He kept his eyes glued ahead, seeing the dark shape of the trawler each time the inflatable crested a wave, and ahead of that the first hint of the island, a low shape on the horizon. He glanced at his watch, and nodded at Ahmed. They knew that Ibrahim on the patrol boat would have his binoculars trained on them, and that the larger Zodiac with a section of Somali marines would be prepped and ready for the follow-up action. He watched Ahmed crouched at the ready in the bow, holding his MP5 close to him against the spray. Less than an hour from now they would know one way or the other.
Jack huddled beside the outboard, checking his equipment with his spare hand, making sure the regulator hoses were wound around his neck to keep them from catching on anything, feeling for his holster. He remembered what had happened to Zaheed, the look on his face in those final moments, and what Ibrahim had told him about their adversaries ahead: that these were not fishermen forced into piracy but sadistic thugs from inland, murderers and torturers and rapists. He felt his adrenalin flow, his body tense. He would show them no mercy.
22
Twenty minutes later, Jack angled the Zodiac into the wake of the trawler, now no more than five hundred meters ahead. He could see a dim light from the deckhouse, but still no sign of movement. With the skiff having departed for the island full of men, it was impossible to know how many were left on the trawler, but he and Ahmed had guessed at least half a dozen, perhaps twice that. Ahmed extended the retractable stock on his MP5, pulled the cocking handle to check that a round was chambered, and held it slung over his shoulder, the silencer poking out above the pontoon. His job was to take out anyone who might happen to appear at the stern railing; the silencer would reduce the chances that the noise might alert any others. They had entered the critical phase of the operation, within gunshot range of the trawler. A single round from the pirates into the inflatable and it would be game over, with any hope of rescuing Costas instantly lost.
They were closing in now, with less than two hundred meters to go. Jack concentrated on keeping within the slipstream of the wake, riding the wave that was angling out from the starboard quarter. A momentary lapse of attention and the Zodiac might be swept off the wake into the sea alongside, where it would be more visible; getting back into position would mean gunning the throttle, also attracting attention. As they followed the churning phosphorescence behind the trawler’s screw, Jack ran over what he would do once Ahmed had leaped aboard. He would need to make sure that the Zodiac was not pushed away, that he kept it against the hull so that he could attempt to get on board himself. With nobody to man the throttle to keep it in position, it was going to have to be a split-second leap, a matter of finding any handhold before the inflatable was taken by the waves and spun away out of control.
In the pre-dawn glimmer, he could now see the condition of the trawler more clearly: the rusting hull, the derricks for dragnets at the stern, which had probably been unused for months, the deckhouse above the accommodation block. He had never encountered pirates before, but he had been thoroughly briefed by Ibrahim and Ahmed and he had some idea of what to expect. Hostages released after ransom had said that the Badass Boys were continuously high, making their behavior erratic, more dangerous. Jack was sure that he could smell the marijuana above the diesel fumes that were now enveloping them. It meant that the danger for Costas was multiplied, the risk that one of the pirates might decide on a whim to murder him, but it could also mean that his guards were less alert, easier to overwhelm. Jack’s role was to go below and search for him while Ahmed held off any opposition above. He checked the holster with the Beretta on his right side, making sure it was shut. He would know the nature of the opposition soon enough.
They were less than fifty meters away now. One of the pirates suddenly appeared at the back rail, lurching, a Kalashnikov swinging from one hand, a joint in the other. Without hesitation, Ahmed snapped up the MP5 and fired a five-round burst. The man toppled over the rail and fell into the wake, his body bobbing past them. The gunshots had barely been audible, little more than a staccato coughing, but the man had dropped his own gun with a clatter and one of Ahmed’s bullets had pinged off something metallic behind him, ricocheting into the distance. Another man appeared, evidently alerted by the noise, and Ahmed repeated the exercise, this time dropping the man onto the deck.
Jack gunned the boat forward. It was now or never. Ahmed slung the MP5 over his back and picked up a grapple line from a bucket in the bow. The Zodiac rammed into the stern of the trawler, bounced against it and then held fast, the engine screaming. Ahmed threw the grapple, watching as it caught on the stern rail, and leaped out, impacting the hull hard as he pulled himself up above the wake. Jack throttled back, swerved sideways out of the wake, and came back again at the trawler along her starboard side. Above him he heard a ripping sound as Ahmed emptied his MP5 forward, and the noise of ricochets and shattering glass. He squatted up on the floorboards, holding the tiller with one hand and his own grapple with the other. He swung the tiller hard, threw his grapple and then leaped out himself, slamming into the side of the trawler just as a deafening burst from a Kalashnikov ripped into the inflatable, shredding one pontoon and causing it to flip over and spin off in the wake.
He hung on to the line, the spray lashing his face, his body half in and half out of the water. He summoned all his strength and pulled himself up until he reached deck level, swinging his left leg until his foot caught behind one of the railing posts aft. He heaved himself up against the railing and looked across the deck. A few feet away lay the crumpled body of the man who had fired the Kalashnikov, rivulets of blood spreading along the divides of the deck boards around him. Ahmed had already advanced forward of the main hatch, and was squatting behind the derrick machinery, his MP5 aimed at the deckhouse. Jack stared at the hatch, the place where fish would normally be spilled through into refrigerator compartments below. If Costas was anywhere, that would be it. He looked forward again to Ahmed. There was no need for stealth now, just speed. “I’m right behind you,” he bellowed. “I’m going for the hatch. I need suppressing fire.”
“Roger that.” Ahmed dropped the half-empty magazine from his weapon and loaded a new one. “On your call.”
Jack flexed his arm muscles and peered at the top of the railing, judging his timing. He took a deep breath and yelled, “Ahmed. Now.” Ahmed fired a long burst that shattered the remaining deckhouse windows, spraying rounds from left to right. Jack heaved himself up the railing, dropped over the other side, unholstered his Beretta, and scrambled over to the hatch, pulling at the handle. From somewhere ahead a Kalashnikov opened up and rounds went everywhere, ricocheting off machinery and gouging sprays of splinters from the deck boards.
Jack ducked down, his hands over his head, and looked across at Ahmed, who had taken out a stun grenade and pulled the pin. “Fire in the hole,” Ahmed yelled. They had agreed not to risk fragmentation grenades until they knew for certain where Costas was being held, but a stun grenade might at least buy them time. Jack pressed his hands against his ears, and watched Ahmed toss the grenade at the deckhouse. Seconds later there was a deafening crash, followed by a few seconds of silence and then sounds of commotion, high-pitched voices yelling orders in Somali. “I can just about make out what they’re saying,” Ahmed called. “I think there are three of them, and one down below. He must be guarding Costas. You need to get down there now.”