by Andrew Grant
13
Underwater the sound of an explosion can travel a long way. This one did. It was a bloody big bang and it came from behind me. I turned. The trawler’s twin screws were churning the water into foam. The anchor chain from the gunboat was falling away towards the ocean floor. Someone had smashed a quick-release shackle. Tri was on the move in a big hurry, it seemed. The water all around the black hull was filled with twinkling golden sparks that spiralled slowly down towards the reef below. There was a slapping, banging, drumming sound that cut across the sound of the trawler’s engine.
For a moment I didn’t get it, then I realised that the golden sparks were the spent shell cases from Tri’s heavy artillery. The noise was that of the heavy machine guns at work, transmitted down through the boat’s hull. While the big Brownings were doing their thing, brass was being sprayed out of the guns and over the side where it tumbled into the depths. The slow dance of the spent shell casings was almost beautiful. Beautiful! Jesus, I thought, my oxygen must be on the way out. There was a fucking battle under way up above and I was being poetic.
I was about as decompressed as I was going to get, so I started for the Odorama at full kick. I didn’t want Niran bailing out and leaving me in the water. To have made it this far then to drown, die of exposure or get eaten by sharks as I drifted around the bloody ocean was not on my agenda.
I surfaced twenty feet from the side of the boat. Yes, there was daylight, plenty of it now. More than enough for me to see the faces and waving arms at the side of the boat ahead of me. The divers were back on board. I could hear the slow thud of the Odorama’s diesel engine. With my head above water, and even with my dive hood on, the rattle of fire from machine guns was clear. I turned. Tri’s gunboat was racing towards a white shape that I could just pick out as I rode the crest of the swell. The target was the white cruiser. Off to the left of Tri’s boat, something was sending a plume of black smoke up into the sky.
Then I was at the side of the Odorama. I hit the climbing net and was hauled unceremoniously on board the prawn boat by grabbing hands. Niran had us on the move as he ran up his anchor cable. The old winch was in overdrive. He was figuring on picking the hook up on the run. That was a dangerous technique because the damn thing could smack into the hull if it went wrong, or if it snagged on the bottom of our bloody freighter it could pull our bow down, or simply bust up and send wire cable whipping around the deck.
Whatever, it didn’t happen. The anchor rattled into its retaining bracket as I pulled off my mask and hood. Then I saw it. The buddha was there, in the deck well, still in the sling that had lifted it from the water. No one but me was looking at it, all other eyes were on the two boats. I dropped my tanks and weight belt and pulled off my fins so I could get to my feet to join the other guys at the rail. The buddha could wait.
The white boat was moving quickly, attempting to run for the passage back to the mainland. Tri was heading to intercept it. The source of the black smoke was what appeared to be the gutted hull of a small runabout, wallowing in the water a hundred yards away.
‘What the hell happened?’ I asked no one in particular.
‘A speedboat came around the headland. They had guns and grenades. They fired at Tri’s boat. A grenade landed on deck but I don’t think it killed anyone. Tri fired back.’ The speaker was Noy. His eyes were wide and focused on nothing but the racing boats. ‘Then the white boat came and they have been shooting.’
There were riflemen on the deck of the white boat. Their bullet strikes were all around the trawler that was rapidly closing in. Its speed no doubt surprised them. Tri’s boat was capable of thirty knots which made it probably as fast as a big luxury cruiser. But he had the angle on the other vessel and he had the armament. The .50 Brownings were raking the white vessel from end to end, heavy continuous thumping underpinning the sharper sound of the smaller weapons. There was no doubt the white boat was taking a real pounding. If it hadn’t been for that it might have made it past the gunboat and away. Then one of Tri’s lot fired a tank buster.
The range was about a hundred yards. The rocket was launched from the bow of the trawler and it was right on target. The five- or six-pound package of high explosives slammed into the superstructure of the white boat and a fireball erupted. The ball rolled and twisted within itself as orange flames and black smoke wove themselves together. I saw a flaming figure fall from the boat and then the fireball was gone, leaving in its place a core of flames and twisted, smoking metal and fibreglass.
