Pirate

Stratton felt for the pouch attached to the front of his harness. Touched the knife that was still inside. He took it out and held tightly on to it, not sure what he was going to do when they came alongside him.

Then the tension suddenly went from Stratton’s line like it had snapped and he slowed to a stop, no longer being towed by the bulker.

Stratton couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d held on to the possibility that the pirates would eventually give up and pull off. That one of the ship’s crew might spot him and initiate his rescue. But suddenly that was all over. The end of the road had arrived. The end that he had fought to avoid the past few days had arrived. The line had probably been stretched to its limit and the rough end of the vessel had worn through it. Whatever the reason, it was over. Lotto was going to win.

Stratton bobbed in the water and watched the pirate boat close in. He expected a bullet to the head. At least it would be quick. Arguably better than hypothermia or drowning and certainly better than thirsting to death.

Lotto had been at the front of his boat all of the time watching Stratton, willing the engine to get them closer, waiting for the opportunity that he knew would come to shoot the damned English. The sight of Stratton coming to a sudden stop, he truly considered a gift from on high. He gripped the rifle in his hands and brought it up into his shoulder. Held it there aimed square on to Stratton’s chest. He hoped the first round wouldn’t kill him so that Lotto could get two or three into the man before he died. But then he considered the wisdom of killing Stratton outright at all. Maybe better to let him die slowly in the ocean of undrinkable water. He quickly discarded the thought. He wanted the satisfaction of killing the man with his own hands.

Stratton stared into the end of the barrel coming right at him. He wanted to duck beneath the water but to do that he would have to get the life jackets off. No time. He couldn’t keep ducking and diving for very long anyhow. Didn’t want to add to the Somali’s amusement, Stratton popping up all over the place for a second or two until the bastard finally shot him.

Lotto knew there was nothing else that Stratton could do. He would wait until he had a complete sight picture. Then he would pull the trigger and send a piece of brass-coated lead right through the irritating Englishman. And after that entertainment ended, he would pursue the cargo ship and capture it. It was going to be a good day after all.

But the fishing line hadn’t snapped. It had simply worked its way down from the leading edge of the bow, popped off it, and slid along the keel as it passed over.

The sucking action of the propeller wouldn’t allow the line to sink away. It pulled it into a vortex, towards the spinning blades along with the surrounding water. The twisted line wrapped around the turning shaft and swiftly gathered in the slack.

Stratton was staring at Lotto. The leader had a clear picture of him in the rifle sight. A plate-sized target any half-decent rifleman could hit from where he was, leaning over the front of the boat as it cut through the water towards the operative. Then the reel fastened to Stratton’s chest whipped him around and he took off like a bungee jumper bouncing up from the bottom of his fall.

Just like before. Only this time much faster. The g-force wrenched at Stratton’s neck and his limbs pulled against their sockets as he skimmed over the water like a jet ski.

As before, Lotto could not believe his eyes. He was filled with anger and extreme violence and acted on instinct, firing wildly at Stratton, emptying the carbine’s thirty-round magazine in a desperate attempt to finish him off. ‘Get that man!’ he yelled, ripping away the empty magazine and throwing it down. ‘Give me bullets!’ he shouted. ‘Kill him!’

‘Boss!’ one of his men shouted from where he stood on the port side, pointing at the water beyond the stern of their own vessel.

Other pirates looked in the same direction, awestruck by what they saw. Lotto looked and was equally stunned. He watched the girl come shooting across the water towards them. She sped along the length of the boat, looking terrified, her legs and arms splayed like a spider.

As she looked at him, Lotto realised it was the Chinese girl. ‘Don’t just stand there staring,’ he screamed. ‘Shoot them!’

Every Somali with a gun ran to the front of the vessel and let rip.

On the bulker, the security guards had been watching the pirate boat close in. When Lotto opened fire, they assumed the bullets had been aimed at them.

‘Right,’ Bob exclaimed. ‘They want a battle. We’ll give ’em one. Section,’ he shouted, reliving his days in the Royal Marines as a troop commander. Bob had never seen action although he had spent almost twenty years in the mob. He’d done a lot of training, numerous section attacks across Dartmoor in his early days and then much later in the Omani desert in preparation for the first Gulf War. Sadly nothing ever came of it for him and the action had ended by the time he arrived in Iraq. Before that he’d completed a couple of stints in Northern Ireland but it had all gone quiet by the time he arrived, apart from the occasional roadside bomb that he only ever saw the aftermath of. A year after he left the Corp to become a civilian, the Twin Towers in New York were brought down and the lads went into Afghanistan along with the Yanks. He had remained philosophical about it, telling his mates down the pub that life was like that in the military. Some people saw loads of action while others saw none. The luck of the draw. He hadn’t been overly bothered about it on the surface. But deep down he always wished he’d seen at least one bit of real contact. His wife of twenty-five years was glad that he had left the Marines safe and sound but for his sake she wished he’d fired his gun in anger at least once, as long as he hadn’t hit anyone.

Truth was, Bob regretted that he had devoted the best part of his life to the military and had never had a single opportunity to ply the trade he had dedicated himself to for so many years.

Things were about to change in that regard.

When the Somalis opened up on Lotto’s orders, a couple of rounds zinged off the metal surfaces near the men. Bob felt a bullet ricochet somewhere around his feet. He didn’t flinch, calling, ‘Enemy front, rapid fire!’

The team let rip in unison, Bob blinking at the shock of the weapons clattering right beside him. He held his grimace as he stared back at the enemy. For a brief second he was in soldier’s heaven. He was in command. The enemy coming at them. His men engaging them. It was a moment to live for.

The private security detachment fired directly into the pirate vessel, the weapons in the hands of men who knew how to use them.

Rounds peppered the pirate boat and hit several pirates before they could take cover. One fell overboard and disappeared beneath the water.

Lotto dropped to his belly on the deck behind the metal sides as bullets flew around him. Windows in the bridge shattered, the wheelman taking a round in the chest and dropping out of sight.

Bob wanted more than to simply stand and give orders. ‘Give me that,’ he said to the man nearest to him who was about to reload his rifle. Bob removed the empty magazine, took a full one from the man’s pouch, loaded it on to the weapon, cocked it, aimed and loosed off a staccato burst of fire. He had never been quite so content as at that moment in his life firing at the enemy. Never again would he meet the question ‘So, you see any action in your time then?’ with a shrug before admitting that he hadn’t. Now he could do the same as so many other old soldiers who had tasted battle when asked the same question. ‘A little,’ he would say, and then nothing else, knowing it wasn’t a lie and letting the imagination of whomever had asked to run away with them.

‘They’ve fired a bloody torpedo at us!’ shouted one of the men.

Bob stopped firing to look down on to the water. Sure enough, something large was hurtling along towards the back of the boat.

Stratton ripped through the bulker’s wake completely unaware of the firefight raging above. He couldn’t hear it. He could hardly hear anything at all because his head was thrashing in and out of the speeding water. He had other more pressing issues to attend to. He had avoided being executed by Lotto one more time but instead he had sent himself hurtling towards the prop. He realised the line had gone around the prop and that he had barely seconds to do something to stop himself from going through the blades.

As he buffeted along he had kept a firm hold of the knife. He fought to look ahead and caught sight of the stern. The seconds were running down. The truest indication of how close he was to the propeller came when all daylight disappeared and he got dragged under the water.

He grabbed for the line and drew the edge of the blade across it.