The stern was looming above them now. It rose twenty feet, a solid wall of black steel, its surface pitted with rust. The tips of the prop blades could just be seen slicing through the churning surface of the water. They were twenty metres away. Matt could feel the engine starting to drag them towards it, the dinghy gliding across the surface of the water as if it were being sucked up by a vacuum. 'Turn it around,' he said.
Reid spun the engine into reverse. At this point in the approach, the suction from the ship's engine was enough to drag them forward: they needed the outboard to stop them moving too quickly towards it. If they collided with the propellers it would slice up the boat.
'Got it,' Reid said, looking back at Matt.
The dinghy was moving more steadily towards the stern now — forty, thirty, then twenty feet. Cooksley stood up, Ivan gripping him at the sides, and slung the hook forwards. It clanked against the metal of the stern, bounced, and started falling backwards.
Christ, man, don't drop it.
Cooksley gripped tighter to the pole, slinging it forwards again. This time the hook settled into the stern, the metal catching on metal. Cooksley tugged once. It was secure.
Ivan grabbed a thin aluminium caving ladder, holding it steady as Cooksley used the hook to pull them closer to the ship. Ivan slipped the ladder on to the stern, holding it steady, a ramp between the dinghy and the boat. 'She's ready,' he said.
Matt moved swiftly forwards. His feet bounced off the surface of the dinghy, his hands gripping on to the sides of the ladder. He steadied his balance, then yanked himself forwards.
The first man over the top faces maximum danger. That's my job.
He started hauling himself upwards. Three rungs up, a wave crashed over the side of his body. The force of the water knocked him sideways, his left hand breaking free from the ladder. His left foot was bashed out, leaving all the weight on his right foot, and a bolt of pain ran up to his knee. He could feel himself starting to be washed down towards the propeller. His right hand gripped tighter to the ladder, desperately hanging on. The salt of the water was stinging his eyes. When he managed to get himself squarely back on to the ladder he moved swiftly up five more rungs. Christ, he thought. That was close.
Using his forearms he pulled himself up on to the deck, then crouched down low, ripping the Bushmaster from his back. He held the gun to his eyes, looking out over the deck. For forty feet it was empty metal, with two cranes at the side and a lifeboat. To his right he could see a body lying crumpled on the deck, a pool of blood seeping out of the hole in the head just above the ear, and a cigarette still smouldering at its side. Matt glanced back down to the men behind, giving them the thumbs-up sign. Reid was already on the ladder pulling himself upwards.
Ahead, Matt could see the back bridge. One light was illuminating the deck, and he could hear the tinny sound of radio music being carried on the wind.
Behind him, Reid landed on the deck, then Cooksley, then Ivan. Matt checked the dinghy was secured to the stern with a rope. All four men then lay flat on the cold, wet metaclass="underline" blacked-up, out of sight of the bridge.
'There's two up there, I reckon,' Matt whispered. 'Move up to twenty feet, then we'll drop them.'
Matt rose slowly and started walking stealthily across the deck, holding his breath, taking care not to make a sound on the metal surface. Right now, surprise was the best weapon. A single sound and they would lose it. Reid walked two paces behind him, ready to give him covering fire if any shooting started.
When they were twenty paces from the bridge, Ivan and Cooksley moved up ahead to attack from the front. Ivan was following standard operating procedures as if he'd been in the Regiment all his life.
No wonder those bastards were so hard to kill when we crossed the water.
Matt paused until they were in position, and watched as Cooksley glanced through the front windows of the bridge. Cooksley waved two fingers in the air, indicating that there were two targets on the bridge. Matt pointed to the ladder that linked the bridge to the main surface of the boat, then with Reid at his side walked up the metal stairs.
Matt stood by the metal door of the bridge and waited until Ivan and Cooksley were in position by the front windows of the bridge.
'Fire!' Matt barked, putting a thumb up.
Matt heard four shots firing in unison, the tracer fire lightening their faces. He watched as the man on the wheel spun round then collapsed, his body colliding with the deck. The sound echoed down the length of the boat. The second man reeled back on his heels, staggering towards the hold. He was clutching his shoulder, his face clenched in agony. Wounded, Matt judged — but not yet fatally.
'Forward!' he shouted. 'Let's get in there.'
Matt sprinted the last few feet, Reid right behind him. He swung open the door and burst on to the bridge, running forwards, his rifle held out before him. Immediately a hail of bullets filled the tiny metal room. Matt could see the wounded man leaning down towards the hold, blood streaming down the side of his neck. His ear had been shot clean from his face. 'Hajaba!' he shouted. 'Hajaba!'
Matt didn't know much Arabic, but he knew that word.
The bastard is telling them to hide.
Cooksley and Ivan's initial burst of fire must have been deflected by the strengthened glass. That was the only way the men could have survived the initial attack. The man now held up a pistol. He tried to steady himself but blood was pouring from his ear, dripping over his eyes and obscuring his vision. One shot rang out as he fired. Matt heard the metal somewhere behind him cracking as the bullet hit it. Another shot. This time it seemed to have winged Reid, as his arm dropped in agony.
Matt levelled his Bushmaster to his eye, steadied his arm and pulled the trigger. The shot was true. The bullet exploded between the man's eyes, sending him reeling backwards, his mouth wide open and blood trickling down the side of his face.
Matt rushed forwards, put his rifle to the head of the first man, and fired a double-tap into his skull. He looked dead, but there was no point taking any chances.
'You OK?'
'Just grazed my arm,' said Reid.
'So the rest are in the hold,' said Matt.
They had no way of knowing for sure how many men were on board. MI5 had reckoned six, meaning there could be three below, but it could be more. A metal stairway led down from the bridge into the hold, but it was pitch black. Matt knelt down, level with the stairs, swivelling his eyes through the space. Even with the goggles, he could see nothing.
'Torch!' he shouted.
Reid collected a torch from his belt and shone it down the stairwell. A bullet broke through the silence, striking the wheel and ricocheting into the window of the bridge. It had flown through the three-yard opening to the stairwell, but it was impossible to tell exactly where in the hold it had come from, or who had fired it. The sheet of glass shattered into fragments, tumbling on to the floor. Matt ducked. If they were in the hold, and this was the only entrance, they were well dug in.
This could be a nasty fight.
Behind him, Ivan and Cooksley had entered the bridge. The boat was rocking from side to side as it steamed forwards with nobody at the wheel. 'See if you can shut this bloody thing down, Ivan,' Matt snapped. He looked towards Cooksley. 'See if there's another way down,' he said.
Cooksley ran down the length of the boat, inspecting the cranes, the lifeboat and the engine hatch. 'Just the engines,' he said, returning to the bridge. 'We can get down to that, but I don't know if it leads anywhere.'