The Desert Run

by Gregg Dunnett

  I looked at my watch, confused for a second, then I saw we’d been beating through the storm for five hours since the big wave hit us, I had no idea so much time had passed.

  Suddenly I jumped. There was a new noise I didn’t recognise; couldn’t place. I suddenly realised it was music. Paul must have put the stereo on. Then he turned it up. Somehow he’d found the soundtrack to Rocky, the sound was fighting with the noise from the wind and the waves. Then Paul’s head reappeared in the hatch. He was clasping a bottle of whisky.

  “Wind’s easing. We’re through the worst of it. That calls for a drink, right?”

  He unscrewed the top of the bottle and drank deeply. Then he handed it to Ben who hesitated for a moment before doing the same. Ben passed the bottle to Julia. She took a swig and looked like she was going to throw it straight back up, but smiled gratefully. She passed it to me and I let the liquid burn heat back into my stomach while Paul turned to the storm and roared at it, a defiant noise that seemed to carry out into the night. I drank again, and passed the bottle back to Ben.

  46

  We made it through that night, the longest I ever knew. When the dawn did come, the sky was clear, and it revealed a sea like nothing I’d seen before. It was scarred with white, the little whitecaps I’d grown used to grotesquely enlarged into smears of foam hundreds of metres long. Under the sun, it had an awesome beauty. A world alive, soaked with energy. The wind was still blowing forty knots, but that was much less than we’d faced earlier, well within what a yacht like the Prima Donna could cope with.

  As soon as there was enough light to see properly, Ben inspected the boat for damage. There was a short length of rope and a snapped metal shackle where the genoa had washed overboard, but nothing worse than that, and we could fix it, using one of those spare sails from below. The pumps had got rid of most of the water, and we tidied up too, dumping the ruined food over the sides. Julia made some hot food, and we all managed to keep it down. The wind eased more, and on the next run of the weather charts, the situation looked a lot better.

  We discussed the options of diverting to somewhere in Spain or France. It was possible there was damage to the underside of the hull that we couldn’t see, perhaps even the keel or the rudder. On any normal voyage, you’d head for the nearest port to get things checked over properly, but that was difficult with what we were carrying. So we did the only thing we could do. We hoped for the best. And as best we could, we planned for the worst. We checked over the life raft, making sure it was ready to deploy just in case we needed it, and then we got on with it.

  The sea is different near land. The birds you see are different; the waves move through the water differently. Even the colours change. We felt land before we saw it but then, three days after we sailed through the storm, the low green hills finally appeared over the horizon. But we didn’t stop. We plotted the final leg between Ireland and the west coast of Wales, still heading north.

  Those final forty-eight hours, going up the Irish Sea, will stay with me for the rest of my life. We all knew how to sail the Prima Donna by then, and with the wind behind us at last, we kept close to the east coast of Ireland where the water was flat, and we powered north. Past Dublin, and then Belfast, where we could see the mountains of Scotland as smudges in the distance, and then suddenly they were all around us, towering purple and green and brown, dramatic and lit up under the sunshine. They say Scotland’s Firth of Clyde is one of the most dramatic places to sail anywhere in the world and I can well believe it. And we felt like conquering heroes, like champions of the world as we sailed that boat home. Towards the safety of land after the ocean had thrown all it had at us.

  And then Paul phoned his brother, to make sure everything was ready to unload.

  47

  The village of Inverkip was our destination, just a few dozen miles around the coast from Glasgow and boasting Scotland’s premier yacht marina. We nearly got there too.

  Inverkip is too small to feature much of a customs force, but Jimmy and Paul traded on being careful, so the coke was going to disembark in a similar way to how it had come aboard. Jimmy had worked out an arrangement with the skipper of a local fishing boat to transfer the product down into its hold. It could then steam into port as normal, where the packages would be hoisted up onto the hard, hidden inside fish crates and covered in ice. From there, it would be loaded into a refrigerated van and driven to our distribution centre where Aussie Mick would take over. Jimmy had this one sorted. It was going to work. It was safe.

