Star of Africa

Another crew member Jude quickly warmed to was Hercules, the ship’s cook, a larger-than-life black man with a laugh that could vibrate the hull from stem to stern, and who always wore the same frayed old army jacket that was spattered with a thousand grease stains. Hercules’s constant companion in the galley, the mess, and everywhere else, perched on his shoulder, was an evil harpy of an African grey parrot that went by the name of Murphy and possessed an even more scatological vocabulary than most of the sailors. Not everyone appreciated the bird, especially after being screeched at repeatedly and at maximum volume to get the fuck out of here! – its favourite expression.

‘If that vulture of yours shits in my plate, I’m going to chew its goddamned head off and spit out the beak,’ complained Gerber, absolutely serious. Which, Hercules later confessed to Jude with a grin, earned Gerber a dollop of green parrot excreta mixed in with his gravy. Gerber either didn’t notice, or thought it was an improvement on the usual slop the galley served up. Jude had to secretly agree that, whatever else Hercules might be, he certainly was no chef.

Strangely, Murphy never swore at Jude. On the third day of the voyage, the bird even flapped off its master’s shoulder to swoop across the mess and perch on Jude’s. ‘First time he’s ever done that,’ Hercules said, mightily impressed, while Jude sat very still and hoped the thing wasn’t about to rip his earlobe off with its nutcracker beak.

‘Murph has real good taste in people,’ Hercules chuckled while pouring Jude a mug of stewed coffee later that day. ‘If he don’t take kindly to a guy, that’s how I know they’s an asshole. He’s like my early warnin’ system.’

‘Everyone seems okay to me,’ Jude said, playing the diplomatic newbie. ‘Mostly, anyway.’

‘Ain’t such a bad bunch crew on this run,’ Hercules said. ‘Just that lousy prick Scagnetti and the three a-holes up on D Deck.’

D Deck was where the engineers and mates had their slightly more comfortable quarters than the common crewmen, and for a moment Jude thought Hercules must be referring to some of them.

‘Nah, man. Talking about our esteemed fuckin’ passengers. Bird don’t think too much of them neither, believe me.’

This was the first Jude had heard of passengers on board. No mention of it had been made by anyone until now, which struck him as being odd. ‘I didn’t realise merchant ships carried anybody but the working crew.’

Hercules sniffed. ‘That’s ’cause we don’t, not as a rule leastways. I been at sea twelve years and I ain’t never seen it. This ain’t no damn cruise liner. Ain’t no Sunday picnic neither. Like I don’t already got enough to be doin’ down here without I’ve got to carry up their meals twice a fuckin’ day. What, are their asses too high an’ mighty to chow down here with the rest of us? Ain’t no room for freeloaders in this here merchant marine. Everybody pulls their weight or they ain’t got no right bein’ here in the first place.’

‘What are they, friends of the captain?’

‘You bet I already asked the bosun the same question ’fore we shipped out.’

‘And what did he say?’ Jude asked, wondering whether maybe Jack Skinner wasn’t quite as unapproachable as Mitch had suggested.

Hercules grunted. ‘Didn’t say shit. Just gave me the look that says, don’t even fuckin’ ask.’

Chapter 9 (#ulink_2377cfab-58dd-5b4a-9168-176d74adaf3f)

As he went about his duties that day, Jude kept an eye open in case he might spot one of the mystery passengers. He saw no sign of them, and presumed they must be confining themselves to their quarters and choosing not to mix with the others on board. But what he did start to pick up more signs of were the grumbles of resentment among the crew against the unknown, nameless, faceless freeloaders up on D Deck. None of his business, he decided, reminding himself that he, too, was just passing through and only here thanks to some favour called in, some string or other pulled by one of Jeff Dekker’s connections in the maritime world. He wasn’t one of these guys. He was only here to gain knowledge and experience.

