Marine G SBS Page 2

  This time they had been sent out as a four-man package, with orders that bordered on the downright vague. They were to offer the benefits of their experience to those in charge of the current campaign against piracy in South-East Asian waters. They were to assist in an operational capacity if the relevant authorities invited them to. No time limit had been set to their sojourn in the area, but completed expense sheets were expected in Poole on a fortnightly basis. Stamping out international piracy was all very well, but the Royal Marine Corps still had to keep within its budget.

  Marker smiled to himself, and stared out across the black waters at the blacker line of land a mile or so off their port bow. Bintan Island was Indonesian, and the moment they entered the Riau Channel between Bintan and Batam there could be no disputing whose waters they were in. At best they could claim to be lost, and look like fools. ‘Brits in Anti-Pirate Op Lose Their Way’ – he could see the headlines.

  Whatever. But if they wanted to catch these bastards, then they could hardly be deterred by the risk of losing face. And if the pirates didn’t give a toss for maritime boundaries, how could they? With any luck they could get the photographic proof they needed and head back to Singapore, leaving the Indonesian authorities to learn of the visit later, from the evidence collected against their own armed forces. The sampan looked innocent enough. When it was travelling at less than five knots, that was.

  The container ship was about a mile ahead of them, still moving at around fifteen knots. There were a few dim lights off the port bow now.

  ‘Tanjung Uban,’ Finn said, as if reading Marker’s thoughts. ‘Sounds like an anagram, but it’s a small town.’

  The strait they were entering was about five miles wide, but a smaller island in mid-channel effectively reduced the width to a couple of miles on either side. The container ship seemed to be making for the eastern channel, which would take it within a mile or so of the lights.

  ‘It’s three-thirty,’ Marker said. ‘You’d think they’d want to get wherever it is they’re going before dawn.’

  ‘Why?’ Finn wanted to know. ‘This is Indonesia. We can’t send search planes into Indonesian airspace, can we?’

  ‘Maybe not, but this isn’t like bits of Siberia used to be. There are tourists all over the place – on beaches, out in boats, snorkelling, fishing. And where tourists can go, so can intelligence agents. These guys can’t be berthing stolen ships in plain view. Not ships this size. Someone would notice.’

  ‘There are hundreds of islands in this chain,’ Cafell said from the wheel, ‘and only a few of them are inhabited. It shouldn’t be that hard to find a secluded anchorage.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Marker conceded. ‘But secluded and secure are two different things. These are not cowboys we’re dealing with.’

  ‘I reckon there must be well over a thousand containers on that ship,’ Finn said. ‘Say they’re all full of home computers from Hong Kong, maybe a hundred per container, something like five hundred quid each. That’s fifty thousand per container, which adds up to . . .’

  ‘Fifty million for the cargo,’ Cafell said. ‘Plus whatever they can get for the ship.’

  ‘With a repaint, a new name and some forged papers they can probably pick up another fifty-million-pound cargo,’ Marker said. ‘It’s been done.’

  ‘Christ,’ Finn muttered. ‘This piracy business is beginning to sound attractive. Maybe it’s what we were all trained for.’

  ‘I couldn’t take the stress,’ Marker murmured. Nor the ethics, he told himself. Errol Flynn and Hollywood notwithstanding, olden-day pirates hadn’t been noted for their chivalry, and some of their modern descendants seemed to specialize in brutality for its own sake. Over the past twenty years many of the crowded boats fleeing Vietnam had been attacked by Thai pirates who seemed more interested in murder and rape than good old-fashioned theft.

  The bunch who had seized the container ship were in a different league, of course. Marker had no doubt they would kill to protect themselves, but there would be nothing personal in it. He remembered Brando telling the man in The Godfather that it was simply a matter of business. Sometimes Marker found that proposition even more horrifying than casual sadism, but it was always a hard call.

  They were in the eastern channel now, the island in mid-strait a dark hump to starboard, the desultory lights of sleeping Tanjung Uban falling behind to port. Marker wondered how long it would be before their Malaysian and Singaporean allies missed them and hoped that, in the excitement of their chase, it would be a while. The last thing they needed was a flurry of suspicious-sounding messages on the radio.

