The engines screamed and the pilot strained against the stick to keep her level. Stirling reached out for the rope, he felt his body collapse forward, for a moment he was free falling. His hands clutched hard around the rope and his hips pushed forward. He locked his feet and lowered himself. The rope swayed and the helicopter moved above him as ocean spray broke over the hull and washed onto the deck below.

  A bullet ricocheted off the fuselage next to his face. He was dangling out in the wind. The next one passed so close to his head, he felt the heat of the bullet as it hissed past his cheek.

  “Contact! They’re firing at us!” he screamed.

  Nothing he could do, but get down the rope as fast as possible and trust the snipers in the support helicopters. Stirling zipped down the line and saw the muzzle flashes coming from the deck below. He landed surefooted on the roof of the bridge and looked up as the Linx manoeuvred around. He saw a single flash from the sniper’s rifle. The bursts of fire from the deck stopped.

  Stirling ripped the gloves off and ran forward. He took a knee and lifted his weapon, brought it to bear and created a perimeter. He heard thuds and shouts as the others landed on the roof and moved forward to create a protective cordon. The giant cargo carrier lurched and crashed through the heavy swell. He knew, at the same time, the RIBs would be smashing over the twenty-foot swell and getting close to the side of the imposing vessel. Fast roping onto a flat deck wa
s easy in comparison to climbing a ladder on the side of a cargo ship as it rose and fell over building-sized waves. The fire team needed to get to the bridge as fast as possible.

  Each member of the fire team tapped him on the shoulder as they moved past and said, “moving.” Stirling kept overwatch over the level below the roof, he saw the spreadeagled body of a terrorist with an AK-47 lying at its side.

  The night watch was still be on duty, and most of the crew in their bunks, the hostile ones were already active. The element of surprise was their biggest asset. Stirling got up and fell in at the back of the four man fire team. They covered the entrance to the metal ladders. Stirling went first, and charged down the slippery steel stairs. As he reached the bottom a crewman stepped out in front of him, put his hands up and shouted. Stirling drove his elbow hard and sharp into the side of his jaw and he went down. The others chased up behind him. They were choreographed and slick. They covered the entrance door. A single nod. They popped the door open and burst in.

  Five men stood in the ships control room. They were confused and stood and watched as the black masked raiders swept into the room with sub-machine guns at the ready. They put hands up. Their faces showed fear and confusion.

  “Get down! Get on your knees! Get on your knees!” Jock screamed at them as the fire team burst into the bridge. They got down gingerly. They looked tired and terrified, the whites of their eyes were wide, and their hands shook.

  “Where is the Captain?” Stirling asked them.

  “Asleep, in his bunk,” one of them said.

  “Who is in charge right now?”

  The other four pointed to a thin Indian man on his knees next to the ship’s wheel.

  “What is your name?” Stirling asked.

  “I am the Chief Mate Anand,” the man said.

  “Okay, get up, come on. Off your knees. I need you to steer this thing,” Stirling said, and lifted him by the arm pit to the wheel.

  “Keep this heading, do you understand?”

  Anand nodded.

  “Bring her dead slow and to a stop, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “So do it now,” Stirling turned to Jamie and Jock who were using cable ties to cuff the remaining crew on the bridge, while Matty covered them, “Jamie get on the net and send a situation report … bridge secured, vessel slowing to a stop.”

  “Roger,” Jamie said and handed over zip-tie duties to Matty.

  He got on the net, “Charlie-Charlie-One, Alpha-One-Zero. SITREP, over.”

  The comms buzzed through their headsets.

  “Send over,” came the reply.

  “Bridge secure. Five x-rays secured. Vessel slowing to stop, over.”

  “Roger, out.”

  There was a dull thud. Everyone stopped and listened. Stirling rushed out the door and leaned over the railing. He heard the crack-crack-crack of gunshots, and yelling. Stirling stepped back inside.

  “Sounds like there is some action on the decks below, we’re going to help them,” Stirling said. “Right, whatever else happens we have to keep the bridge. It cannot fall into the terrorist’s hands. Can you two handle them?” Stirling gestured to the cable-tied prisoners.

  “Sure,” Matty said.

  “Jock and I are moving to phase three. Once you guys are relieved, come and join us,” Stirling tapped his earpiece.

  “Roger.”

  Chapter Eight

  Stirling and Jock rushed outside and down the metalled ladders. The ship rocked in the swell, and the sound of helicopters whirred overhead, men shouted and the clanging metal hit them like the icy blast of wind. Then boom, an explosion thumped somewhere below deck. Stirling went past a faded red ‘three’ painted on the entrance hatch to the third deck. Smoke bellowed out the heavy steel door. Stirling heard shouts coming from inside the smoky gloom. He half-turned back to Jock. Jock nodded and Stirling brought the butt of his sub-machine gun into the centre of his chest. The sharp beam of torchlight from Stirling’s MP-5 caught the pluming smoke and lit up the floating sediment, and it parted like a curtain in front of them. They swept through the crew’s canteen, quick and silent. One fluorescent tube flickered on the ceiling. There were rows of plastic tables and chairs scattered around.

