The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Off the Skeleton Coast, Namibia

Petros Kyriades brushed his short blond hair from his forehead and stretched his lean six-foot frame. In a calm detached manner, he checked the details on his clipboard, cross ticking everything. He gave special attention to the power-driven hang gliders secured to the green-painted steel deck. His frown deepened as his mind mulled over the thought of launching from a moving ship, even though the weather and local sea state reported as fair to good. His gaze wandered across the more or less clear sky. A few wispy clouds drifted on the easterly wind.

With his inspection almost finished, he heard a familiar voice call out. “You’ll wear that pen out, PK. Everything’s fine.” He lifted his head and faced his long-time friend, Bear Morris.

“Never hurts to double check, and at two thousand feet I prefer not to have to worry.”

“Spoken like a man on a mission. Anyway, if there’s nothing for me to do, I’ll visit the galley and scrounge a sandwich or three.”

Petros slapped Bear’s shoulder as the big man lumbered off into the superstructure. Satisfied with his safety check, he strolled to the stern guardrail, leant against it, rested both forearms with his hands clasped and stared at the foaming wake. A warm wind wafted over him as he scanned the thin line of the Namibian shoreline, thirty kilometres distant.

The sound of a door clipping shut disturbed
Petros’s thoughts. He turned when Captain Eachan Eliopoulas spoke.

“You’re stark raving mad,” he said, pointing to the hang-gliders, “trusting your lives to those machines. Give me a good solid deck and I’m happy.”

Petros laughed at the short, dumpy man with weathered features. His pristine white shorts and shirt adorned with gold epaulettes glowed in the sunlight.

“Bear and I have been collectors for eight years. It’s what we do. We survive by our wits and technology.” He grinned. “For us it’s exciting and pays the rent. Don’t forget, your owner’s paying us a percentage to retrieve his package.”

“What if the pirates found it?”

“That’s the gamble but we’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”

“You know that if you end up in the water it might be difficult to recover you. There’s constant heavy surf right up to the beach and a blanket of dense ocean fog every morning.”

“You mean it’s a long swim home.” The captain opened his mouth to reply but Petros kept on talking. “It’s a risk I’m prepared to take.”

“You’re both deranged. I’m not sure I understand you.”

“Captain, all we need is your co-operation.”

“You have that. What you two do for a living makes you unique.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s three hours until sunset. Slack water at twenty-three hundred and my ship will be in position at twenty-two. There’s no moon tonight, so you’ve three hours of next to no tidal stream. Before you go and rest, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“You talk like a Londoner, have a Nordic appearance, a Greek name and your partner Bear’s as black as the night. Not that it’s any of my business, but an intriguing combination.”

Petros’s
eyes sparkled. “My mother gave birth to me in Famagusta, a town in Cyprus. My great-grandfather, a sailor, came from Norway and to cut a long story short, my great-grandmother ended up pregnant. God knows how because in those days a chaperone would escort young women everywhere. Even so, she did. In truth, he came back and married her. After the honeymoon he returned to his ship, sailed away, and was never seen again. Now, Bear’s a long story. If you ever find a friend like him, you’ll know why we’re together. I trust him with my life.”

Petros checked the time on his lucky two-dollar plastic watch. “I think I’ll go for that rest.”

*  *  *

Petros woke up flat on his back and stared at the
deckhead. The ship rode in a different way, its movement changed. Having slept fitfully, unease made his mind race and his heart beat faster. His feet hit the carpeted deck and the slow rolling motion forced him to hold the bunk’s wooden edge. With a quick glance at his watch, it was time. From the wardrobe he removed his black two-piece wet suit, life jacket, and battery-operated night vision helmet, dressed and made his way to the bridge.

Bear, fully clad and ready to go, leant against the table and chatted to the captain as they studied a chart. Petros sidled over and joined them.

“We’re here,” said Eachan, “and
Evening Star
is there.” He jabbed the chart with his finger. “A distance of twenty kilometres, give or take a few metres. From the insurer’s report, the pirates removed the cargo, then holed and set her on fire. Her hatches are open and her stern’s under water at high tide. I’d suggest you land on the helicopter pad on top of the bridge and from there make your way forward.”

“Captain,” said Petros, “who are these pirates?”

“They are well organised and function beneath a mask of respectability,” Eachan said, glancing at the bridge chronometer. I’m told the Triads have operatives in many of the major ports and they choose ships with a high value cargo. This is usually sold on before the ship leaves port. More often than not, one, if not more of the crew are members of the pirate team. These men are in daily contact with the shore using mobile phones. At the correct time the ghost or mother ship will be in a position to launch an attack.”

“How on earth do they board a moving ship without being spotted?” asked Bear.

“Simple,” said Eachan. “During the night watches, ships at sea have two, maybe three, of the crew awake and on the bridge. It’s difficult to monitor the whole ship from here. Take a look. There are more blind spots than a Dalmatian has spots. These bastards use high-powered craft and approach their target directly from the stern. From that angle, they can’t be seen visually or by radar. I’m sure you must have noticed, my vessel has infer-red cameras mounted at high points covering, I hope, any vulnerable position. That bank of monitors enables the bridge officer to constantly check the deck. I’m fortunate I know every member of my crew well. Many captains do not and that’s the weakest link. One man with a gun can take over and stop the ship. In most cases, the crew are forced into a boat or life raft and left to fend for themselves. The crew of the
Evening Star
was not that fortunate. How she ended up here, we’ll never know. Most ships either become phantoms or they’re sunk. There are many variations and I must try to be one step in front, but that’s it in a nutshell.”

