He beckoned the offi cers, and they all left the bridge, moved down two fl ights to the dining room where they introduced themselves.
Jeremy was the younger one – a New Zealander; Wylie was American and the captain. They were both based out of Singapore, where their families lived.
Jeremy shook his head. ‘How are we, I mean, how can we…’ His voice broke, unable to go on.
Wylie looked at Paul as if to say: See what I’ve been putting up with?
‘No one wants to be here, right Jerry?’ said Paul.
Jeremy nodded.
‘But here we are all the same. We’re gonna try and sort it, but we’re gonna need you, mate. Up for it?’
Jeremy nodded. Looked away. Embarrassed at his state.
‘We’re betting these guys have gone into the AIS system and switched on the bridge broadcast system,’ said Mac.
‘The one that only cuts in after a collision?’ said Wylie.
‘That one, yeah,’ said Mac, liking Wylie already. ‘We think your conversations are broadcasting to all ships, and that’s how Sabaya and Garrison are listening in.’
‘Is that their names?’
‘What are they like?’ asked Mac.
Wylie grimaced. ‘Well, they know how ships work, they knew what we were doing and where we’d be. I mean, they weren’t like what you expect of a pirate or a terrorist.’
‘What were they focused on?’
‘The American kept talking about clarity, kept reminding me that anyone who commanded a vessel this large had to have an adult grasp of clarity.’
Wylie exhaled, grabbed at a glass of water. ‘Then he put that sheet on one side of the table, and the photo of my wife on the other, said, Here’s how it works. And we’ve been up here ever since, broadcasting this rubbish.’ He slapped the song sheet against his thigh.
Jeremy sniffed. Paul eyeballed him, said, ‘Come on, mate.’
Mac wanted more. ‘They tell you they’d be watching on TV?’
‘Yes, sir. Told us that this was a tailored CNN incident.’
Mac’s ears pricked up. Didn’t know why. ‘The American. He said incident?’
‘Sure did. Said it several times. Said he’d be watching it on CNN and if we got stormed before the set time on the sheet, he’d blow the place up and kill his hostages.’
‘You know which one is the VX?’ asked Mac.
‘The what?’ said Wylie.
‘It’s nerve agent. They stole it, got it on this ship.’
‘Oh that. Is that what they call it? Yeah, they hauled these big black bags down to twelve -‘
‘Twelve?’
‘Bay Twelve. It’s the twelfth container from the stern. About halfway between the bridge and bow.’
‘Then what?’
‘We worked out it was twelve eleven eight-six.’
‘What was?’
‘The container they were working on. They knew all about the bridge gantries and ladders and lashing. They seemed to know their stuff.’
‘What’s twelve eleven eighty-six?’
‘It’s the container position,’ said Wylie. ‘It’s bay twelve, row eleven, tier eighty-six.’
Paul frowned. ‘In English that would be?’
‘It would be halfway to the bow, on the outside – starboard – side of the stacks, and high up. About second or third from the top of the stack.’
Mac mulled it. Twelve eleven eighty-six, exactly where the offi cers on Hokkaido Spirit said you’d have to put a container if you wanted to open it en route.
Mac beckoned Paul to another table, whispered, ‘We can’t pull the cops and the Yanks in here to do the bomb or these guys are going to lose family, right?’
Paul nodded.
‘So we have to get the TV cameras shut down. Make it look like the Singaporeans have moved to a new Em- Con level.
‘Once we can get those helos and cameras out of here, then Sabaya and Garrison are blind. They can hear those demands going out every thirty minutes, and they think it’s all going on. But they don’t know the Twentieth is crawling all over Golden Serpent trying to disarm their bomb.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
Mac went back to Wylie and Jeremy. ‘Mate, think we might have an idea,’ Mac said to Wylie.
Paul wanted to know how they’d been speaking with the Americans, and Wylie said, ‘The ship-to-shore phone.’
‘Where is it?’ asked Mac.
Wylie pointed at a table next to the starboard window. There was a heavy white handset face down on a white plastic cradle.
‘Got a number?’ asked Paul.
Wylie pulled a folded piece of white paper from his shorts.
Mac and Paul swapped a look. With the ship-to-shore phone not jammed it might be possible to get through to Sawtell or the Port Master or Hatfi eld. Mac wasn’t hopeful on that score. Once the EOC starts its business – especially a US military one for a terrorist threat – the lines of communication go so high that outside calls are not taken.
Hatfi eld would be sit-repping as high as CINCPAC, Joint Chiefs and maybe the Oval Offi ce. There wouldn’t be too many rubber-neckers getting through.
Still, it was worth a shot.
Mac checked his G-Shock: 1.25. He looked at Wylie, whose face fell off him like a fl esh waterfall. ‘Guys, you’re up again. Do what they tell you, all right? Don’t talk about us. We’re trying to get this sorted.
Do it by the book, right?’
The two offi cers nodded, gulped down some water and walked back upstairs, dragging their feet. Mac sat back. According to the Sabaya sheet, the whole thing timed out at six that evening. It gave them about four and a half hours to come up with something. If they couldn’t alert the Singaporeans and the Yanks within the next half- hour, Mac was going to slip back into the water and stealth round there himself. Or even better, get Paul to do it. He got out of Hasanuddin, piece of piss. He could try getting into a US Army EOC.
Mac walked to the starboard window, looked out. He could make out the fl ash of a rotor or a truck at intervals where you could see through the mountain of container stacks. There were black-clad Singaporean SWAT teams lurking between the containers. Mac wondered what they thought they were going to do: storm the VX consignment? Intimidate the CL-20?
The EOC had been mounted back from the apron. Tucked among the container stacks.
Mac could see broadcast trucks along the raised Ayer Rajah Expressway. There were at least thirty of them and there seemed to be a roadblock of more trucks and vans trying to get the circle seats.
Even without binos Mac could see their satellite dishes on the roofs, uplinking with a continuous feed. They were getting used to the thirty-minute spacing of the demands, perhaps. The AIS broadcasts meant CNN and Fox News could be getting their feeds from any one of the ships. Could even be getting it from a hobbyist with a VHF receiver who could hook into the maritime bands.
There seemed to be a fl urry of activity, then voomph, along the rows of OB trucks the klieg lights and refl ector brollies lit up and the row looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.
Mac wondered why the lights had gone on now, in the middle of the afternoon, then looked at his watch: 1.29. Golden Serpent had become the news cycle. Bottom of the hour live feeds to the anchors.
Lots of reports starting sentences with things like ‘We’re hearing’, and
‘There’s a real sense’, in lieu of having any information.
The next thing to arrive was going to be the anchors. They’d be coming in from Honkers, Sydney, KL, Manila,
