The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  He hurried to their cabin, intending to tell them his plan, but Hasim was already there, waiting for the guards to unlock the door. Shit! He’d have to come back later. He started to leave, but Hasim’s angry roar made him hurry back again. A quick glance inside the cabin told him exactly why Hasim had shouted: the porthole was open and Joshi had gone.

  Sarah gazed at Hasim and Yablokov in dismay. No! It was five in the morning, for God’s sake. Why were they up at such an hour? Then she frowned as the first mate planted a heavy hand in the middle of Hasim’s back and firmly propelled him inside the cabin, before turning to say something to the guards. He stepped inside quickly, and shut the door behind him.

  ‘Get them,’ she hissed urgently, preferring to take the situation into her own hands than wait for the first mate to explain his curious behaviour.

  She dived at Hasim, managing to grab him around the neck only because he was too startled by Yablokov’s shove to duck out of her way. She shoved a fork to his throat to keep him still. Quick on the uptake, Mortimer seized Yablokov. The first mate didn’t struggle.

  ‘Please,’ he said quickly in English. ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ sneered Sarah, indicating that Graham was to help her subdue Hasim, who was continuing to thrash about. The Scot did so reluctantly.

  ‘I told the guards to leave us,’ Yablokov insisted. ‘Look outside if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ said Sarah. ‘And have them rush in with their guns?’

  Hasim’s face had gone from shock to contempt. ‘Traitor,’ he spat in Russian. ‘I should’ve killed you when I got rid of that prying Nikos.’

  Yablokov ignored him. ‘I’m dying,’ he told Sarah. ‘Radiation sickness.’ The scientists exchanged a quick glance, but didn’t order him to shut up, so he continued. ‘Radioactive waste in barrels of concrete, but the seals broke because the Southern Exploring Company didn’t load them properly.’

  ‘You got what you deserve,’ spat Hasim, still in Russian. ‘Treacherous scum! Now get the guards back or I’ll personally make sure your family—’

  ‘He’s been trying to poison you,’ Yablokov interrupted. Hasim’s threats were irrelevant, because he wasn’t going to leave the cabin alive – if Sarah didn’t kill him with her fork, Yablokov would do it with the knife Hasim carried in his belt. ‘The beer.’

  ‘We know,’ said Mortimer shortly. ‘Sarah – leave Hasim to Graham and go. Now!’

  ‘Yes, go – you won’t get far,’ taunted Hasim in English.

  Sarah didn’t move. ‘Radioactive waste … is that what you’ve been dumping? For God’s sake, why? Why here? The penguins and seals …’

  Yablokov felt a stab of shame. She was right, of course – inert phosphorus was one thing, but barrels spewing radiation was another altogether.

  ‘I know why,’ said Mortimer.

  He glanced at the door, not sure they could believe that the guards weren’t there. He indicated the window with his eyes, imploring Sarah to go before it was too late. Yet he could see why she was unwilling to let go of Hasim – Graham’s hold on him was very tenuous.

  ‘Why?’ asked Yablokov, more willing to believe what the scientists said than to trust anything coming from the glowering, spitting Hasim.

  ‘Because it has to go where currents won’t carry any leakage to places it can be detected,’ explained Mortimer. ‘There’s a technique called isotope analysis, which can identify exactly where sources of radioactivity come from. Doubtless your Southern Exploring Company deals with some highly dubious regimes and organisations – ones that don’t want anyone to know they have nuclear capability.’

  It sounded plausible to Yablokov, but it was no time to be discussing such matters.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I can get you a good boat and supplies. I can send a message to your base as well – tell them you need help. It’s too late for us, but you can tell everyone about the Southern Exploring Company – finish them for good.’

  With a howl of rage, Hasim threw off Sarah – Graham started back of his own accord – and managed to draw his knife. Mortimer was the closest, so he lunged at him first. It would have been the end of the portly glaciologist had Yablokov not acted. He twisted, putting himself between blade and target. He felt a solid thump in his middle.

