Star of Africa (Ben Hope, Book 13) (7 page)

On the morning of the fourth day since leaving Salalah, the
Svalgaard Andromeda
completed its south-westerly route down the Yemeni coast and arrived dead on schedule at the Port of Djibouti. Under the watchful eye of the bosun and a sun so searingly hot that the sky was burned almost white, Jude and the rest of the crew laboured and sweated for most of the day unloading cargo. When the gruelling toil was finally done, word came down from the captain that they were free to hit port for a few hours that evening before setting out again the following morning.

Condor and Mitch were first off the ship, in gleeful search of cheap beer and loose women – both of which, being old hands on the East Africa run, they knew exactly where to find in sufficient quantities to gorge themselves to the maximum. Even the dour-faced Scagnetti was smiling at the prospect of being let loose on land for a while.

Jude resisted all invitations to come ashore and have a good time with a polite smile and a ‘That’s okay, you go and have fun.’ He spent the evening instead in his cabin, relaxing with a book. The next morning, he was predictably one of the only crew members who wasn’t suffering a thudding headache and queasy stomach from a serious night on the town. Nobody had been stabbed, robbed, or detained by the port police. Scagnetti appeared to have managed to go the whole night without getting into any bar brawls.

The ship departed from Djibouti shortly after 9 a.m. and cruised back out into the infinite blue on a north-easterly bearing that would carry them around the Horn of Africa before turning south.

Mid-afternoon, the first of that day’s incidents occurred.

Jude was far forward on the cargo deck, one of a small party of mostly hungover and groaning ABs working to clear up after the previous day’s unloading, when he happened to glance over the rail at the expanse of ocean ahead, and thought he saw a dark, strangely angular shape bobbing on the surface of the water directly in the ship’s path. It was only visible for a fleeting moment; then it was gone. He blinked and went closer to the rail to take another look.

Jude hadn’t been imagining things. As it turned out, what he’d seen was a discarded forty-foot steel shipping container apparently lost from another vessel, so waterlogged that it was floating too low on the surface to be picked up by the radar. He quickly alerted Ricky Marshall, the third mate, who relayed the information to the bridge, and the ship changed course a few degrees to avoid the potential hazard.

Marshall was pleased with him, explaining that ships lost containers all the time, running into thousands a year worldwide, and often failed – illegally – to report them. While such floating debris posed no serious risk to the thick hulls of larger vessels like the
Andromeda
, it was always worth steering clear. ‘You’ve got good eyes,’ he said to Jude. ‘Like to take a tour of the bridge?’

‘Really?’ It would be the first time Jude had ever been up there, and he lit up at the offer.

Marshall smiled at his excitement, and explained that especially observant ABs were often posted up on the bridge, as an extra pair of eyes always came in handy. ‘Plus,’ he added, ‘I hear you’re thinking of a naval career. You might be interested in seeing what goes on up there.’

And so, novice able-bodied seaman Jude Arundel followed the third mate up the steps and walkways to pay his first visit to the real nerve-centre of the ship, where he was introduced in person to Captain O’Keefe. The captain was a large, bearded man with a red face and a disinterested manner, who thanked Jude vaguely for having spotted the floating container and didn’t seem to care one way or the other about Marshall showing him around. O’Keefe returned to the conversation he’d been having with Wilson, the chief mate, who had the wheel. Jude caught a whiff of a scent from Wilson that could have been cheap after-shave, but smelled more like bourbon.

The bridge was the very top floor of the ship’s superstructure, accessible from an outer door and an inner hatch that led through to the rest of D Deck. It was shielded from the elements by tall windows that gave a commanding view for miles in every direction. On its roof was a railed open-air platform called the flying bridge, and extending some eighteen feet either side of it jutted steel observation walkways that overhung the ship’s sides, used for fine steering adjustments while docking.

Inside the control room itself, Jude felt as if he was inside a giant greenhouse. The deck seemed very far below, and so narrow as to create the illusion that the ship must be dangerously top-heavy and about to keel over on its side.

‘This is the conning station,’ Marshall said, showing Jude the bank of electronic equipment at the centre of the bridge. The second mate, Guzman, was lurking nearby, munching on a sandwich and ignoring them as he pored over his charts. ‘All these electronics are what we use for steering, nav and comm,’ Marshall explained. ‘Here you’ve got your GMDSS, short for Global Maritime Distress and Safety System, which feeds continuous weather updates. And this here is the radar,’ he said, pointing at another screen, showing what looked like a greenish-hued circular clock face divided into quadrants, with a continually sweeping hand moving round the centre. ‘The data stream on the right tells you the speed of any vessels we get close to, and their CPA. That’s the Closest Point of Approach – basically how long before its path crosses ours. Keeps us out of trouble.’

