by Peter Cave
The other three Marines were all safely on deck now. Crouching low, they crept up to join Graham, peering down at the burly figure of the unconscious seaman.
‘Jesus Christ, Sarge,’ Willerbey whispered in his ear. ‘What did it take to put him down? A fucking pile-driver?’
Graham flashed the man a nervous grin. ‘We just talked things over like two reasonable men,’ he hissed back.
He unzipped the front of his wetsuit, pulled out a roll of sticky carpet tape and tore open its waterproof plastic wrapping with his teeth. After pinioning Blondie’s arms behind his back, he wrapped several layers of tape firmly around his wrists and then secured his ankles. Then he rolled the man on to his back and stuck a length of tape over his mouth. Rising to his feet, he stared out over the side of the freighter towards the horizon, where a distinct glow heralded first light. He pulled the other three Marines into a tight huddle around him.
‘Now listen, we’re going to have to put our bloody skates on,’ he whispered. ‘We don’t have time for any fucking subtleties. Circumstances call for the direct approach.’ Graham tapped the gun in his belt, then jerked his finger in the direction of the bridge before whispering in Willerbey’s ear again. ‘You take Donnelly back to the stern and skirt round the other side in case there are any other crew on deck watch. Williams and I will take care of the captain and the radio operator. Give us exactly two minutes, and then join us on the bridge.’
Willerbey nodded silently. With Donnelly close behind him, he moved off stealthily in the direction they had come from. Graham tapped Williams briefly on the shoulder. ‘Right, let’s go,’ he hissed, tugging the Stechkin from his belt.
The Russian captain momentarily froze with shock as the two Marines burst on to the bridge. His mouth, at first just gaping open, began to frame itself into a shout of alarm before a threatening wave of the automatic in Graham’s hand changed his mind for him.
‘One sound and I’ll blow your head off,’ Graham growled in Russian, reinforcing the gesture. He stepped back, still holding the gun pointed straight into the terrified man’s face as Williams slapped tape over his mouth and bound his wrists behind his back. Graham pressed his lips close to the captain’s ear. ‘I have twenty heavily armed men crawling all over this ship,’ he lied convincingly. ‘One move from you in the next five minutes will get you and a large proportion of your crew killed. Do you understand that?’
The fear in the skipper’s eyes showed that he believed the threat. He nodded his head emphatically.
‘Good,’ Graham hissed. He pushed the man down into a sitting position while Williams secured his legs. He waited until the Welshman had risen to his feet again before tossing him the gun. ‘Go and take care of the radio,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll keep watch from here.’
Williams nodded, moving off in the direction of the radio room. Moments later Graham heard a brief, muffled cry of surprise, followed by a dull thud, a faint groan and then silence. He imagined, rather than actually heard, the sounds of wires being ripped out of delicate equipment.
‘Fix it?’ he asked quietly as Williams rejoined him.
The man nodded, grinning. ‘They won’t be tuning in to Voice of America for a while, that’s for sure,’ he murmured.
Donnelly and Willerbey made their apperance, on cue to the second.
‘See anyone?’ Graham asked.
Willerbey shook his head. ‘Not a soul. Maybe they figure that with all the floating hardware around them, they don’t need to post a deck watch.’
Graham thought for a few seconds, then said: ‘Let’s find out for sure.’ Taking the gun from Williams’ hand, he bent over the Russian captain again and peeled back his gag gingerly. ‘Besides the big fair-haired sailor, anyone else out there on deck?’
The captain shook his head, his eyes rolling wildly. He looked scared shitless, Graham thought, in little doubt that the man was telling the truth.
‘Thanks,’ he said politely, replacing the sticky tape over the man’s mouth. ‘Now don’t you forget what I told you. Don’t even try to move for at least five minutes, or all hell is going to break loose.’
Satisfied that the captain would do exactly as he was told, Graham looked at the other men. ‘Right, let’s get what we came for and get the hell out of here,’ he said. ‘God’s going to turn the house lights on any minute now, and I don’t want to be centre-stage when it happens.’