  “We’re all good,” Paul said when he put the phone down. “Rendezvous will be tonight. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. Jimmy’s putting together a little celebration meal, says we might all appreciate a good steak.”

  We all liked the sound of that. We’d lost all our fresh food in the storm, we weren’t starving but there’s only so much tinned meat and vegetables you can eat. We were all keen to get off, to have a proper wash and stretch our legs. Spend a bit of time alone. I had an idea I might take a little trip out to the Caribbean.

  We adjusted our course to take us to the place Jimmy’s guy had chosen, a little bay on the Isle of Bute. The spot was perfect, tucked up inside the fingers of lochs that led toward the port of Glasgow, well sheltered from the Atlantic swells so that we could transfer the product even if the wind was up, but nowhere that could easily be overlooked by the land. The coordinates fixed a point a couple of miles offshore, under cover of darkness there was no chance of anyone seeing what was going on. And then, as the sun set, we got lucky anyway. A mist rose up over the surface of the water. The wind dropped to nothing, and we had to motor the last few miles through an eerie, beautiful, white silence.

  In position, we hove to, sending a signal to the fishing boat that we were ready for them, and then we tracked her in on our radar. And while that was happening, we moved the cargo a final time, stacking it ready in the cockpit and saloon so that it would be easier to unload. There was a weird atmosphere while we worked. It was as if we were all already ashore in our minds. I guess that was understandable. We were at the end of a long and testing voyage, and our work was nearly done. Just one final push.

  We were under motor, making the barest speed through the water, really just to hold ground against the tide, when I saw the fishing boat coming out of the gloom: no lights, not even the red-and-green running lights that we had on.

  “There they are,” I shouted, and everyone seemed to snap themselves more alert. The rusty-red hull of the fishing boat could just be made out in the grey gloom, perhaps fifty metres off our port side.

  I was in my favourite place, standing on the steps that led down to the cabin, where I’d waited out the storm, and now my legs were being warmed pleasantly by the engine. But I could still see everything that was going on. And from here, I watched the fishing boat come slowly closer. Its decks were higher than ours, but it was much shorter. A squat ugly-looking boat. Paul had told me the owner would make five times as much in this two-hour trip as he normally made in a two-week fishing trip.

  I watched a figure in yellow oilskins climb down from the wheelhouse on the other boat and flash out our pre-arranged signal with a torch. It wasn’t necessary; there was no one else it could have been, and there were no other vessels within three miles showing on the radar, but that was the way we’d arranged it. On Paul’s instructions, I flashed back our reply.

  Since it was so calm now, we’d already put our fenders out. We’d be able to raft up together. Loading the fishing boat would be as easy as handing the bags over the rail, one after the other. No need to faff around with the inflatable boat, or using a hoist. Half an hour, and we’d be on our way. I could almost taste that steak.

  The fishing boat closed a little more, now within hailing distance. There was a voice shouting through the gloom, muted by the damp heaviness of the night air.

  “Hold your course. We’ll come to you.”

  “We have fenders on our port side,” Paul shouted back. We weren’
t using the radio now, nothing that could be picked up by other boats.

  The fishing boat began to make a long, slow turn, so it could come alongside us. And I want to try and give an accurate account of exactly what happened next. But it’s hard now because I’ve had to tell this part so many times, all the details. Where everyone was at this point, who said what, and in what order.

  Ben was standing forward, in front of the mast, standing with his feet planted apart, a rope ready in his hands to throw. Julia was sitting on the aft seat, readying another rope. Her head was turned downward as she secured her rope around the cleat, and I remember how her knees were pressed together, in a weirdly ladylike posture. Paul was all man, though, all alpha male. He was leaning over the wheel, steering with his body as he liked to do, his hands cupped to his mouth, shouting at the skipper of the fishing boat to come in closer. For some reason, the turn they’d made still left them too far away from us to easily throw a rope. They were either being unnecessarily cautious, or something else was happening.

  “Fuck’s he doing?” Paul muttered. “He’s going to have to come around again.”

  I noticed another man had appeared on deck now, also dressed in yellow oilskins, so that now there were two figures on deck. There must have been a third in the wheelhouse because someone was driving the boat.