Jude was running his eye over the screens, drinking everything in. ‘This would be our position?’ he asked, pointing at a set of coordinates displayed on a readout.

‘That’s right. Updated continually via GPS. So we don’t lose our way.’

‘And that?’

Marshall seemed happy to answer as many questions as this eager young sailor could fire his way. ‘That’s the EOT. Stands for Engine Order Telegraph. It’s how the bridge tells the engine room to alter our speed. The panel next to it, right there, is the watertight door indicator. Every time a hatch seal opens anywhere on board, it lights up, green for open, red for shut. Alerts us if anything’s open that shouldn’t be in heavy weather.’

Fascinated by the wealth of equipment on board, Jude was about to ask more questions when the radar started to blip, drawing the attention of the mates. Wilson broke off from his conversation with the captain. The Guzzler swallowed the last of his sandwich and dragged his bulk over to the radar to take a look.

‘Looks like a vessel coming right towards us, Cap,’ he said. ‘Three-point-six miles astern and closing fast. Moving it some.’

O’Keefe frowned and came over to peer at the screen, together with Ricky Marshall. Jude moved in behind, so he could peek between them at the display. Maybe he was being audacious, he thought, but everyone’s attention was too fixed on the radar to take any notice of him. Onscreen, he could see a green dot moving towards the centre of the circle. As they watched, two smaller dots broke off from it.

‘That’s what I hoped we wouldn’t see,’ Guzman muttered. ‘It can only mean one thing.’

‘We’re going to have company,’ the captain said.

Jude stared at the radar, remembering what Gerber had told him – how pirates no longer limited themselves to short-range raids from the coastline and now used stolen vessels as mother ships to patrol the whole ocean. ‘Are we under attack?’ he asked, unable to help himself from speaking out.

Nobody replied. Ricky Marshall just glanced at him, his jaw clenched. A whole minute passed, then another. The little green dots kept on coming. The two smaller ones that had broken away seemed to be converging on the centre of the circle at a slightly faster rate.

‘Two-point-one miles, Cap,’ Guzman said, looking intently at O’Keefe.

With an effort, Jude detached himself from the huddle at the radar and stepped over to the window. A large pair of binoculars was lying on a table. He picked them up. Again, the others were too focused on the screen to even notice him.

Scanning the distant ocean through the powerful binocs, Jude could just about make out the incoming objects on the water. The larger of the three was still on the horizon and seemed to be a sizeable vessel, while the smaller two were coming in much faster, black dots against the blue with white water visible at their bows. The way they were bouncing over the waves told him they were speedboats, which must have launched from the mother ship.

‘They wouldn’t dare touch a US merchant vessel,’ Ricky Marshall said, but the expression on his face didn’t radiate confidence.

‘Course?’ grunted O’Keefe.

‘Two-twenty,’ Guzman said.

‘Take us one-seventy,’ O’Keefe said, without looking up from the screen. Wilson turned the wheel to alter course.

‘Further out to sea, Cap?’ Marshall said with a raised eyebrow, obviously cautious not to question the captain’s authority too directly.

O’Keefe ignored him. ‘Give me a hundred and twenty-five revs, Guzman.’

‘One-two-five,’ Guzman repeated, getting on the EOT to relay the speed increase down to the engine room.

Jude seemed to have been entirely forgotten for the moment. He couldn’t take his eyes from the binoculars. In what seemed a blindingly short time, the speedboats had closed the gap by at least a mile. He now could make out enough detail through the powerful lenses to see the tiny figures of men on board the approaching boats. There were at least six or eight men on each, all Africans. As they kept coming, Jude saw them alter course to follow the turning
Andromeda
. They were gaining.

Closer. Closer. Jude felt his mouth go dry as he realised the men on the boats were clutching automatic weapons. There was no longer any doubt. It was actually happening. The ship was under attack.

Jude’s heart began to pound, and his mind began to swim.

‘You want me to call up UKMTO, Cap?’ Marshall asked.

‘Too late for that,’ O’Keefe muttered. ‘They’re coming in so fast.’

Jude couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It seemed insane. Here they were, alone and vulnerable with an obvious pirate attack about to happen, and the captain didn’t want to radio for help? What about the international navy patrols that were supposed to be out there guarding them?