He turned to Willerbey. ‘Got your map?’
‘Sure.’ Willerbey unzipped his wetsuit, pulled out a small, flat, waterproof envelope and tore it open. He pulled out the contents, unfolded the single sheet of paper and spread it out across the top of the bridge console. ‘Let’s just hope our friend Pavlaski has a good sense of direction.’
‘And a good memory,’ Donnelly put in. ‘He hasn’t been aboard a Russian ship for four years.’
Graham ignored the rather pessimistic aside. Everything depended now on the accuracy of Pavlaski’s intelligence. There was little point in approaching the main cargo hatches, which would almost certainly be secured. Although they had brought enough plastic explosive to blow them if necessary, to do so in the present circumstances would be almost suicidal.
Graham studied the map, which was essentially a schematic layout of the interior of the ship, with a red marker-pen line superimposed over it to show them their best route. According to the Russian defector, it was possible to access the interior of the cargo hold from the ship’s stores, via a small emergency bulkhead door which remained constantly unsecured for safety reasons, and could be opened manually.
That was the theory, at least. Now came the time to put it to the acid test. Graham memorized the route and tucked the map back inside his wetsuit. He took one quick, nervous glance out of the bridge window. It was possible to see clear to the prow of the freighter now, and parts of the deck were already beginning to show a dull glow as they reflected the ever-brightening horizon.
Graham turned back to his companions, forcing a cheerful grin. ‘OK, let’s move our arses.’
* * *
The emergency hatch was exactly where Pavlaski had said it would be. Willerbey stepped forward, grasping the wheel and wrenching it round. To his relief, it moved smoothly and effortlessly. Freeing the door, Willerbey swung it inwards into the main cargo hold.
It was black as pitch inside. Williams produced a small pen torch from inside his wetsuit and snapped it on, probing the interior of the hold with its thin beam as he stepped through the hatch and moved forward, clearing space for the rest of the men to follow him.
Huge crates were packed all around them, towering above their heads. Williams examined the nearest one carefully, reading the stencilled label clearly emblazoned on its side. He let out a scornful snort of derision. ‘Agricultural machinery,’ he muttered cynically. ‘Who do the lying bastards think they’re kidding?’
Turning on another torch, Graham pushed past him and led the way down a narrow passageway between the crates. ‘Follow me,’ he hissed over his shoulder. ‘This is obviously the heavy goods area. Pavlaski said that the smaller units would probably be up ahead.’
The four Marines moved hurriedly down the passage, eventually entering a small, clear area where the large crates ceased and a new stack of smaller packing cases began. Graham swept his torch over the new area, letting out a grunt of satisfaction. ‘This looks more like it,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s take a shufti at what we’ve got here.’
They had all come equipped with small, lightweight crowbars attached to their belts. The tools were needed now. Quickly and efficiently, each man moved to a separate position and began to prise open a sample of each different cargo stack.
Graham had opened a crate of 20mm shells. ‘Nothing but bloody ammo here,’ he whispered. ‘Anyone found anything more interesting?’
Each man gave a negative answer. Graham cursed, then flashed his torch over his watch. ‘Christ, we’re running out of bloody time,’ he hissed in frustration. ‘The fucking stuff’s got
to be around here somewhere.’
Donnelly had moved to a stack of about a dozen tall, upright packing cases, each about the size of a large filing cabinet. The dimensions didn’t look promising, but they were running out of other crates to open. None too optimistically, he began to prise one of the side slats loose. Inside there were a dozen smaller crates, stacked on top of one another.
Turning towards Graham, he called out softly: ‘Hey, Sarge. Come over here. This looks more like it.’ He contined to dismantle the outer crate as Graham crept over to join him.
Graham snatched one of the smaller packages as soon as he could pull it free. It was the size of a small suitcase, and remarkably light for its apparent bulk. He felt a surge of hope as he set it down gently on the floor and started to open it. Although it was considerably larger than the briefcase size Martin had suggested, its general shape was right and anyway they had more or less exhausted all other possibilities.
