The Ocean Dove

by Carlos Luxul

  As he shifted his weight, the side of the man’s head banged into his cheek. With a lunge, Dan opened his mouth wide and bit down, his teeth clamping on something solid. Locking it in the side of his mouth, he heaved up with his legs, shaking his head like a dog with a rat.

  Dan spat out an inch of bloody flesh and tissue as the man staggered back, bellowing in pain and fury. A few paces separated them; enraged eyes stared at him. The end of the man’s nose was torn clean away, a torrent of blood running into his mouth, down his chin and splattering up from the hard ground. He exhaled a shower of crimson droplets, his chest heaving as he drew breath, readying himself.

  There was a haunting emptiness in Dan’s mind. All that remained was adrenaline and an instinct that he had one or maybe two seconds before his opponent closed in to finish it, to finish him. He saw the tension build in the powerful body in front of him until it froze with a jolt.

  A puff of concrete dust leapt at the man’s feet, followed by another that ricocheted with a whine and a sharp ding as it buried itself in something metal. The man stared down with a start. It shocked Dan too, his heart pounding, and it shocked his brain into motion. He tried to think. Someone was shooting and it couldn’t be coming from the Ocean Dove. A third shot crashed into the concrete an inch from the man’s boot.

  In the blink of an eye the man turned and disappeared behind a stack of packing cases. Dan lurched forward, his eyes darting wildly. The assailant was nowhere to be seen. Taking deep breaths he tried to compose himself, running his hands over his sweating face. He glanced down – his palms streaked red. There was the foul taste of bile rising in his throat, mixed with blood. Come on, he urged, slamming the flat of his hand down on a crate. Bergen! He shook his head, spat, and ducked back into container alley.

  Bergen was conscious, propped up against the wall of steel.

  ‘You okay?’ Dan said, crouching at his side.

  Bergen wheezed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You got hit with a pipe.’

  Bergen lifted his head slowly. ‘You don’t look too clever.’

  ‘I met your pipe man,’ Dan said, running his eyes over him and feeling for the pulse in his neck. He looked down into his eyes, checking the haze was starting to clear. ‘Back in a moment.’

  A few steps away at the end of the line of containers, he edged his head out. ‘Shit!’

  The Ocean Dove had slipped from the berth and was turning midstream, pointing its bows downriver. He looked up sharply as two shadows swept across the terminal, whipping up a biting cloud of dust. Closing his eyes for a moment, he heard Bergen’s voice. ‘Apaches!’

  The Ocean Dove was broadside to the helicopters when they raked it with 30mm cannon rounds. Dan clenched his fists as steel tore from the Ocean Dove’s superstructure, the drone of high-powered engines fading as the Apaches banked downriver, replaced by the bark of automatic weapons from the ship, blazing away from the wings and deck.

  ~

  Mubarak had sent a crewman to the bows to cut the mooring lines. Bolt cutters were already in position. With no linesmen on the shore or time to operate the winches, a quick cut was all that had been needed. With a squirt from the thruster, the bows had swung out as the engine speed rose. On the main deck, Snoop and Tariq poured fire into the oncoming helicopters. Cookie was at their side, one leg knelt down, his gun barrel resting on rags slung over the rail.

  ‘Where’s Choukri!’ Mubarak yelled from the bridge. ‘We need the sniper rifle on the pilots!’

  Snoop’s head snapped round as he changed an ammunition drum on the wings.

  ‘Isn’t he with you?’

  ‘He went to find Assam on the terminal, and then cut the stern lines,’ Mubarak shouted. ‘He’s here somewhere.’ He grabbed his walkie-talkie again. ‘Choukri! Choukri!’

  Thirty-two

  Dan looked across the terminal. It seemed clear, but he slipped the safety catch from the Kalashnikov just in case.

  ‘I’m just going to check,’ he said, glancing down to Bergen.

  The Apache gunships were ducking behind the smouldering pillars of the Thames Barrier.

  Zeroing the missiles, he thought.

