Pirate

so it went, until Stratton and Hopper stepped up to pull a box off the back of the collapsed truck and stood with it at the end of the line. The box weighed about fifty or sixty kilos, Stratton guessed. The old Somali walked to the front of the line and waved for the group to follow him. The guards got to their feet and followed at the back.

The chain gang made its slow way along the hard-packed sand in the direction of the cargo ships. They got about two hundred metres before one of the Korean-looking sailors dropped the end of his crate into the sand. His buddy put down his own end of the box, and they both rubbed their fingers. The guards suddenly came to life, running right up to the two men and whaling on them to pick up the crate. Screaming in the Koreans’ faces. The two Koreans looked tired, like they had no energy. Stratton wondered how long they’d been hijacked. The first Korean, overweight, listless-looking, stepped back from the Somalis. He should have stepped to the box because the Somali took it as a show of weakness and punched the butt of his rifle into the man’s guts. The Korean went down to his knees in pain. The other Korean stepped away in fear, his arms up to protect himself. Another guard forearmed the stock of his AK-47 into the Korean’s face and he went down.

The Somalis kept on shouting until the two Koreans, one bloodied across the face, got up and picked up the crate and started walking.

It was hard going in the heat, especially when they hit the soft sand.

There was already a large collection of crates and boxes of all sizes laid out on the sand in front of the vessels. Many had been ripped open to expose their contents. Scattered around were brand-new pieces of machinery spare parts, miles of plastic piping, tins of paint and sprays and all kinds of building material. It looked like the crates had been ransacked then discarded because they had no value to the Somalis.

Stratton studied the ships now that they were closer. The largest and nearest was called the Oasis. The merchantman had a Liberian flag hanging over the stern and a Dutch one above the bridge. It was over a hundred metres long and thirty wide. Easily forty-five thousand tonnes. The middle one, a black and white carrier with two jumbo booms, had a Greek name he couldn’t read and the ship in front of that was a low flat carrier with vertical East Asian writing down one side. Furthest from him was the bulker the pirates had just hijacked.

The Oasis looked in fairly good condition but the others looked like they had either been abandoned months ago or the masters and crew had cared little for them. All showed signs of engine activity. Waste water came from exhaust holes close to the water line and the funnels leaked whiffs of smoke. Stratton guessed the Somalis put a skeleton crew on them to keep the engines turning over and the bilge pumps running or the things would sink. That would be the end of their value.

He could see men on all of the decks. On the new bulker, men were using ropes to lower boxes over the side into fishing boats. One was bringing its load towards the beach.

The old Somali guard indicated where he wanted the prisoners to stack the boxes. After the first pair had put down their load on to the sand, he ordered them back to the truck for another. He did the same with the others.

On the Oasis, several Somalis stood on the bridge wings and main deck looking over the rails. They weren’t loading or unloading, they were just standing there like they were waiting for something. A couple were watching the sky through binoculars. Stratton looked at the other guards on the beach. Several of them were searching the skies. He sensed a definite atmosphere of expectancy but no fear, no concern.

They were clearly waiting for something to happen.

5

It took four journeys to unload the truck and ferry the crates to the beach, by which time Stratton and Hopper were tired.

The old Somali gestured to them to sit among the rest of the hostages who had slumped down on the sand beside the pile of crates that offered some shade. A Somali arrived with a bucket of water and a cup. On seeing the girl he seemed to have a second’s indecision. He didn’t put the bucket down, he went to the girl and offered the cup to her. She stared at him as he leaned close and said something to her. She remained grim-faced and didn’t acknowledge him or take the water. He said something again. She didn’t move. He pointed towards a separate stack of boxes.

One of the other guards stepped over and started talking to the water bearer. He stood listening, then he cut right across the guard. Obviously didn’t agree with him. The two of them stood face to face, both talking fast, neither listening. Then the second guy started prodding the other with a finger.

The water bearer dropped the bucket and, still talking, grabbed hold of the girl’s hair like she was his property. She yelped, grabbing his hand, but he ignored her. She got up and kicked him from behind hard between the legs. As she did, a Chinese-looking prisoner, who appeared to Stratton to be her companion, jumped up and hurled himself at the guard. But the other Somali swung the stock of his rifle around on its harness and slammed it into the man’s back. The blow was severe and immediately took the fight out of him and he dropped to the sand grimacing.

The Chinese girl fought even harder. But the Somali still had her by the hair and began to punch her brutally about the head with his free hand. Which brought another of the hostages to his feet: a tall white European who looked about fifty. He was shouting angrily at the guard in what sounded like Dutch, and he grabbed at the flailing arm of the Somali, holding it with superior strength.

A couple more guards stepped over when they saw the Dutchman intervene. The second guard, who had floored the Chinaman, set his eyes on the Dutchman, gripping his assault rifle like it was a club.

Hopper and Stratton couldn’t keep their heads down any longer. They’d been maintaining a low profile because it was advisable in hostage situations like this. A fundamental wisdom imparted to students on hostage survival training courses: never stand out in any way or take on a leadership role. If you do, you run the risk of being singled out if the group needs to be punished.

But neither man was able to sit back and see the situation escalate after watching two other men take on the wrath of the guards. Hopper was first to his feet. As a young marine, before he joined the SBS and before he got married to Helen, he’d been a brawler. He didn’t start them, being a polite and level-headed man, but he could finish them. If story-time among the lads ever got around to well-known brawls, the time Hopper took on four skinheads outside an Indian restaurant in Poole often came up. Hopper had simply been enjoying a take-away when one of the pinheads knocked his meal out of his hands. Hopper hit him so hard he broke his jaw. And then he took apart the other three. Then he lined them up in the recovery position in case they vomited and he called the police. Hopper even waited for the officers to arrive. He was the one charged with grievous bodily harm. But the restaurateur, who knew him, gave evidence in his defence and got the charge withdrawn.

With his hands tied, Hopper ran at the Somali about to butt the Dutchman and double-fisted him in his side with such force the man dropped his rifle and went down. Stratton focused on the Somali who was holding the girl’s hair and who the Dutchman was trying to control. He dealt him a savage blow across the jaw. The man dropped to the sand and remained there in a daze.

One of the other guards brought his rifle up on aim as all the other hostages got to their feet. They were unsure and feared the consequences of running or staying. Then the guttural command of the older Somali stopped the guards and the old fighter stepped in between the converging groups. He screamed at the guard who looked about to fire his rifle into the Dutchman. The guard lowered the end of his weapon. The old Somali shouted at the other guards while indicating the girl. He appeared to be arguing in her favour. He clearly possessed some level of rank or respect.

The old man had achieved a pause. He had controlled his men, for the moment at least, and so it was time to direct his malice at the hostages. He looked at Stratton and Hopper. Directed his rhetoric at them because they were the most aggressive. He shouted and waved for them to step back.

‘Move back,’ Stratton said to the others. Beside him, the girl was still seething and stood her ground. He took hold of her arm. ‘Easy. Just let it go,’ he said as he guided her back.

Hopper moved to help the prone Chinese man to his feet but the old Somali walked swiftly over like he was going to strike him. Hopper stepped back to avoid any blow.

The Somali inspected the Chinese man without kneeling down or touching him. He shouted a command at a