Diamondhead

by Diamondhead (UK) (retail) (epub)

  “He was as strong as a bear,” said Tom. “He just threw me up in the air. Talked funny as well, didn’t he?”

  “Never mind all that,” said Fred. “We have to get home. If the clouds break, we can follow the North Star – it’s got to be back there, the opposite way to Eagle. She’s headed for France; we have to swim to South Devon.”

  * * *

  Mack checked the compass and held course at 135 degrees. He flicked on the GPS electronic map, which showed the south coast of England and the north coast of Brittany. The black triangle was just off the English coast. Speed on the sidebar showed 17.2 knots.

  He opened the throttles until the trawler was lurching along at around 20 knots, rolling with the swells, occasionally taking silver water over her bow.

  She felt very seaworthy, as Mack had been sure she would. She had a good motor, and she was definitely full of gas. Before him was a run of well over 110 miles, which at 20 knots would take him almost six hours. If the sea flattened out on the far side of the Channel, he could probably wind her up to 25, driving the motor hard in a completely empty ship.

  The trouble was he needed speed, as much speed as he could muster, because Fred and Tom in the busy sea-lanes off the coast of Devon stood a very fair chance of being rescued within two or three hours, and the ship-to-shore radio would take only moments to alert both French and English coast guards that a Brixham trawler had been hijacked by a pirate. It was even possible that someone would find the two fishermen by midnight. All stations would be alerted, and satellites would be sailing through the stratosphere looking for the Eagle.

  But none of it would be easy for the searchers, not in the dark, trying to scan a “possibility-zone” area of 110 miles by 110 – that’s more than 12,000 square miles, and no one had the slightest idea in which direction this bearded monster was going. Especially since Mack intended to transmit nothing. He would steam to France with no running lights, no radar and no sonar. He had his map of the south coast of England, the English Channel, and the north coast of Brittany. With the compass to guide him, Mack could find his way across the pitch-black, and probably rain-swept, Channel. But he needed to be in French coastal waters before first light around five thirty. That gave him seven hours’ running time.

  At 20 knots she could make it with time to spare, but if the sea slowed her badly, it would be touch and go. Eagle could run at 20, and Mack prayed the weather would not get much worse. His prayers, however, were not answered, and Mack presumed this was because the Almighty took an extremely bleak view of his hurling two perfectly honest, hardworking fishermen into the English Channel.

  The sea got up almost immediately after he took the wheel. The rain from the southwest belted down, but he found the windshield wipers easily, huge blades that swept water away, left and right, in great slashing arcs.

  Eagle was comfortable at 20 knots in this long, quartering sea, but any increase would have caused her to ride up and wallow too steeply. Boats are strange creatures, and a lifelong seaman like Mack Bedford, even after only fifteen minutes at the controls, knew precisely where that speed gauge should be. But it was not a comfortable journey; he was unfamiliar with the pull of the tide, and he needed to concentrate fully to hold course on 135.

  The wind was howling, and waves were breaking over the bow almost the entire time, hitting hard and cascading heavy water across the foredeck, with spray lashing the windshield. But this was a very tough trawler, as good as Mack had ever driven, and she shouldered her way defiantly through the heavy seas. She cleared the water quickly, and Mack could see it parting in two powerful surges, port and starboard, running down the length of the ship and out over the transom. Battened down, this thing was damn nearly as waterproof as a submarine.

  And her diesels were not complaining. Mack could hear them throbbing, sweet and steady, as they drove her forward, and Mack eased their task by slicing the bow head-on into the waves, splitting them asunder wherever he could. After an hour of pitching his wits against the weather, Mack flicked on the sonar and tried to work the section that gauges speed over the ocean floor rather than across the surface. But it was too complicated when he was trying to hold course in these conditions, so he gave up and kept going.

  This southeasterly course would bring him to the northern edge of the Channel Islands, close to the island of Alderney, and from there he would change course suddenly, coming 60 degrees right and cutting through the dark seaway east of Guernsey. There was nothing quite so baffling for pursuers than a sudden course change in the dead of night. Mack knew also that periodic stretches of land like these big British islands can play havoc with radar.