Which he was doing, every waking moment. Jude had always been a fast learner, effortlessly remaining top of his class at uni before he’d decided that Marine Biology was not what he wanted to spend his life doing. He was constantly full of questions for Mitch and the others, though careful not to overdo it. He soon filled in the gaps in his knowledge concerning the roles of the senior crewmen. The impressively named Henry Hainsworth O’Keefe was, as he’d supposed, the supreme authority aboard ship, directing things from his throne room up on the bridge. Frank Wilson, the chief mate, was responsible for overseeing the loading and unloading cargo, as well as handling security and the general day-to-day running of the ship. The chief engineer, Diesel, was a rare sight above decks, he and his assistants seldom emerging from their domain in the engine room down below. When not filling his already capacious belly, Guzman, second mate, was the so-called ‘paper mate’ in charge of navigation, charts and all the electronics up on the bridge. The third mate, Marshall, acted as an assistant. And as Jude had already inferred, the fearsome Skinner’s job as bosun was to mediate between the mates and the rest of the crew, as well as ensure discipline on board.

In addition to learning about the men he was sailing with, Jude was also getting to know the ship pretty well. His first impression of a floating city had been perfectly right: you could lose yourself for days in the bewildering, endless maze of passageways and storerooms both above and below decks. Maybe it was because he was the youngest and most fleet of foot out of the crew, or maybe it was just because he was the new meat; either way, Jude found himself running back and forth all day on gopher duty. Clattering up and down rusty iron steps. Fetching this, fetching that, passing messages here and there.

On his errands about ship he was constantly intrigued by the heavy steel-mesh gates that barred virtually every external walkway and ladder, coming up from the deck to the superstructure. Every time you passed through one of the gates, you had to close and lock it behind you. It meant you couldn’t go anywhere without first getting a set of keys from the bosun, and returning it afterwards. Unable to think what purpose the gates served, Jude quizzed the old salt Gerber on the matter.

‘Those are pirate cages,’ Gerber explained with a bristly scowl.

‘Pirate cages?’

On the flight to Oman, Jude had contemplated the possible dangers of a voyage down the east coast of Africa. Typhoons, reefs, sharks, heatstroke, getting arrested in port for unruly behaviour and ending up incarcerated in some African jail had all occurred to him. He hadn’t once thought about pirates. How could they even still exist, in this day and age? Terrorists, sure. But pirates? To him, the word conjured up images of snarling buccaneers with cutlasses and eye-patches, and the Jolly Roger flying at the masthead. Wasn’t that ancient history?

Gerber, however, seemed very certain of the risk. ‘Yup. That’s what those are, all right. So’s if we get boarded by the little darlings, they can’t get access to enough key points, the bridge especially, to take over the ship. Only way we can even try to keep those scumsucking bastards off our asses. That, or hose ’em with water as they come up our sides. Some ships pour oily foam on ’em, gunks ’em up good. Needless to say, we got jack shit except a bunch of flimsy wire mesh.’

To Jude’s amazement, Gerber explained how little shipping companies did to protect either their property, the cargo they carried or the men they paid to ferry it from the risk of violent armed pirate attacks that kept growing year on year in certain waters. Ships on the East Africa run, Gerber added bitterly, being one of the primary and most frequent prey, targeted by waterborne bandits operating mainly from the Somali coast.

‘That’s just how it is,’ he told Jude. ‘Personally, I’d like to see a whole damn locker of M16s on board. Been saying it for years, but who’d listen? Those corporate sonsofbitches would rather leave us out here like sitting ducks than trust us to defend ourselves.’

Jude hated to ask the inevitable question. ‘What happens if pirates manage to get past the cages and take over the ship?’

Gerber shrugged. ‘Best case, all they want is cash. Every vessel carries a few thousand bucks’ worth in reserve in the captain’s safe, for emergencies and such. If you get lucky, you might be able to just pay them off, and they’ll beat it back to shore to get rat-assed and whored up, and you can go on your way rejoicing. That’s how it used to be, more often than not, but it’s rare you get off so lightly now. See, when these shit-eaters first started showing up twenty years ago, you were dealing with a few rag-tag fishermen making six hundred dollars a year, who thought five, ten thousand was the haul of a lifetime. Didn’t take ’em long to figure out you could make a whole lot more by snapping up the whole ship and holding the cargo and crew for ransom.’

Jude was staring at him. ‘They kidnap the crews?’

‘This is all news to you, huh, sonny? Sure, these fuckers would kidnap their own mothers for a buck. They’re taking hundreds of millions a year now in ransoms. It’s big business. Instead of wooden skiffs they’re coming out in speedboats, tooled up to the nines with Kalashnikovs, high as kites on fuckin’ khat and ready to murder anyone who gets in their way. And they don’t just cover a few miles out from the coast like they used to. Not when they can use stolen vessels as mother ships and hunt over the whole ocean looking for a juicy tanker to knock off. It’s a whole other ball game now, and it’s about goddamn time someone did something about it.’