  At first, he thought the wound was superficial, but then the room tipped, and he found himself on the floor. He heard the rasp of his own breathing and a blur of voices. Beneath him was a spreading stain of red. His senses returned gradually, along with a deep, aching pain that came with an awareness of his life ebbing away. Still, it was a cleaner fate than the one that faced his crew.

  He looked up to see that Sarah and Mortimer had overpowered Hasim again in the interim – he lay on the floor, pinned down by Mortimer’s considerable weight and with his own hat stuffed in his mouth. Sarah fumbled in her pocket and withdrew a bottle and a syringe. She quickly drew all the clear liquid into the needle and plunged it into Hasim’s neck. Unable to howl, he gave a muffled snarl of anger.

  ‘That’s the stuff Andrew uses to sedate seals,’ said Mortimer. ‘And you’ve just given him enough to drop an elephant. He’ll die – and so will we unless we get out of here fast.’

  Yablokov was gratified to see Hasim’s eyes grow wide with terror. The captain’s adviser began to writhe, although whether it was in an effort to escape or as a result of the drug was difficult to tell. Meanwhile, Graham had not taken his eyes off Yablokov.

  ‘He saved you, Geoff,’ he whispered. ‘He took the blade intended for you.’

  ‘He probably did it by accident,’ said Sarah dispassionately.

  Yablokov fumbled in his pocket for the sheaf of printed emails he had taken from Hasim’s cabin, along with the documents detailing the real nature of the cargo.

  ‘Take these. Show them to everyone.’

  Mortimer accepted them warily and Yablokov sagged in relief. The geologist would see the Southern Exploring Company pay for its dirty business. It wouldn’t help his family, of course, but …

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Sarah, pulling Mortimer away. ‘Now come on!’

  Mortimer stowed the papers inside his shirt and aimed for the window, where Sarah and Graham were obliged to help him wriggle through a hole that was not nearly big enough.

  ‘He’s stuck,’ gulped Graham in alarm. ‘We should’ve gone first.’

  ‘We couldn’t,’ panted Sarah, shoving with all her might. ‘He’d never have got out on his own.’

  ‘So we die, just because he’s fat?’ demanded Graham. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘None of this is fair,’ retorted Sarah. ‘And it wouldn’t have happened if someone hadn’t collaborated.’ She glared at him. ‘Now push, you little shit.’

  ‘I had to tell Hasim what he wanted to know,’ snapped Graham defensively. ‘He would’ve killed me if I’d given him another unbelievable krill report.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the krill,’ said Sarah coldly. ‘I’m talking about the whales. Someone radioed in their position, then cut off our communications and stole the food.’

  Graham gaped at her. ‘You think that was me? God, Sarah! I always knew you didn’t like me, but to suggest—’

  ‘Who else can it be?’ Sarah leaned all her weight on Mortimer’s rump, aware of voices in the corridor outside. ‘It’s not Geoff, Andrew or me; Joshi’s too stupid; and Lisa, Dan and Freddy are dead.’

  ‘How do you know Dan’s dead?’ flashed Graham. ‘Because we found his sample bag? That’s dumb! It’s him, Sarah. It’s not me. He’s still alive and he’s the one who dropped us in this mess.’

  At that point, Mortimer shot through the porthole and the rope creaked ominously as it took his weight. Sarah started to follow, but Graham was there first, shoving her out of his way in his haste to be next. Fortunately, he was quick, and she was halfway through the porthole when the door opened. It was Zurin, looking for Yablokov.

  TWELVE<
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  Sarah had just enough time to watch Zurin’s reaction to the scene inside the cabin before she swarmed down the sheet rope. There was a flash of satisfaction when he saw Hasim’s body, but he went white with shock when he saw Yablokov’s. Stunned, he blocked the door for several vital seconds before going to crouch by the first mate’s side. It gave Sarah just enough time to clamber into the boat before the guards surged towards the window.

  ‘Go, go!’ she yelled.

  ‘What about Dan?’ asked Berrister, yanking the starter cord. Nothing happened, so Mortimer pushed him out of the way to do it himself. ‘Is he on board as well?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ said Graham. ‘But he won’t be joining us.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ asked Mortimer, still struggling with the engine, while Joshi looked upwards fearfully, waiting for the shots that would end their lives.

