Pirate - Duncan Falconer [18]
‘I thought I saw something,’ Hopper said in a low voice. ‘It was white. Another boat maybe.’
They all remained quiet, looking ahead and to the sides.
A noise came to them through the mist, like something heavy rolling across a deck. Then a creak. Then a man’s voice. Hard to tell how far away it was. It sounded foreign, to Hopper and Stratton at least. But possibly not to Sabarak, who got to his feet as if in expectation. Another voice shouted a response from a different direction.
‘Fishermen?’ Hopper suggested.
‘Maybe,’ Sabarak said. ‘But not Yemenis. They are not speaking Arabic.’
The voice came again. It sounded closer.
‘The winds of fortune,’ Sabarak muttered. ‘How they change.’
Stratton had a feeling he knew what Sabarak meant and made ready to start the motors, when a big black shape appeared on their port side. It was the painted wooden hull of a boat. About a metre and a half out of the water. Stratton started one of the engines, gave it some power and turned the wheel to bring the boat hard about.
‘Ahead!’ Hopper warned.
Another vessel appeared, blocking their way. It glided out of the mist, a figure standing in the prow with a stubby brown and black rifle in his hands.
Stratton slammed the outboard into reverse and swung the boat around. As he pushed the gears into forward drive another craft arrived to block his way. Boats appeared from every direction, surrounding them. Stratton had little choice but to keep the engine in neutral.
The boats closed in, with men standing in all of them. They were all slender, dressed in grubby clothes, their dark brown skin smooth, their hair tight short curls. The kind of features hard to miss. Somalis, several carrying AK-47s, one holding an RPG on his shoulder. It didn’t need a genius to figure out that fishing was probably a low priority for these men.
One of the Somalis shouted something as he aimed his weapon at Stratton.
Stratton put his hands up to show he was unarmed. Hopper did the same.
‘He wants you to turn off the engine,’ Sabarak said.
Stratton reached down and cut the motors. It all went quiet again but for the lapping water and the boats gently bumping against each other.
A steel tug-like boat came out of the mist and nudged its way through the crowd of smaller craft. It was about twenty-five metres long, Stratton estimated, and covered in rust. It had Somalis lining its sides to look down on their unexpected catch. It was the mother craft to the rest of the pirate flotilla.
3
A Somali in a weapon harness scooped a hand over his shoulder at Stratton, Hopper and Sabarak and said something guttural-sounding. He pointed at the hooked ladder beneath his feet over the side of the tug. Stratton hesitated, as did Hopper. They had a few problems they needed to take care of, namely their equipment. Most importantly the guns. Stratton also had a spare knock-out gas canister. He could see no point in going on the offensive with the pirates. They had him seriously outnumbered and outgunned.
He and Hopper exchanged glances as Sabarak climbed up to the pirate boat. Hopper stepped on to the edge of their rubber boat and suddenly made a show of losing his balance. Stratton grabbed hold of him in an effort to save him and both men toppled into the water. Much to the amusement of the Somalis.
While both men struggled to get hold of the side of the inflatable, they dumped their holsters and guns, spare magazines and communications devices. No point in keeping any of it. They would be searched and all items of interest would be taken.
The two operatives finally managed to haul themselves back into the boat with help from a couple of the Somalis. Dripping wet they climbed up on to the pirate mother craft. The Somalis manhandled them down the side deck, which was a mess of rope coils and fuel drums. The pirates shoved them down on the cold, greasy metal deck area behind the raised superstructure that housed the bridge, galley and probably a couple of accommodation rooms.
A powerful-looking, well-fed Somali stepped out of the superstructure