Defender

The sky was stained black by clouds heavy with torrential rain. A violent electrical storm began its attack, stabbing at the horizon with angry, jagged blades a mile high. In the center of it all, the rigid-hulled inflatable boat bounced and crashed across the waves.

Alex Morgan crouched low within the bow. The relentless bombardment of wind and rain stung through his sodden camouflaged overalls. His numb hands struggled to find a secure hold on the lashings along the boat’s swollen flanks and his knees smashed into the hull with each crash against the steel surface of the sea. He could just make out the smudge of the target in the distance. Adrenalin powered through his body.

Not for the first time, Morgan dragged a wet sleeve across his brow. He sat shoulder to shoulder with a team of heavily armed clearance divers attached to HMAS
Albany
, a Royal Australian Navy Armidale-class patrol boat. The men, all armed with M4 Carbines and 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistols, were tactical specialists and veterans of the navy’s counter-piracy operations and the ongoing war on terror. Morgan was glad to have them in his corner.

As far as the sailors knew, they were supporting an Interpol mission under cover of the navy’s border protection and maritime security ops. They were about to board a fishing boat that a few nights earlier had rendezvoused under dubious circumstances with an African cargo ship suspected of running guns in and out of the Middle East, Africa and Asia. Morgan knew that high-risk assaults at sea were the sailors’ bread and butter. He also knew, from the dubious expressions on the divers’ faces, that despite every one of them being prepared for the dangers of an imminent assault, this time it was he, the Interpol agent, who was the unknown factor.

After all, Interpol were supposedly just advisors behind the scenes and yet Morgan had been winched aboard the
Albany
via chopper twenty-four hours ago in weather conditions even the clearance divers would think twice about; then he’d been a ghost, talking only to the skipper and the XO for hours. Later, when he surfaced to join the assault team for equipment issue and weapons test firing, he was aware that the more experienced among them knew he wasn’t there to give advice; they could spot an operator when they saw one. What they didn’t know was that Morgan was an agent of Interpol’s highly secret Intelligence, Recovery, Protection and Infiltration Division: Intrepid.

"You know, sir," yelled Lieutenant JJ Randle, the
Albany’
s executive officer, clinging to the lashings of the rigid-hulled inflatable boat, "I think this bastard thought he could outrun us. He’s trying to make a run back into the storm front."

"Yeah, he’ll be hoping he can lose us in this weather and give us the slip when it gets dark," Morgan yelled back. "Better make our move."

Morgan cast a final critical eye over the fishing boat. Covert aerial surveillance had confirmed that a number of large packing crates had been transferred across to the trawler from the cargo ship the
Marengo
. It was the
Marengo
that was of interest to Intrepid. Discovering whatever had been transferred was paramount to Intrepid’s ongoing campaign against an international gun-running consortium. Determining exactly who wanted the shipment, whatever it was, would be for another time. Morgan just hoped the trawler wasn’t only full of fish.

The treacherous conditions were worsening. The assault team was ready to board with the full firepower of the
Albany
trained on the fishing trawler. Morgan and the RHIB crew were closing fast. With less than 50 yards to go, the waters were churning, and the small tender was thrown around as they bounced and crashed their way closer.

"OK. It’s a frequent flyer. That means we’ve come across her before," Randle added for Morgan’s sake. "Standby, everybody. Security, you’re up first."

Two of the heavily armed clearance divers immediately sprang forward with M4s slung across their chests. The black webbing straps of their slings, flotation vests and leg holsters crisscrossed their mottled-gray camouflage overalls. Once aboard they would cover the rest of the team. The
Albany
’s radio operator, Maddy Lambert – a young woman who doubled as the patrol boat’s translator – would head straight for the wheelhouse with Randle; they would deal with the captain. Morgan would lead a sweep team and search the boat while the security team would remain on deck, covering the crew and maintaining visual and radio contact with the
Albany
.

The two men who would board first were hanging on tight to the RHIB with one hand, stretching their bodies over the side, grasping for the fishing boat. Morgan and the rest of the team covered them from the RHIB, M4s drawn and rammed tight into their shoulders, fighting to maintain their aim through the sleeting rain. They could finally make out the dark figures on the starboard side of the fishing boat, watching their approach.

"Steady boys!" Morgan cried. Then the RHIB thudded into the hull of the fishing boat with a boom. "Go! Go! Go!"