  A sting caught the back of Stirling’s throat and he felt the burn around his eyes and nose. He knew the feeling very well. He could smell the smoke, and it was laced with the repulsive sweet, sewer taste of chlorine. Someone had thrown a smoke grenade, and Jock said, just as Stirling thought it: “That’s bloody CS gas, boss.”

  “Fuck it,” Stirling said, more to himself than anyone else.

  It crossed his mind to put on his respirator, but it would take time, and they were trained to overcome the recoil in their mind and override the body’s pain, as their eyes burned and their throats closed. It wasn’t nerve agent.

  They heard panicked shouts coming from beyond the opposite door.

  Stirling jerked his head towards it, and Jock moved past him in a crouch and slipped through the door and into the darkness. Stirling turned the corner and went to the right. It was like someone turned the volume up on the shouts. There was a din and competing voices yelled over one another.

  Three balaclava black-clad special forces raiders stood in front of Stirling. In front of them, with his back to Stirling, was a man in a white robe, long flowing black hair, and he held a switch in his right hand. In his left, he had another soldier by the throat. The smoke drifted and wafted out of the doors. It was chaotic.

  The soldier struggled in the terrorist’s grip. The others in his fire team were screaming at the white-robed man: “let him go!”, “drop the switch!”, ”don’t move!”

  The suicide bomber sensed Jock and Stirling behind and half turned. He tried to move his back against the wall and the soldier in his grip resisted and leaned forward. The situation was getting out of control. The white-robed terrorist lifted his right arm and started praying:

  “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”

  Panic. The pitch of the shouting rose and was more frantic.

  “He’s going to do it! He’s going to do it!”

  The soldier in his arms looked at Stirling. Their eyes locked. And Stirling saw him nod. His eyes were wide behind the holes in his balaclava. Stirling felt a calm wash over him like a wave on running up against the beach. He took a deep breath in. The terrorist closed his eyes and looked up to the ceiling. The soldier in his arms struggled frantically.

  “Pull up your socks!” Stirling shouted and took a single shuffle forward to set himself, the soldier lunged forward and opened up a space between him and the suicide bomber. The light from Stirling’s rifle lit up the terrorist’s face. He pressed the trigger.

  Tap.

  The first round hit the terrorist between the eyes. His forehead imploded with the impact and his eyes locked back in his skull. Stirling took another shuffle forward, like a boxer throwing a jab and depressed the trigger.

  Tap-tap.

  The next two rounds slammed into the divot of the terrorists neck, between his collar bones and right above his sternum. Once fired, the hollow-points spread and widened. This transferred the bullet’s energy into the target, and sent a shock wave through the soft tissue. In slow motion it reverberated out like the force of a knockout punch. The soldier broke free and dropped to his knees and touched his throat and coughed violently. Stirling stood over the top of the collapsed body.

  “Merry Christmas, motherfucker,” Stirling said through gritted teeth.

  Jock rushed forward and pinned the terrorist’s thumb and took out the detonation switch.

  “He’s down boss,” Jock said.

  Stirling looked at what was left of the terrorist’s face. The centre mass of his skull was imploded, like the top of a bloody volcano.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” Stirling asked Jock wryly.

  The Glaswegian glanced at him quickly and then laughed.

  “Fuckin’ ‘ell.”

/>   “Come on step back, step back,” one of the other soldiers said and pulled Stirling back gently by the shoulder, “did you just tough talk a dead body?” he asked, “that is going straight in the regiment’s quote book. Who is this?”

  “Contact, wait out,” Stirling heard someone say, and send the contact report to mission headquarters.

  Stirling took in deep breaths through his nose. His nostrils and back of his throat burned and his tear ducts stung with the gas.

  “Right, you,” Stirling said, and four finger Brecon-pointed at one of the other fire team, “get on the net, get EOD down here. Tell them there could be a bomb-makers workshop on this ship. Get zero-alpha to send out a Charlie-Charlie-One, let everyone know.”

  “Roger.”

  “Actions on IED. Let’s get out of here,” Stirling said to the rest of the guys, “seal these doors, get tape on them.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Friendlies! Friendlies!” Stirling heard the shouts coming from outside on the wet, slippery walkway. It was Matty and Jamie warning the trigger happy characters inside that they weren’t a threat.

  “Alright, boss. We’ve been relieved. Special Branch fuzz and Customs guys are coming in and will take charge of the Bridge any second. The ship’s Captain is there in his PJs and cooperating,” Matty said.

  “This was fucking alley,” Jamie said, “about two minutes after the RIB boys scaled the sides, this bastard was overrun with black-suited ninjas,” Jamie pounded the railing with his hand and kicked up drops of water. The wind gusted and whistled around them.

  “What about you boys, anything exciting?” Matty asked.

  Jock looked at Stirling, and the other two followed his gaze.

  “Not really,” Stirling said, and Jock laughed, “let’s go and find the others.”

  Stirling moved past them, and grinned under his balaclava. He heard the other two interrogating Jock. Stirling knew Jock would wind them up, but keep schtum.