Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent (41 page)

Two-thirds into it his arms started to lock out. His normal workout regime revolved around the boxing bag, and that kind of fi tness was pretty hopeless for a rope climb. He groaned it out, trying to relax the crook of the arms slightly. But he slipped back down the rope.

He got his feet on the steel again and pushed out, his arms and stomach crying out for respite. He started up again. Got to four-fi fths, and the arms were totally locking out at the elbows. Like the forearms and biceps had set solid and would never open again, and as he hissed through the agony his arms went into a full cramp. He gritted, mumbled, blew spittle and turned the word
fuck
into a very simple but long prayer.

He ground it out: three steps to go, two steps, one step. His mantra became the Royal Marines’ combat course instruction:
Don’t let go of the
rope until you’re over the edge
.

But he was in too much pain, his arms needed rest and he reached out for the bottom rung of the railing in front of him. Like a whisper of hope.

He wasn’t past the edge.

In an instant, his legs fell out from under him, his rebreather on his chest bouncing him off the ship’s side so he was stretched out to a full traction position, his hands locking around that bottom railing.

Flying like a fl ag.

From the corner of his eye he saw the rope go taut again. Paul’s turn. Mac swung his legs side to side, then threw his right leg upward, catching a toe on the deck. Dragging his knee up, he pulled himself up to the iron bulwark, rebreather getting in the way, and willed himself over the railing.

He fell in a heap, caught his breath on his knees. Felt sweat dripping beneath the rebreather unit. Looked around. No one having a nosey-poke. Reaching into the side fl ap of his ovies, he pulled out the Heckler, checked for load, checked the breech, ejected the magazine, double-checked.

Mac looked at the decks above him. Still no movement from the bridge and no security detail like you’d expect if Sabaya was around the shop.

Paul came over the side. Collapsed with a groan. ‘Too old for this shit.’

They crouched there, got their breathing under control, got circulation back in their arms and hands. Paul pulled out his SIG, checked for load, checked the mag.

They’d landed almost directly below the bridge wings and were probably in the best place on the ship not to be seen.

They moved to the hatchway door that would lead into the deckhouse where they discarded their rebreathers. If the VX blew, it would wipe the ship out anyway.

After jiggling their ovies to check for change or keys, Mac took three strides to the hatchway door. Turned the lever handle.

Pushed in.

The ship hummed softly. The lights were on and Mac smelled breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee.

But no people. Nothing.

They were in a lobby, much like that of a mid-sized apartment building.

Paul pulled the hatchway door behind him, closing it silently.

Didn’t want to leave it fl apping and have some do-gooder come down for a nosey-poke.

Paul pointed downstairs; he wanted to check the troops before he stormed the bridge. Like Mac, he liked to know the numbers.

They went down a fl ight of stairs and into a storage area. From here, most of the food that ran a ship was kept cool till it needed to be freighted up the service elevator to the kitchens. The stewards’

area was down there too: all the toilet paper, the laundry, the cleaning gear.

They walked through the area, both breathing shallow, shit-scared about when that VX was going to blow. The silence was eerie.

They came to a cool store at the end, pushed through the clear plastic curtain and stood there in a room that was the size of a one-bedroom apartment. Five men, aged about nineteen to mid fi fties, lay on the fl oor. Filipinos by the look of it.

A carcass had fallen on one. Some were dressed in whites - kitchen guys probably, getting the provisions for the evening meal when the pirates hit. Two of them were in orange overalls, bullets in foreheads, behind ears. Blood across the fl oor, set like a dark carpet.

Mac tasted that metallic blood thing. Some people smelled it; he tasted it.

They pushed back out and went further into the ship. If Garrison and Sabaya had wanted this whole thing to go smoothly they would have needed most of the crew onside going into Singers. You couldn’t run a nine-thousand-container ship without engineers, general seamen and the offi cers. They’d waited and then executed the lot of them.

He needed to check the engine room. Even on ships this large there was only one engine and one screw shaft so it should be straightforward.

Mac accidentally knocked the claws loose on his wrist bandage, thought
Bugger it
and unbound the crepe. Chucked it.

They came to the hatchway door, AUTHORISED ACCESS ONLY

written in several languages, Korean at the top. Paul couldn’t open it. There was a keypad on the wall beside it with a solid red light on top and a green light beside, but not on. Even large ships had manual overrides on their engines, so the last thing ship owners wanted was some seaman getting drunk and deciding it would be fun to fuck around with an eighty-thousand horsepower MAN B&W straight-14.

Paul turned to Mac. ‘Any ideas?’

Mac shrugged. ‘Someone’s birthday?’

‘Anything else?’

‘Four zeroes - always works for mobile phones.’

‘Let’s forget it,’ said Paul.

They walked back across the vast storage bays, noticing how many nooks and crannies and smaller offi ces and rooms there were. They could have searched the lot, but it didn’t seem like a lively place.

They hit the stairs to go back up. Paul stopped, brought his SIG

up. Mac followed his gaze. Brought his own Heckler up.

Paul moved to his right, angling towards the stack of boxes that said Kleenex on the side. Mac hooked left. Moving in an arc, his breath was rasping now. He could feel the adrenaline pumping blood into his brain and ears. Everything roared. He couldn’t get enough air.

Wiping the wetness from his forehead he tried to concentrate.

Mac found a half-wall, propped against it, aimed up with a cup-and-saucer and fl icked the safety. Paul looked over and, happy with the cover, walked further forward, looking, looking. Mac tried to keep his breathing down. A shoot-out in a confi ned space like this left no room for retreat. Someone was going to drop. He didn’t want it to be him.

Paul moved forward slow, keeping the head, arms and shoulders absolutely still. His heavily muscled upper body fl exed against the grey cotton overall fabric, his legs moving beneath like they were independent of his body. His sleeves had two turn-ups; Mac could see his wrists fl exing.

Suddenly Paul leapt back, could barely get his SIG down fast enough. Hyperventilating.

Mac came out from the wall, ready for it, shooting stance going haywire, back and forth, up and down. Breathing all over the shop.

Paul held the stance, chest heaving. Then Paul’s SIG was at his side and he was laughing at the ceiling.

Mac walked over. Looked around the Kleenex stacks and saw a West Highland terrier panting back at them.

White.

They found the biggest pile in the kitchens. Mac counted eleven Filipino sailors, most of them in pale blue ovies. They were lying across each other, under the stainless-steel kitchen tables, along the lino fl oor. One sat in a chair in an offi ce, slumped, tongue out slightly, eyes open, bullet hole in the forehead. A psychedelic screensaver pattern repeated on the laptop in front of him.

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.’