Diamondhead (45 page)
Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
At 20 knots she could make it with time to spare, but if the sea slowed her badly, it would be touch and go.
Eagle
could run at 20, and Mack prayed the weather would not get much worse. His prayers, however, were not answered, and Mack presumed this was because the Almighty took an extremely bleak view of his hurling two perfectly honest, hardworking fishermen into the English Channel.
Eagle
could run at 20, and Mack prayed the weather would not get much worse. His prayers, however, were not answered, and Mack presumed this was because the Almighty took an extremely bleak view of his hurling two perfectly honest, hardworking fishermen into the English Channel.
The sea got up almost immediately after he took the wheel. The rain from the southwest belted down, but he found the windshield wipers easily, huge blades that swept water away, left and right, in great slashing arcs.
Eagle
was comfortable at 20 knots in this long, quartering sea, but any increase would have caused her to ride up and wallow too steeply. Boats are strange creatures, and a lifelong seaman like Mack Bedford, even after only fifteen minutes at the controls, knew precisely where that speed gauge should be. But it was not a comfortable journey; he was unfamiliar with the pull of the tide, and he needed to concentrate fully to hold course on 135.
was comfortable at 20 knots in this long, quartering sea, but any increase would have caused her to ride up and wallow too steeply. Boats are strange creatures, and a lifelong seaman like Mack Bedford, even after only fifteen minutes at the controls, knew precisely where that speed gauge should be. But it was not a comfortable journey; he was unfamiliar with the pull of the tide, and he needed to concentrate fully to hold course on 135.
The wind was howling, and waves were breaking over the bow almost the entire time, hitting hard and cascading heavy water across the foredeck, with spray lashing the windshield. But this was a very tough trawler, as good as Mack had ever driven, and she shouldered her way defiantly through the heavy seas. She cleared the water quickly, and Mack could see it parting in two powerful surges, port and starboard, running down the length of the ship and out over the transom. Battened down, this thing was damn nearly as waterproof as a submarine.
And her diesels were not complaining. Mack could hear them throbbing, sweet and steady, as they drove her forward, and Mack eased their task by slicing the bow head-on into the waves, splitting them asunder wherever he could. After an hour of pitching his wits against the weather, Mack flicked on the sonar and tried to work the section that gauges speed over the ocean floor rather than across the surface. But it was too complicated when he was trying to hold course in these conditions, so he gave up and kept going.
This southeasterly course would bring him to the northern edge of the Channel Islands, close to the island of Alderney, and from there he would change course suddenly, coming 60 degrees right and cutting through the dark seaway east of Guernsey. There was nothing quite so baffling for pursuers than a sudden course change in the dead of night. Mack knew also that periodic stretches of land like these big British islands can play havoc with radar.
The GPS showed Alderney was fifty miles away, two and a half hours. It was eleven thirty. He ran his finger south to the French coast to a little place called Val André and muttered, “That’ll do for me.”
By midnight, Fred Carter was cold, bloody cold. His first mate, Tom, was colder, and they were still a mile and a half from the Devon coast. That was the bad news. The good news was they had plainly been spotted by a three-thousand-ton freighter heading east and now coming directly toward them. Twenty minutes later they were on board, wrapped in blankets, still shivering but drinking hot cocoa with a dash of brandy. A couple of young crewmen were sitting with them, astounded at their story.
“Piracy on the high seas, right here off the English coast? That’s unbelievable.”
“I mean it’s like being up the fucking Amazon or somewhere,” said Fred. “And he was a big bastard, bearded, foreigner.”
“Strong as a bear,” added Tom.
“Shut up,” said Fred. “I’m telling it.”
“I’ll let the skipper know,” said one of the crewmen. “We have to report this. You can’t have a bloke like that running around loose.”
“And what about my boat?” raged Fred. “I mean, Christ, what’s going to happen about that?”
“It’s well insured, right, Fred?” said Tom.
“Yes, but that’s not the point. No one wants their trawler loose in the English Channel, being driven around by a fucking madman.”
“I’ll see the boss,” said the crewman. “You’re out of Brixham, right? And I shouldn’t worry—the coast guard will find him. You can’t hide a sixty-five-foot fishing boat.”
“He could scuttle it,” said Tom unhelpfully.
“Shut up,” said Fred.
This is the freighter
Solent Queen
out of Southampton calling Brixham harbor master.
Solent Queen
out of Southampton calling Brixham harbor master.
Copy that. Brixham harbor master receiving.
We’re at position 50.12 North 3.35 West. Reporting we just picked up Brixham trawler skipper Fred Carter and his first mate, Thomas Jelbert. Their boat
Eagle
has been hijacked by a pirate who threw them both overboard.
Eagle
has been hijacked by a pirate who threw them both overboard.
Teddy Rickard had been a resident of Brixham all his life. An extrawlerman, he was fifty-two years old and had been harbor master for fifteen of them. Yet never had he heard anything even remotely as wild as that.
