by Peter Tonkin
‘I’ll be there,’ said Aleks. He glanced at his watch. ‘In an hour.’
‘You’d better be,’ answered Dom as Richard looked at his Rolex and made a mental note. ‘Because this is a one-way trip for all of us if you’re not.’
The ducting was slightly larger than Richard had calculated but the metal-sided tunnel became claustrophobically lightless once they turned the first downward corner. Without the Galaxy to light and guide them, the whole enterprise would have been every bit as foolhardy as Dom’s original Die Hard thoughts had made it seem. But the seven-inch screen not only gave them illumination, the diagram on it guided them along the intricacies of the pipework down level after level towards the engine room where the grille was set in the wall just below the deck head, in a section well away from the main work areas and equally clear of the lower ends of the maintenance shafts that led up to the hatchways that Aleks and his men were due to come down.
Richard checked his watch on a regular basis, assessing the speed of their progress down the levels as shown on the Galaxy against the time they had left to complete their mission. But he and Aleks had calculated the timing flawlessly. And so, as the minute hand ticked round, it became clear to Richard that they would reach the grille five minutes ahead of schedule. More than enough time, he thought, to allow the final section of his plan to fall into place.
The structure of the tunnel system leading to the engine room itself was quite complicated. There were shafts leading off to either side, designed to ventilate the alternator room and the pump room as well as the main engineering area. Richard stopped at the last of these, then crawled carefully forward until the beak of his nose was pressed against the grille over the tunnel mouth. The lights in the engine room were on. It was hard to see much detail, but it seemed pretty clear to him that one of the Russians was lying on the deck beneath the shaft up to the upper weather deck. The man was bound with cable ties and duct tape. He was moving. All around him stood a group of black-clad figures wearing more or less what Richard and Dom were wearing.
Apart from the enormous bulk of the ship’s engine standing like a metal cathedral away on his left, there was little else that Richard could make out. He took as much time as he dared to look around the panorama in front of him. He was in an off-shoot of the huge, three-deck deep enormity of the engine room. The section of the engineering area he was preparing to enter was blessedly smaller in scale. The duct grille was only three metres up from the deck itself – an easy drop if he was careful. He switched off the Galaxy and slipped it into his cargo-pants pocket. Then he slid his fingers gingerly through the wire lattice of the grille and tested it. It flexed promisingly – but there was obviously no way he would be able to pull or push it free. And there was no way his fingers could get at the butterfly screws holding it in place from this angle. He checked his watch one last time and began to reverse back up the tunnel to where Dom and the Russians were waiting.
As he came back to the last side tunnel, Richard pushed his head and shoulders into it, and carefully rolled over and slid the carbine on to his chest before reversing out again and swinging round so his head was in the tunnel and his feet towards the grille. He was then able to move back along the final section of the torturous route on his back, looking up at the tunnel roof. And it was his feet, not his face that came to the grille. He hoped that Dom and the others had the wit to copy his actions – though it wouldn’t matter too much once Richard was out what way they followed him. He bunched himself up as much as possible with the soles of his boots just behind the grille and his knees brushing the tunnel roof. He looked at his watch just as the minute hand completed the circle of an hour. There was an echoing noise and an audible stir of action. The hatch cover was open and Aleks’ men were coming down the main shafts. Macavity and his people started moving too, their boots squeaking against the metal of the deck.
Richard kicked with all his might at the grille. The top screws gave and it fell open like a flap. Richard wriggled forward as quickly as he could, turning over again with the carbine at his side so that he was able to ease his legs out and follow them until almost six full feet of him were out of the opening before he let himself drop. He landed easily and turned at once. Macavity’s men were all looking up at the Russians coming down the shafts. Or, rather, pretending to come down, making enough noise to distract the pirates and give Richard and his men a window of opportunity.
Well aware of the movement of Dom and the Russians coming out of the system behind him and jumping down on to the deck, Richard began to move forward. He swung the carbine into position as he moved and sucked in breath to call out. But then there came a blinding explosion of pain across the back of his head. He first saw a blinding light, especially around the edges of his vision. Then the brightness almost instantly became darkness, which began to gather across everything he could see.
