by John Day
Captain Steel placed the statuette in the ships vault, so it was no longer a Max’s problem, if anything happened to it. The ship and captain were owned by The Organisation, so it was their responsibility from now on, reasoned Max.
After their drinks and de-briefing, Max and Carla were shown to their magnificent stateroom. Already their clothes had been unpacked, their toiletry items laid out appropriately, and dirty clothes whisked off to the laundry. All they had to do was strip off, climb into the bath, and pamper themselves.
“I could learn to like this, pretty quick,” muttered Max, as he surveyed the immaculate and gleaming en-suite.
“Better not get too used to it, we’re just short-term guests,” cautioned Carla.
An hour later, they were dressed formally for dinner; Max looked extremely smart in his white dinner jacket and black trousers, sapphire blue silk bow tie and cummerbund. He even felt the Rolex was appropriate under these conditions, and inwardly cringed at the idea of wearing a €10.00 watch, ever again.
Carla of course took centre stage; she positively glowed in a classic white dress by Chanel, contrasting with her flawless golden brown skin, with a hint of twinkle, when it caught the light. Her silky blonde hair was free to flow to her shoulders, setting off her matching sapphire earrings, necklace, and ring, set in platinum. Even they could not outshine her sparkling personality and quick repartee; she was in her element, luxurious surroundings and in the company of young intelligent men, vying for her attention. She made all of them feel exceptional, by being attentive to them all, but no one individually, except Max.
Max watched her perform, she was pure brilliance, and he felt so proud to be with her. He loved her so much.
It took three days to tour the islands and enjoy the sun and relaxation aboard. They landed at various resorts and, although the accommodation and restaurants were of the highest standards, they always returned to the ship at night for the evening meal.
Captain Steel welcomed guests aboard as they arrived. Although Max and Carla did not know them, they were connected to The Organisation. The evenings were grand affairs with guests and live entertainment flown in, to eat and drink at the party. Some guests slept over, some returned to their hotels in the early hours of the morning.
Fun though it was, both Max and Carla yearned for the rush of adrenaline their exploits induced.
Chapter - The handover.
A week after they joined the ship, Captain Steel visited Max and Carla at the poolside, with a message from Sam.
His instructions were, for the ship to anchor off Thiruvananthapuram, near the tip of India in the Lakshadweep Sea, and wait for the arrival of a Mr Stephen Jackson, who would join them within 48 hours. Jackson would phone the ship when he could see it and land on the helideck. No guests are allowed on board until further notice, except Max and Carla, who would hand over the statuette. When Jackson authenticated the statuette, he would leave in his helicopter. Be alert at all times and issue firearms. Jackson’s details will follow.
“I don’t like the firearms bit,” said Max.
“Sounds like real trouble to me.” agreed the Captain. “We are getting under way now,” said Steel, “and will cruise off Trivandrum in deep water. If we keep on the move, boarding by the unwanted will be virtually impossible.”
In due course, the phone call came and the helicopter arrived with Jackson, and landed on the helideck. The crew attending escorted Jackson to the cool tranquillity of the lounge, and introduced him to Captain Steel, Max, and Carla.
Immediately Jackson verified the statuette and left. The Bell 412 helicopter lifted off and appeared to head towards the southern tip of India.
Ten minutes after leaving the Ocean Raider, events took an unexpected turn.
Stephen Jackson had acquired many skills during his eventful 30 years of life, unfortunately, flying was not one of them, but Kung Fu was. When the smelly, fat pilot engaged autopilot and pulled a small Beretta on him, Stephen knew a 0.22 bullet would be enough to maim or kill, but a body shot would not leave a mess to clean up. Stephen’s response was quick and final. One hand grabbed the barrel of the gun, deflecting it away from him as the other chopped the fat man’s throat.
The gun fired, punching a small hole through Jackson’s door and the muzzle flash seared his wrist. The potential assassin slowly and painfully choked to death from his crushed larynx and finally slumped over the controls sending the craft temporarily out of control. The autopilot soon returned on course and altitude, South East at 500 metres above the sea. Composing himself, Jackson realised he could not pilot the aircraft even if he could find the autopilot and switch it off, so he made a few urgent phone calls.
He explained his position to his client, whose attitude was unsympathetic
“Let me know where you crash and I will collect the statuette he said. By the way, if this is a double cross, I will find you and kill you and your family.” He hung up.
Stephen then called the only person he believed he could trust. By the time Captain Steel answered, Stephen’s phone battery failed. He was alone again!
Presuming the fat man’s intention had been to reach land, not another ship, the helicopter should have enough fuel to get to India on this course and altitude, thought Stephen. The low height was to avoid radar he supposed, so no one would know where he was or where he would end up, not even the people employing the fat man. Stephen was certain no flight plan had been filed with any authorities. If he crashed in the jungle, he might never be found.
The heat from the sun through the glass made the cabin unbearable, the stinking fat man added to the discomfort. “Time for you to go I think Fatso.” Stephen muttered.
Stephen reached over to move the slumped corpse, its head was lolled to one side, mouth open and blood stained. That was repulsive enough, but now he had to feel under the bulging belly for the seatbelt release. He found it, and the body fell away against the door.
