Ivory

2-1

2

Alex 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 c****d 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.

Bellowing like a wounded buffalo, the man reeled backwards and Alex had to writhe, snakelike, to avoid the falling wrench.

Alex wiped the bloody knife quickly on the leg of his flight suit and sheathed it. He swung the Steyr around from his back to cover the wounded man. Behind him, Mitch clambered over the rail – just in time. He unzipped the pack on Alex’s back, took the rolled climbing ladder, fastened it to the rails with stout carabiners and hurled it overboard. The two others from his boat, Heinrich and Henri, were soon on board, making faster time on the ladder than Alex and Mitch had on the punishing rope climb.

‘Bring him with us,’ Alex said, motioning to the scowling engineer as Henri climbed over the rail. The Frenchman and ex-Foreign Legionnaire nodded and rammed the barrel of a Glock pistol under the chin of their prisoner. ‘Alive,’ Alex reminded him.

Alex checked left and right as he burst through the watertight door the engineer had conveniently left open. If the man had obeyed his captain and locked himself in, he might have bought his shipmates more time.

He was inside the ship’s accommodation area, with its familiar smell of disinfectant, cooking and cigarette smoke. His rubber-soled boots squeaked on the nonslip linoleum floor as he passed the lounge. The crew, mostly Filipinos, were crouching in the mess. Alex raised his Steyr carbine and fired a burst of three rounds over their heads. The men dropped to their bellies. Behind him, Henri bustled the wounded engineer into the room with his comrades. ‘Stay here and guard them,’ Alex said, and Henri nodded. One heavily-armed man was enough to keep the crew covered as none possessed the foolhardy courage of the wounded engineer.

Alex ran along the corridor separating the lines of crew cabins and past the offices allocated to the captain and his senior officers. Ahead of him was the door leading to the bridge. He knew it would be locked. Alex opened a nylon pouch on his vest and drew out the small hunk of plastic explosive, already fitted with a detonator. He slapped it next to the lock and primed it. ‘Back! Fire in the hole!’ he called to the others behind him. He used the three seconds of relative peace remaining to unclip the stun grenade and pull out the pin.

The hearing protectors and tinted lenses worn by Alex and his men muted the explosion to an uncomfortable bang and buffeting, but the ship’s senior officers who had mustered inside the bridge had their senses assaulted by the blinding flash of light and gut-thumping bang that erupted from the stun grenade.

Alex stormed through the doorway into the smoke-filled bridge just as another blast signalled the breaching of the door leading to the port bridge wing. The other assault team, Novak, Kevin and Kufa, would be waiting outside on the port wing in order to round up any crewmen who escaped. If they entered they ran the risk of walking into crossfire if the bullets started flying.

The narrow, high-intensity beam of the torch attached beneath the Steyr’s shortened barrel picked out a man huddling in a foetal position on the deck below the helm, another staggering towards the far opening.

Alex heard a bang and a whoosh, and raised his left arm and staggered back a pace just in time to miss an incandescent red ball that screamed past his face. Smoke and flame seemed to fill the bridge as the hand-launched distress flare bounced off the rear wall of the bridge, then ricocheted off the thick windows, glanced off the carpet and finally sailed out the open port door.

‘Holy f**k!’ Alex heard Novak yell in his earpiece. ‘That was bloody close, man.’ Ship’s officers were coughing and crawling around the deck at his feet. Alex saw a red-bearded man at his feet holding the smoking tubular flare launcher and staring up at him with defiant rage.

Alex centred the beam of light from his rifle on the man’s chest. Blood pounded in his ears, but he checked the rage he felt at the man’s stupidity. Alex covered the two metres between them in a bound, leaping over the curled-up man at his feet, and swung the Steyr’s plastic butt down into the side of the i***t’s head. The man crumpled to the floor.

‘Clear this side,’ Novak said into his earpiece.

‘Bridge secure. Get all the doors open. Clear the smoke,’ Alex added.

Alex scanned the control panel in front of him and found the engine controls. He knocked them out of reverse and into neutral. The ship shuddered and slowed.

The red-bearded man at his feet groaned and rolled over. Wiping blood from a split lip he looked up at Alex. ‘Get off my ship, you bastard.’

Alex looked down at the captain, the barrel of his rifle pointing at the man. ‘This is my ship for the time being. Don’t do anything stupid and you can have it back soon.’

He swung the helm, changing course, and pushed the engine into full ahead.

‘You’re heading straight towards the coast,’ the captain said.

Alex ignored him. ‘Keep a close eye on the depth as we get closer,’ he said to Kevin, the Australian member of his band. ‘Take the helm.’

‘Right-o, boss.’

Alex undid a Velcro-flapped pouch on his vest and pulled out a portable GPS unit. He hit the go-to button and selected a pre-entered coordinate. He confirmed the ship was on the right heading and cross-checked their speed and time of arrival. He didn’t use the ship’s navigation system in case the captain, who now sat with his back against the wall of the bridge, saw their destination point and memorised the latitude and longitude.

‘Should we send him back to the mess with the rest?’ Kevin asked.

Alex shook his head. ‘We might need his technical advice when we get closer. Also, if he was with the rest of the crew he might try something foolish.’

‘What makes you think I’m going to help you?’ the Norwegian asked in accented English. ‘You could threaten to kill me and I wouldn’t assist you.’

‘I thought that’s what you’d say.’ Alex kept his eye on the horizon, not deigning to face the captain. ‘No, if I want you to do something against your will, I’ll bring your crew up one at a time and keep shooting them until you obey.’