  In a synchronised movement both helicopters emerged from behind the pillars, hovering just above the river, before launching laser-guided Hellfire missiles. Four slammed into the accommodation block and four into the bows at the waterline. The Apache on the north shore swung up and veered away, skirting through smoke, heading upriver and trapping the Ocean Dove in a pincer move. Another four missiles skimmed upriver. The ship lurched sideways, the second Apache lining itself up behind, its missiles smashing low into the stern at the rudder and steering gear. More erupted in the back of the accommodation block. It was difficult to gauge what was happening as smoke and flames shot out through shattered steelwork, the ship drifting towards the south bank, its bow dropping.

  In unison, the helicopters rose and closed the gap from both ends, raking the accommodation and walkways with a stream of cannon fire.

  Dan could see the ship had lost steering and power, but there could still be men alive, below decks. They would be armed, perhaps rigging the ship with booby traps or explosives to scuttle it. The bow was grounded at an angle in the shoreline mud. The tide was turning, running out, picking up pace midstream and forcing the stern towards the shore, holding it fast. The ship was wedged, its superstructure smoking, blackened by fire, pockmarked with jagged holes.

  ‘Fuck it!’ he spat, punching a packing crate. ‘Why am I here? I need to be there!’

  He made his way back to check on Bergen, who was sitting up now.

  ‘Stay here. Stay quiet,’ Dan said, putting the gun down at his side. ‘I’ve got to get a closer look.’

  Bergen nudged him and flicked his eyes skyward. ‘F-16s! Yanks. Where’s the bastard RAF?’

  Picking his way through rows of cargo, Dan crawled to a mound of earth at the side of the terminal. The ship was about five hundred metres downriver. There was no sign of activity on board. Above him, the sky was filling with the thunderous sound of criss-crossing jets bouncing from bank to bank. More helicopters had appeared, some of them civilian looking. One of the Apaches was holding station above the Ocean Dove. The other was herding random helicopters away, probably news crews, he thought, and the Apache above the ship seemed in no hurry to go any nearer. It could be running thermal imaging or waiting for backup.

  The feel of steel on the back of his neck froze him to the spot. It was replaced in an instant by a boot, stamping down and grinding his face into the ground as hands wrenched his arms behind his back. Another hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled him up by the hair.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ a black balaclava with a Glaswegian accent spat.

  ‘Dan Brooks. MI5,’ he spluttered, his mouth filled with dirt, the taste of blood on his lips.

  ‘We heard about you on the way up. That bald cunt back there with you?’

  They let go and stood back, their guns trained on him. Dan got to his feet, wiping dirt from his eyes and spitting blood and grit. ‘Why? What have you done to him?’

  The shoulders below the balaclava shrugged.

  Bergen was slumped with his back to a container, his eyes unfocused. Blood was running down the side of his head. It was a fresh wound.

  Crouching down, Dan lifted Bergen’s chin.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ one of the men said.

  Dan turned and glared. ‘This bald cunt’s got concussion and thirty minutes ago this bald cunt was inspecting power lines in his helicopter. He’s been shot down by terrorists, beaten with a steel pipe and now he’s had a good shoeing from the SAS – so call for a fucking medevac!’

  The Scottish balaclava turned to another balaclava. ‘Make the call.’

  ‘And stay with him and secure the area,’ Dan added. ‘And get me on that ship, now!’

  ~

  Dan ran back across the terminal to the main gate with six SAS men.

  ‘What do
I call you – Jock?’ he said.

  ‘Every other cunt does.’

  At the gate they turned east along the road and then down a side street towards the river. There was a small wharf for launches at the head of it and, a stone’s throw away, the Ocean Dove.

  ‘What’s the situation?’ Dan said, looking upriver to the bows, where ropes were hanging down to the shallow water.

  ‘My lads are on it, working their way through. They’re all dead so far,’ Jock said, breaking away and speaking into his mouthpiece. ‘That’s the all-clear. Eleven dead, one just alive,’ he added.

  ‘Fourteen!’ Dan said, remembering the crew list from the reports Lars had sent him. It was the standard figure for a ship of its type anyway, and the same as his Astrid. ‘There’s fourteen crew. One dead on the terminal, so there has to be thirteen on the ship. And make sure the one who’s just alive stays alive. We need him.’