  Drecki gave a mirthless bark of laughter. ‘Plan?’

  There was a rapid rattle of gunfire from the porthole, although none of the bullets came close, as the boat was shielded by the curve of Lena’s hull. Mortimer gave a muffled bark of satisfaction as the engine roared into life. He twisted the throttle and they were away.

  ‘The fog,’ shouted Drecki, pointing. ‘Aim for the fog.’

  Mortimer did, ducking the bullets that cracked around him, and within moments they had disappeared inside a thick blanket of mist. The sound of gunfire receded.

  ‘Graham,’ cried Berrister, as the Scot began to topple backwards. He grabbed him in time to stop him falling overboard, but one side of his hood was dark with blood, and his eyes were open but unseeing. ‘They’ve shot him!’

  No one was listening, because they had suddenly emerged from the fogbank, and could see Lena again. Two inflatables were being readied to give chase. Mortimer immediately powered their own craft back towards Devil’s Point, zigzagging between patches of mist.

  ‘Slow down!’ howled Drecki. ‘There are pinnacles just under the surface. If we hit one at this speed, we’ll capsize.’

  ‘If we slow down, they’ll catch us,’ Mortimer yelled back. He swore suddenly, as a rock appeared directly in front of them, forcing him to cut to one side. Another came almost as quickly, and he held his breath as they shot between them with very little room to spare. He eased off the throttle slightly.

  ‘Head east,’ called Drecki. ‘We’ll hide along the shoreline.’

  ‘Too obvious,’ countered Sarah. ‘Head south – we’re going to Deception.’

  ‘Deception?’ echoed Drecki. ‘We can’t reach Deception! The sea’s too rough and we don’t have enough fuel.’

  ‘There are tourists there,’ argued Sarah. ‘I heard them on the radio.’

  ‘Heard them when?’ asked Mortimer. Something black clung to his fingers – a clump of hair. He didn’t recall pulling it out when he had grabbed Yablokov, but supposed he must have done. He flung it away in distaste. ‘Because they might be gone by now. We’ll be safer waiting for Worsley.’

  ‘But that’s what these criminals will expect us to do,’ snapped Sarah. ‘We need to try something different. Head for that fog bank – it’ll hide us for a bit longer.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Joshi, once they were enveloped in mist again. ‘The only way we’ll beat them is by being unpredictable. We’ve learned that, if nothing else.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Mortimer reluctantly. ‘Deception it is. I suppose we can always row the last bit if we run out of juice.’

  They worked out their course quickly with the compass, although Berrister took no part in it, and only cradled Graham’s body in his arms. Then Mortimer eased through the mist, cautiously now as breaking waves revealed the presence of rocks right beneath the surface. Then, abruptly, the fog was gone, giving them a clear view ahead – of a heaving, white-capped sea littered with chunks of ice and several large decaying bergs. He opened the throttle, while Drecki knelt in the bows, and tried to direct him around any submerged pinnacles.

  ‘Here they come!’ yelled Sarah, as the first of their pursuers emerged from the mist.

  The driver spotted them, and changed direction. Within moments, there was a second boat and then a third. Lena’s two had been joined by one from her sister ship.

  ‘They’ll call Galtieri,’ shouted Drecki, turning to look at Berrister with haunted eyes. ‘And we know what’ll happen then.’

  ‘What?’ asked Joshi.

  ‘No – Galtieri’s too far away,’ said Berrister, struggling to shield Graham’s body from the spray, then added under his breath, ‘I hope.’

  Joshi glanced agitatedly behind him. ‘They’re catching up. Can’t you go any faster?’

  ‘We need to lighten our load,’ said Sarah, and looked hard at Graham.

  ‘No,’ whispered Berrister, holding the Scot more tightly.

  ‘We have to – he’d understand.’

  She was not sure he would, given the brazen selfishness of their last conversation, but something had to be done, because even with Drecki dumping the empty fuel tanks and the emergency supplies, the other boats were still gaining. She prised away Berrister’s hands and let Graham roll over the pontoon. The waves played with the body for a moment, before it slipped beneath the surface.