  The GPS showed Alderney was fifty miles away, two and a half hours. It was eleven thirty. He ran his finger south to the French coast to a little place called Val André and muttered, “That’ll do for me.”

  * * *

  By midnight, Fred Carter was cold, bloody cold. His first mate, Tom, was colder, and they were still a mile and a half from the Devon coast. That was the bad news. The good news was they had plainly been spotted by a 3,000-ton freighter heading east and now coming directly toward them. Twenty minutes later they were on board, wrapped in blankets, still shivering but drinking hot cocoa with a dash of brandy. A couple of young crewmen were sitting with them, astounded at their story.

  “Piracy on the high seas, right here off the English coast? That’s unbelievable.”

  “I mean it’s like being up the fucking Amazon or somewhere,” said Fred. “And he was a big bastard, bearded, foreigner.”

  “Strong as a bear,” added Tom.

  “Shut up,” said Fred. “I’m telling it.”

  “I’ll let the skipper know,” said one of the crewmen. “We have to report this. You can’t have a bloke like that running around loose.”

  “And what about my boat?” raged Fred. “I mean, Christ, what’s going to happen about that?”

  “It’s well insured, right, Fred?” said Tom.

  “Yes, but that’s not the point. No one wants their trawler loose in the English Channel, being driven around by a fucking madman.”

  “I’ll see the boss,” said the crewman. “You’re out of Brixham, right? And I shouldn’t worry – the coast guard will find him. You can’t hide a sixty-five-foot fishing boat.”

  “He could scuttle it,” said Tom unhelpfully.

  “Shut up,” said Fred.

  “This is the freighter Solent Queen out of Southampton calling Brixham harbor master.”

  “Copy that. Brixham harbor master receiving.”

  “We’re at position 50.12 North 3.35 West. Reporting we just picked up Brixham trawler skipper Fred Carter and his first mate, Thomas Jelbert. Their boat Eagle has been hijacked by a pirate who threw them both overboard.”

  Teddy Rickard had been a resident of Brixham all his life. An ex-trawlerman, he was fifty-two years old and had been harbor master for fifteen of them. Yet never had he heard anything even remotely as wild as that.

  “Please repeat. Did you say hijacked? Pirate? Fred and Tom overboard? Solent Queen repeat. Fred Carter and Tom Jelbert rescued from the sea. The Brixham trawler Eagle has been hijacked, and is now missing. We’re heading into Brixham to bring them home.”

  “Anyone have the trawler’s last known?”

  “Fred Carter says about one mile south of here, two hours ago.”

  “That’s 50.12 North 3.35 West, correct?”

  “Correct. Solent Queen ETA Brixham one hour.”

  “Copy that, and thank you, Solent Queen. I’m calling the coast guard right now. Over.”

  * * *

  The coast guard station at Dartmouth was as astonished as the harbor master at this apparent piracy on the high seas. At first they thought it was a joke. But there was nothing amusing about two Brixham trawlermen being thrown overboard and a British fishing boat in the hands of a criminal. They put out an all-stations alert, and they sent an urgent email to the French coast guard at Cherbourg, the gist of it bein
g that a black-bearded foreign pirate had hijacked the Brixham trawler Eagle and appeared to be heading their way. The email added that only the prompt action of the crew of Solent Queen had saved the lives of Mr. Fred Carter and Tom Jelbert, Eagle’s two-man crew, who had both been thrown overboard.

  With the possibility of a dangerous criminal about to enter France, it was a matter of pure routine. Cherbourg Coast Guard Station automatically sent a copy of the email through to Brittany Police Headquarters in Rennes. The police chief, Pierre Savary, a short, tough-looking, stocky character, balding, mid­forties, was still at his desk sipping espresso so strong the spoon would almost stand up.

  The light on the computer screen immediately began to flash, and Pierre touched a button on his own keyboard to pull up the message.

