That was one weapon. Across his back Eeyore had strapped another Russian arm, a Kiparis submachine gun. It, too, was silenced and used the same ammunition as the pistol. Thoughtfully, Victor's cache had provided frangible ammunition for both. Less thoughtfully, while the pistol would be very quiet, due to the reduction in velocity below the speed of sound, rounds fired from the submachine gun would be supersonic, consequently rather noisy.
In addition, by his right side was strapped Eeyore's own, handmade, knife. Lastly, in various pouches and pockets, the former SEAL carried eight RGO defensive grenades, a radio transmitter and beacon, extra batteries, a piece of thin wire with wooden handles on each end, sundry odds and ends (a small drill and a fiberscope, a fiber optic camera, for example), a couple of pounds of smoked meat and some cans with Cyrillic writing and pictures that suggested food.
The boarder looked left. Nothing. Then, pistol and eyes reoriented to the right, he sidled along between containers and hull about a dozen feet. There he came to a space between shipping containers of about two and a half feet, or perhaps a bit less. There he doffed his combat harness, submachine gun, and most of the ancillary gear. He kept his pistol as he kept the NVGs.
Just aft of the bow, the container configuration changed, with the outside edges of the above-hull exterior containers resting on double steel pylons, red with rust. It was that kind of a ship. This also left a more or less covered passageway that shielded Antoniewicz from observation from the windowed bridge that spanned the full beam of the ship.
Getting to the stern-really to the superstructure-was tricky. There almost was no telling when someone might round a corner. Antoniewicz solved the problem by ducking in between a row of containers and listening to be certain there were no footsteps or talking. Then he'd come out again, pad quickly to the next row, duck in, and listen some more. Five times he did this before reaching the penultimate gap. At that point there was only one row of containers between himself and the superstructure. There he waited for perhaps half an hour, accustoming himself to every normal sound the ship might make in this area. Thus, when he heard an other than normal sound, two men, chatting in what sounded like Arabic, their feet ringing on the steel deck, Antoniewicz's heart again began beating fast. He made himself as small as possible in the space, his hand automatically tightening around the pistol. Through his NVGs he caught a brief glimpse of the men as they walked past. They were holding hands. Their other hands were empty.
Doesn't necessarily mean anything, thought the former SEAL. Not if they're Arabs. Not like it would back in the states.
Still, I am stuck here until they go back inside.
It seemed like hours to Eeyore, waiting in the cramped little space, before the two men walked back to the superstructure. When they did, it was on the other side of the ship. It was only slightly later that the deck was flooded with men, casting off and reeling in lines. Shortly thereafter the engines thrummed to life and the ship began moving away from the pier.
The deck stayed pretty active for some time, thereafter. Gradually though, as the banks of the lough disappeared and the Galloway turned west, the sailors went back to their business. Only then could Antoniewicz come out from his hide and go searching for a place to spend the night and for any signs of Adam. In the latter, he was to be completely disappointed.
The little Russian drill was nearly silent. It went through the thin wall of the first container Antoniewicz elected to try in moments. Through the hole, the former SEAL slid the fiber section of the fiberscope along with another small fiber to provide a minimal light.
The scope had a lot of built in distortion, but not so much that Antoniewicz couldn't see the contents of the shipping container. Perfect. Boxes. With his knife he snapped off the inspection seal, opened the container, and removed the first box. This was, like the others, a mid-sized television. He carried the TV to the edge of the bow and dumped it. He watched the progress of the box as the ship moved onward and before it sank, judging, Eighteen knots. The bitch is faster than we thought.
He then went back and did the same with another. A third, fourth, and fifth went the same way. The TV sets were heavy. On the other hand, while Eeyore was small; he was not weak.
Crawling into the space thus vacated, Antoniewicz pulled all his gear in behind him and then closed the container's doors. He rearranged the boxes so that, even should someone open the container, they would be presented with a solid set of TV boxes, three by four, while creating for himself a small cubby further into the container.
Then, with the drill, the SEAL made a dozen small air holes on top, plus three or four high along each side.
If it gets too stuffy, I'll make more.
With that, he checked his watch. Running a small wire antenna out of one of the air holes, he sent to the Bastard, 'I'm aboard and safely hidden. I looked for some sign of the kid, but there's nothing, not a hint. And, you know, a prison has routines. There aren't any here, that I could see. FYI, ship's speed is about eighteen knots. See you at sea.' He then drank some water from one of his canteens, wolfed down a bit of smoked meat-not bad, considering it's not really a Russian specialty-and went to sleep, one hand wrapped around the silenced Makarov . . .
D-107, MV
. . . and awakened to the sound of massed firing-full automatic, too-coming from somewhere sternward of his little hide. The sound was muffled by metal walls and cardboard boxes, but was distinct for all that.
'What the fuck!' Antoniewicz exclaimed as he sat bolt upright. His head was saved from a painful impact only by the fact he was so short. 'Did the attack start and I slept through it?'
Almost he exited the container to join in. He was fumbling with the inside handle when the firing ceased. He heard something shouted out in Arabic and the firing began again.
They're familiarizing on their weapons . . . or keeping in practice . . . or test firing, he thought. This pretty much ends the possibility that they are comparatively innocent illegal immigrants.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If you wrote a novel in South Africa
which didn't concern the central issues,
it wouldn't be worth publishing.