The bridge of the white boat was gone, but it carried on. Either there was another control panel below deck, or the helm and throttles were jammed because it didn’t deviate from its course or speed. Tri’s gunboat was closer now and a second rocket went out. This hit the stern of the white boat and a second fireball erupted. They were nasty missiles which burned as well as exploded. Figures were jumping over the side of the stricken boat, but Tri’s killers weren’t about to show mercy. The heavy machine guns continued to rake the ship while Tri’s riflemen shot at the men in the water.
I might have stopped it if I could have. But then again, maybe not. Those two under the sea had been prepared to kill me to get what they were after. Sometimes it paid to just do what you had to in this business. The guys in the white boat had seriously underestimated what they were up against. They had figured on an easy hit against an old prawn boat, and not vectored our escort into their equation. Maybe that caused a change of whatever plan they had. I doubted we were ever going to find out what their original plan had been.
I guessed the two guys I’d taken out underwater had launched their scooter in the bay and homed in on our two boats to get themselves into the zone. Trying to spot two heads bobbing along in the swell would have been damned near impossible for Tri’s watchmen. The divers also wouldn’t have shown up on radar. Once they’d been close, the scooter jockeys would have gone under, buzzing along at five or six knots and with a powerful headlight, they wouldn’t have taken long to spot the sub. I guessed the idea had been to grab the box and get away while their buddies took our boats out up above. Nice plan but they’d screwed it up big time.
The white boat had wallowed to a standstill. Black smoke plumed into the sky and orange and white flames licked out from the holes in the ruined hull. The pretty white cruiser was going to the bottom, as was everyone on it. The shooting had stopped. Tri had slowed to a crawl and was starting to circle the stricken vessel.
I carefully undid the straps which were holding the pouch to my chest and lowered it to the deck. I had a plain lead-covered box, contents unknown with a damned spear head embedded in it, and Tuk Tuk had a wonderful slime-covered gold and jewelled buddha. I squatted in front of the statue. The buddha was a little over four feet tall. It hadn’t been made in the paunchy Chinese happy style, or in the aesthetically thin Cambodian one, but rather it fell somewhere in the middle. Even covered with weeds, algae and dripping slimy salt water, it was more than impressive.
A massive explosion dragged my eyes and those of everyone else back to the battling boats. The white vessel was totally gone in a final enormous ball of black smoke. It rolled into the clear blue sky and formed the familiar shape of a noxious nuclear mushroom. But this wasn’t an atomic bomb—the fuel tanks had blown up and diesel smoke formed a towering monument to the death of the boat and its crew. The trawler was stationary for the moment. There hadn’t been a shot fired for at least a minute or so.
‘Ranong?’ called Niran from the bridge. I nodded and bent to retrieve the black box. As I did so, one of the tines on the embedded spear head jagged deep into my left thumb. I cursed, grabbed my dive knife from my calf sheath and levered the barbed arrow out of the box. I angrily tossed the offending piece of razor-sharp metal over the side and jammed my injured thumb in my mouth while I examined the damage to the box. The edges of the hole in the grey–black lead shone silver for a moment, and then the hole filled with a milky fluid that bubbled in the wound of the metal and began to spill out of it. I sat back
on my heels, startled.
‘Fuck!’ I muttered. What the hell was that fluid? The liquid foamed as it flooded out of the hole in the box. But it wasn’t really liquid, or was it? It was like a grainy paste. Whatever it was in the box it was getting out, and that wasn’t good. The flow was intensifying with every passing second. I wasn’t panicking but, shit, I wasn’t far off. Not knowing what the damned stuff was sent ice rattling down my spine. What the hell was I to do? Logic said to throw the damned thing over the side.
It was then that a series of heavy swells hit us side on as Niran brought us round, setting a course to take us back through the passage. I stood. I’d had enough of sticking my head underwater for one day. The heavy green seas boomed in through the scuppers and half-filled the well deck before draining away, swirling back the way they had come. We took maybe five big hits before we were turned and the swell was behind us. My eyes went back to the box at my feet. Whatever had been leaking out of it had gone. The edges of the gash in the metal gleamed around a clean black hole. My first instinct was to seal that damned hole before I got very much older. But seal it with what?