And what he could see, suddenly, was a line of men in balaclavas who seemed very tall indeed. He had no sensation of having sunk to his knees. The shock of pain in his head was repeated and the dazzling lights came and went once more before his sight began to fail. But his ears worked well enough for a moment longer.
‘Welcome, Mr DiVito,’ said a rough voice in that almost Afrikaans accent. ‘And well done. All we need to do is close the trap on the others and the ship is ours!’
42 Hours to Impact
The FORMOSAT-7 satellite sees the danger the instant it comes over the North Pole into the eastern hemisphere, heading south in low orbit along the 180-degree line of longitude, at 4 p.m. ship’s time. The celestial time, however, beneath which Sayonara is actually positioned is a good deal later than that and is heading towards sunset. FORMOSAT-7 sails through space, above Hawadax Island precisely fifty-eight hours after Sayonara passed through Rat Island Pass. The equipment on board the British-made weather-sat measures every aspect of the atmosphere ahead and below and broadcasts its observations to the big weather-prediction computers in Tokyo, Taiwan, Washington and London, assessing the effects of minuscule variations in atmospheric conditions that have massive outcomes in the weather factory.
The critical elements in the observations that FORMOSAT-7 transmits are measurements of the heat and humidity immediately above a particularly warm outcrop of the Kuroshio current flowing north out of equatorial waters towards the North Pacific. A stream of water heated further by the sweltering weather in the west Pacific and the Sea of Japan. This torrent of hot, unstable atmosphere is being forced to rise over a great wedge of unusually cold air flowing off eastern China where the central province of Wuhan has been unseasonably chilly.
The forces unleashed by this meteorological conflict are causing the warm air to twist and writhe along the edge of the lower layer as it is pushed inexorably upwards over it towards the icy stratosphere, as though over an invisible mountain range above the Philippine Sea. This destabilizing movement is further exacerbated by the relentless eastward rolling of the globe itself and the Coriolis effect that it generates, which in turn is aggravated by the insistent westward rushing of the jet streams high above. The forces are all running counter to each other, twisting, turning, sucking and blowing the unstable air mass until the pressure gradients within it go wild.
And, even as FORMOSAT-7 watches with scientific detachment, a swirl of the humidly stormy air tears free, seeming to form a whirlpool defined by cloud. From the Olympian height where the satellite sits above the turning earth, it looks as flat as a swirl of cream on a cup of coffee. But it actually reaches from wave-top to troposphere like an enormous tornado. And a vicious super typhoon is being born within it. FORMOSAT-7 observes the tightening swirl of cloud moving relentlessly across the surface of the earth far beneath and relays its information to the men who programmed the great weather forecasting computers but, as the storm appears to be following the current on its eastern edge, well out in the Pacific, no one raises any alarms in the Philippines, Taiwan or Tokyo.
However, the watch officer on every ve
ssel ploughing the seas between Alaska and Formosa receives a warning, for the computers predict that as the storm tracks north into ever-warmer and more unstable conditions, it will gather force. They prophesy devastating winds and massive seas. Watch officers begin to alert their captains and vessels of every size and shape, type and tonnage start to run for safe haven. But, of course, Sayonara has no watch officer. And what has been done to her computers and communications equipment means that the warnings beamed to the weather prediction systems and then broadcast more generally across the North Pacific do not reach her after all. So, blissfully unaware, she pushes relentlessly along her programmed route, precisely on a collision course with the meteorological monster heading north towards her. And, ironically, the only real sailor on board – the only man capable of reading the danger signals in the sea and sky ahead – lies secured below. Along with most of the men he brought aboard, in fact, because Macavity has sprung a very effective counter-trap.
The pilot of the Sevmash AW 139 helicopter sees the approaching storm, however. Coming down from the cruising altitude of fifteen thousand feet, the chopper remains in the sunshine at a similar altitude to some of the middle-ranking storm clouds. Those on board, therefore, have a far clearer view of the weather system than anyone down at sea level would. ‘That looks nasty,’ the pilot growls. ‘I’d try and stay clear of that if you can.’
