by Albert Able
“Yes and they’re going to earn their pay tomorrow!” Big J clenched his fist as he looked out at the vast expanse of sea, trying to picture the scene aboard the cargo vessel.
“Don’t look so worried, so will we, if they get it right!” Alex thumped the big man on the shoulder.
w
The leader of the Syndicate was pouring a cup of tea from the china teapot. “Milk or black today?” he asked the man seated in the comfortable armchair.
“Straight tea today thanks,” the man replied as he read the brief e-mail he’d been handed.
Further to my telephone call it seems as though the rumour about the submarine and a cargo of gold bullion could be correct. I have a client who is preparing a dive team to search for it. These clients are the same ones involved in the big haul last year. They claim to have some coordinates of the sub’s possible location.
I’ll keep you posted.
Solomon.
“Interesting. Thanks.” He accepted the tea, waving the e-mail with his other hand.
“Yes it is very interesting and if I’m right, those intrepid treasure hunters are the same ones who placed the best part of twenty tonnes of gold bullion in our lap the last time we met.” He looked at his companion. “So I think we should play along with them again. Let them do all the hard work of finding the stuff, getting it to the surface and ashore and then at that point we take over. How does that appeal to you?” The leader was unusually pleased with himself and allowed a thin smile to crease his face.
“Sounds like a classic deal for us but don’t forget that agent from SONIC got involved last time and cost us several of our best men.”
“I remember only too well but this time there should be no SONIC interference; it will be very different.” The smile left his face. He sounded confident but a worrying shiver passed through him.
Suddenly he was not so sure.
“I know we have spoken in the past about the possibility of our retiring,” he started, happily changing the subject, “and we have mutually deferred any decision. However, with this arms deal completed and perhaps a few tons of extra gold available, I am inclined to think that this might just be the appropriate moment to walk away. What do you think?”
“As you know I’ve always resisted the idea in the past but now I think you could be right. Perhaps it is time to drift back into society and enjoy the fruits of our labour!” He placed the empty cup on the table in front of him.
“Yes,” the leader agreed. “We started with five partners now but because of that interfering SONIC agent Alex Scott, we are only three. None the less we each have billions of dollars so why should we expose ourselves to more unnecessary risk?”
“Let’s put it to Orwell when he returns from the Philippines.”
They agreed and turned to other business.
f
Life aboard the cargo vessel was boring for the crew. At one time, ships used to be steered by a wheel on the bridge and had to be to be continuously manned. Now there is no wheel, just an inconspicuous little lever to override the computer controlled autopilot occasionally. So for the crew it was just a question of routine watch keeping. There was little to see, the occasional blip of another distant invisible ship on the radar but otherwise just endless ocean. The alternative was chipping paint and hosing salt water from the deck and other fittings where the seawater spray evaporated in the fierce tropical heat to leave a film of crystallised salt.
The air-conditioned sleeping accommodation, however, was very comfortable, so they spent as much time as possible reading, listening to or watching, a fairly comprehensive collection of music and movies.
The three armed guards had their own quarters and by taking watches of four on four off, were able to enjoy the same relaxed off-duty life as the deckhands.
Cruising at fifteen knots, the vessel rolled gently on the flat calm sea.
There were two Syndicate men on board. One the sole surviving member of the Hong Kong cell the other, who had arrived just minutes before the ship finally sailed, was the young Syndicate Director, sent by the leader to oversee the operation. Both were landsmen with little seagoing experience and spent the first forty-eight hours in their bunks suffering from seasickness.
Although the two Chinese divers were distant cousins, they only met for the first time while doing their basic training in the communist Chinese army. Both qualified with top credits, having demonstrated exceptional aptitude, especially in weapon skills. Then they were transferred to a Special Forces unit where they underwent further training before being sent to their equivalent of the Marine Corps. There they trained in general diving skills, eventually specialising in underwater demolition. Having served their mandatory three years, they were transferred to the civil diving unit in Hong Kong.
They had trained to kill but had never actually seen any action.
With the agreed time for the attack just minutes away, their mood was tense. They had agreed to make their move at five the following morning, when, they reasoned, the guards were most likely to be vulnerable as the ones off duty would all be asleep and the one on duty would be off his guard, possibly even dozing through the tedious early morning hours.
Dressed in tight fitting dark combat suits and armed with silenced semi-automatic handguns, they nodded understanding and slipped silently into the corridor.
Chang, the eldest, had always assumed command, a position accepted without question by his cousin. Chang allocated Sing with what he reasoned would the easiest kill: the single guard, who usually rested on a stool outside the internal watertight access door to the ships hold and the cargo.
“They’ve given up wearing their body armour because of the heat and with any luck he’ll be dozing so no challenge. Just shoot him twice in the chest. No trying for fancy shots to the head, OK?” he reminded him with a serious shake of his finger, knowing full well his cousin’s excellent shooting skill and his desire to prove it. “Sure kill, remember! Two deliberate shots into the big chest target!” he repeated.
Sing smiled weakly.
“OK cousin, I’ve got the message.” He was clearly nervous.
