Ivory (3 page)

‘They're not moving.' Are lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. They were close to shore, less than three nautical miles, hugging the coast in order to stay out of the Agulhas current. No, it wasn't unusual to come across a couple of trawlers here. So why was the hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickling to life?

‘Captain, I see them.' Hans pointed to the tiny specks.

Berentsen refocused his own glasses and saw two fishing trawlers, line astern and close to each other. A streak of smoke scratched a path from the lead boat across the otherwise perfectly empty blue sky. ‘Orange flare. Try to raise him on the radio.'

The mate repeated the
Oslo Star
's call sign three times into the radio handset and asked the trawlers to identify themselves. There was no reply. He picked up his binoculars again. ‘He is flying N over C, Captain.' The flags – and the orange flare – were internationally recognised distress signals.

Berentsen swore to himself. Any delay in their tight schedule meant money, but he was obliged to render assistance to any vessel at sea that needed it.

‘Turn into the weather, starboard five, dead slow ahead,' Berentsen said.

‘Turn into weather, starboard five, dead slow ahead,' Hans repeated, signalling he had understood the order to use engines and the onshore breeze to starboard to slow them down. Had they simply stopped the ship's single engine, it would have taken more than two kilometres to stop the
Oslo Star
, which had been travelling at close to twenty knots. By turning away from the stricken fishing vessels Are was using the elements to reduce his speed.

Having dropped to just six knots, Are gave the order for the mate to turn to port, back towards the fishermen. He blinked away the glare and refocused the glasses as they neared the two fishing boats. They were both sizeable trawlers, he noted. It was a sad coincidence that both vessels' diesels had given up.

‘Stop engine,' Are said.

‘Stop engine,' Hans said. ‘Captain, should I ready the rescue boat?'

Are rubbed his red-gold beard. Through the binoculars he could now see a white man on the lead boat waving frantically. He saw, too, the flash of sunlight on water and steel as a cable between the tow boats was pulled taut. Some instinct from generations of ancestors who had sailed the open seas since Viking days made him hesitate. ‘Radio MRCC. We'll stand off.'

The Maritime Rescue Co-ordination Centre at Silvermine near Cape Town in South Africa was responsible for organising assistance for vessels in trouble. If the fishermen had been able to send a signal before losing radio communications there could be a rescue vessel already on
its way. If not, then the MRCC might task the
Oslo Star
, as the closest vessel, to render assistance.

‘Smoke, sir. The rear boat's on fire!'

Are couldn't ignore the greasy black plume erupting from the towed boat's engine compartment. He focused on the trawler and saw the lick of orange flames. No mariner would be stupid enough to set fire to his own vessel as a ruse. ‘Hans, sound a general alarm. Ready the rescue boat and fire hoses.'

The mate gave the orders while Are kept watch as the
Oslo Star
closed slowly on the stricken trawlers. He lost sight of the trawlers as smoke engulfed them.

It took his brain a few precious seconds to realise something was very wrong.

‘Boat's ready to launch, Captain. Lowering now,' Hans said, having just been talking on the radio to rescue crew in the forward mooring station, where the craft was stowed.

‘They're moving!'

‘Captain?'

Are swung to check out the lead boat again and noted a cable rising from the ocean's surface between the two craft. ‘That bloody fire's a fake. It hid the exhaust smoke from the lead trawler. He's moving and the fool's heading straight across our bow.' He pushed the button to sound the ship's alarm and let the glasses drop so they hung from their neck strap.

‘Engine full astern.'

‘Engine full astern,' Hans replied.

Are didn't like this. The car carrier was as manoeuvrable as an elephant in quicksand and she couldn't take evasive action to avoid the other vessels. He punched the typhoon air horn button on the console in front of him and sent out five short blasts, signalling he couldn't understand their actions.

‘Retrieve the rescue boat,' Are said.

Hans looked at him. ‘Captain?'

‘Just do as I bloody say. Get that boat back.'

Are sounded five more blasts on the horn. The tow cable flickered in and out of sight between the two fishing vessels, which were set on a course to intercept them.