Marshall turned to look at Jude. His face was full of strain, and Jude could see in his eyes that he couldn’t understand the captain’s unwillingness to call for help, either. ‘You should get down there with the rest of the crew,’ was all he said.

Jude nodded. He reluctantly put down the binoculars. Unmagnified, the incoming speedboats were just small dots once more, but growing larger every second. Jude left the bridge by the outer door, the way he and Marshall had entered, and stepped out onto the steel walkway. He glanced down at the deck far below, then at the speedboats and mother ship in the distance, and was suddenly gripped with the desire to get an even better view.

Without pausing to dwell on the knowledge that he was disobeying orders by not returning directly below, he thought,
What the hell
, and clattered up the narrow metal ladder that connected the walkway with the flying bridge, the very highest point of the ship.

It was like being on the top of a mountain. The ocean wind was strong, fluttering his shirt and ripping at his hair. Jude lay flat on his belly and peered through the railing. He didn’t need binoculars any more for a clear view of the fast-approaching boats. He could hear their motors growing steadily louder over the thrum of the ship and the crash of the waves. He imagined he could almost hear the excited chatter of the pirates themselves as they got closer and closer to their prey. They couldn’t be more than six or seven hundred yards away now.

Jude’s heart was pounding faster than ever as he wondered what was going to happen. A voice inside his head was screaming at him that he shouldn’t be up here watching the terrifying spectacle. He should be down there with his fellow crewmen, Mitch and Condor and Hercules, Gerber and the rest of them! If they didn’t already know what was going on, he needed to warn everyone.
Now!

Jude leapt to his feet, vaulted the rail and started tearing down the ladder. He could see O’Keefe, Guzman, Wilson and Marshall through the window, all with their backs to him. Thankfully, they hadn’t noticed him.

Then, suddenly, the captain and mates were no longer alone on the bridge. An inner door opened. Three men Jude had never seen before walked in.

The man in the middle was older, with receding silvery hair cropped short like a soldier’s. His body language was that of someone very much in charge. He was wearing a military-style combat jacket. In his left hand he was holding a small oblong aluminium flight case. Like the kind photographers carried cameras and lenses inside. Except he didn’t look like a photographer. The case’s handle was attached to his left wrist by a chain and steel cuff.

Who were they? Then Jude remembered what Hercules had told him.

The three a-holes on D Deck. Our esteemed passengers
.

None of the three was smiling. The captain and mates didn’t seem very happy to see them, either. But that might have been because of the pistol that the man with the case was holding in his right hand. It was pointing right at them.

‘Carter? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Jude heard Captain O’Keefe demand in a loud voice full of outrage.

Jude whipped out of sight, scrambling back up the ladder and over the railing to the flying bridge. He froze there for a few instants, shaking and numb with shock at what he’d just seen. What was he supposed to do next? The rational part of him told him to remain hidden where nobody could see him.

To hell with rational. He had to keep watching.

He clutched the railing and let himself dangle head-first over the edge, terrified that the strong wind and the motion of the ship might cause him to slip and go plummeting to his death on the deck far below. Even more terrified that he might be spotted from inside the bridge.

Hanging upside down and clinging on for dear life, he peered through the glass.

The three mates were staring in bewilderment as the captain yelled at the man with the case. ‘Lower that weapon, Carter, you hear me? This wasn’t part of the deal.’

Those words hit Jude like a brick.
The deal?

From the looks on the faces of Wilson, Guzman and Marshall, they had absolutely no idea what O’Keefe was talking about, either.

Jude hung on tight and kept watching.

The sound of the first gunshot almost made him let go.

The man called Carter showed not the smallest flicker of emotion as he shot the captain. O’Keefe clutched his chest and crumpled to the floor of the bridge. Then Carter turned the pistol on a stunned Frank Wilson and shot him in the head before he could react. Blood spattered the window.

Then the other two mystery passengers pulled out pistols of their own. Guzman took two bullets to the chest and one in the back as he tried to bolt for the outer exit. The last man standing, Ricky Marshall, made a valiant attempt to wrestle a weapon from one of the gunmen before he, too, was cut down and collapsed to the floor.

Paralysed with horror, still gaping through the bloody glass, Jude could barely breathe. As the speedboats kept getting nearer and nearer to the ship, he was realising that events much more complex and sinister than a simple pirate attack were unfolding. The
Svalgaard Andromeda
had just been hijacked from inside.

What happened next confused and bewildered him even more.