“Should be a piece of cake,” he had tried to assure the sceptical Sing.
Chang, in anticipation of his own task - that of silently entering the off duty guards’ cabin and getting off three shots into the hopefully sleeping forms - was also shaking inside from the tension.
The young Syndicate director awoke; he had no idea of the time but feeling much better after two days of continuous seasickness, he realised that he was actually hungry! He dressed, wandered onto the corridor and set out to find the galley, eager to put something back into his rumbling stomach.
For some reason he automatically slung his shoulder holster casually around his neck.
“Do not go anywhere without it!” had been the leader’s chilling instructions. He went down a short stairwell and found himself facing one of the guards sitting on a stool outside the watertight hold access. He was sound asleep. His head was slumped forward on his chest.
“Poor bastard,” the young Syndicate man muttered and thinking ‘what a boring, almost futile, exercise out here on the ocean, to maintain a twenty-four hour guard, miles from any possible danger.’
He pulled his pistol from its holster and made a mock gesture of shooting the man. He was about to replace the gun and tiptoe silently back up the stairs when Sing appeared holding his silenced handgun.
Surprised by the unscheduled presence of the other man, Sing hesitated, his mind temporarily frozen and confused. Who was this armed man standing over the dozing guard? Was he a friend? His training had drummed home the importance of only killing valid targets. He did not pull the trigger. The Syndicate man on the other hand had no such scruples; he turned raised the gun and fired. Fortunately for Sing, he was quick but not very accurate, the shot ripping through Sing’s combat suit and opening a deep wound in his upper leg.
The man sleeping on the chair erupted into action.
This time it was Sing’s turn to be lucky. Brought so dramatically back to consciousness, the first thing he saw was the Syndicate man standing gun in hand. In that vital second while the guard’s own mind worked out who’s who, Sing fired blindly as he hobbled back a few paces along the corridor and out of danger.
In the confusion, the guard tried to get to his feet just as the young Syndicate man dived for cover, crashing heavily into the guard and knocking him back against the steel door.
Sing stopped his retreat, took a deep breath then, pushing his weapon back around the corner, kept firing shots in the general direction of his targets until the magazine was exhausted. He quickly replaced the empty clip then, getting painfully down to floor level, cautiously slipped his head out and looked across at the scene.
Without any sign of life, the two men lay in a tangled heap where they had fallen. Sing was just getting to his feet when he heard the burst of firing from the crew quarters; he limped up to the bodies and prodded them with his weapon. They were both obviously dead. The Syndicate man with a massive wound to his chest; the guard with a ragged entry wound just below the eye.
Sing went cold at the sudden realisation that he had actually killed a man. The sound of another shot brought him to his senses. He turned and limped back towards stairs and the guards’ accommodation.
By now the whole ship was awake. Men were running and shouting. When Sing found Chang, he was kneeling on the deck nursing a wound in his arm.
“I think it’s broken,” he whispered.
When Chang had opened the door to the cabin, one of the guards was sitting up in his bunk, reading a girly magazine. At almost the same instant the sound of Sing’s battle echoed into the cabin. Chan fired from the hip; the slug passed through the magazine and entered the man’s chest cavity with a loud slapping sound. The man gasped and stared in shocked terror at Chan who turned away to shoot the other two men, apparently asleep in their bunks. But the streetwise guards had both reflexively rolled out of their bunks before Chan could get off an accurate shot. He fired blindly through the bunk at the nearest man. The other countered with a random shot as he vanished from sight. The shot smashed into his arm and Chan swung back in pain, withdrawing to the corridor. One of the guards slammed the steel door behind him; he distinctly heard the lock turn from the inside.
Standing up, he greeted Sing in a matter of fact tone.
“The shooting from your end alerted them a bit too soon I’m afraid but I got one for sure and definitely wounded another. The survivor or survivors they have locked themselves in the cabin now.”
He winced as Sing unintentionally nudged the broken arm while fitting a makeshift sling.
“Sorry it’s the best I can do for the moment.”
“It’s OK.” He swallowed as the pain intensified. “I want you watch the corridor because we’re going to have trouble with the captain and the other crew any minute now. Can you get my mobile out of my pocket? I have to call Alex and ask what we should do.”
Alex was on the bridge of the tug when he received the call. Chang explained what had happened and their urgent need of support. He knew that it would be only a matter of time before the hardened gunmen inside the cabin, the captain and the remaining Syndicate man attempted to regain the upper hand.
“Well done so far anyway Chang. It was always going to be a tough assignment. We are only about a half –a mile away now so we will be able to give you assistance quite soon. Hang on as best you can.”
Big J overheard the conversation.
“Looks as though we’ll have to send in the cavalry, eh?”
“Looks like.” Alex managed a smile. John and Lee were standing together at the wing-bridge, looking towards the cargo boat as the tug, with its superior speed, rapidly closed the distance between them. Both armed with knives, automatic pistols and stun grenades, they looked at each other, nodded understanding and headed down from the bridge and up to the pulpit, from where they expected to be able to transfer to the cargo vessel.