  That was when it started.

  The first thing I saw were a couple of flashes of light. I thought the two fishermen were lighting cigarettes. I even had time to think it a strange coincidence that they both lit up at the same time. And there was a noise too, audible over the low growl of the two engines, but not a noise I recognised, a kind of popping sound.

  And I looked at Ben. I don’t know why. Maybe the way he was moving caught my eye. It was like he was suddenly dancing, his limbs and head jerking to an unheard beat. Then he crumpled and fell down on his back, hard against the grab rail on the roof, and my brain started to catch up. I pulled my head down into the cabin, turning as I did so to where Paul and Julia were, out in the open, exposed. And I was just in time to see Paul begin the same weird dance as Ben.

  With Julia, it was all a whole lot clearer. I heard her scream, and I saw her hands come up to her face before she too jerked, and then it was as if some unseen force took her and threw her backward into the cockpit. And then I saw a line of round holes appear on the seat back, one after the other, as bullets slammed into the yacht.

  Then the Prima Donna’s engine suddenly roared. I felt it vibrate under me, and I was almost thrown backward into the cockpit. Behind us, a sudden surge of foamy white water was already spreading out behind us. I thought Paul must be thinking to escape, but when I looked, there was no one at the wheel. And then I saw Paul, slumped in the floor of the cockpit, half-draped over the throttle lever. His face was staring up at mine, eyes open. I don’t know if he put us into gear intentionally, or if that was just the way his body fell.

  In seconds, we were already powering away from the fishing boat, and even over the roar of our engine, I could hear shouts. I half fell down the companionway steps and down below all hell was breaking loose.

  We didn’t have any lights on, but the cabin interior glowed green from the screen of the radar, and in this light, I watched the weird sight of familiar things zapping into life on both sides of the room. The cabin windows burst in, bottles exploded, something hit the metal body of the gimballed oven, and the front glass shattered. Then the radar screen snapped off, and all I could see were little bursts of yellow where metal hit metal and sparked in the darkness. I fell again onto the floor and covered my head as wood and metal exploded all around. Then the engine began to whine, like a kettle coming to a screaming boil. We were still accelerating at this point, the bow raised in the air, and then the motor suddenly gave up, and the stern levelled again as we slowed. And the firing stopped too. And all I could hear was the sound of water flowing past the hull and what was left of the engine ticking uselessly.

  I was too shocked to move at first. I lay on the floor, still covering my head, trying to make sense of what just happened. I knew Ben was dead—at least, on some level I did. None of it seemed real, and had he walked carelessly down the steps behind me, I wouldn’t have been surprised, as if this were just a crazy incident that only took place in my head. But I knew that wasn’t it.

  I wasn’t sure about Julia or Paul. I thought maybe they were only injured, but there was little I could think to do. We were totally unprepared for this. We had no weapons. I found myself staring at the radio, but I couldn’t think who to call. Instead, I forced myself to climb the ladder out into the cockpit, just enough so that I could see what was happening now.

  The first thing I saw was Paul: he was alive, but he didn’t look in a good way. I know now that the second burst of gunfire from the fishing boat was aimed at the engine, to stop us from getting away, but some of it had obviously hit Paul. It was too dark to make out details, but the shape of him was all wrong. He was crumpled up in the front of the cockpit, in a shape that humans don’t make, and as he opened and closed his mouth, a steady trickle of blood fell like a solid line to the deck. Just looking at what was left of him almost made me sick. Sick at what was left of my friend.

  And somehow, it was then that I realised that I was going to die too. I could see the fishing boat now, very close behind us. I could hear shouts from the deck: they were arguing about whether they should have fired or not, and one man was taking charge, telling the others to get ready to jump down. To make sure we were finished off. Maybe I had a moment then when I could have made a run for it, dashed to the rail, and dived in. But it was only a split second, and I didn’t take it. Instead, I cowered back down in the cabin as the fishing boat came right up to us, fast. They were metres away now, and I could hear the men on board clearly. Then the bow cracked into the side of us, giving a glancing blow and sending the Prima Donna slewing sideways in the water. Then more shouts, and then the unmistakeable sound of a pair of boots landing on the deck.

