short time, the speedboats had closed the gap by at least a mile. He now could make out enough detail through the powerful lenses to see the tiny figures of men on board the approaching boats. There were at least six or eight men on each, all Africans. As they kept coming, Jude saw them alter course to follow the turning Andromeda. They were gaining.
Closer. Closer. Jude felt his mouth go dry as he realised the men on the boats were clutching automatic weapons. There was no longer any doubt. It was actually happening. The ship was under attack.
Jude’s heart began to pound, and his mind began to swim.
‘You want me to call up UKMTO, Cap?’ Marshall asked.
‘Too late for that,’ O’Keefe muttered. ‘They’re coming in so fast.’
Jude couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It seemed insane. Here they were, alone and vulnerable with an obvious pirate attack about to happen, and the captain didn’t want to radio for help? What about the international navy patrols that were supposed to be out there guarding them?
Marshall turned to look at Jude. His face was full of strain, and Jude could see in his eyes that he couldn’t understand the captain’s unwillingness to call for help, either. ‘You should get down there with the rest of the crew,’ was all he said.
Jude nodded. He reluctantly put down the binoculars. Unmagnified, the incoming speedboats were just small dots once more, but growing larger every second. Jude left the bridge by the outer door, the way he and Marshall had entered, and stepped out onto the steel walkway. He glanced down at the deck far below, then at the speedboats and mother ship in the distance, and was suddenly gripped with the desire to get an even better view.
Without pausing to dwell on the knowledge that he was disobeying orders by not returning directly below, he thought, What the hell, and clattered up the narrow metal ladder that connected the walkway with the flying bridge, the very highest point of the ship.
It was like being on the top of a mountain. The ocean wind was strong, fluttering his shirt and ripping at his hair. Jude lay flat on his belly and peered through the railing. He didn’t need binoculars any more for a clear view of the fast-approaching boats. He could hear their motors growing steadily louder over the thrum of the ship and the crash of the waves. He imagined he could almost hear the excited chatter of the pirates themselves as they got closer and closer to their prey. They couldn’t be more than six or seven hundred yards away now.
Jude’s heart was pounding faster than ever as he wondered what was going to happen. A voice inside his head was screaming at him that he shouldn’t be up here watching the terrifying spectacle. He should be down there with his fellow crewmen, Mitch and Condor and Hercules, Gerber and the rest of them! If they didn’t already know what was going on, he needed to warn everyone. Now!
Jude leapt to his feet, vaulted the rail and started tearing down the ladder. He could see O’Keefe, Guzman, Wilson and Marshall through the window, all with their backs to him. Thankfully, they hadn’t noticed him.
Then, suddenly, the captain and mates were no longer alone on the bridge. An inner door opened. Three men Jude had never seen before walked in.
The man in the middle was older, with receding silvery hair cropped short like a soldier’s. His body language was that of someone very much in charge. He was wearing a military-style combat jacket. In his left hand he was holding a small oblong aluminium flight case. Like the kind photographers carried cameras and lenses inside. Except he didn’t look like a photographer. The case’s handle was attached to his left wrist by a chain and steel cuff.
Who were they? Then Jude remembered what Hercules had told him.
The three a-holes on D Deck. Our esteemed passengers.
None of the three was smiling. The captain and mates didn’t seem very happy to see them, either. But that might have been because of the pistol that the man with the case was holding in his right hand. It was pointing right at them.
‘Carter? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Jude heard Captain O’Keefe demand in a loud voice full of outrage.
Jude whipped out of sight, scrambling back up the ladder and over the railing to the flying bridge. He froze there for a few instants, shaking and numb with shock at what he’d just seen. What was he supposed to do next? The rational part of him told him to remain hidden where nobody could see him.
To hell with rational. He had to keep watching.
He clutched the railing and let himself dangle head-first over the edge, terrified that the strong wind and the motion of the ship might cause him to slip and go plummeting to his death on the deck far below. Even more terrified that he might be spotted from inside the bridge.
Hanging upside down and clinging on for dear life, he peered through the glass.
The three mates were staring in bewilderment as the captain yelled at the man with the case. ‘Lower that weapon, Carter, you hear me? This wasn’t part of the deal.’
Those words hit Jude like a brick. The deal?
From the looks on the faces of Wilson, Guzman and Marshall, they had absolutely no idea what O’Keefe was talking about, either.
Jude hung on tight and kept watching.
The sound of the first gunshot almost made him let go.
The man called Carter showed not the smallest flicker of emotion as he shot the captain. O’Keefe clutched his chest and crumpled to the floor of the bridge. Then Carter turned the pistol on a stunned Frank Wilson and shot him in the head before he could react. Blood spattered the window.
Then the other two mystery passengers pulled out pistols of their own. Guzman took two bullets to the chest and one in the back as he tried to bolt for the outer exit. The last man standing, Ricky Marshall, made a valiant attempt to wrestle a weapon from one of the gunmen before he, too, was cut down and collapsed to the floor.
Paralysed with horror, still gaping through the bloody glass, Jude could barely breathe. As the speedboats kept getting nearer and nearer to the ship, he was realising that events much more complex and sinister than a simple pirate attack were unfolding. The Svalgaard Andromeda had just been hijacked from inside.
What happened next confused and bewildered him even more.
The man sometimes known as Ty Carter, sometimes by other aliases as the sensitive nature of his work dictated, and rarely ever by his real name Lee Pender, walked calmly towards the bodies. Blood was already pooling thick on the bridge floor, spreading in rivulets this way and that with the motion of the ship. Carter disliked getting his shoes messy, and was careful to avoid the blood as he crouched over each body in turn and used his free hand to ensure none had a pulse. He had performed such checks many times before in his long career, and was as skilful as any surgeon.
Satisfied that all four were dead, he stood up and turned to his two accomplices with a nod. Their names were White and Brown, which amused him. They were mere hirelings, short-order trigger men paid to do exactly as he told them. So far, they’d proved perfectly capable at their job, and been equally good at taking his money without asking questions.
