Deacon looked at him as he yanked his hand free. ‘Why?’
‘Because we don’t want to start a war with special forces. You know them as well as I do. If we kill just one of them they’ll want revenge. Remember, there’s no law out here to govern us. There’s little to govern them, either. We’ve been there, right?’ Jordan added by way of subtle manipulation.
It made sense but only to someone who didn’t like confrontation. Deacon was convinced that Jordan was weak, and usurping him became suddenly a very serious consideration. The one thing stopping him from doing it, for the moment at least, was that Jordan still held a significant ace up his sleeve. ‘When are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘You’ll find out in good time.’
‘This is your moment of power, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be so bloody childish. Now bring your man up.’
Deacon took his time going back to the rail. When the Pirate looked up, Deacon gestured for him to join them. The Somali moved slowly back along the strut to the leg and began to climb the ladder.
Jordan turned to go but Deacon grabbed his arm. ‘At least tell me what our next move is.’
Jordan was beginning to get some pleasure out of squeezing the little shit. He was prepared to kill the fool if he showed serious signs of becoming a threat but he expected the man ultimately to control himself. ‘They’ve come to do a job down there. When they’re finished they’ll go and I suspect it will take them minutes rather than hours. Then, if things have gone to plan, we may be able to leave too.’
‘You’re serious? We could be gone in hours?’
Jordan yanked his arm free and shuffled back along the gangway.
Deacon watched him go, feeling quite pleased. The prospect of getting off the platform lessened his concerns about Mackay. He had mentally prepared himself for a long-drawn-out affair. This was uplifting news, to be sure. Another half-million would be in his account in days or even hours and then he could begin the pleasant business of spending it.
Stratton began the climb up the robust steel platform ladder on the side of the massive black pile. He had removed his hood to improve his all-round senses and his SMG was slung just below his chest. The sea rolled into the structure beneath him, thumping the side of the supports as he steadily took one rung at a time. His gaze never left the dark cavernous network of girders and spars above. He felt exposed. This was ambush territory. He would have practically no control if he came under fire other than to drop and take his chances on the way down. If he hit nothing he’d still have to deal with the rolling seas. He might be able to combat the elements and to a certain extent control the fools who had come with him. But the enemy, their numbers and skills unknown, held the high ground and had the advantage. They could wait for him to come to them. It all depended on how professional and vigilant they were. If they had night-vision aids and accurate weaponry he’d be an easy target.
He made it to the next spider deck, a complex intertwining of horizontal spars that connected the four legs. Stratton paused to take a breather and a better look above. Each step brought him closer to the enemy and perhaps into the cleaner view of a sniper. He glanced down to see Binning not far below. There was movement beyond him - Jason and Rowena.
Stratton pulled himself up onto a wide span and moved along it to leave room for Binning to join him. Rowena and Jason had stopped on the level below and as prearranged would wait for Binning to secure the device and come back down.
The first operational deck came next, a dark enclosure of machinery, drilling and pumping apparatus, the humming from its engines and generators mingling with the sounds of the sea and wind. The squally rain continued to pelt them. The water ran down their faces and into their eyes and mouths as if they were looking straight into a shower head.
‘Is this high enough?’ Stratton asked.
‘This should do fine,’ Binning replied, looking around. ‘I’ll need to take a reading, though.’
‘You happy with the procedure from here?’ Stratton said.
‘Do you really need to go?’ Binning asked. ‘You’ve come this far and risked so much already.’
‘I’m not prepared to die for Jordan or for anyone. If I can’t get him, well, at least I will have tried. Get that kit in place, go down and join the others and get going,’ Stratton said. He pulled himself up.
Binning watched him go, then glanced below to see Jason and Rowena looking up at him. The black container was still attached to his harness but he made no attempt to remove it.
11
Stratton eased himself onto the gangway between several massive, noisy pumping machines and shale shakers and held the silenced SMG in his hands. It felt good to be standing on a wide floor and holding the gun. And to have got this far. He felt more confident now that he had not been watched. An ambush would have come long before he reached firm footing.
He checked the magazine pouch and the spare ammunition it held and moved forward, his rubber-soled neoprene lace-up boots practically silent on the metal flooring. After a brief pause at the foot of a narrow stairway at the end of the line of machines, he quickly made his way up the steps, crouching at the top to reduce his silhouette. Above the main machinery the area was sparsely lit, with shadows everywhere. Now he cherished the wind and rain as they whipped between the piles of equipment, finding the gaps and flapping loose tarps or lines, adding to the cacophony. He wiped his face and padded across an open section to a corner of the platform and another set of broader steps leading up to the living deck.
Stratton took the steps slowly at a slight crouch. He waited at the top. This deck was a congested area of accommodation: galley, hospital, laundry and utilities. He scanned around once again. In front of him a broad, exposed space led to an illuminated door to the accommodation block. Beams of light filtered by the griddle deck above bathed it in a yellow glow. If he walked across the space anyone who might be there would see him. Stratton chose to go around the outer edge, keeping in the shadows thrown by the bulky containers and smaller items of machinery.
He crept across the deck. He did not see the figure that stepped out a few metres behind him. Yet he heard them, even through the hum and whip of machinery and weather. Stratton’s highly tuned senses picked up the out-of-place noise which sounded like a small piece of metal rolling along the metal floor. He stopped, his senses suddenly screaming but at the same time warning him not to turn around just yet.
Pirate hadn’t seen the tiny bolt that he’d scuffed with the toe of his heavy boot. His stare had been fixed on the back of the figure he had seen coming up through the guts of the platform. He had moved back from his position as ordered. He hadn’t engaged anyone. Yet. But he couldn’t comprehend the figure’s presence. He wasn’t used to taking orders, or obeying any that he considered stupid. That was how he had become a commander. During the attack on a Russian ship in the Gulf of Aden a couple of years before, his boss, a man from his own village and like him a former fisherman, had ordered the men not to kill any hostages. Pirate knew the Russians to be dangerous but when he suggested they should shoot the first crewman as a warning to the others the commander chastised him.
When the Somali thugs scrambled on deck, Russian crewmen stepped out of the engine room with their empty hands held high. The pirates moved forward to capture them, signalling to the boats to come alongside. The ship was theirs. But then the Russian crewmen dropped to the floor and others carrying AK-47 assault rifles leaped from cover. Their bullets tore into the pirate ranks, cutting them down.