I pondered the question for maybe ten seconds before the answer came and I was yelling instructions at Noy, who was standing on the deck down by the door leading to the superstructure. Our chef-cum-deck hand vanished to organise things. My thumb was bleeding. I needed a damned patch on myself. I wondered if whatever had leaked out of the box had contaminated the spear head and, in turn, done the same to yours truly.
The solution to plugging the hole in the lead was simple: more lead. The crew of the Odorama, like any fishing boat anywhere in the world, had a plentiful supply of lead on board. The crew used it to make sinkers, net weights and the like. It took Noy ten minutes to rustle up some scraps of metal and melt them in a heavy cast-iron pot over a gas burner. While I waited for the lead to turn to liquid, I gingerly carried my prize to the cabin door. When the lead was molten I poured the gleaming semi-liquid silver into the wound in the box. The gash was filled in seconds and set in a minute. Whatever had been getting out of my personal Pandora’s Box was once again sealed inside. But what was it that had seeped out?
I picked up the box and took it and myself down the deck to my makeshift accommodation. There I would hose myself down, dry off, dress and sit on this damned precious thing of Bernard’s with my Walther in my hand. Not quite maybe, but having gone to so much trouble to find it and having killed so many people to keep it, I wasn’t about to let it out of my sight.
When I was dressed I felt a little more human. The cold had leeched itself out of my bones. I found a Band-Aid for my thumb, helped myself to a coffee with a huge belt of Mekong in it, lit a cigarette and went out on the foredeck again. The black box with its flare of fresh, dulling silver on one side was in the base of my holdall at my side. My gun was in the small of my back under my shirt. If Tuk Tuk had given instructions for someone to whack me before we returned to the mainland, it was going to happen soon.
Tan and Billy were cleaning the buddha while Suwat hosed off the dive gear. ‘You guys keep my kit. I won’t be needing it again,’ I said. They all chorused their thanks. It was a bonus score for them. I’d just given away a couple of hundred thousand baht’s worth of the very latest dive gear. Suwat went aft at a run to collect my wetsuit. The boys would either hock it off or rent it to big European clients as a sideline to their regular operation.
Tri was coming up astern of us. The smoke from the burning runabout and the cruiser had dissipated. I guessed he had hung around long enough to ensure there were no survivors. I’d decided from day one that he was a ruthlessly cold fish. I’d decided right. The missing boat and its crew might never be found. The sharks, the tide, the very remoteness of the area would all conspire for that result. If both the hull of the runabout and the cruiser went down, there was little chance their fate would ever be known. Of course, the damned satellite that I just knew was up there above us might have captured it all. I wondered if the Yanks would send a crew to retrieve whatever was left. I had the sudden thought that maybe Tri was the one Tuk Tuk might have entrusted to take me out. I shifted my bag to my left hand and waited.
Tri’s boat was alongside. I could see the damage the grenade had caused. It was mainly superficial flash burns and some shrapnel damage. One of the goons had his left arm in a sling. The big Brownings were back under canvas. If the gunboat captain had ever looked smug, it was now. He waved for me to come to the side of the Odorama. I did so, slowly, watchful. A crewman reached across the gap between us and handed me a small object. It was a leather wallet. The trawler moved on ahead of us in a grumble of diesel power. I felt a surge of relief. Tri wasn’t out to hit me. I now felt that that particular honour would go to Choy, my original pick. It always amazed me the twists and turns that paranoia could cause in one’s thought patterns at times.
I watched as Tri set a course to the south, his job done. I guessed that he would off-load his weaponry somewhere down the coast before heading back into Ranong, if indeed he returned there at all. I sat down on the edge of the deck well and examined the wallet. It was sodden as, of course, was expected. I opened it. The New York driver’s licence showed a face and a name: Carl Leathem, forty-two years old. There was a Queens address. I didn’t recognise the face. I found a photo ID with a State Department seal, but no specific outfit identified. CIA definitely. That was the way they did it. Nice generic IDs with a numerical code that rang the right bells when processed. Just like the one I carried. There was no money in the wallet. I guessed Tri’s cut-throats had liberated any cash. I used the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe my prints off the wallet’s contents before reinserting them. Then I did an erasing trick on the wallet before I tossed it over the side. I wasn’t going to be delivering it to the US Embassy in Bangkok.
