Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent

by Mark Abernethy

  Paul and Mac avoided each other’s eyes. This many corpses, so well organised, meant there’d been a decent-sized posse on this ship at some point. The signs were not of struggle: no tracked blood, the bowls and knives were undisturbed on benches.

  ‘Mate, let’s stay out of the blood, eh?’ said Mac.

  ‘Yeah, and no touching.’

  If they could defuse the bomb and save this ship Mac wanted the Singapore cops all over this, wanted a proper crime scene, wanted Garrison and Sabaya sitting in a courtroom, getting nagged to death by a public prosecutor. One charge of murder after another would be harder on a couple of egos like theirs than dying of lead poisoning.

  They went back out into the lino-fl oored dining room, took a seat at a table. The offi cers’ was on the other side, with mahogany panels and big crystal decanter sets. The place was set for a meal.

  Paul grabbed a bottle of mineral water and they both slugged on it.

  ‘They must have had at least ten guys in here to do this lot so fast,’

  said Paul.

  Mac hoped they weren’t still aboard, hoped they didn’t get to the bridge and fi nd a greeting party. He was starting to have these weird feelings, as if Garrison and Sabaya had been expecting him to come here all along. Like it was some kind of game. He was so tired he could no longer judge if what he was thinking was sensible or not.

  The next step was going to be tricky. Mac’s assumption was that Sabaya had someone in the captain’s family and had him making contact with the Emergency Operations Command at set intervals.

  He’d also be watching on CNN. Would have told the captain that.

  ‘You know, Sabaya does kill these people. He’s serious. So how are we going to do it?’ said Paul, worried.

  ‘I have an idea for that,’ said Mac. ‘But fi rst, let’s see that song sheet.’

  The bridge wasn’t secured, even though it could be locked in the same way as the engine room. There were two stairways into the bridge.

  Paul and Mac took the port side one. They were assuming whoever was on the bridge would have all their attention focused to starboard and the Emergency Operations Centre behind the pile of containers on Keppel Terminal.

  The port bridge door had a large glass window in it. Looking through it, Mac saw one man in a white shirt slumped in what looked like a huge La-Z-Boy. It looked out through tinted glass along the entire loaded deck of Golden Serpent. The man seemed to be gnawing on his fi ngers.

  Mac craned his neck to the starboard side of the bridge, couldn’t see anyone else, and looked at Paul. ‘One there at the moment. Want me to take him?’

  Paul gave thumbs-up and Mac eased the door inward. It made no sound. Still a relatively new ship.

  Glancing behind him, he saw that Paul had stowed the SIG, had a small pad of lined paper and a pen.

  Mac pushed through, took two strides, cupped his hand over the reclining bloke’s mouth. Paul moved to the starboard end of the bridge. As he did, a face poked out, white-haired, middle-aged, a steel teaspoon in his hand, mouth open, confused.

  Paul didn’t blink. Veered straight into him, hand over the mouth, swung him round into a half-nelson.

  Mac brought his mouth down to his bloke’s ear. Whispered, ‘No sound. Okay?’

  His head nodded.

  ‘Speak English?’

  Nodded.

  ‘They got your wife?’

  Head shook.

  ‘Kids?’

  Nodded.

  Mac felt a gulp.

  ‘They’re listening in, right?’ whispered Mac.

  Shoulders shrugged, then head nodded, a yes, maybe.

  ‘My name’s Mac, Australian intelligence. That’s Paul, British intelligence. We’re here to help but they can’t know we’re up here or they’ll kill the hostages. Okay?’

  The head nodded. Another gulp.

  ‘We’re going to communicate by writing, okay? Talk to the other guy, but not us. We’ll try to sort this. Okay?’

  Nodded.

  Mac let him go and he turned slowly. Dark hair, fortyish, long face, eyes red. Been crying a lot.

  Mac offered his hand and they shook.

  Paul let the other guy go and they walked over to Mac. All shook hands. Silent. The two ship guys looked hollowed out with stress and lack of sleep.

  Paul got to the map table behind the big recliner chairs, put the pad on the map table. The older guy put on half-glasses.

  Where’s your song sheet? Mac wrote on the pad.

  The older guy walked to the starboard wing of the bridge, picked up a piece of paper, came back.

