Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘We need to get as far away from here as we can before we try and start these up,’ he said, studying the beach and the waters around the cargo ships for any activity.

  She picked up her oar again and waited for him to take hold of his. When he was satisfied, he grabbed up his oar. She released the line and they pushed away from the other boat.

  Stratton moved to the front, where he could better control the steerage, and paddled hard. She took her position in the rear again. He aimed the small vessel towards the northern edge of the cove, which initially meant getting closer to the nearest cargo ship but it was the most direct route to the open sea.

  The waves weren’t very powerful within the cove itself and the pair of them managed to move the boat ahead at an easy pace. Stratton kept an eye on the golden spur of sand visible in the darkness on the starboard side that formed the northern edge of the cove’s mouth. It was difficult to make out where it actually ended and every now and then he pushed his oar down as deep as he could in order to check the depth.

  They put their backs into it, as much enthused by the fact they were quickly gaining on the mouth, towards the open sea, as they were by the reality that they were beginning the last major phase of the escape bar finding a rescue ship.

  Stratton’s oar suddenly found the bottom. ‘Left,’ he called out.

  She did her best to compensate while he edged more to the front to bring the nose around.

  The end of the spur was fast coming up.

  ‘Almost there!’ he shouted, aware she must be tiring.

  As they reached the end of the toe of sand, Stratton saw the larger waves beyond it. They were rolling inland from the ocean unchecked and looking heavy.

  ‘Keep it up!’ he called out. ‘We need to break through that.’

  As they came around the end of the toe, the first big wave struck them remorselessly, spray breaking over the bows. The boat seemed to come to a standstill. Stratton increased his effort. The girl was tiring but she fought on, encouraged by the consequences of failure.

  The next wave sets came at them relentlessly, raising up the bows each time as Stratton heaved against them, the nose then dropping down into the trough with a thump. His eyes darted to the finger of sand to gauge their progress. To his horror they were not only failing to make any headway, they were going backwards.

  He couldn’t put any more effort into it than he was already doing. And if that was the case for him, for her it had to be worse. They would only get weaker while the ocean’s energy remained boundless. They had paddled into the main flow of the swell and at the rate they were going they would end up on the beach. Which was quickly coming up behind them. If that happened, they would get hammered in the surf. They would probably capsize. The brief dream was fast turning back into the nightmare.

  There was nothing more for it. ‘I’m starting the engines!’ he shouted. ‘Keep pulling all you can!’

  She glanced at him between strokes. Suffering. Exhausted.

  He dumped his paddle on the deck and hurried to the engines. She struggled to give him those precious extra seconds he might need, the thought of landing back on that beach more than enough to inspire her. She fought against the awesome power of the waves, putting all she could muster behind each stroke. Her life would be better spent dying of exhaustion trying to escape than getting captured again.

  Stratton tilted both engines so that the propellers dropped into the water and squeezed the bubble valves on the fuel tubes attached to fill the carburettor chambers. When the bubble valves had hardened, indicating the fuel was all the way through the lines, he grabbed one of the starter cords and pushed the gear lever into neutral.

  When he had planned it, he would be far out to sea before he started the engines. That advantage had evaporated. He had to get at least one of them going now or they were screwed. Stratton knew a bit about outboards, as he should have done being in the SBS. Both engines looked like they had recently been used, which helped his confidence, but not by a great deal. They were old and there was probably no great abundance of spare parts for when they went wrong. Somali fishermen often engineered the most extraordinary techniques for maintaining their engines, many of which would defy the understanding of those who had designed and built them. He prayed that no such method or technique was required to get either of this pair going.

  He took a firm grip of the toggle and, as a large swell struck the boat, yanked it. The engine clattered as its working parts ground against each other but it didn’t fire. No indication at all that an internal combustion of any kind had taken place.

  The girl looked between him and the engine as she continued to row as hard as she could, snatching a glance at the sandy beach behind her.

  The starter return spring was obviously broken and Stratton quickly ripped the cowling away to expose the guts of the motor. He spun the starter cable housing around until the toggle was all the way home and yanked hard on it again. The motor sputtered a little before dying. It was a spark of life, like a tiny glowing ember, though not enough. It showed a potential for life. But that was not enough.

  ‘Stratton,’ she called out, a warning in her voice.

  He could clearly hear the waves breaking on the beach. If they got caught in the surf without the engines, it would be over. ‘I know,’ he said. A wave broke over the front of the boat, barging it brutally closer to the shore. One more like that would see them in the surf and overturned.

  Stratton rewound the starter head and yanked it hard again. The engine burst into life. He grabbed the throttle and twisted it fully, aware that such a violent increase in power when it was so cold might stall it. But he had no choice. Without a burst of power right then, it would all be over for them. The engine responded and revved loudly without the cowling to smother some of the sound. Smoke spewed from it. He slammed it into gear and the revs dropped as the prop shaft clunked heavily. The propeller engaged and spun in the water.

  The boat lunged forward. Stratton turned it sharply to face the next oncoming wave, which was almost upon them. They rose up over it as it slammed into the bottom of the hull. The nose dropped down into the trough and the propeller came out of the water for a moment, screaming shrilly as its revs increased.