  He read it with great interest, because earlier that day he had had lunch at the home of Henri Foche, not with the great man himself, but with his security men, Marcel and Raymond. The purpose of the meeting was to review the protection surrounding the next president. Henri Foche was without question the biggest and most important issue in the life of Pierre Savary. If anything happened to Rennes’s most celebrated citizen, there was absolutely no question, Pierre Savary would be blamed.

  He had listened with immense interest to Marcel and Raymond, in particular to the suggestion that there may be an attempt on Foche’s life. And that it may come from England. And now we have a violent criminal, in a stolen fishing boat, crossing the Channel from England in the small hours of a dark and stormy night. If Pierre Savary missed that, and anything befell the legendary Gaullist leader, Rennes would be looking for a new police chief, and he, Pierre, would spend the rest of his life in disgrace. He glanced at his watch, shuddered, and dialed Marcel’s cell phone.

  Foche’s security chief answered on the first ring, and Chief Savary did not procrastinate. “Get down to headquarters right away, mon ami. It’s important.”

  Marcel, who slept in a downstairs bedroom at Foche’s house, flew out of bed, dressed, and hurried through the drawing room into the wide hall. There was an armed night guard on the door these days, and Marcel snapped as he went by, “I’m with Chief Savary. Call if you need me.”

  He gunned the Mercedes through the dark streets and was with the police chief inside of five minutes. And there he was shown the email from Cherbourg. Marcel read it thoughtfully, and then said quietly, “You were right to call, Pierre. God knows where this man is, or who he is. But we’re expecting some kind of attack, emanating from England. And this man might be heading for the coast of Brittany. We need to stay on this until he is caught, right?”

  “Those are my thoughts,” replied Pierre. “I’ll put in a call to the coast guard, check for developments. Meanwhile, I’ll tell them to keep us posted, blow by blow, until they find the trawler.”

  “Where’s that last known position?”

  “It happened just off the coast of Devon a few hours ago. And no one’s certain which way that trawler is headed.”

  “Shall we stay here until they do?”

  “I think so. Because this might be a real problem. They’ll hang me if anything happens to Monsieur Foche.”

  “What do you think they’ll do to me, award me a medal?”

  * * *

  0200. English Channel

  49.39 North 2.20 West

  Eagle’s GPS put Mack Bedford four miles west of Alderney. The radio that had been silent all night suddenly crackled into life:

  “Alderney Coast Guard here. Alderney Coast Guard. Marine navigation four miles to our west making course one-three-five – repeat one-three-five – please identify yourself.”

  Mack immediately hit the transmission switch and without hesitation called out in response:

  “This is the fishing boat Tantrum out of Plymouth, England, bound for the port of Saint-Malo. We suffered satellite and radio transmission difficulties in the storm. Will report harbor master Saint-Malo on arrival. Wave band nine-three dead… over.”

  Mack switched off the radio, and instantly made his course change coming right sixty degrees. He flashed on the GPS screen and checked he would run somewhere between the island of Guernsey and tiny Sark, which were lonely waters at this time of night.

  The wind had died, and the sea was calmer. Sheltered by the big island he would make all of 20 knots through here, running toward the coast of Brittany, every yard of the way. Course: one-nine-five, sou’sou’west.

  The Alderney Coast Guard had received a signal from Cherbourg that a hunt was forming for the missing British trawler. But they accepted that Tantrum out of Plymouth was having radio difficulties and would berth in Saint-Malo within three hours. Nonetheless, they reported the radar sighting on the coast guard link, confirming the presence of the Plymouth-based British fishing boat and requesting a confirmation from the Saint-Malo harbor master when it arrived at around five o’clock.

  Cherbourg was more interested, having been given a very strong warning from the head of the Brittany police that anything, repeat anything, pertaining to an unknown boat in the sea-lanes approaching Brittany was to be treated with the utmost diligence.

  Coast Guard Cherbourg instructed the little station at Alderney to get on the case. But two hours later they had been unsuccessful in making contact. The young officer trying to reach Mack Bedford by radio was obliged to observe, “Of course she won’t answer – her radio is up the ’chute; she already told us that.”