The top of the packing case came off cleanly in one piece. Graham bent over it and examined the contents closely under the full beam of the torch. A surge of elation rippled through him as he realized they had found what they were looking for.
‘Bingo,’ he breathed, his relief showing clearly on his face. ‘We just struck gold.’
He dived into his wetsuit and pulled out the large waterproof plastic sack each man had brought specifically for transporting the units back to base. Carefully pulling the double lines of ridged hermetic seals apart, he slid it over the guidance system module and pressed the seals shut again. The sack came equipped with webbing and shoulder straps. With Donnelly’s help, he slipped the unit into position across his back like a bergen and rose to his feet, testing the weight of his load. It was bearable, although it would slow him down considerably, and carrying it back down the stern of the ship would be far from easy. Once they got back to their rigs he would have to lash the unit to the hull of the sailboard. Trying to operate a windsurfer with that load on his back would be impossible.
He hissed over to Williams and Willerbey. ‘OK, let’s get the hell out of here.’ He turned to move. Donnelly clutched at his arm.
‘The boss said get two,’ he pointed out.
Graham shook his head. ‘They’re bigger and heavier than we figured. And we just ran out of time. The boffins will have to make do with one.’
Donnelly did not feel like arguing. Mutely, he followed Graham back down the passage between the crates as Williams and Willerbey fell in behind him.
Graham breathed a sigh of relief as they crept out on deck again. It was still not as light as he had feared it would be, although dawn must now be perilously close. They had perhaps ten minutes to get clear of the Russian convoy before they were open targets, he estimated. It would give them a start, and a fighting chance – but not much more than that. He led the way up the side of the ship and past the bridge, retracing their earlier footsteps towards the stern.
The big deck-hand had recovered consciousness, and although still groggy, was starting to struggle with his sticky bonds. Graham stopped by his side, quickly bending down to examine the man’s wrists. The tape had started to stretch and give slightly. Given the man’s obvious strength, he should be able to get his hands free well within the five minutes Martin had specified. He would of course then go directly to the bridge and free the captain. Shortly after that the shit would hit the fan.
32
Graham had seriously underestimated Blondie’s brute strength. They were less than two hundred yards clear of the freighter’s hull before a red distress flare curved into the sky behind them and exploded. Turning his head, Graham was just in time to see the chattering light of an Aldis lamp start to flash out its emergency message across the sea from the ship’s bridge.
‘Oh shit,’ he roared at the top of his voice. There was no need for silence at that particular moment, and the chance to express his frustration so forcibly afforded him a certain sense of satisfaction, if not relief.
‘Looks like they’re on to us, Sarge,’ Willerbey called out, rather superfluously. ‘What say we split and run? Individually we’ll be smaller targets and less easy to spot. They’ll have to come after us singly, which is going to burn up time. Might give you a chance to get away with the swag.’
‘Negative,’ Graham yelled back. ‘We stay together for the time being – or at least until we’re actually spotted. Then we might have to think again.’
Willerbey was unconvinced. ‘Jesus, you don’t actually think we can outrun the bastards, do you?’
Graham didn’t – not for a minute – but for the sake of the men he summoned up an air of false bravado. ‘We can fucking well try,’ he shot back. ‘These are bloody Russians, don’t forget. They’re not exactly too hot on individual action and personal initiative. It’s going to take them a good ten minutes to figure out precisely what’s happened, and get someone to take a decision about what action to take. If we’re out of visual range by then, there’s no way they can track us on their instruments, so they’re going to have to rely on a sweep-search pattern. And there’s a whole lot of fucking sea out there.’
‘You sound bloody convincing, Sarge,’ Donnelly yelled across the water. ‘Now tell us about Father Christmas.’
‘Up yours,’ Graham barked back. ‘Now let’s cut the bloody cackle and make like flying fish.’