  They looked at it. The last announcement had been and gone at one pm. The next was for one-thirty. They looked to the last page.

  The fi nal demand was at 6.05 pm - essentially, a long screed of Moro invective and praises given to Allah.

  Mac fl ipped back. The next demand to be broadcast was going to be: We demand the fourteen Moro separatist prisoners being held illegally in Manila be released before six pm local time tonight and brought to this ship, or we will detonate the VX nerve agent.

  Mac looked at his G-Shock: 1.13 pm.

  He beckoned the offi cers, and they all left the bridge, moved down two fl ights to the dining room where they introduced themselves.

  Jeremy was the younger one - a New Zealander; Wylie was American and the captain. They were both based out of Singapore, where their families lived.

  Jeremy shook his head. ‘How are we, I mean, how can we …’ His voice broke, unable to go on.

  Wylie looked at Paul as if to say: See what I’ve been putting up with?

  ‘No one wants to be here, right Jerry?’ said Paul.

  Jeremy nodded.

  ‘But here we are all the same. We’re gonna try and sort it, but we’re gonna need you, mate. Up for it?’

  Jeremy nodded. Looked away. Embarrassed at his state.

  ‘We’re betting these guys have gone into the AIS system and switched on the bridge broadcast system,’ said Mac.

  ‘The one that only cuts in after a collision?’ said Wylie.

  ‘That one, yeah,’ said Mac, liking Wylie already. ‘We think your conversations are broadcasting to all ships, and that’s how Sabaya and Garrison are listening in.’

  ‘Is that their names?’

  ‘What are they like?’ asked Mac.

  Wylie grimaced. ‘Well, they know how ships work, they knew what we were doing and where we’d be. I mean, they weren’t like what you expect of a pirate or a terrorist.’

  ‘What were they focused on?’

  ‘The American kept talking about clarity, kept reminding me that anyone who commanded a vessel this large had to have an adult grasp of clarity.’

  Wylie exhaled, grabbed at a glass of water. ‘Then he put that sheet on one side of the table, and the photo of my wife on the other, said, Here’s how it works. And we’ve been up here ever since, broadcasting this rubbish.’ He slapped the song sheet against his thigh.

  Jeremy sniffed. Paul eyeballed him, said, ‘Come on, mate.’

  Mac wanted more. ‘They tell you they’d be watching on TV?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Told us that this was a tailored CNN incident.’

  Mac’s ears pricked up. Didn’t know why. ‘The American. He said incident?’

  ‘Sure did. Said it several times. Said he’d be watching it on CNN

  and if we got stormed before the set time on the sheet, he’d blow the place up and kill his hostages.’

  ‘You know which one is the VX?’ asked Mac.

  ‘The what?’ said Wylie.

  ‘It’s nerve agent. They stole it, got it on this ship.’

  ‘Oh that. Is that what they call it? Yeah, they hauled these big black bags down to twelve -‘

  ‘Twelve?’

  ‘Bay Twelve. It’s the twelfth container from the stern. About halfway between the bridge and bow.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We worked out it was twelve eleven eight-six.’

&nbs
p; ‘What was?’

  ‘The container they were working on. They knew all about the bridge gantries and ladders and lashing. They seemed to know their stuff.’

  ‘What’s twelve eleven eighty-six?’

  ‘It’s the container position,’ said Wylie. ‘It’s bay twelve, row eleven, tier eighty-six.’

  Paul frowned. ‘In English that would be?’

  ‘It would be halfway to the bow, on the outside - starboard - side of the stacks, and high up. About second or third from the top of the stack.’

  Mac mulled it. Twelve eleven eighty-six, exactly where the offi cers on Hokkaido Spirit said you’d have to put a container if you wanted to open it en route.

  Mac beckoned Paul to another table, whispered, ‘We can’t pull the cops and the Yanks in here to do the bomb or these guys are going to lose family, right?’

  Paul nodded.

  ‘So we have to get the TV cameras shut down. Make it look like the Singaporeans have moved to a new Em-Con level.

  ‘Once we can get those helos and cameras out of here, then Sabaya and Garrison are blind. They can hear those demands going out every thirty minutes, and they think it’s all going on. But they don’t know the Twentieth is crawling all over Golden Serpent trying to disarm their bomb.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  Mac went back to Wylie and Jeremy. ‘Mate, think we might have an idea,’ Mac said to Wylie.