  ‘It’s clouding over, boss,’ Finn observed.

  It was. There was going to be another Sumatra, Marker realized. This region was prone to experience three or four of these violent pre-dawn thunderstorms each month, but this would be the second in four nights. The first had occurred on their first night out, and had been exhilarating, almost frightening, in its intensity. Now that Finn had pointed it out, Marker could feel the tension building in the air.

  ‘We’d better open the gap a little,’ he said. Even in waters like these they had a good chance of tracking the container ship by radar, while an inconvenient burst of lightning could reveal the sampan in what looked suspiciously like pursuit.

  He had hardly got the words out before the first fork of lightning ripped earthwards, burying itself in the island off to starboard. A blast of thunder followed almost instantaneously, and the rain seemed to take its cue from that. Like most tropical storms it shifted from odd drops to a fully-fledged Niagara in about four seconds.

  They seemed to be encased in a wall of dark water, which every now and then would burst with light and reverberate with noise. For the next half hour both container ship and land kept vanishing from view, but the blip on the radar moved steadily south-south-east down the centre of the strait. Dawn was not much more than ninety minutes away when the son et lumière finally abated, and the rain slackened to a mere downpour. While Marker and Finn bailed water from the foredeck, Dubery took the wheel and Cafell bent over his charts to pinpoint their exact location.

  ‘I reckon that’s Nginang,’ he said, gesturing towards a scarcely visible shape in the murk off to starboard.

  ‘They’re changing course,’ Dubery announced. ‘To the west.’

  Marker appeared at Cafell’s shoulder. ‘Which way?’ he asked.

  Cafell held the torch with one hand as he traced the container ship’s direction with the other. ‘They’re heading into this,’ he said, indicating the small, island-dotted sea which lay between the larger masses of Batam and Rempang. ‘Their base must be in there – there’s no other reason they would risk a ship that size in waters like these.’

  Marker walked back to the doorway. The rain was relenting now. ‘Close up a little,’ he told Dubery. ‘We don’t want to lose them.’

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the clouds seemed to slide away across the sky like a huge roof, revealing an ever-larger canvas of stars. The container ship was clearly visible now, a jet-black square against the rounded ridge of an island. In the relative silence that followed the storm the SBS men could just detect the dull rumble of the engines across the black water.

  ‘It’s turning again,’ Dubery announced. ‘And slowing.’

  ‘I’ll bet their base is down that channel,’ Cafell said, struggling to read the map by the light of the stars.

  ‘Keep us on this course,’ Marker told Dubery. ‘And let’s keep talk to a minimum from now on.’

  The sampan chugged across the water. It seemed to be making a hell of a noise, but logic told Marker the engines of the container ship would provide an adequate cover. There was more chance of their being seen than heard, particularly since dawn was not far over the horizon.

  The container ship was slowly disappearing now, turning into the mouth of a half-mile-wide channel between two densely forested shorelines. There seemed to be a hint of light emerging from the cha
nnel, and as the sampan drew parallel with the opening the sources became apparent. About half a mile to the south a jetty poked out into the water, and behind it the jungle had been cleared to make room for several barracks-like buildings. Some fifty yards offshore a small warship rode at anchor – an Indonesian Navy Sabola-class patrol boat.

  In the centre of the stream the huge and still lightless bulk of the container ship had come to a dead halt, dwarfing both the warship and the channel. Its metal ladder was in the process of being lowered, and even at this distance the SBS men could hear the metallic clunk as it locked itself down.

  Several smaller boats, most of which looked like speedboats, were tied up at the jetty.

  They had found the pirates’ lair.

  2

  Aboard the Ocean Carousel Captain Lamrakis and his first mate had just been escorted down to the cabin where the rest of the crew were being held. Leaving the first mate to fend off the inevitable torrent of questions, Lamrakis placed his back against a spare patch of wall and let himself sink to the floor.

