An engine gunned outside. It sounded big, like a large truck, and it was labouring. They could all hear the gears crunching. Whoever was driving it gunned the engine again. Then it stopped as if it had died.
Stratton went back to his thoughts. After about half an hour the door burst open and an old Somali walked in, a long knife in his belt beside a holstered revolver. He had on cleaner clothes than the others as if he were prouder of his appearance. He looked at the prisoners like they were livestock.
He planted his feet and put a hand on the gun’s grip. ‘Get up,’ he shouted. ‘Rouse!’ He kicked the nearest hostage’s foot. ‘Get to your feet, you lazy sailors.’ They obeyed swiftly. Stratton and Hopper eased up off the floor.
‘Out the door! Go!’ said the Somali.
The group filed outside into the sunlight. The Somali pointed them forward and they trudged up the street, turned the corner into the main street, back in the direction of the beach. As they walked four Somali guards, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, stepped up to follow. The heat and humidity had intensified while Stratton had been inside the hut. He felt his clothes sticking to his back. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Up ahead, he saw a large flatbed truck resting at an awkward angle, squatting to one side like a wounded buffalo. When they got to it he could see its rear axle had collapsed. On the truck’s bed were dozens of green-painted wooden boxes, all the same size, about a metre and a half long. It was pretty obvious to Stratton and Hopper the possible contents of the boxes. For those who could read Russian, the black stencilling described what each of them contained. And for those who couldn’t, one of them had spilled on to the road and had broken open to reveal its contents: several PKM machine guns heavily greased and wrapped in brown wax paper.
The old Somali climbed up on to the bed and shoved one of the crates to the edge. He shouted at the nearest prisoners, pointed at the box, making them pick it up. Two stepped forward, dragged the heavy box off the truck, their hands still tied, and stood off awaiting instructions.
The Somali guards stepped into the shade of the nearest house and started smoking and talking.
The old Somali directed the first two bearers to wait to one side and ordered the next two men forward. And so it went, until Stratton and Hopper stepped up to pull a box off the back of the collapsed truck and stood with it at the end of the line. The box weighed about fifty or sixty kilos, Stratton guessed. The old Somali walked to the front of the line and waved for the group to follow him. The guards got to their feet and followed at the back.
The chain gang made its slow way along the hard-packed sand in the direction of the cargo ships. They got about two hundred metres before one of the Korean-looking sailors dropped the end of his crate into the sand. His buddy put down his own end of the box, and they both rubbed their fingers. The guards suddenly came to life, running right up to the two men and whaling on them to pick up the crate. Screaming in the Koreans’ faces. The two Koreans looked tired, like they had no energy. Stratton wondered how long they’d been hijacked. The first Korean, overweight, listless-looking, stepped back from the Somalis. He should have stepped to the box because the Somali took it as a show of weakness and punched the butt of his rifle into the man’s guts. The Korean went down to his knees in pain. The other Korean stepped away in fear, his arms up to protect himself. Another guard forearmed the stock of his AK-47 into the Korean’s face and he went down.
The Somalis kept on shouting until the two Koreans, one bloodied across the face, got up and picked up the crate and started walking.
It was hard going in the heat, especially when they hit the soft sand.
There was already a large collection of crates and boxes of all sizes laid out on the sand in front of the vessels. Many had been ripped open to expose their contents. Scattered around were brand-new pieces of machinery spare parts, miles of plastic piping, tins of paint and sprays and all kinds of building material. It looked like the crates had been ransacked then discarded because they had no value to the Somalis.
Stratton studied the ships now that they were closer. The largest and nearest was called the Oasis. The merchantman had a Liberian flag hanging over the stern and a Dutch one above the bridge. It was over a hundred metres long and thirty wide. Easily forty-five thousand tonnes. The middle one, a black and white carrier with two jumbo booms, had a Greek name he couldn’t read and the ship in front of that was a low flat carrier with vertical East Asian writing down one side. Furthest from him was the bulker the pirates had just hijacked.
The Oasis looked in fairly good condition but the others looked like they had either been abandoned months ago or the masters and crew had cared little for them. All showed signs of engine activity. Waste water came from exhaust holes close to the water line and the funnels leaked whiffs of smoke. Stratton guessed the Somalis put a skeleton crew on them to keep the engines turning over and the bilge pumps running or the things would sink. That would be the end of their value.
He could see men on all of the decks. On the new bulker, men were using ropes to lower boxes over the side into fishing boats. One was bringing its load towards the beach.
The old Somali guard indicated where he wanted the prisoners to stack the boxes. After the first pair had put down their load on to the sand, he ordered them back to the truck for another. He did the same with the others.
On the Oasis, several Somalis stood on the bridge wings and main deck looking over the rails. They weren’t loading or unloading, they were just standing there like they were waiting for something. A couple were watching the sky through binoculars. Stratton looked at the other guards on the beach. Several of them were searching the skies. He sensed a definite atmosphere of expectancy but no fear, no concern.
They were clearly waiting for something to happen.
5
It took four journeys to unload the truck and ferry the crates to the beach, by which time Stratton and Hopper were tired.
The old Somali gestured to them to sit among the rest of the hostages who had slumped down on the sand beside the pile of crates that offered some shade. A Somali arrived with a bucket of water and a cup. On seeing the girl he seemed to have a second’s indecision. He didn’t put the bucket down, he went to the girl and offered the cup to her. She stared at him as he leaned close and said something to her. She remained grim-faced and didn’t acknowledge him or take the water. He said something again. She didn’t move. He pointed towards a separate stack of boxes.
One of the other guards stepped over and started talking to the water bearer. He stood listening, then he cut right across the guard. Obviously didn’t agree with him. The two of them stood face to face, both talking fast, neither listening. Then the second guy started prodding the other with a finger.
The water bearer dropped the bucket and, still talking, grabbed hold of the girl’s hair like she was his property. She yelped, grabbing his hand, but he ignored her. She got up and kicked him from behind hard between the legs. As she did, a Chinese-looking prisoner, who appeared to Stratton to be her companion, jumped up and hurled himself at the guard. But the other Somali swung the stock of his rifle around on its harness and slammed it into the man’s back. The blow was severe and immediately took the fight out of him and he dropped to the sand grimacing.
The Chinese girl fought even harder. But the Somali still had her by the hair and began to punch her brutally about the head with his free hand. Which brought another of the hostages to his feet: a tall white European who looked about fifty. He was shouting angrily at the guard in what sounded like Dutch, and he grabbed at the flailing arm of the Somali, holding it with superior strength.