Now it was Big J’s turn; he picked up the VHF radio hand set.
“Cargo vessel flying Liberian flag. This is the dive vessel Deep Blue coming up to your stern. Do you read me? Over.”
They waited for about thirty seconds without any reply. “This is the dive vessel Deep Blue Are you receiving me?” Big J repeated.
The first streaks of dawn had illuminated the morning sky; up until then the tug had been sailing without its navigation lights as it crept up to the slower cargo vessel. Now only metres away, the tug slowed to match the other’s speed.
“I don’t know who you are or what you want but leave us alone,” came the Scottish accented reply.
“We have received an SOS from your vessel. Is everything OK aboard?” Big J responded as planned.
“Yes, yes we’re OK. Sorry you’ve been troubled,” the Scottish accent insisted.
“But we’re still receiving the signal!” Big J persisted. Then he whispered into the handset. “Have you been hijacked or something? If so just flick the transmit button twice - we’ll understand.”
“No there’s nothing wrong here I assure you,” the chief engineer tried to assure Big J.
In fact he was sure there was something definitely wrong but he also knew that outside help was the last thing they needed.
Big J skilfully eased the overhanging bow up to the stern rail of the cargo boat until it was close enough for Alex, John and Ling to jump unseen onto the deck of the smaller vessel. They each landed safely then spread out around the stern deck as the tug pulled away in the frothing wake.
The unarmed captain and the surviving Syndicate executive, who had produced a small but nonetheless dangerous looking revolver, worked their way cautiously below and towards the crew accommodation.
The armed man took the lead from the captain whispering,
“I think I had better go first,” and waving the revolver purposefully. The captain happily let the man pass.
As he stepped from the stairwell, the Syndicate man almost collided with Sing, who had been sent back to cover the exit. They glared at each other for a millisecond but Sing did not hesitate this time and shot the startled man in the chest. The Syndicate man’s own gun fired as his finger flexed on the trigger, the hollow point thirty-two slug blasted into Sing’s groin. They both collapsed in a heap on the floor. Sing tried to reach the searing pain spreading through his lower abdomen but the weight of the dead Syndicate man prevented any movement. The captain held back; he needed help and the guards should be in the cabin around the corner. He stepped cautiously over the prostrate men and ran straight into Chang, who had run back to see what the shooting was about.
“Don’t move Captain,” Chang commanded. The captain froze in his tracks and raised his hands.
“It’s OK I’m unarmed, so what’s going on?” he demanded, bravely holding on to his power of command.
The answer came from the surviving armed guard, who had been temporarily held hostage in the cabin. Chang’s attention had been on the captain so he did not hear or see the door ease open. The shot from the un-silenced Browning forty-five was ear splitting in the confined corridor. Chang’s knees buckled as the nickel-plated slug shattered his lower spine and tore through his body to slam into the steel wall in front of him. He collapsed at the captain’s feet, and then toppled onto his side. He was still alive but the pain was already attacking his nervous system; near black blood started to pump unhindered from his perforated liver and severed arteries.
“Who are you?” the captain asked. Bending to make the dying man hear, he shook him, trying to force a reply.
Chang looked up at the captain. The pain had suddenly gone away.
“You won’t get paid for this one Captain,” he smiled weakly, and then closed his eyes and exhaled his last breath.
The guard who’d fired the shot dashed to the captain’s side then furtively looked around the corner at the other two bodies. Sensing no danger, he stepped towards the two men stretc
hed out on the floor and prodded the diver.
“This one is still alive, let’s see if we can get something out of him.”
He pulled the man into a sitting position. Then, squatting in front of him asked,
“So who sent you and what do you want?” He emphasised his question with a prod just under Sing’s eye with his semi-automatic pistol.
“I did!” The icy answer came from behind the kneeling man, who turned in surprise to face Alex standing at the foot of the stairwell, his gun pointing menacingly at the guard’s chest.
The guard dived instinctively, firing wildly in an attempt to throw off the unexpected danger, but he wasn’t quick enough. Even as the guard started the roll towards the side of the corridor, Alex deliberately fired into the large body target. The man grunted as the heavy slug punched into his heart and lung and he lay twitching and trembling from the terminal shock.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alex spotted the movement of the surviving wounded guard, who had crept from the cabin to help his colleague. Alex swung his gun arm and fired but the shot missed; the bullet ricocheted around the steel panelled walls before coming to rest in the insulated ceiling material near the man’s head. The terrified guard dropped his weapon and threw his hands up in the air in surrender.
“You had better do the same!” Alex ordered the captain, who had been trying to conceal himself in a doorway only a metre or so from the mayhem.
“I’m not armed,” he pleaded with his hands held up and out in front of him.
John clattered down the stairs.
“Christ what’s going on down here?” He looked in awe at the carnage.
“Use a belt or something and tie that one up. I want him on the bridge with the captain here.”
“Ling must have secured the bridge,” John confirmed as the engine note diminished, indicating that the ship had slowed down.
Alex looked down at the dying guard; he was unconscious but still breathing noisily through his shattered lungs.