Stephen undid his belt, eased open the pilot’s door and pushed Fatso out. He was unprepared for the violent lurching and pitching, as the autopilot immediately compensated for the loss of the fat man’s weight as he fell out, and then suddenly came back again as the body landed across the skid below, and dangled there.
Stephen’s head smashed into the doorframe leaving him dazed as he fell between the pilot’s seat and threshing joystick. His body prevented the full return of the stick as the autopilot tried to compensate. Pinned-down as the hydraulics forced the stick back, squeezing the air from his lungs, the helicopter continued to fall from the sky.
Through the glass at the edge of the floor, he could see the water rising to meet him, and unable to move, he could only watch his moment of death approach. Stephen closed his eyes as the sea, now only 3 metres below the skids, rushed by. He did not notice the rate of descent was extremely slow now, but he did feel the crushing force of the stick ease.
The bedlam in the cockpit as every alarm was sounding made thought almost impossible, and the words of prayer were difficult to find.
Miraculously a wave crest plucked at the dangling legs of Fatso and dragged him off the skid. Immediately the helicopter climbed, and the stick eased forward releasing Stephen from its grip.
With full control restored, the helicopter regained altitude and settle back on its set course. Stephen collapsed back in the pilot’s seat and strapped himself in. Thoughts of experimenting with switches and levers in an attempt to fly the machine were for the moment, out of the question.
As time went by, he examined the instruments and began to make sense of them. He had spotted the autopilot switch and various control dials and decided to adjust one at a time to see what would happen. Ideally, if he could get the helicopter to hover and descend, he might get low enough to crash gently, if there was such a thing.
By now, the unbroken seam of the sky meeting sea had a slight grey shadow along it. “We are approaching land,” he muttered to himself. “I had better get the controls sorted out before it is
too late.”
By trying different control knobs, one at a time, he found he could rise and fall, drift left and right and probably change ground speed.
Land was clearly in sight now, and rising ground and dense forest ahead made his stomach turn over with fear. What height would he need to be, to clear the trees, and would the machine respond in time?
He adjusted height and hoped it was enough. Rising air currents and wind made the progress of the flight devilishly unpredictable, and the effect of control knobs became a lottery for success.
He had passed over the coastal towns, and villages and the small settlements were becoming fewer as he approached the jungle. The trees flashed by below him. What he wanted now was a nice flat piece of grass or soft sand to hover over, but it was miles later, after turning the speed knob that the machine reached a hovering speed. He would either have to travel extremely slowly to stop in time, or hope for a particularly large space at a higher speed.
At this low altitude, the jungle spread out as far as the eye could see, with no place to aim for and mountains rearing up in the distance. He was actually near civilisation, just past Maruthamparai, but he did not know this. Fuel was also extremely low now he thought. “Hell, there is an alarm going off too, what’s wrong, what do I do about it?” No answer came to him, but fuel was dangerously low in the feeding tank and unless he switched the tank transfer pump, the engine would stop.
Minutes later other alarms and warning lights flashed, and the engine note sounded rough. Prolonged slow speed, almost a hover had caused the engine and gearbox oil to overheat. The helicopter dropped as Stephen turned the ground speed knob, intending to hover. The machine slowed, but also dropped even faster. There was no fuel left to keep it in the air.
The trees below were extremely tall and tightly packed together. A tuft of foliage at the top snagged a skid and dragged the helicopter nose down into the trees, smashing the glass front. The rotors snapped off as the craft plunged in and rapidly lost forward motion. It now dropped tail first, sliding down between the thickening trunks, screeching metal, cracking wood and glass as it went.
The jerky roller-coaster ride was nearly over; Stephen came to rest still strapped into his seat, on his back. The remains of the tail were 3 metres above the ground and a fence of trees around him, formed a hole to the sky. Branches and leaves gently rained down on him as he lay back gathering his wits. The smell of hot oil and metal tinking as it cooled, reminded him a fire was likely, and he must get out as soon as possible.
Looking around for useful items to take with him, apart from the gun and a box of tissues, there was nothing of use. He took them anyway.
Getting out was tricky; first he had to climb out of the front where the Plexiglas was smashed away, because the tree trunks held the doors shut. He slid down the outside and clinging to the tree and machine, lowered himself down the tail framework, finally dropping the 3 metres to the ground.
There was no way of getting back up to the wreck!
A sharp pain in the back of his calf, followed by a burning sensation, as the venom from a Cobra he stepped on, was injected into his bloodstream; this was the cruel twist of fate as Stephens luck ran out.
Chapter - The encounter.
After the handover of the statuette, the Ocean Raider returned to the Maldives.
“How about a trip into Malé my love?” Asked Max
“Anything special in mind?” Replied Carla.
“No just a good look around, I rather fancy a digital camera though, if I can find what I want.”
“Boys and their toys” she muttered, smiling lovingly at him.
“OK! I’ll arrange for the launch to take us.” And off they went.
An hour later, they arrived at the north harbour; they walked along the seafront towards the market. The smell of the fish was strong in the heat, so Max only glanced in as he passed. He stopped dead in his tracks, mouth wide open and stunned.