Something clicked in Berentsen's mind. ‘Engine full ahead.' He pushed the general alarm signal and klaxons started blaring throughout the ship.

The mate's face had turned ashen. ‘Captain, if we keep on this course we'll ram them.'

‘That's exactly what I'm trying to do, Hans. Faster . . .' Putting the engine astern had all but stopped the ship. They were moving forward again, but painfully slowly.

The fishing boats chugged on. The lead vessel increased its speed slightly, until the tow cable was raised taut between it and the smoking boat behind. Are assumed they were in radio contact. He switched channels to try to pick up their private conversation.

‘. . .
ease off. Now make fifteen knots. That's it. Hold it
.'

‘Got you,' Berentsen said.

‘
Cut your engines in five, four, three, two
. . .'

Are looked away from the radio's speaker, which had mesmerised him for a second. Surely this couldn't be happening to him.

‘Idiots. They're stopping in front of us, Captain. Why would they, now they have power? Don't they know we're going to hit them?'

‘That's exactly what they want us to do. Get ready to go full astern as soon as I tell you . . .'

‘But Captain, why don't we stop now, and –'

‘Shut up, damn you.' Berentsen turned and strode towards the rear of the bridge.

Are clapped a hand on Hans's shoulder in a gesture of apology. ‘Steady. Here it comes. Pray we have enough speed to cut that cable or pull them under on either side of us.'

The fishing boats held steady, using their throttles to keep in position across the path of the oncoming leviathan. The tow cable's wet steel strands glittered and winked in the sunlight like a strand of dew-covered spider web.

Are Berentsen held his breath as the blunted, overhanging prow of his mighty ship obscured the cable from view. Even at this height, nearly forty metres above the water's surface, he and his crew heard the agonising scrape of metal on metal. ‘Come on, my beauty,' Berentsen willed his ship. For a moment the captain thought he had won.

The cable had snared the
Oslo Star
's bulbous bow which jutted forward of the hull beneath the water and Berentsen had not been able to summon enough speed to snap the stout wire rope.

‘Captain, look,' said the Filipino lookout who had been wise enough to stay silent so far. ‘That boat's coming right towards our port side!' There were several different nationalities in Berentsen's crew but English was the common working language on board.

Berentsen knew very well what was happening without seeing for himself. Both smaller vessels would have cut their engines, allowing the onward progress of the mighty
Oslo Star
to draw them in against either side of her hull. Are tapped the keys of the Global Maritime Distress and Safety System on the control panel and scrolled down the menu on the small screen through a list of possible problems that a ship at sea could face. When he came to ‘piracy attack' he selected it and hit the key that sent an emergency signal to the MRCC in Silvermine. He supposed help would come from Durban, but he had no idea how long it would take.

‘Engine stop, Hans. Astern full.'

Below them the engine protested the sudden commands, sending vibrations all the way up through the car decks to the bridge high above. ‘Where are you going, sir?' Hans said to his captain's back.

‘To get a weapon.'

‘But why, sir? Who are these people?'

‘Pirates.'

A
lex Tremain was more than ready for the collision of hull on hull and he rode the rocking deck of the lead trawler with practised ease.

He buckled his custom-made ammunition vest, drew the nine-millimetre Heckler and Koch pistol from the black nylon holster low on his right thigh and cocked it. He tightened the sling of his Austrian-designed Steyr carbine so that it hung, barrel down, snug in the small of his back. A stun grenade was clipped to a webbing strap by his heart, and another, containing CS tear gas, hung from his belt.

Three other men, similarly dressed – their identities disguised by black rubber gasmasks – waited beside him on the deck. The shortest of the trio, Henri, held an Assault Launch Max line launcher at the ready. The ALM resembled a futuristic rifle with a folding shoulder stock, but instead of firing bullets it was capable of sending a rubber-coated titanium grappling hook attached to a sturdy nylon line forty metres straight up into the air.