‘The ship or the storm?’ asks Ivan Yagula, whose massive frame is wedged in the co-pilot’s seat, just allowing room for the Pitman, Harry Newbold, their weapons, equipment and the RIB in the cabin behind. The co-pilot is back there too, getting ready to help them all off. The chopper has been in the air since noon and they are all getting near the end of their tolerance. The AW 139 passed the point of no return more than an hour ago, though flying back to the little airport at Yuzhno Sakhalinsk was never an option. The plan is simple – the chopper will stay clear enough of Sayonara to remain unobserved. It will settle low above the water while the RIB goes out and the co-pilot holds it secure until the three of them and their equipment are all safely in it. Then they will power up, get in close behind the ship and go aboard over the stern – as silently as possible and, hopefully, unsuspected. The chopper will head north to the nearest Sevmash freighter Fydor Litke, which is currently running for shelter in the little port of Severo Kurilsk, only just below the northern horizon.
‘Both the ship and the storm,’ answers the pilot, who has overheard enough of their planning to know that they are headed into a situation that’s probably somewhere between dangerous and deadly. ‘But the storm for certain. That’s going to be a total mudak, by all accounts.’
Ivan eases himself round to look south. Even though the AW 139 is still well above the ocean, the cloud wall stretching across the evening sky down there towers astonishingly high. Its base is black and its top purple. Sayonara glitters unnaturally, like a splinter of glass gleaming on a grey granite pavement. From here it looks as though the storm front will gulp her down at any moment – and the huge Russian fervently hopes that this is an optical illusion. They have to get aboard before the two come together or they are dead. ‘Can we get there any quicker?’ he asks the pilot.
‘No, sir. But we’re nearly there. I’m just about to take her down.’
Things look even worse at sea level, but they feel better. There is a dead calm, disturbed only by the down-draft of the chopper’s rotors. The sea is oily and flat, except for the circle torn away by the engines. But the wall of cloud to the south now appears to have its foundations in the sea itself, and there is no blue sky above it. The co-pilot holds the RIB steady as Harry and the Pitman lower their precious equipment down into it, then Harry eases out and down while the Pitman unloads their guns before Ivan gives the Pitman a hand down then eases out and down himself. By the time the huge Russian settles into the RIB, the Pitman is at the tiller, powering the inflatable southwards while Harry sorts through the equipment again and the AW 139 lifts off above them, thundering away to the north.
The Pitman brings the RIB round in the tightest curve possible, driving towards the high stern at full speed, as well aware as any of them of how threatening the sky beyond their target is looking. The battering downdraught of the chopper is replaced at once by the wind of their passage, even though the air through which they are hurling is as still as the sea beneath it – and almost as humid. By the time Sayonara’s stern is sitting like a steel cliff up above them, the three in the RIB are all drenched in sweat, the gathering heat and humidity worsened by the protective vests they are all wearing. Then Harry raises a short gun loaded with hooks and ropes, firing unerringly upward. As soon as the ropes are anchored on to the aft rail beneath the shadow of the big lifeboat, the Pitman joins Ivan in the bow and they swarm upwards, laden with kit. As soon as they are standing shoulder to shoulder at the aft rail, it takes only moments for Harry to send up the rest of the RIB’s cargo and then come upwards, hand over hand. The last thing Harry does before swinging up on to the rope is to pull a toggle on the RIB’s blunt bow. There is a flat pop and a lingering hiss. The sturdy vessel’s sides deflate and the weight of the motor pulls the solid base of the thing beneath the heave of Sayonara’s wake. None of them gives it a second glance as it begins its long voyage down to the bottom of the ocean nearly eight thousand metres below. They are too busy checking their kit and weapons, and making sure that all signs of their arrival are packed away out of sight – or following their RIB to the bottom of the sea. ‘Think anyone saw us come aboard?’ asks Harry as they cross to the bridge-house doorway.