  “Hurry up. Now you’ve made all that fucking noise, we need to do this fast.” I knew that voice, I recognised the Aussie rasp to it.

  Bang. A second pair of boots crashed down. The yacht rolled lazily under the weight of them, and I heard them, one set moving forward, the other back, toward the cockpit near where I was lurking, on the steps down into the cabin. Then I saw the feet.

  “Hello, Paul!” the man said, and I watched Paul’s eyes swivel up to look at him.

  “Nice trip? I heard you had a bit of bad weather?”

  I’d thought Paul was already too far gone to reply, but he forced himself to make an effort.

  “You’re dead,” he whispered. It was only because everything had gone so quiet that I was able to hear him. And above him, the man laughed.

  “You’re fucking dead Mick. Jimmy’ll gut you alive,” Paul said, and this stopped the laughter.

  “Your big brother? I don’t think so mate. I’ve got a bit of bad news there. It seems Jimmy’s had a little accident. Somehow he managed to get himself shot. Silly boy.”

  Paul’s face was already screwed up in pain, but it grew worse at this.

  “So sorry to be the one to tell you that Paul. So sorry.” He started laughing again.

  And then the man raised his gun, a black shadow in the night and as I watched it spat a yellow burst of fire. Paul’s head thudded against the cockpit floor, and I ducked my head down, too terrified and sickened to watch any more. Then from the front, the automatic gunfire opened up again, and I could imagine what that was: Ben lying there, being finished off if he wasn’t already dead.

  Then the man at the back turned his attention to Julia, and I knew that was my only chance. If I didn’t move, I’d be dead in seconds, and there was only one way I could go, forwards, inside the cabin toward the front of the yacht.

  The saloon was still full of the coke, ready to unload. I thought for a moment about hiding underneath it, then felt a spasm of sickness at how that idea would end,
and then I had a revelation. There’s nowhere to hide on a yacht, even a good-sized one like the Prima Donna. There’s no way to escape. But of course, on this yacht, there was a hiding place. One that I’d built myself: the secret compartments in the bow that I’d crafted to hide the coke should anyone come aboard.

  I moved just in time, getting to the front of the saloon and into the forward cabin just as a voice shouted down the ladder.

  “Anyone down there? If you want to live, you better come out now.”

  As quietly as I could, I eased off the cover of the compartment I’d put in the bunks in the bow cabin. I’d raised the bunks up to increase the space underneath them, and put a false floor in. I’d never envisaged having to get in there myself, but I found I could just fit in, holding the floor in place above me. It was wet and cold, and I was shaking with fear. It was pitch black in there, and I had no idea if I’d be visible from above.

  “Last chance. If anyone’s down there, come out now, or I’m gonna put a bullet in your head.”

  I didn’t move. I heard a whistle. An impressed whistle. I guessed Mick was downstairs now, seeing the pile of coke.

  “Anyone down there?” This was another voice, the man on the foredeck who’d shot Ben.

  “No, it’s clear. Just the biggest pile of coke you’ve ever seen.”

  “Let’s have a look,” the second man said, his voice excited. I could hear the sound of his footsteps descending the companionway steps and then another whistle.

  “Fucking hell. Fancy a line?”

  “No, I fucking don’t, and nor do you.” Mick said, his voice a serious growl. “Get up the front and check properly. We don’t want any surprises while we’re unloading.”

  “Alright. Maybe later huh?”

  “Just fucking do it.”

  I heard the boots coming closer, my heart, already beating fast, hammered so hard I thought he must hear it through the wood. Then the door that separated the saloon from the front cabin banged open. Then the toilet, the little shower. Then the locker that sat opposite it. I had a secret compartment in there too, where we’d stored a few of the bags. I had a horrible thought that he’d see it, and realise the yacht had other hiding places to check, but all I heard was the scrape of coat hangers on the rail; then the door banged shut. Then he was in the cabin with me, just a couple of feet from where I lay. I could see the light from his torch through the cracks at the edges of the lid of my compartment. Then it got brighter as he pulled up the mattress and peered underneath.