jumped out of the exit door, thrusting out his arms and legs in a starfish pose. Shepherd took a deep breath and followed him. He gasped as the wind tore at him, pulling, twisting, pummelling. He fought to keep his arms and legs out as he fell through the slipstream. As soon as his descent stabilised he pulled in his arms and legs slightly, adopting the stable position, his back arched so that his centre of gravity shifted towards his stomach.
Gannon was to his right so Shepherd crabbed towards him, feeling the air pressure shift under his body. More of the troopers joined them and Gannon turned slowly, checking numbers until he was satisfied that everyone was in free fall.
They reached twenty-six thousand feet above sea level and the automatic opening devices kicked in. Shepherd felt a tug at his shoulders as his canopy deployed, then his arms snapped in and his legs went down as the chute filled with air and slowed his descent. He reached up for the toggles that controlled his direction and pulled the left one, heading after Gannon, then checked his jet-black canopy. It was fine, totally rectangular, no tangled lines. In the distance, the engines of the Nimrod were a dull roar.
Shepherd tilted his head down and looked at the chest-mounted liquid crystal display screen of his GPS system. It showed his position and, some forty miles to the south, a red dot that represented the tanker.
He looked over his shoulder. Behind him, he could see the rest of the troopers, their canopies unfurled. He did a quick count. So far so good.
The harness was biting into his groin and Shepherd kicked out with his legs, moving the webbing. He took a deep breath of oxygen and let it out slowly.
'You okay, Alpha Two?' Gannon's voice crackled in Shepherd's earpiece.
'No problems,' said Shepherd.
'Just sit back and enjoy the ride,' said Gannon.
Carpenter hated ships. He hated the cramped rooms, the constant motion, the never-ending distant throb of massive engines. Bonnie had been nagging him for years to take her on a luxury cruise, but he'd steadfastly refused. There was a certain irony in the fact that the safest place for him had turned out to be a tanker prowling around the Atlantic.
His place there had been arranged by Carlos Rodriguez, a Colombian with whom Carpenter had dealt for more than a decade. The Rodriguez cartel had links to the Colombian government and was one of the country's biggest and most successful cocaine and heroin dealers. The tanker had been Rodriguez's idea, a floating warehouse that went into port twice a year for maintenance, and only when it was empty. It was a quarter of a mile long with facilities for two dozen men. Drugs were flown out from South America and dropped into the sea where they were picked up by small speedboats sent out from the tanker, then taken aboard and kept in compartments at the bottom of the hold. In the event of a raid, the compartments could be emptied, sending the drugs to the bottom of the ocean, far out of reach.
The tanker had once been owned by a Greek shipping magnate but now sailed under a Panamanian flag. Buyers, only people known to Rodriguez, paid offshore and collected from the tanker in their own boats. Rodriguez shipped drugs worth more than a quarter of a billion dollars a year through it. It was a perfect system. Usually there were only two dozen men on the vessel, a crew of ten and fourteen armed guards, and Rodriguez had vetted them all personally. It was equipped with state-of-the-art radar and sonar so that a surprise attack by the DEA or Customs was virtually impossible. But Rodriguez had more than enough law-enforcement officials on his payroll to ensure that no one took him by surprise. He was untouchable, and as long as Carpenter remained on the tanker, so was he. He was arranging for a new passport to be sent out from the UK, based on a whole new identity. The paperwork would be faultless, reflecting the premium price he was paying. Once he had it he would go to Brazil for extensive facial surgery. When his new identity was in place, he'd set about removing the old one from the Police National Computer in the UK. It would cost an arm and a leg, but it would be money well spent. Without his prints on file, he'd be able to disappear for ever.
He'd have to stay in South America - Europe would never be safe for him and the United States would be out of bounds. But there were plenty of countries in South America where a man with money could live in privacy. Bonnie and the children could join him eventually. He would buy them new identities, and Bonnie had been suggesting she had a facelift anyway. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was far better than twenty years behind bars.
Carpenter appreciated the irony that his present living space was similar to his cell at HM Prison Shelton. His cabin wasn't much bigger and he had no choice in his companions. There was little natural light unless he went up on deck, and the bulkhead doors were like the cell door that had clanged shut on him at night. The food was better- Rodriguez had hired a top Argentinian chef - and he could use the well-equipped gym whenever he wanted. There were more TV channels than he had had in Shelton, too: the tanker had a state-of-the-art satellite system and a library containing thousands of DVDs. There was plenty of alcohol, too. But it was still a ship, and Carpenter hated ships.
He was sitting in the mess, a large room with a pool table, a big-screen television and several large sofas. Five Colombians were playing poker at a card table, laughing loudly and drinking a bottle of Chivas Regal. They were playing with stacks of hundred-dollar bills and their Kalashnikovs were close at hand. The Colombians were for protection; the crew were Ukrainian.
One of the crew came in and barked at the Colombians in fluent Spanish. He was in his fifties, his face flecked with broken blood vessels, his nose almost blue from years of hard drinking. He spoke passable English but had said barely ten words to Carpenter since he'd arrived on board. Like the rest of the crew, he seemed to resent Carpenter's presence. The only man who'd been friendly had been the captain, a guy in his thirties who wore a pristine white uniform and a peaked cap. He saw Carpenter as a chance to practise his English, but Carpenter had soon got bored with the man's interminable conversations about twentieth-century novelists and avoided him when he could.
The Colombians got up, grabbing their weapons as they headed up to the bridge.
Carpenter went up to the bridge. He asked the captain if he could join him. The bridge was the captain'sdomain and only the crew or invited guests were allowed in. The captain nodded. He was looking aft through a large pair of binoculars. Two other crew members were with him, monitoring the radar and sonar systems, and the five Colombians stood at the windows, their Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, talking to each other in Spanish.
'What's the excitement?' asked Carpenter.
'Plane, coming from the north,' said the captain. 'It was up at thirty thousand feet but it started descending and now it's heading back this way under the cloud cover.'
'What sort of plane?'
'We don't know, but it's moving fast so it's not a small plane. Maybe a jet.'
'Is it a problem?'
'It's too big to be a seaplane and even the Americans wouldn't blow us out of the water, but it might be a spotter plane. Surveillance.'
'DEA?'
'Or Customs. Who knows?'
'What will you do?'
'Watch it. We'll only dump the gear if we see a boat approaching.'
'How much is on board?'
The captain grinned. 'A lot.'
Carpenter stood up. 'If you even get a whiff of a ship heading this way, I want off this tub,' he said.
'Don't worry. No one has ever tried boarding us at sea,' said the captain. 'We are in international waters so we are free to defend ourselves,' he chuckled, 'and we are well equipped to do that.'
Carpenter knew he wasn't joking. The Colombians were all crack shots. He'd seen them throw oil drums into the sea and fire at them for target practice. And he'd been told that there was a major arms cache below decks with enough firepower to fend off anything short of a full military attack, including Stinger surface-to-air missiles. 'Can you see it?'
'Not yet.' The captain turned and spoke in rapid Ukrainian to one of his crew, who answered him.
'It's down to four thousand feet and descending,' said the captain.
'Engine trouble?' asked Carpenter.
'They're not broadcasting on the emergency frequency, and it looks as if they're under power,' said the