  Jock went back to his mouthpiece, issuing orders for another sweep. The men on board were adamant they had accounted for everyone, but they started again.

  ‘And what about up there,’ Dan said, looking west. ‘In London?’

  Jock blew his cheeks out. ‘It looked like fucking hell when we flew over. I dunno,’ he added, shaking his head.

  ‘Is anything working? I’ve got to speak to my people.’

  ‘It’s all fucked. That’s what we heard. Couldn’t get jack out of no one on the way up. No sit-rep, nothing. Never seen nothing like it.’

  Dan contemplated the prospect of an SAS man never having seen anything like it. After a while, he broke the silence. ‘I left my wife and daughter on the M11.’

  Jock turned to him, the cold blue eyes warming a little. ‘Your pal. He’ll be all right.’

  ‘He’s not my pal. I found him and his helicopter by the side of the road. He’s one of yours, army, I don’t know what, but a helicopter pilot. I was navy,’ he added.

  ‘Fucking matelot ponce! Should have known.’ Jock laughed. ‘Look, I’ll have comms set up in a few minutes. See that blue door there.’

  ‘Can you patch me through to Thames House?’

  ‘Sure. If they’re up and running.’

  They waited. Jock’s mates were on the Ocean Dove. Planes and helicopters swept over the river – RAF, army, navy, even an American heavy transport. The Apaches had backed off and disappeared from view. High above was what appeared to be a cordon of helicopters, a circle of dots a thousand feet up, holding position, keeping prying eyes away.

  Time was precious. Before long they would be swamped by Special Branch, police, and every imaginable agency. Getting on the Ocean Dove before the rush was paramount.

  He glanced at his watch. It was one o’clock. And Julie. What about her? God. There was no signal on his phone. He showed it to Jock.

  ‘I think it’s working in some places, but not around here. Need to go out a bit further.’

  He was just about to ask if the comms behind the blue door could patch him through to a mobile phone on the M11 when Jock turned to him.

  ‘Eleven crew dead. One alive. And there’s one more, some customs guy. There was ID in his pockets.’

  A rope ladder unfurled over the bow. Dan waded out, the water up to his waist, his feet squelching in mud that was doing its best to suck the shoes from his feet.

  He swung over the rail to the walkway. A pair of bolt cutters were lying on the deck at the side of a mooring winch. A short length of rope was hanging from the drum.

  ‘Clean cut,’ he said, picking the end up and inspecting it. ‘No time to wind, just cut.’

  The passageway along the side of the hatch was littered with spent cartridges. Cannon rounds from the Apaches had mangled the rail and hatch walls. At the head, by the entrance to the stairs, was a body in yellow overalls. It lay face up, staring. Dan crouched down and ran his eyes over the man. There was no insignia but his sleeves were rolled up over burly forearms, the back of his hands and wrists pockmarked with burns and scar tissue.

  ‘The cook,’ he said.

  ‘Aye?’

  He knelt down and took a picture on his phone before moving on to the accommodation block.

  The bridge had taken five missiles and was barely recognisable, blackened and smouldering, strewn with shattered glass, gaping holes in steel, the console blown half away, the air filled with the bitter smell of explosives and burning. Three bodies lay on the floor, their uniforms scorched, torn and bloodstained. There was just enough remaining of their insignia to identify rank and function.

  Two balaclavas were at the side of one of the bodies, whose head was on the lap of another man, cradled in his lifeless hands.

  ‘The second officer,’ Dan said, looking into a pair of limpid eyes that were staring up at him. Soft lips parted in gasps, blowing weak little bubbles of blood and saliva. His shirt was in tatters, his chest torn open.

  ‘Looks like a fucking choirboy,’ a balaclava said. ‘Heart’s still going, you see? And he keeps saying something.’

  Dan knelt and put an ear close to his mouth. ‘Shoe, shewk, shoot, shootie?’ he repeated, his eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Dunno. Can’t make it out,’ the balaclava said.