Having hauled in the sails tightly against the wind to convert the last erg of its power into forward speed, the four windsurfers skimmed across the crest of the choppy swell towards the glowing horizon.
The fast-attack craft seemed to materialize out of the blinding glare of the dawn sun like a ghost ship, homing in towards them at full speed.
Graham’s heart sank. Even from a distance, the sleek lines of the vessel suggested that it would have a top speed in excess of thirty knots, making it totally impossible to outrun. Just when he was beginning to think that they had evaded the main bulk of the Russian convoy, he reflected bitterly. Just when he was beginning to dare hope that they had a chance. The approaching ship must have been out on a particularly wide flank, well away from the main body of the escort.
‘Well, what now?’ Donnelly yelled. ‘Looks like we’re really fucked this time.’
It was a pretty realistic assessment, Graham thought, and it would have been openly stupid to argue with it.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ he conceded. ‘But we can still make it difficult for the bastards, give them a run for their money. Wait until she’s right on top of us and then split out either side of her bows. That’ll confuse them for a few seconds, and at the speed she’s running, it’ll take her another minute or so to turn around. Then they’ll have to decide which of us to chase first.’
Even as he spoke, Graham knew he was offering the men no real hope, for there was none. At best, his strategy would only postpone the inevitable. Eventually, when the Russian skipper tired of the game of cat and mouse, he would probably put powered inflatables over the side to hunt them down individually, he guessed. Then it would all be over. With this fact in mind, he wondered for a moment whether it was worth bothering at all.
He dismissed the thought from his mind. Of course it was worth bothering. No one could ever say that the men of the SBS went down without a bloody good fight.
The approaching boat was almost upon them now, and appeared to be slowing. Perhaps its skipper had anticipated his plan, Graham thought, then rejected the idea. Far more likely that he had just assumed that they would give up meekly, knowing they were cornered. He tensed himself for the optimum moment to order the dispersion.
He was about to call out to the men when a message in perfect English boomed out over the water from a megaphone aboard the ship. ‘Sergeant Graham. Please tell your men to heave to and await pick-up. This is not a Russian vessel. We are here to help you.’
Graham’s initial surge of elation was tempered with caution. Martin had made it quite clear that no pick-up attempt would be made until they were within Cypriot territorial waters
– and he estimated that they were still many miles outside that protection. Could it possibly be a trick? It seemed highly unlikely. He had been greeted by name, and there was no way that could have become known to the Russians so quickly, if at all. On the face of it, it would appear that they were about to be rescued, although it seemed almost unbelievable that their pick-up vessel would have ventured so close to the pursuing Russian patrol. It was taking an incredible risk, and one that increased by the second if he wasted time thinking when he should be acting. It was this last realization that tipped the balance. Graham dropped his sail into the water and called out to the men.
‘You heard what the man said, fellers. Looks like the Fifth Cavalry’s here.’
With whoops of relief and gratitude, Willerbey, Donnelly and Williams followed his lead, sitting down on their boards as the rescue vessel cruised in towards them and someone dropped a rope ladder over the side.
‘Please make this as fast as possible,’ the voice over the megaphone urged. ‘You’ve all been very naughty boys and you have some very angry Russians on your tail.’
Graham appreciated the humour, while accepting the very real urgency of the situation. He busied himself unlashing his precious package from the hull as the ship pulled alongside.
There was something wrong. Graham felt a distinct sense of unease as he clambered aboard the deck of the rescue vessel. He stared at the sallow, unsmiling face of the young sailor who had helped him up over the top of the rope ladder. The man was obviously not British, and somehow he didn’t look like a Cypriot, either. What was even more disconcerting was the Uzi sub-machine-gun which dangled from his shoulder.
‘Who the hell are you? What’s going on here?’ Graham demanded, suddenly very suspicious.
The sailor frowned. ‘Please, we don’t have time to talk now. Just let’s get the rest of your men aboard and get out of here. Everything will be explained, I promise you.’