I went into the mess with my bag and the mysterious box in tow. I had a Singha and followed it with another good belt of Mekong. I didn’t know if I was supposed to feel elated or dejected. I’d recovered the fucking box, but maybe a dozen people had died because of it. I had another drink and then another but I didn’t want to get drunk in case any of Choy’s playmates had a go at me.
It was only a few minutes after midday and I was bone tired and my damned thumb throbbed. Why was a simple little jag causing me so much pain? Whatever, I was going to get some rest. It was going to take us the rest of the day to get back to Ranong at full clatter, and then I had Choy to deal with. Joy!
I lay on my bunk with the holdall behind my head, gun beside me and went to sleep.
14
I awoke about half an hour from the dock feeling like shit. I washed my face and got ready for Choy and whatever the future held. I pulled on my lightweight leather jacket. I was still chilled, whether from the cold of the dive or because black spiders of paranoia had slipped out of my subconscious to bite me. It happened that way sometimes. I put my few clothes into my bag to cover the black box.
The bag had a steel mesh between layers of leather, all attached to the steel-cored handle and shoulder strap. It had been given to me by Sir Bernard specifically to carry the mysterious box. There was no way this piece of luggage was going to fall apart under the weight of its special cargo.
I had one plan in mind for when we landed. I put the trick Marlboro pack in one jacket pocket, and a full genuine packet in the other. Then I climbed up to the Odorama’s bridge.
‘What happened today?’ Niran asked, his thin face shiny with fear.
‘You saw nothing. Nothing happened. You took this crazy Englishman to dive but the weather turned bad. When it cleared he asked you to bring him back here. That is all. You didn’t see Tri, you saw nothing, Niran,’ I said softly.
‘Nothing,’ he repeated, nodding his head. ‘I see nothing.’ I resisted the impulse to smile. ‘I see nothing’ had been the catch phrase from Hogan’s Heroes, a television show of my youth. Memories of the show and its characters could still produce a smile, even when life was as low-down dirty and
dangerous as it was right at that moment. I went down below to spread the word amongst the rest of the guys. They had all seen nothing. In the mess I got a medicinal beer and stepped out on deck. The light was fading, but a quarter of a mile away I could see Choy and another man standing beside a big black Cherokee parked on the nearest dock. I went up to the bridge, borrowed Niran’s glasses and focused on the reception committee on the dock.
Choy usually drove himself. I wondered if he had brought along a driver for another reason. The other guy looked more like a driver than a goon. He was typically slight, maybe in his early thirties, dressed in the standard uniform of jeans, a pair of trainers and a short nylon jacket over a T-shirt. Choy was in his own uniform of a dark silk suit and a black shirt open at the neck to show a gold rope big enough to moor the Queen Mary. The ensemble was completed with a pair of black crocodile-skin slip-ons and a pair of platinum-framed snake eyes. The mirrored lenses of the sunglasses completely hid his eyes. He was a very intimidating, very damaged gorilla in expensive clothes. That’s my man, Choy Lee, I mused. I gave Niran back his glasses and went down to the mess and the remains of my beer. We were only a matter of fifty feet out by now.
The Cherokee had been parked right there on the dock ready to receive the cargo. The buddha was in the deck well. It had been covered in canvas and was just an anonymous shape now. There was a sling attached to the bundle ready to swing it up onto the dock. It would take some manpower to get it into the back of Choy’s Jeep. I hoped he had heavy-duty springs fitted. I was sure he did. Gorilla, yes; idiot, no.
The moment Odorama’s tyre buffers hit the wharf I stepped ashore. Choy nodded to me. I couldn’t see his eyes through the black lenses of his glasses, but I knew his gaze was focused on the canvas package sitting on the prawn boat. The back of the Cherokee was already open. I moved to the Jeep and put my holdall onto the rear passenger seat. As I did that, I removed the fake pack of Marlboros from my jacket pocket and slid it under the seat in front. I then moved away from the open door and went to lean on the side of the vehicle. I wanted to watch the floor show as the buddha was off-loaded. This was now Choy’s game. Or so I would have him think.