  Berrister struggled to pull himself together, unwilling to see the same thing happen to Sarah, Mortimer, Joshi and Drecki. They couldn’t outrun the whalers, so they needed a change of strategy. He looked around him. To one side was a huge berg, with a thick band of ice trailing from it in both directions. The band was perhaps half a mile wide, and comprised not only a floating slush of smaller pieces, but some the size of trucks. Negotiating a course through it without damaging the propeller would be next to impossible.

  ‘Head for that,’ he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the engine’s tortured scream.

  ‘No – we’ll be sitting ducks in it,’ Mortimer yelled back.

  Berrister clambered over Sarah and made a grab for the tiller. Mortimer resisted in alarm.

  ‘It’s our only chance!’ shouted Berrister. ‘Trust me.’

  Reluctantly, Mortimer relinquished the controls, and Berrister executed a ninety-degree turn that had them all clinging on for dear life. Behind them, the other boats also altered their courses.

  ‘You’ve just lost us our lead!’ gulped Sarah.

  She had doubted his sanity when he had left her to walk thirty kilometres across the ice. Should she be wondering about it again now? His manoeuvre had done them no favours at all – the leading boat had put on a burst of speed and was almost parallel to them, one of its occupants already taking aim with a gun.

  Berrister stood, trying to ignore the whine of bullets around his head. He had one chance to save everyone – by hitting a specific slab of ice at full speed in the hope that momentum could carry them clear across it into the clearer water beyond. At the same time, he would have to raise the propeller so it didn’t snap off in the attempt. If the ploy failed, they would die for certain – drowned or shot.

  With gunfire splitting the air around him, and the terrified shrieks of the others ringing in his ears, he raced towards the ice. The second before they hit, he unclipped the engine from its moorings and swung it out of the water. The propeller howled in protest. They zipped up the ice and then sailed through the air in a graceful arc before slapping down on the other side. Again, their momentum carried them forward, ploughing through the slush until it thinned enough for Berrister to lower the propeller. Cautiously, he chugged forward.

  Mortimer’s attention was fixed on their pursuers. The first hit the ice several seconds later, a short distance to their left. There was a furious grating sound and it slewed wildly, spilling one of its three occupants overboard. Its engine choked, then died. The driver jabbed the ignition button – by some miracle his propeller was still in one piece – and turned to follow his prey.

  ‘He’s leaving his friend in the water!’ Mortimer cried in disbelief. ‘Doesn’t he know that he’ll die unless
he fishes him out?’

  ‘He doesn’t care,’ Sarah responded. ‘He’s probably been offered a reward for catching us, and what’s friendship when compared to cash?’

  Moments later, the second two boats met the ice. They had seen what had happened to the first, and were more cautious. Even so, an ear-splitting scream from a propeller ended the chase for one of them. Its driver threw up his hands in disgust, while his companions stood to let off a sustained blast of gunfire. There was a nasty crack as one round hit the wooden transom of Berrister’s boat, followed by a hiss as another deflated one of the rubber compartments on the pontoon.

  ‘That’ll slow us down,’ muttered Mortimer.

  More bullets zipped towards them, and Berrister flinched, fighting the urge to duck down. He saw an ice-free channel ahead and aimed towards it. Once there, he was able to move faster.

  ‘Two boats, five men,’ reported Mortimer tersely. ‘And they’re gaining on us again.’

  Joshi was crying, worn out by the emotional rollercoaster of so many narrow escapes. In a gesture of helpless frustration, he hauled off his parka and lobbed it at them. It fell uselessly into the channel, but the driver of the first boat swerved instinctively to avoid it, and hit the side of the channel. His engine kicked, sending the boat into a 180-degree turn. Before he could correct it, the second inflatable had ploughed into him. He and his passenger were catapulted into the water.

  ‘One boat, three men,’ said Mortimer, astonished that Joshi’s coat should have wrought such destruction. ‘Our luck’s changing.’

  But he spoke too soon. The last boat had found a different channel, and was speeding up on their right, while their own way was blocked by a flat, solid floe. They were close enough for Berrister to see the grin of triumph on the driver’s face. He looked again, thinking his eyes were playing tricks, then stared aghast when he saw they were not.