  Paul wanted to know how they’d been speaking with the Americans, and Wylie said, ‘The ship-to-shore phone.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Mac.

  Wylie pointed at a table next to the starboard window. There was a heavy white handset face down on a white plastic cradle.

  ‘Got a number?’ asked Paul.

  Wylie pulled a folded piece of white paper from his shorts.

  Mac and Paul swapped a look. With the ship-to-shore phone not jammed it might be possible to get through to Sawtell or the Port Master or Hatfi eld. Mac wasn’t hopeful on that score. Once the EOC

  starts its business - especially a US military one for a terrorist threat -

  the lines of communication go so high that outside calls are not taken.

  Hatfi eld would be sit-repping as high as CINCPAC, Joint Chiefs and maybe the Oval Offi ce. There wouldn’t be too many rubber-neckers getting through.

  Still, it was worth a shot.

  Mac checked his G-Shock: 1.25. He looked at Wylie, whose face fell off him like a fl esh waterfall. ‘Guys, you’re up again. Do what they tell you, all right? Don’t talk about us. We’re trying to get this sorted.

  Do it by the book, right?’

  The two offi cers nodded, gulped down some water and walked back upstairs, dragging their feet. Mac sat back. According to the Sabaya sheet, the whole thing timed out at six that evening. It gave them about four and a half hours to come up with something. If they couldn’t alert the Singaporeans and the Yanks within the next half-hour, Mac was going to slip back into the water and stealth round there himself. Or even better, get Paul to do it. He got out of Hasanuddin, piece of piss. He could try getting into a US Army EOC.

  Mac walked to the starboard window, looked out. He could make out the fl ash of a rotor or a truck at intervals where you could see through the mountain of container stacks. There were black-clad Singaporean SWAT teams lurking between the containers. Mac wondered what they thought they were going to do: storm the VX

  consignment? Intimidate the CL-20?

  The EOC had been mounted back from the apron. Tucked among the container stacks.

  Mac could see broadcast trucks along the raised Ayer Rajah Expressway. There were at least thirty of them and there seemed to be a roadblock of more trucks and vans trying to get the circle seats.

  Even without binos Mac could see their satellite dishes on the roofs, uplinking with a continuous feed. They were getting used to the thirty-minute spacing of the demands, perhaps. The AIS broadcasts meant CNN and Fox News could be getting their feeds from any one of the ships. Could even be getting it from a hobbyist with a VHF

  receiver who could hook into the maritime bands.

  There seemed to be a fl urry of activity, then voomph, along the rows of OB trucks the klieg lights and refl ector brollies lit up and the row looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

  Mac wondered why the lights had gone on now, in the middle of the afternoon, then looked at his watch: 1.29. Golden Serpent had become the news cycle. Bottom of the hour live feeds to the anchors.

  Lots of reports starting sentences with things like ‘We’re hearing’, and

  ‘There’s a real sense’, in lieu of having any information.

  The next thing to arrive was going to be the anchors. They’d be coming in from Honkers, Sydney, KL, Manila, Jakarta and Bangers.

  They’d want their own trailers. They’d want higher platforms than the others, better lighting, better synergies with the EOC. They’d need bigger OB trucks so the anchors could broadcast their shows out of Ayer Rajah, with Golden Serpent in the background. They’d need more producers, more lights, more make-up. They might even bring the weather girl and the sports guy.

  They’d be clamouring for the Twentieth or the Singapore cops or the MPA to appoint a PR fl ak to manage the media. The PR fl ak would be so inundated with requests and demands from the producers and reporters that she’d have to requisition time, real estate and resources to create constant cycles of press conferences. People like Hatfi eld and the Port Master would tire of saying no. They’d fi nally drag themselves into the press conference, become annoyed, mumble something like, ‘Who ordered this gaggle-fuck?’ Which would become the next news cycle.

  Mac wanted to short-circuit that process.

  Standing back from the window, he looked up at the wall, saw a TV.

  He found a remote beside it on the wall-mounted platform. Switched it on, found CNN, kept the volume low. There were panning shots of Golden Serpent with American voices narrating, bringing audiences up to date. A large container ship has been hijacked by terrorists and is currently berthed at Port of Singapore with what is believed to be a large amount of nerve agent rigged to a very large bomb.

