‘Take it up to fifteen knots,’ said McConnell. ‘Nice and slowly.’
Shepherd did as he was told. The boat kept slamming into the crests of the waves and the wheel bucked and kicked in his hand. He kept the speed steady at fifteen knots.
‘Okay, that’s us just before we start to plane,’ shouted McConnell. ‘We’re slamming into the waves rather than cutting over them. It’s a teeth-juddering ride, right?’
Shepherd nodded. He was concentrating on the water ahead of the prow.
‘Take it up to twenty knots,’ roared McConnell. ‘Smoothly as you can.’
Shepherd pushed the throttle forward. As the boat accelerated past sixteen knots the juddering stopped and it carved across the top of the waves.
‘That’s the planing,’ said McConnell. ‘You feel it?’
‘Awesome!’ It felt to Shepherd as if the boat was flying above the water now, barely skipping along the surface.
‘Keep it going!’ bellowed McConnell.
Shepherd pushed the throttle forward until the speedometer registered forty knots. He was finding it harder to concentrate on all the ships in the vicinity. There was a freighter off to starboard that seemed to be on a collision course and he steered away from it.
McConnell grinned when he saw what Shepherd was doing. ‘We’ll miss him by a hundred yards, he’s only doing twelve knots. The thing to remember is that out here we’re the fastest bastards, by far.’
It was like driving a motorcycle, Shepherd realised. Fast and furious, not worrying overmuch about what was behind you. Just keep focused on where you’re going and be ready to accelerate out of trouble.
‘Ready to put her through her paces?’ McConnell shouted.
‘Sure!’
‘Give it full throttle!’
Shepherd took a deep breath and pushed the throttle forward. The edge of the seat pressed against the small of his back as the craft surged forward, and the air beat against his face like a living thing. He was panting like a dog and fought to steady his breathing. His left hand ached from gripping the wheel too hard and he forced himself to relax.
‘See the branch?’ yelled McConnell, but Shepherd was already steering the boat to port. ‘Nice,’ said McConnell, approvingly.
Shepherd kept accelerating. The huge Yamaha outboard roared and the waves beat under the hull. The boat felt as if it was bouncing along the surface like a stone that had been sent spinning across a lake. The speedometer went past fifty knots. Fifty-five. Sixty. The throttle was in the full forward position.
‘Both hands on the wheel now!’ roared McConnell. ‘At this speed you have to steer your way out of trouble, so you need both hands.’
Shepherd did what he was told.
‘Try a hard to starboard!’
Shepherd turned the wheel right. The boat banked easily and he felt his body dragged to the left by the force of the turn. His eyes kept scanning the area ahead of the bow. There were a dozen craft close by, all yachts, none going at more than ten knots.
‘This is amazing!’ shouted Shepherd. ‘It’s as if everything else is standing still.’
‘Compared to us, they are! Come on, let’s go to France.’ McConnell pointed at the GPS screen mounted between the two wheels. ‘Just follow the dotted line.’
Shepherd put a pint of beer in front of McConnell, who grunted his thanks. It was a little after six o’clock and McConnell had insisted that they retire to a pub ‘for a drop more antifreeze’ before nightfall. He had a sketch-pad in front of him and was drawing a rough map of the south coast and the French shore with a Biro whose end had been well chewed.
Shepherd sat down and took a sip of Jameson’s. ‘That is one hell of a boat, Gordy.’
‘State-of-the-art.’ McConnell sat back and swallowed a good third of his pint, then belched.
‘Explain the planing thing to me,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s what gives the rib its edge. That boat lifts up on to plane at between fifteen and sixteen knots, depending on the load being carried. The tilt lever on the wheel sets the angle of the propeller compared with the hull and that has to be right to get up on plane. I’ll run you through that tonight. It’s a matter of feel more than anything.’
‘But what’s the science behind it?’
‘A rib boat is built like an arrow so that it cuts through the waves rather than bouncing over them. The semi- inflatable bit keeps it out of the water, and they have a very shallow draught. Mine’s just eighteen inches, which is nothing. Boats that are built with a displacement design slow to a crawl in rough seas but a rib just punches through. Your old mob has one that’s made with metal collars rather than rubber and has an internal diesel engine with a range of four hundred miles. It’s all hush-hush, covered with radar-deflecting paint with an electromagnet on the front that lets it stick to hulls until the guys can offload. Now, that bugger is one hell of a boat.’
He took another deep pull on his pint and another third disappeared.
‘The shallow draught also gives you an advantage if you want to play hide and seek. The rib can go where most other craft would run aground. If you’re being chased you can slip into the shallows off Norfolk or the Thames estuary. It helps with loading and unloading, too. I’ll show you tonight. You can run right on to the beach, load and unload at the bow while the engine’s still in enough water to pull her away when you’re ready. No need to go anywhere near a dock if you don’t want to.’
‘And no one can keep up with us?’
‘You couldn’t outrun a fast sports boat with surface piercing props,’ said McConnell, ‘but only flash bastards who want to be noticed have them anyway. They throw a huge plume of white water out of the back so you can see them for miles. I’ve had a few races with the local Customs boys for fun and they couldn’t come close. The navy have some faster stuff but you’d be bloody unlucky to have them on your tail. Mind you, even if they had the speed, they’d have a bloody tough time tracking you. The beauty of the rib design is that it’s virtually impossible to follow. It won’t show up on radar, unless it’s stern on. Then the engine might give off an echo, but even that’s not guaranteed.’
‘You keep calling it a rib,’ said Shepherd.
‘Stands for rigid inflatable boat. Basically an inflatable with a hard hull.’
‘It’s the perfect smuggler’s boat,’ said Shepherd.
‘Good job I’m one of the good guys, isn’t it?’ said McConnell. He winked and laughed, a bellowing guffaw that had several heads turning in his direction.
‘Do you get asked to bring stuff over?’
‘All the time,’ said McConnell. ‘Usually by guys in sharp suits down from London who think I’ll drop my trousers for a few grand. If they really piss me off I pass them on to an undercover Customs guy I know, otherwise I just let them ply me with drink then bid them farewell with a few choice words.’
‘What about being followed by planes or helicopters?’
‘On a daytime run they could pick you out of all the rest of the cross-Channel traffic maybe, but not at night.’
‘Range?’
‘At a steady ten knots the engine burns through eight gallons of fuel an hour. Once you’re up on the plane, you burn eleven gallons an hour but you’re doing forty knots or more. Pretty much four times more efficient. The fuel tank holds fifty-five gallons so you can do two hundred nautical miles or thereabouts. More than enough for a Channel run. And it’s no trouble to carry another fifty-five gallons in cans.’
‘There’s just the one engine?’
‘The biggest outboard on the market. Three hundred horsepower. A beast. Fifteen grand’s worth of motor.’
‘Reliable?’
‘Just don’t run over anything and it’ll be fine.’
‘What if it breaks down?’
‘It won’t.’
‘Have you got a manual I can read?’