Please repeat. Did you say hijacked? Pirate? Fred and Tom overboard?
Solent Queen
repeat. Fred Carter and Tom Jelbert rescued from the sea. The Brixham trawler
Eagle
has been hijacked, and is now missing. We’re heading into Brixham to bring them home.
repeat. Fred Carter and Tom Jelbert rescued from the sea. The Brixham trawler
Eagle
has been hijacked, and is now missing. We’re heading into Brixham to bring them home.
Anyone have the trawler’s last known?
Fred Carter says about one mile south of here, two hours ago.
That’s 50.12 North 3.35 West, correct?
Correct.
Solent Queen
ETA Brixham one hour.
Solent Queen
ETA Brixham one hour.
Copy that, and thank you,
Solent Queen.
I’m calling the coast guard right now. Over.
Solent Queen.
I’m calling the coast guard right now. Over.
The coast guard station at Dartmouth was as astonished as the harbor master at this apparent piracy on the high seas. At first they thought it was a joke. But there was nothing amusing about two Brixham trawlermen being thrown overboard and a British fishing boat in the hands of a criminal. They put out an all-stations alert, and they sent an urgent e-mail to the French coast guard at Cherbourg, the gist of it being that a black-bearded foreign pirate had hijacked the Brixham trawler
Eagle
and appeared to be heading their way. The e-mail added that only the prompt action of the crew of
Solent Queen
had saved the lives of Mr. Fred Carter and Tom Jelbert,
Eagle
’s two-man crew, who had both been thrown overboard.
Eagle
and appeared to be heading their way. The e-mail added that only the prompt action of the crew of
Solent Queen
had saved the lives of Mr. Fred Carter and Tom Jelbert,
Eagle
’s two-man crew, who had both been thrown overboard.
With the possibility of a dangerous criminal about to enter France, it was a matter of pure routine. Cherbourg Coast Guard Station automatically sent a copy of the e-mail through to Brittany Police Headquarters in Rennes. The police chief, Pierre Savary, a short, tough-looking, stocky character, balding, midforties, was still at his desk sipping espresso so strong the spoon would almost stand up.
The light on the computer screen immediately began to flash, and Pierre touched a button on his own keyboard to pull up the message. He read it with great interest, because earlier that day he had had lunch at the home of Henri Foche, not with the great man himself, but with his security men, Marcel and Raymond. The purpose of the meeting was to review the protection surrounding the next president. Henri Foche was without question the biggest and most important issue in the life of Pierre Savary. If anything happened to Rennes’s most celebrated citizen, there was absolutely no question, Pierre Savary would be blamed.
He had listened with immense interest to Marcel and Raymond, in particular to the suggestion that there may be an attempt on Foche’s life. And that it may come from England. And now we have a violent criminal, in a stolen fishing boat, crossing the Channel from England in the small hours of a dark and stormy night. If Pierre Savary missed that, and anything befell the legendary Gaullist leader, Rennes would be looking for a new police chief, and he, Pierre, would spend the rest of his life in disgrace. He glanced at his watch, shuddered, and dialed Marcel’s cell phone.
Foche’s security chief answered on the first ring, and Chief Savary did not procrastinate. “Get down to headquarters right away,
mon ami.
It’s important.”
mon ami.
It’s important.”
Marcel, who slept in a downstairs bedroom at Foche’s house, flew out of bed, dressed, and hurried through the drawing room into the wide hall. There was an armed night guard on the door these days, and Marcel snapped as he went by, “I’m with Chief Savary. Call if you need me.”
He gunned the Mercedes through the dark streets and was with the police chief inside of five minutes. And there he was shown the e-mail from Cherbourg. Marcel read it thoughtfully, and then said quietly, “You were right to call, Pierre. God knows where this man is, or who he is. But we’re expecting some kind of attack, emanating from England. And this man might be heading for the coast of Brittany. We need to stay on this until he is caught, right?”
“Those are my thoughts,” replied Pierre. “I’ll put in a call to the coast guard, check for developments. Meanwhile, I’ll tell them to keep us posted, blow by blow, until they find the trawler.”
“Where’s that last known position?”
“It happened just off the coast of Devon a few hours ago. And no one’s certain which way that trawler is headed.”
“Shall we stay here until they do?”
“I think so. Because this might be a real problem. They’ll hang me if anything happens to Monsieur Foche.”
“What do you think they’ll do to me, award me a medal?”
Eagle’s
GPS put Mack Bedford four miles west of Alderney. The radio that had been silent all night suddenly crackled into life:
GPS put Mack Bedford four miles west of Alderney. The radio that had been silent all night suddenly crackled into life:
Alderney Coast Guard here. Alderney Coast Guard. Marine navigation four miles to our west making course one-three-five—repeat one-three-five—please identify yourself.
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