  And now Eagle was out of radar range, as Mack Bedford drove her farther south, comprehensively “wooded” by the little island of Hern. All she needed to do was move swiftly down the nine-mile channel between St. Peter Port, Guernsey and the island of Sark. At which point Mack faced a sixty-mile straight run across the Gulf of Saint-Malo in open water all the way, then down into the deep V of Saint-Brieuc Bay. And there was not a whole lot anyone could do about it, since there was not an active French Coast Guard boat within a hundred miles. And, anyway, it was still pitch black, and Mack Bedford was still without running lights, and he was still transmitting nothing. The coast guard no longer knew his course, and, better yet, no one knew whether the mysterious radar “paint” that appeared on the Alderney screen was Eagle or not.

  The weather worsened as the trawler came out of the protection of the islands, and once more Eagle was pitching and rolling, but still pushing along, throttles open, making 20 knots or just below.

  By this time, Teddy Rickard had made out a much more detailed signal, which he fed to the coast guard station at Dartmouth, and now at 0300 this latest intelligence went on the international link, and immediately Cherbourg Station began transmitting urgently:

  “All stations alert… North coast Dieppe, Gulf of Saint-Malo to Saint-Pol-de-Leon. Searching for British fishing trawler Eagle, dark-red, sixty-five-foot hull, black lettering. Maybe running under false identity as Tantrum out of Plymouth.

  “This is Cherbourg. Repeat, Coast Guard Cherbourg. English fishing trawler Eagle running under illegal master. Big, black-bearded male. Caucasian. May be dangerous. Hijacked Eagle off English county Devon.

  “All coast guard boarding parties to be fully armed. Alert all coast guard vessels in your area. Last known position Tantrum: 49.39 North 2.20 West – -four miles west of Alderney. Course and speed unknown.”

  That kind of signal from the normally restrained and careful coast guard operations on both sides of the Channel sends an electric shock through the service. And right now sleeping officers were being awakened and told to head to the jetties.

  To Pierre Savary and Marcel, who were both wide awake and looking at the police computer screen in Rennes, however, it sent a tremor well up the Richter scale. These two had, of course, more to lose than anyone else. Except for Henri Foche.

  Chief Savary hit the open line to the coast guard station at Cherbourg and demanded some fast answers, which he did not get. The duty officer told him they had every available man on the case, and there were three possibilities in their area: (1) a fishin
g boat apparently headed for Saint-Malo, (2) another heading for the same coastline but more westerly, and (3) a small freighter that may have switched course to Le Havre. Even with helicopters it was a vast area to search in darkness. If Chief Savary could just be patient, they’d have a far better idea how to proceed when the sun came up and boats could be seen.

  With something less than good humor, Chief Savary put down the phone. “It seems to me,” he said, “the two fishing boats are our concern. If there’s some kind of murderer on the freighter going into Le Havre, that’s Normandy’s problem, not ours. But if he’s in one of those fucking trawlers and he really is after Henri Foche, we’d better start moving.”

  “Well, we can’t do anything from Rennes, that’s for sure. This place is so far from the ocean, half the population has never even seen it.” At this time of night, with sheeting rain and high winds, the forty-five miles up to the northern shore seemed a hell of a long way to Henri Foche’s number-one bodyguard.

  “Marcel,” said Pierre, “I think you should round up Raymond, get into the car, and get up to the coast. Because that’s where this bastard is going to show. By the time you arrive it’ll be four thirty, and the coast guard will be tracking both boats inshore. Why not go for somewhere like Ploubalay? That way you can double back to Saint-Malo or head more west.”

  “And what do we do if they catch the guy, or we catch him?”

  “In the interests of French justice I’d be inclined to act fast, with as little fuss as possible. The way we usually do in operations of this kind where there may be some embarrassment to people of grand stature. Remember, he’s foreign, and if we stay legal there’ll be enough red tape to throttle a stud bull.”

  “Pierre, you can leave it to us. If he lands that boat, he won’t get five meters. Because there is only one fact that matters: Foche lives in Brittany, and anyone who wants to assassinate him is coming to Brittany. That narrows it down to the fishing boats. We’ll stay in touch.”