  The boat levelled off and accelerated away from the beach. Stratton’s thoughts immediately went to the cargo ships and the beach. The Somalis had to have heard the noise. They would guess who it was. It was unlikely any fishermen were out at sea, certainly not at night in this weather. He could imagine fighters leaping up and sprinting down the beach.

  ‘Take it!’ Stratton shouted.

  The girl dropped the paddle and hurried to obey. She grabbed hold of Stratton’s hand that was gripping the throttle and he released it to allow her to take over.

  ‘Straight out!’ he shouted as he went for the second engine. One would be enough to get them out to sea but they would need both to stand a chance of escaping any pursuit.

  She craned ahead, having to stand to see around the cabin and beyond the side of the gunwales that went up in the bows. Straight out to sea was simple enough but she knew she had to be careful not to hit another boat or the toe of sand on the end of the spur that formed the northern mouth of the cove.

  Stratton yanked the starter cable on the second engine and, as with the first, it refused to start. He cursed the machine but at least the return spring worked and the toggle shot back against the top of the engine. He pulled it hard again. Nothing.

  He glanced behind to see their progress. She was keeping the nose in the right direction. It was hard to tell if there was any activity around the cargo ships.

  A powerful searchlight suddenly shone from one of the bridge wings of the nearest bulker. The end of the beam darted over the surface of the water like a desperate effort to find them. On the beach, flashlights flickered in the hands of men running hard along it.

  Stratton got back to the task in hand and yanked the starter cable. This time the engine gave a teaser of
a cough.

  The sound of gunfire came from somewhere. He wasn’t overly concerned though. The Somalis would have difficulty seeing the boat well enough to aim a shot. That was until the searchlight shot over them and came quickly back to illuminate the boat and the pair of them in it.

  Stratton pulled the starter cord again and the engine came to life. He turned the throttle and the added thrust shunted the boat vigorously forward and out of the light.

  Stratton stood beside the girl, a head taller than her. Together they looked ahead as they powered the boat over the heavy swell and out to sea. The light caught them again and since there was little or nothing Stratton could do about it, he ignored it. With the increasing distance and all the bobbing about it would be a lucky shot to hit them from either the vessels or the beach. And just as he finished that thought, a bullet slammed through the bridge breaking a window. Stratton and the girl ducked down a little automatically.

  As they left the mouth of the cove and headed properly out to sea, Stratton looked back at the cargo vessels. His main concern at that point was any pursuit by the pirates. Their speedboats were much quicker than the little fishing boat. But the further Stratton could get into the darkness the more difficult it would be for the pirates to find them.

  The firing appeared to have stopped although it was hard to tell being so close to a couple of screaming engines. He replaced the cowling to reduce the noise and fiddled with the simple throttle friction device to get them to hold the engine at high revs. The wooden pole lashed to both steering arms that acted as a coordinator worked fine and Stratton let go to allow the girl to steer both engines by controlling only the one.

  He made a quick inspection of the fuel lines and containers and lashed down the ones that were loose using bits of the miles of fishing line scattered around the deck.

  Then he went back to the lights to their rear. He looked at them for about a minute. They were growing increasingly distant. He held the side of the cabin to steady himself, the wind whipping at his clothes. He could see nothing that indicated any kind of follow-up. No other lights. The girl held the tiller firmly, her hair straight out behind her.

  The boat cut through the swell nicely. Stratton looked ahead. The edge of the dark clouds that hung low above them wasn’t far away and he could see clearer sky beyond it.

  He looked at the girl. She glanced at him and allowed herself a semblance of a smile. Like she was grateful but also vaguely apologetic.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ he said, crossing to her.

  She was relieved to hand the tiller over to him. She felt exhausted. In the sea breeze, after the chilly swim, she could feel the cold working its way into her.

  ‘Go inside,’ he said.

  She felt reluctant to take refuge by herself at first. But he was standing there, so strong and dominant. Like an automaton. A master in control. For a moment she felt like a girl, protected by her man, although he wasn’t hers. It was a momentary feeling of partnership and it felt good, despite everything else.

  She opened the small cabin door and sat on the floor inside.

  ‘I saw some clothes bundled in there. You should find something to put on,’ he shouted.

  He watched her find them, pull on a large sweater. She needed to take care of herself, that was for sure. In her state he knew she could quite easily go down with hypothermia. But something had started to bug him. The girl was tenacious, gutsy, but she was also naive, vastly inexperienced for what she was doing. He asked himself why the Chinese Secret Service had selected her. Because if he hadn’t been with her, he doubted she would have escaped. She would most likely already be dead. Whichever, she would certainly be in no state to continue the task she had been given.

  He suspected the Chinese system probably had the same problems as his own, as many parallel Western ones. The so-called special operations organisations were never as good as they were cracked up to be. Too flawed, too many departments populated by fools. Too many mistakes, made all the time. Too much holding it together and hoping for the result in the end.

  If they got out of this, she would return to her outfit a hugely more experienced operative. But he couldn’t help feeling critical of her basic planning. Her bosses had to be heartless bastards.

  He glanced back once again. The ships and the town beyond had become a single glow, the individual lights hard to pick out.