The side of the massive boxlike ship loomed above them like a sheer white cliff. Alex spoke into the microphone built into his mask. ‘All call signs, standby, standby . . . fire!'

At his command the grappling hook left the launcher with a whoosh as four and a half thousand pounds per square inch of compressed air was released. The folded nylon climbing rope hissed as it left the plastic container beneath the barrel of the launcher. The hook arced over the PCTC's hand rail.

From the other side of the ship Alex heard the sound of gunfire. His men on the trailing fishing boat would be firing carefully aimed shots designed to miss the seamen operating the fire hoses on the top of the car carrier but scare them and any other foolhardy onlookers back inside their accommodation on deck thirteen.

Alex's earpiece crackled. ‘Mine missed, boss. Loading second now,' Mark Novak reported from the other boat, on the far side of the target ship. No system was foolproof in battle, which was why they had spare grappling hooks, ropes and cylinders of compressed air. Novak, a burly South African former Recce Commando, was simply following the drill.

Henri tugged hard on the nylon line. ‘Secure.'

‘Go!' Alex called into the microphone.

He led the way, as always. The fact that Novak's crew would be a few seconds later meant that he would be first on board the
Oslo Star
. Adrenaline charged his body like no other drug on earth as he climbed, hand over hand, the line snaking between his boots so that he could use his feet to propel his body upwards faster. Henri picked up a spare ALM and launched a second line.

‘Just once I want to do this with a knife between my teeth.' Mitch, the pushy American, always had to say something.

Alex ignored the bump and rasp of steel against his gloved knuckles and looked up at the approaching summit. If the captain was smart he'd be in lockdown on the bridge, his men hiding behind secured hatches.

Alex felt the vibration of the car carrier's engine and the giant ship slowly started to reverse. A glance below confirmed what he knew would be happening. The fishing boats were being gradually left behind as the
Oslo Star
freed itself of the steel snare which had entrapped it. Mitch was on the second line, climbing steadily, but if Alex couldn't
get on board quickly and secure and unfurl the nylon climbing ladder he carried in his backpack, then he and Mitch would be left dangling, exposed and alone.

 

Captain Are Berentsen looked out from the bridge wing and cursed Leif Eriksen – the bearded giant of an engineer, who should have been with the other sixteen crewmen, locked inside the ship's mess. Instead Leif was striding along the deck, hugging the superstructure of the accommodation deck and therefore out of sight of the pirates below. Are had to duck his head back as a bullet zinged off the steel nearby.

Dressed in his grease-stained orange overalls, Leif was carrying a steel wrench almost half as long as his two-metre height. His long blond hair streamed in the stiff breeze as the ship ploughed backwards. He broke into a run now, hefting the spanner like a berserker.

‘Security alert, Leif. I said security alert,' Berentsen's voice boomed out over the ship's PA system.

 

Alex was within reach of the top of the railing now. The captain's voice, in accented English, warned him someone was not obeying the man's command. Taped upside down on the front of his vest was his Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger. He drew it with his right hand as he hooked his left arm over the rail.

Alex knew that under international maritime law firearms and ammunition were not carried on board merchant vessels. The only exception to this rule was Israeli ships and he had never encountered one of those. He and his men were heavily armed in order to intimidate the unarmed crews of the ships they raided, but if there was a man on the loose on this ship then Alex would do everything in his power to subdue him without firing a shot.

Alex hauled himself up and as his head cleared the ship's steel side he was confronted with the image of a red-faced, flaxen-haired giant swinging a huge lump of metal down from a great height.

The blow was perfectly aimed and the wrench clanged down on the first two fingers of Alex's left glove. He felt nothing.

Amazement showed for a split second on the face of the oil-stained seafarer and he took a pace back as he hefted his weapon for another blow.

As Alex hauled himself over the railing he dropped to the unforgiving deck, though his perfectly executed parachute landing roll spread the impact down the right side of his body. He arrived at the feet of his opponent and stabbed down hard with the dagger, driving it through the stout leather of the man's boot, just above where he guessed the reinforced steel toecap would be.