  His hours on the bridge with the smiling Indonesian had been nerve-racking. The hazards posed by the ship’s new course had been bad, but a growing realization of the hijack leader’s utter indifference to the lives of the captive crew had been much worse. No threats had been made – Lamrakis would probably have felt better if they had – but no promises of eventual safety had been offered either, and, much as he wanted to, he found it hard to believe that such an omission could be accidental. Standing on the bridge of his ship as the storm raged around it, he had suddenly sensed, with appalling clarity, that he would never see his wife or son again.

  Maybe he was wrong. Sitting there, surrounded by faces as fearful as his own, he could only hope so. The problem was – putting himself in the hijackers’ position – he could see no good reason for letting himself or his crew go free.

  * * *

  As the sampan pulled around a forested headland the pirates’ base disappeared from view.

  ‘Find us a place to hide,’ Marker told Cafell, whose map was becoming easier to read with each minute.

  ‘Do you want hot showers, or will cold do?’

  ‘On this island,’ Marker added, jerking his thumb to the left.

  ‘It’s Rempang,’ Cafell muttered.

  ‘Looks inviting,’ Finn said ironically. ‘Anyone seen King Kong?’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Which one?’ Marker asked. His knowledge of films was about as extensive as Cafell’s of naval history. Or Finn’s of trivia.

  ‘Not the Jessica Lange one,’ Finn said. ‘We had that question in the pub quiz a few weeks back.’

  ‘What are you two jabbering on about?’ Cafell asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Finn said. ‘But when you go ashore, and you find a lot of hysterical natives staring up at a huge gate in a huge wall, don’t ask them to open it for you.’

  ‘I’ll try and remember that,’ Cafell said. ‘Now, if we can get back to the real world, this is a big island, about twenty miles long and nearly ten miles wide. But there should be a nice little bay about a quarter of a mile ahead. On the map it looks almost enclosed, which will make it a nice hidey-hole. But you can never . . .’

  They all turned at the sound of an engine starting up behind them.

  ‘One of the speedboats,’ said Marker. ‘Get some speed up,’ he barked at Dubery. ‘They’ll never hear us over that racket.’

  The sampan surged forward in search of Cafell’s bay, with Marker keeping an anxious look over the stern. There was a fifty-fifty chance the speedboat would take off in the opposite direction. If it didn’t, there was a much better than even chance that the surface of the sea would still be offering evidence of their passage.

  ‘Cut the speed,’ Marker shouted at Dubery, just as the mouth of the bay came into sight. The sampan took the turn on the nautical equivalent of two wheels, and seconds later was decelerating to a stop in the relatively still waters of a palm-fringed cove straight from the holiday brochures. The only sour note was provided by prominent signs on both the small stretches of beach. None of the SBS men read Bahasa, but they didn’t need to – the signs came with their own English translation. This was military property, and trespassers invited the death sentence.

  As Dubery cut the engine the sound of the speedboat became audible. At first it seemed to swell, as if the craft was coming in their direction, but then it definitely began to fade. Then suddenly it cut out altogether, leaving only the sounds of the jungle and the sea.

  ‘Standing sentry,’ Marker said. ‘We’ll probably hear another one heading down to the other end of the channel before long. Between them they’ll keep any unwelcome boats away from the area.’

  ‘And us here,’ Finn said.

  ‘Until dark,’ Marker agreed. ‘But since we’re exactly where we want to be that doesn’t really matter, does it?’

  Cafell and Finn looked at each other in mock disbelief.

  ‘But first off, I think we’d better hide ourselves a little better. If we could get the sampan in front of those trees over there, or even better, right underneath the branches, it would probably escape a casual glance.’

  ‘For all we know, the pirates use these beaches for their sandcastle competitions,’ Finn said.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Marker replied, ‘because then there’ll be a path from here to their base.’ He grinned at them. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, you two. Let’s get in the water and give this tub a push. Ian, keep watch – land and sea.’

  The other three stripped down to their shorts, lowered themselves into the warm, chest-deep water and began manhandling the sampan towards the cover of the overhanging trees. Marker was reminded of Bogart in The African Queen, pulling the boat through the reed marshes and getting covered with leeches. In Florida the previous summer he and Cafell had seen the boat which had been used in the movie, tied up outside a Holiday Inn to amuse the tourists.