‘Doubt it,’ answers Ivan. ‘With that cloud dead ahead, who’s going to be looking back astern?’
‘A cloud as big and black as that has to have one hell of a silver lining,’ says the Pitman. ‘Harry, you hacked that door mechanism yet?’
‘Piece of cake,’ says Harry cheerfully. ‘I thought you said this system was top of the line, Ivan.’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘Hmmm. Anyway …’ The bulkhead door to the A Deck swings wide open, just as it did for the pirates and Richard’s men. They hesitate for that one second which allows them to be sure that their name tags and Sevmash ID logos are clear. That way they are less likely to receive any friendly fire. So they hope. And in that second, the sun sets and darkness comes.
Then the Pitman and Ivan step over the raised sill of the bulkhead door side by side. After a heartbeat, Harry follows them, as they change from cheery companions to special operations soldiers as though a switch within them has clicked over, from peace to war.
39 Hours to Impact
Heritage Mariner has an arrangement with the restaurant called Gem at 145 Lothbury. Once a week, the small board of the huge company meets there at eight a.m. for a business breakfast. The restaurant reserves a table in a private room for Heritage Mariner and supplies those board members who attend, offering them the full range of food and beverages served in the more public areas nearer the street. Everything from green tea and skinny lattes to a full English breakfast is available, with more than a nod towards ethnic tastes which suits the increasing diversity among those that make up the Heritage Mariner board. There is also more than a nod towards the twenty-first century in that the private room has unlimited hi-speed wifi access and a range of booths round the walls suited to laptops and tablets – in contrast to the ancient refectory table which dominates the centre and seats twelve with ease.
Which was just as well, thought Robin: there would be at least nine more executives joining her here within the hour. And they, like her, would bring a range of laptops, tablets and smartphone devices. This morning she was there first, in spite of the fact that she had slept for little more than six hours, stepping out of the humidity still lingering after an almost tropical night into the air-conditioned, fragrant freshness of the place just after the doors opened. Within five minutes she sat solitarily sipping Earl Grey with lemon and thanking God that she had over half an hour to plan how she wanted th
e meeting to go.
The small board of Heritage Mariner Shipping consisted of personnel director Rupert Bligh, ex-Royal Navy, whose grandparents emigrated from Grenada; financial director, Stanford-trained Hong Kong Chinese Anthony Ho and Crewfinders director Audrey Gunnel. Then there was Richard’s back-up, Will Cochrane, director of shipping, as often as not accompanied by his number two, captain Morgan Hand – his ‘right-hand man’, according to the company in-joke, which turned not only upon Morgan’s surname but the fact that the captain, like Robin, was one of the most senior female officers to command the Heritage Mariner ships. LSE and SOAS-trained company secretary Jada Newton completed the list of board members. Alex Garner, Robin’s PA, would also be there to record the minutes, and was due any second now with his laptop and printer to produce the order of business – when she had finally settled on precisely what it was going to be. This morning, the board would be augmented by company solicitor Andrew Atherton Balfour, intelligence man Pat Toomey and Lloyd’s representative Gerry Overbury, for they all had direct input to make.
While she waited, Robin slipped out her tablet and scrolled through her online news apps as she began to assess her priorities and consolidate her plans, but found herself distracted when her email icon lit up with an incoming message. The London Daily Telegraph sent her its front page packed with top stories every day at seven a.m. and five p.m. She rarely, if ever, saw the seven a.m. edition arrive, for she was by no means a morning person. Frowning, she opened the message and the familiar masthead came up. She swiftly scrolled down the page, pausing only to smile at today’s wryly cutting cartoon. There was a follow-up in the news section to yesterday’s story about Tristan’s mysterious drowning, which at first glance offered nothing new. The financial section speculated about his assets and commitments, promising a list of those involved in his Lloyd’s syndicate, whose names Robin already knew. Their names and a hell of a lot more. The social section speculated about his marriage. There might be something there, Robin thought; she’d check later.