  Underneath him was an older man, unrecognisable, with one side of his head blown away. The contrast was startling as Dan put his foot into the raw and bloody mess and eased him over, revealing an untouched side, a cultured face with an almost serene expression.

  ‘The captain. Mubarak maybe, but I’ve never seen his photo.’

  ‘And this one?’ Jock said, looking questioningly at a Sentinel Security uniform and easing a finger away from the trigger of a Kalashnikov.

  One of his colleagues shrugged. ‘He was blasting away. So I had to slot the cunt.’

  ‘There’s Sentinel signs at the gatehouse,’ Dan said.

  ‘Aye, I saw ’em,’ Jock said, looking to one of his men. ‘Check it out.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dan said, crouching again. It’s true, he thought, looking down at a face that wouldn’t have been out of place next to an altar. ‘This choirboy’s got to live. Can your guys handle it?’

  ‘Aye, and the medics are here in two minutes.’

  Dan took pictures, close-ups of their faces, before stepping out to the wings. There was a body in yellow overalls in a pool of spent cartridges. The overalls were open to the waist over a Snoop Dogg T-shirt.

  They made a search of the ship, accounting for all the bodies, photographing them, noting rank and position. There were three in the engine room: the chief engineer, second engineer and one more – a motorman or oiler. One was on the port-side stairs, one by the forecastle and others in random places, but no short fat guy in Gucci and Armani with a chunky Rolex on his wrist. Dan was not surprised, but was still slightly disappointed.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ he said, standing very still in the hold, his eyes darting along the precision line of guns, the carousels, the cable feeds and walkways. ‘Look at the engineering, these shell racks, like automatic feeds. Look at the scale of it, the work that’s gone into it.’

  At the end of the hold, a little fold-down table with a laptop on it caught his attention, as did the impatient shuffling of feet next to him.

  ‘Here, give me a hand,’ he said, pulling his shirt over his head and using it as a glove on the power lead. ‘Lever the plug with your knife.’

  Jock slipped a blade behind the plug and teased it out. Dan closed the laptop, slipping it between the folds of his shirt.

  At the stern of the ship, behind the accommodation block, were the aft mooring winches. The starboard ones were all stowed. One on the port side was paid out over the side of the ship, the rope hanging loosely in its guides, the end dangling in the river. He pulled the rope up and looked around.

  ‘Clean cut again,’ he said. ‘But no bolt cutters … Now the guy who was supposed to cut the line here, like the one at the bow, could have shinned down it to the river and cut it there, and …’


  Jock leant over the rail, his pale eyes scanning the banks.

  ‘How long does an aqualung last?’ Dan said.

  ‘An hour, if you stretch it.’

  ‘So he’s got a bag, an air tank, flippers, mask.’

  ‘Aye, maybe. But could have been stashed down there already.’

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ Dan said. ‘When it was leaving, I couldn’t see the stern from where I was on the terminal. So he swims at three miles an hour with three knots of current. That’s six miles. If he’d landed at Moritz we’d have seen him, right? Could be on either bank. Could still be in the water …’

  ‘Could be fucking anywhere.’

  ‘And we haven’t found the chief officer, the mate. Has to be him. Fuck it,’ Dan said, realising that of all the dead bodies he’d photographed, not one of them had the end of their nose missing.

  ‘And he’s got a nose wound – a bad nose wound …’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad. I bit it off.’

  An eyebrow lifted, but no comment was made. Jock spoke only into his mouthpiece, telling his people to spread the word quickly and start a sweep search.

  ‘And why just him?’ Dan said.

  ‘Rat deserting the ship?’

  ‘Not that. There has to be more. But what’s so special about just him?’

  Back in the accommodation block, Dan looked up and down what had once been the corridor in the crew quarters. The dividing walls had been blown away, the panels charred, remnants of belongings scattered. By a process of elimination he was pretty sure he was standing in what had been the mate’s cabin. The bed tipped over by the remains of a dividing wall had to be his.

  He righted the bed and stripped the sheet carefully, starting at the bottom, folding it in on itself, following the same process with the pillowcase. When he got up, Jock was standing to one side, looking on.