  Feeling something brush against his left leg, Marker immediately assumed the worst. But weren’t leeches freshwater creatures? He realized he didn’t know. Ignoring the clinging sensation, he pushed against the sampan with his shoulder and silently invoked his almost daily resolution to learn something about the natural world before he died.

  The water was deep enough under the trees for a shallow draught, and once the three men had manoeuvred the boat into position it was virtually invisible to anything but the most determined scrutiny. Back on deck Marker found that the object on his leg was a particularly sticky lump of seaweed.

  The four of them gathered on the foredeck for a conference. In the branches above, two small parrots were staring down at them – green with red tail feathers and a prominent blue spot on their heads, they looked as though they’d bruised themselves head-butting. Through the fronds which hid the sampan the early-morning light was turning the waters of the bay from black to a deep blue-green. In the distance a speedboat engine started up, as if to remind them of why they were there.

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ Marker asked, swatting at a mosquito on his bare arm. ‘Suggestions?’

  ‘Breakfast sounds good,’ Finn offered.

  ‘And after we’ve enjoyed our Shredded Wheat?’

  ‘I suppose we have to pay the bad guys a visit.’

  ‘Yeah, we need some pictures,’ Cafell agreed. ‘A few shots of the freighter next to that Indonesian patrol boat and we should have the cat among the pigeons.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too difficult, provided you don’t get us lost in the jungle,’ Finn remarked.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not enough,’ Marker said quietly. ‘This place is obviously only a transhipment point. Say the kickbacks go right to the top of the military in this area – what’s to stop them picking out a few scapegoats and simply finding some other convenient place to bring the ships? We’ll cause them a bit of aggro, but we’ll be no nearer finding out who’s fingering the cargoes at the beginning or who’s disposing of them at the end.’


  ‘So what do we need to do?’ asked Dubery.

  ‘This lot have to be in contact with both the fingerers and the disposers. Maybe we can find some clues in one of the buildings down there.’

  ‘Like a telephone pad with the top sheet ripped off, but you can still read the imprint on the sheet below?’ Finn asked.

  Marker grinned. ‘I was thinking more of records. Military units tend to keep them – out of habit if they can’t think of a better reason.’

  ‘That sounds like a night job,’ Cafell said.

  ‘Yeah, and first we need to know the lie of the land. So we’ll set up an OP this morning, take our snaps, and then go in tonight.’

  ‘What about our hosts in Singapore?’

  ‘With any luck they’ll notice that another ship has gone missing, assume we’re on the job, and keep quiet about it. I don’t think it’s worth the risk of using the radio.’ He looked round at the other three. ‘Any other brilliant ideas? Any strong objections?’

  The others shook their heads, faces suddenly serious, as each confronted the possibility of combat before sunrise.

  An hour later, with the sun making its presence felt behind the forested ridge, the four men waded across to the nearest beach and headed off into the thick vegetation. They were all wearing light camouflage fatigues, matching floppy hats, jungle boots and streaks of camouflage cream across their faces, necks, hands and arms. Each man carried a holstered Browning High Power 9mm pistol and a cradled Heckler & Koch MP5SD silenced sub-machine-gun. Finn was also carrying the Nikon and its assorted lenses, Dubery the digging tools, and Cafell and Marker the team’s supply of food and water.

  Progress was slow, and made slower by the need for frequent listening halts. The four men would stand motionless, ears straining for any sounds with a human source, but there would be only the never-ending racket of the jungle, and, pervading everything, the drone of mosquitoes massing for another attack.

  By Cafell’s reckoning they had less than a mile to travel, but half that distance took them the better part of an hour, so it was with some relief that they found the first evidence of human presence – a telegraph pole silhouetted against the sky. Ten minutes later they reached the dirt road which ran beneath the wires, and crouched for several minutes in the foliage beside it. Amounting to little more than a swath of deep ruts between the trees, the ‘road’ seemed both unused and unusable.