‘I had no idea it was so bad.’

Gerber pulled a disgusted face. ‘Well now you have. Bring ’em on, I say. They want a fight, they’ll get a fight like they won’t believe. I’d rather be dead than wind up a hostage in some Somali stinkpit, or sold as a fuckin’ slave to work in a damn copper mine.’

Jude’s head was still spinning from what Gerber had told him when he sat down to eat later with Mitch, Condor and another AB called Lang. ‘Hey, s’matter, English? You don’t think my jokes are funny any more?’ Mitch said in a mock-hurt voice after Jude failed to break up at some stupid crack. Jude admitted what was on his mind.

‘That old fart Gerber’s just looking to scare your Limey ass,’ Mitch said.

‘Can’t get it up no more, so he wants to play Platoon instead,’ laughed Condor. ‘Thinks he’s still in ’Nam. You know why they don’t issue weapons to merchant crews? So that trigger-happy dudes like Gerber can’t shoot the crap out of every bunch of poor schmuck fishermen that come within a thousand-yard range, and call it self-defence. Who’s gonna insure us for that?’

Jude wasn’t sure. It had sounded pretty plausible the way Gerber described it.

‘That’s right, man, don’t listen to his cranky bullshit,’ said Lang, munching loudly on a bacon sandwich and spitting bits out as he talked. ‘Sure, the pirates might hit a vessel now and then, but we’re talking small trawlers and private yachts mostly. Few years back, they took a pop at a German naval tanker thinking she was a merchant and those Krauts chewed their asses up something terrible. I’ll bet ol’ Gerber didn’t tell you what happened last time a pirate crew touched an American ship, did he?’ Lang dragged his forefinger across his throat and smiled wickedly, bits of bacon stuck between his teeth. ‘I got two words for you. Navy SEALs.’

‘What happened?’

‘Let’s just say, our boys went home. The bad guys wound up as fish bait.’

‘These waters are safe as houses,’ Mitch said, ramming home the point. ‘Hell, safer. Naval destroyers patrol up and down the coastline the whole time. Thank your fellow Limeys for that one. We even so much as smell a pirate, all Cappy O’Keefe has to do is dial up UKMTO on the sat phone, and the cavalry’ll be all over us before you can say Jack Robinson.’

‘Who the fuck was Jack Robinson, anyway?’ Condor asked.

‘Fuck should I know?’ Mitch shot back at him.

‘Always wondered about that,’ Condor said absently.

Jude already knew about United Kingdom Maritime Trade Operations, the clearing house that governed shipping security in the Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean. But he still wasn’t entirely convinced.

‘Okay,’ he said, dubiously. ‘Then if we’re so safe and there’s no risk, then why do we keep the pirate cages locked all the time? And how come these attacks are still going on?’

Mitch waved it away. ‘Chill, dude. Ain’t gonna happen to us.’

Chapter 10 (#ulink_54069a1f-4f95-5b38-816d-7ee66c3cad34)

The young woman’s eyes were wide with terror and pleading as she tried to scream out from behind the tape that covered her mouth. Her bleached hair was all awry, her hands tied, her blue chequered shop assistant’s uniform ripped at the neck from the struggle with her attacker who, presumably, had already wiped out the rest of her colleagues in his murderous spree.

The hostage taker stood half-concealed behind her, using her body as a shield with one arm clamped tightly around her neck. Was he a terrorist, or just another crazy on the loose? It didn’t matter either way. He was the threat, and he had to be neutralised. He was wearing a black sweatshirt and his eyes were hidden by dark glasses that glinted in the morning sun. He was clutching a stubby pistol that was aimed over the woman’s shoulder and pointing at the hostage rescue team who had come to save her.

Milliseconds counted. At any instant, a desperate man like this, all out of options and wild with panic, might turn the gun on her at point-blank range and blow her brains out.

Brrrpp … Brrrpp. The ripping snort of two short bursts from the silenced submachine gun, punctuated by the clackclackclack of the weapon’s bolt and the tinkle of spent cartridge cases hitting the ground. The hostage’s left eye disappeared as the nine-millimetre bullets punched a jagged line from her throat up to her temple.