  The voices went on, talking about demands and Moro prisoners, had experts talking about what nerve gas does to people. The nerve gas guy kept trying to make a point, but he got talked over so they could seg to the OB. Mac thought he heard the nerve gas guy trying to say, ‘Are your people suited up?’

  CNN cut to the OB. The reporter had a helmet of hair, a Banana Republic photo-journalist uniform and a beautiful delivery. But she wasn’t suited up and would have a major problem if she was still standing on Ayer Rajah when the VX blew.

  The fi nal demand was at six o’clock. It was going to be a prime time nerve gas attack.

  CHAPTER 38

  Paul dialled the number and handed over to Mac, who was now watching Fox. ‘You want to do this?’ he said.

  Mac nodded, put the phone to his jaw. When the phone picked up, it immediately auto-switched to a recorded message telling Singaporeans to make for the causeways, get into Malaysia. It gave bus pick-up points and told foreigners to get out of Dodge, phone their embassies …

  Fuck! The Americans had outsmarted themselves. To open a clean line between the ship and the EOC they’d diverted everything else, including all other ship-to-shore phones on Golden Serpent.

  Mac had an idea.

  ‘Mate, what’s Weenie’s sat-phone number?’

  Paul called it out and Mac dialled the handset. Weenie answered in two rings and Mac told him what he needed. Weenie’s laptop connected to the sat-phone and made him a travelling PABX switchboard through which Mac could be connected anywhere in the world.

  ‘Don’t worry about MPA,’ said Mac. ‘They’ll be off their feet. Get me Camp Enduring Freedom in Zamboanga.’

  Mac waited for Weenie to go to the US Department of Defense directory and dial.

  ‘Through now, Mac,’ said Weenie.

  The line rang and
rang. Finally someone picked up. Mac recognised the voice. His old mate.

  ‘Alan McQueen, Australian Embassy. In a jam down here in Singers, mate. Could you get me through to Captain Sawtell quick-smart?’

  There was a long sigh. ‘Captain Sawtell is operational, Mr McQueen.’

  ‘Yeah but - ‘

  ‘I would have thought you’d be quite aware of that if you’re in Singapore.’

  Mac didn’t have the time. ‘Look -‘

  ‘So I’ll just have to take a message.’

  Mac breathed long. ‘Look, Craig is it?’

  ‘Corporal Craig, yessir.’

  ‘Watching Fox News?’

  ‘Mr McQueen, I can’t -‘

  ‘Have a look at the deckhouse,’ snapped Mac. ‘Can you see it? Big white thing rising above the containers. Got it?’

  ‘Mr McQueen, I don’t see -‘

  ‘Count two windows below the bridge. The starboard bridge, the one you’re watching. See the window? Big square number?’

  ‘Yes sir, Mr McQueen, I see it. I’m sorry, I have to go -‘

  ‘Keep your eyes on that window, Corporal.’

  Then Mac did what he had to do, before a worldwide audience.

  ‘See it, Corporal?’

  There was a silence, then, ‘Oh my God!’

  Mac composed himself. Tried to keep the anger down. ‘Now listen, Corporal Craig. Don’t make me say this again, okay? I’ve been on the go for six days chasing the people who are doing this. I’m working on secondment with the British government and I was previously on secondment to General Hatfi eld’s Twentieth Support Command.

  At this very moment I’m on Golden Serpent, which means I’m sitting on top of a nerve gas bomb that could go up at any second. I’m tired, I’m emotional and I’m scared, mate. I need to talk with John. I need to talk with him now! So. Patch. Me. Through. Now! ‘

  ‘Through now, Mr McQueen. By the way, it’s a party line.’

  The line buzzed and whined, then clicked.

  ‘Sawtell.’

  ‘ Darling! You don’t phone, you don’t write!’

  ‘That your lily-white, McQueen? Damn, that thing’s whiter than a Republican Christmas.’

  It was always the way, using humour to defuse things, kid yourself that your life wasn’t on the line. They got to the business. Mac gabbled, Sawtell wanted lots of sit-rep but Mac didn’t have the time to go over everything. ‘Look, most of the crew’s dead except for two offi cers.