  13

  The small fishing boat eventually emerged from beneath the dark clouds and the stars appeared above them. Stratton searched for a constellation he knew. Any one of Orion’s Belt, Cassiopeia or the Plough would lead him to the North Star, ultimately what he was looking for. He found the Plough, the end of it pointing directly at the North Star shining brightly in a space of its own. He hadn’t been far off course and made an adjustment to put the star above the point of the bows. The vastness of the night sky was always humbling, especially in the wild and far from civilisation. The stars seemed brighter and more abundant.

  For a moment, as he stared up at them, he forgot all his troubles.

  He looked behind them again and the glow from the pirate town and its cargo ships had disappeared completely beyond the horizon. He looked ahead at the black sea and a great absence. He couldn’t see a single light in any direction. Few ships would sail within a hundred miles of the Somali coast any more. And many of those that did preferred to scorn navigation lights in favour of remaining invisible to the evil eyes of the sea hunters.

  The girl, who had put on several extra layers of dirty clothing to keep out the chilly night air, lay curled up in a ball, halfway inside the cabin, her head resting on a bundle of clothes, her eyes closed. Fast asleep.

  Stratton felt good having slept during the day. He was hungry but ignored it. He had enough energy to keep going for days without food. It hadn’t been the first time he’d had to fast on an operation.

  The longer he stayed in the business, he knew the greater the chances were of experiencing a disaster he wouldn’t survive. Stratton had often been lucky and that wasn’t a good thing to rely on. He wondered how often Hopper thought he had been lucky in the past. It could just as easily have been Stratton’s fate. The regrets piled up in his head. Leaving without Hopper. Not being able to kill Sabarak. The lingering doubt he had about Hopper and about whether he had succeeded in killing his own partner. The possibility that the man could be experiencing a living hell at that moment. Guilt flooded through Stratton once again and any feeling of relief he had of escaping that foul country withered.

  He would have to report everything to SBS operations, exactly how it had happened. That would include an admission of his complete failure in regard to Hopper’s safety, one that led to the man’s death ultimately. If Stratton hadn’t killed him, those bastards would have. But operational reports weren’t forums for outpourings of personal blame and emotions. London wouldn’t want to hear all of that tattle. That could come later if the operative wanted to reveal it. He could hear his boss in Poole telling him to go and get drunk, get it off his chest and get ready for the next job. If he really wanted one, they could provide him with a shrink or therapist. They would also watch him closely, concerned about any emotional baggage interfering with the job. If it did, he would be out.

  Stratton thought about how he used to be. When he was young and full of piss and vinegar, it had been a simple process to fob off the deaths of colleagues. You accepted that it was all a part of the risk of the job. And if anyone got uptight about that, they should never have joined up. He recognised the sentiments of exuberant, carefree and ambitious youth, but also those of the mandarins at the top who ran everything. They could be even more ruthless. They had to be. Few of them had done anything more dangerous than run a desk or an ops room. Some had been exposed to the level of field operations Stratton had, but not many.

  The more time Stratton spent in the field, the more operatives he knew personally died or ended up in wheelchairs, and the deeper the psychological wounds that cut into him. And
not all of them healed. Not fully. The kind of wounds you never got rid of.

  Like Hopper would be.

  Stratton felt a chill run through him. He looked up at the North Star and made another slight adjustment of the tiller. Satisfied he was on course, he tied off the tiller.

  He went to the cabin and reached over the girl to search through the bag of clothes, found a thick old sweater and pulled it on. The elbows had gone and it had a large hole on one side, but otherwise it would help keep out the night air.

  He stepped out of the wheelhouse and looked behind them again. He couldn’t help it. But until the pair of them were aboard a vessel and heading for civilisation he would always be looking over his shoulder. The edge of the sea had been black as pitch all around them for hours. He looked back again and something registered in his mind. Something insignificant to the point of being non-existent but he couldn’t look away. The black sea met the lighter sky and the only light came from the stars. He thought maybe he had seen one shoot down past the horizon.

  After a long hard look, he was about to face the front when he saw a tiny speck of light appear for less than a second. So faint that he still wasn’t sure if he had actually seen anything.

  He stared, suspecting his eyes of playing tricks on him. His mind began to run at the possibilities. If a vessel, it could have come from only one source: the pirate town. It was directly behind them. It could be from nowhere else.

  The light appeared again. This time for a moment longer. It was real. It was a light. He hadn’t imagined it. It had to be a boat of some kind.

  He realised what it had to be, following directly in their track, and how it was doing it. It had to be the pirate mother ship. It didn’t need daylight to see them. It had radar.

  He felt a flush of fear run through him then he brought it under control. The implications were clear enough. Which amounted to nothing more complicated than death if they were caught again. Lotto had discarded the girl once and would not even bring her back to the town this time. And if the master wasn’t on board, those would undoubtedly be his orders. Stratton doubted the girl would let herself be taken again only to go through the ordeal of a gang rape before being killed. As for him? Lotto had threatened to amputate his feet and Stratton didn’t doubt for a second that the leader would do a lot worse this time. He wouldn’t see land again if the ship got them.