Carla exclaimed, “What’s the matter?” And looked where Max was staring.
“Oh my goodness,” said Carla, equally stunned. “I don’t believe it….” Her voice trailed off. The young girl they had just seen, turned to face them, and as her eyes focused ahead she also stopped dead in her tracks. She stared at them, aghast and muttered something open mouthed.
Carla and the girl were perfect doubles.
The girl approached Carla in disbelief and said in a false plumy accent “Oh my God! You’re me!”
As quick as ever, Carla stated, “No! I’m me, you are you, damn cute though aren’t we!” Both burst out laughing and engaged in a furious cross-questioning as to who each was and what they were doing here.
“OK! OK! Girls hold it there,” said Max. “Let’s all go to a cafe or something and sort things out in the cool, over a drink.” Pausing for breath the two girls eagerly agreed.
It appeared the girl’s name was Amy, and she had just flown out yesterday to meet her man-friend on his yacht. They had met on the Internet, and she had agreed to stay with him for a month or so. She was just getting something for their tea from the market. The conversation became more intriguing, when they discussed their personal details.
Both had the same date of birth and were born in Bristol, both had been adopted and had no knowledge of their biological parents, and so it went on. Max was convinced they were from the same womb; they were so perfectly alike, even to their excited mannerisms and speech patterns. They were like the same person asking and then answering questions.
“Can I leave you girls for a while, I have things to do.” However, he knew he was wasting his breath. He did not exist in their new world.
Two hours later when he returned, they were still nattering. “Don’t you girls ever run out of things to talk about?”
“Oh, you men are all the same. Still, why don’t you come back to David’s boat, with me, I can introduce you? I am sure you two oldies will hit it off,” said Amy. Max must have looked as hurt as he felt, being called an oldie, because Carla stood up and kissed his balding head. “Look!” She said to Amy, grinning. “Poor old thing, all his fur is loved off.”
“Bitch!” Max retorted and grinned back, and they set off to the boat.
David was a well-built fellow, about 6 feet tall and although not fat, excess weight was a big problem he was failing to address. He has far more challenged follicles than I have, thought Max.
David’s warm and jovial nature, made things go well. Conversation and sparkling wit caused the hours to pass unnoticed until, exhausted, the girls drew breath and decided they must go to bed. They would meet up again tomorrow, for breakfast in town.
Chapter - Deathbed request.
It was 2 o’clock in the morning when they left David’s boat and another 20 minutes before the launch from Ocean Raider would collect them from the harbour.
They walked along slowly, arm in arm, talked out. No one was about except a lone figure of a man, practically running. He past them on the other side of the road, by the small park called Jumhooree Maidhaan.
A dark coloured car approached, with a slight squeal of tyres, accelerated and swerved at the man, knocking him over into the flowerbeds. The car stopped, the driver got out and tried to take something off the injured man, and a skirmish ensued.
Max ran towards them shouting. “Police! Police!” Hearing the shout, the driver ran back to his car and with tyres squealing loudly in the still night, drove off.
Carla was already dialling for help on her mobile phone, calling for the police and medical services.
Max bent over the man and tried to calm him, saying, “Lay still, police and ambulance are on their way.” The man was too injured to struggle anymore and lay still. From the rattling breaths and pain racked cough, Max supposed the man’s injuries were at least broken ribs, perhaps a punctured lung, perhaps abdominal bleeding.
The man whispered something, pain prevented greater effort, Max leaned closer. “Please help me,” he begged. “Me and my family.”
“No, no, more than that, come with me in the ambulance I may need you to do something for me.”
“Well!” Said Max hesitantly, not actually wanting to get involved, “If I must.” Then he added reassuringly, “Yes, of course I will. I will not leave you until you say I can. Can we contact your family? By the way, what is your name?”
The man chose not to reply, but lay there, quiet and still, awaiting arrival of the ambulance. Max asked Carla to go back in the launch on her own; he would be along later. She understood, having heard the man’s plea.
At the hospital the grim news came, the patient was dying, and apart from pain relief there was nothing they could do for him. The man seemed to accept this and appeared to rally round.
“My name is George Bryant,” he volunteered to Max. “In these circumstances there is no one else I can trust, and I need you to help my family as I no longer can. Get my wallet,” he instructed. Max did so, and George pulled from it, a crumpled colour photograph of an old truck. “This is an underwater photo of a truck, hanging from chains attached to a ferry, which sank in Cyprus many years ago. In the spare wheel behind the cab, is a large fortune in smuggled precious stones.” Max tried to interrupt, but the man ignored him and pressed on with his story.
“I was transporting the stuff from Syria when I was attacked by the man who ran me down, his name is Manuel. With another man, he stole the wheel and disabled my truck, so I could not follow him, but I did manage to catch up with him as he boarded the ferry. By the time I could pay to get on, the ship sailed and later sank outside Larnaca, due to stability problems. This was in early June 1980. It should not have sunk; the damn thing was brand new and on its maiden voyage.”
“The vessel is called Zenobia.”
“The other man who drove his truck on the ferry, with my wheel, was killed in a bar room fight soon after he got ashore, so the location of his truck on the ferry, was not known.”