“So Black Beard and the likes of Captain Jack Sparrow still exist, and from what you’ve told us
it’s big business,” said Bear.

“A billion dollars,” answered
Eachan. “Come on, it’s time you two made a move.”

“Ready, Bear?” said Petros, his brow furrowed as he gazed at his friend.

“No problems as far as I’m concerned. As always, I’ll watch your back. Let’s do it.”

“Turn the ship out to sea, Mr Whitaker,”
Eachan ordered. “I want the wind across the deck, and reduce speed to maintain steerage.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The three men strolled to the main deck. Off to port a few ships, their navigation lights clear against the moonless sky, plied the route to the Cape and beyond.

“Petros, what do you think of our runway?” asked
Eachan. “My bosun and his team did bloody well.”

“Captain, as you never know who might be listening over the airwaves, it’s prudent to call you Control on the radio until we get back. My call sign will be Ghost and my other half, Night-Fighter.”

“I understand.”

Having examined the construction earlier, Petros simply nodded while Bear scrutinised the packages attached to each control frame.

Petros gazed across to his powered hang-glider tethered to the deck. He clambered onto the wooden planks, snapped on his harness and released the securing buckle. In his mouth he positioned the throttle so as to have both hands free. Finally he put on his helmet, equipped with integrated night vision goggles, transceiver radio and satellite navigation display.

His pulse quickened as he pressed the starter button. What could go wrong, he reasoned? The engine might fail. He shook his head and concentrated. “Not tonight,” he muttered, “I’ve double-checked everything.” 

The vibration of the two-stroke engine pulsed in his hands. “Control, this is Ghost. Radio check, over.”

“Ghost, this is Control. Hear you loud and clear, over.”

Bear gave him the thumbs up.

With his eyes fixed on the end of the deck, he started running, increasing the engine speed with each stride. The weight of the glider lifted off his shoulders and he pulled back the control frame, shifting his body into the seat. Airborne, he climbed into the black crown of the sky, the constant beat of the motor reassuring. Gaining altitude, he circled and waited for Bear to launch. He checked his night vision; at this height, the black and white images of the ship displayed crisp and clear. Bear’s craft rose into the air and Petros altered direction towards
Evening Star
.

“Night-Fighter, this is Ghost, all okay?”

“Ghost, shift your arse.”

“Night-Fighter, glad to know you care.”

Petros constantly checked his speed, wind direction, and sat-nav position as he flew closer to
Evening Star
. “Wind’s from the shore, speed and altitude good,” he muttered.

Forty minutes elapsed before he scanned the landing area for anything that might obstruct his approach, but he noticed nothing of any consequence.

With the engine de-clutched, his feet hit the deck and he ran out the landing, letting the steel-tipped skids slow the craft. A sudden gust caught the wing and lifted him. He pressed his non-slip soles into the deck and stopped the drift. “Shit,” he shouted as the tip of the wing caught and twisted.

Annoyed, he unzipped his harness and secured the craft to a deck ring. “Night-Fighter, unexpected gusts made landing dodgy. I recommend you land on the aft end of the deck. For you, that means the back end!”

“Thanks, Ghost – on my way.”

Petros waited for Bear to land and assisted in fastening his craft. “I’ve bent my starboard wing strut.”

“Let’s take a gander.”

Petros removed both containers from the frames, opened one, and deposited its contents on the deck. He picked up a roll of tape, while his friend studied the bent spar. 

Bear raised his head. “I’ll go back and get the spare.”

“Let’s try and fix it.”

“A broom handle or an aluminium pole,” said Bear. “Have a hunt.”

“Okay, on my way.”

From the other container Petros removed two torches. One he gave to Bear, the other he used as he entered the fire-blackened bridge. The windows no longer existed and a glance confirmed nothing of any use remained. He concentrated his thoughts as he tested the rungs on the companionway. “Thank God steel doesn’t burn.”

Out of control, the fire had ravaged the officers’ accommodation. He descended to the crew’s quarters and found them smoke-damaged. Warily he progressed through the passageways, checking every cabin. In a cupboard, a mop with a wooden handle suited his purpose. One pull and the mop head fell to the deck. With his prize in his hand, he returned. Bear lay flat on the deck.

“You can’t sleep here.”

“I’ve been waiting. What took you so long?”

“Below this deck it’s a bloody disaster.” He handed over the wooden pole. “This should do the trick.”

Bear grabbed it and presented one end to the frame.

“Made to measure. Hold the frame.”

With tape and a few aluminium clamps, the wing was operative. “Don’t over stress,” said Bear, “and it’ll get you home.”

“What happens if it doesn’t work?”

“We revert to plan B.”

“I didn’t know we had one.”

“We haven’t.”

“That’s reassuring. Nonetheless, for the moment it’s not a problem,” said Petros. “We’ve wasted a lot of time.” From the deck, he retrieved a couple of adjustable spanners, one large, one small, and a hammer.

“We’re going to get wet,” said Bear, pointing. “She’s busted in two.”

The two of them made their way to the main deck. Slimy and hazardous, with jagged uneven plating, each step was a danger. 

Petros shook his head. “Those waves are at least two to three metres from crest to trough.”

The ship rose as the sea surged under the stern. The hull juddered back into the seabed. Water channelled by the twisted vessel raced up the deck towards them.