Stormtide (16 page)

‘Damn it, I need my head examined,’ he finally exploded.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ murmured Dave Rother. The sharkman wore a borrowed black rubber scuba suit and was buckling on the big twin-cylinder breathing tanks which went with it. ‘But right now you can use me, Captain.’

‘You think that helps?’ asked Shannon bleakly.

‘He’ll behave,’ promised Carrick grimly, buckling on his own equipment. It included an extra watertight pouch with a short-range radio. ‘Just remember you’re not freelancing on this one, Dave.’

Rother nodded, sobering.

Shannon sighed. With Carrick and Clapper Bell the only experienced frogmen aboard, Rother’s offer to help – and naval training in scuba gear – had left him with little choice.

They went out on deck. Similarly clad, his air tanks slung over one shoulder, Clapper Bell was supervizing a group of ratings who were lowering a rubber raft over the side. Gripped by the Fishery cruiser’s wash, it swung hard against the hull as it met the water and was held there by the lines securing it fore and aft.

‘We’ll go through it again, mister,’ said Shannon heavily. ‘I don’t want any foul-ups – either way.’

Carrick spat on his face-mask glass, rubbed the saliva with a fingertip, then rinsed the result in a waiting bucket of water, the result was the best demisting process known.

‘You drop us close to Moorach and keep going,’ he recited. ‘Then we’ve got till dawn. After that, unless you’ve heard otherwise, you’re coming straight in.’

‘Right.’ Shannon pursed his lips. ‘They’ll have us on their radar now and they’re going to see us sailing straight on past.’ He paused. ‘The next hour is yours, mister. For the rest of it, I’m banking on that boat being close enough inshore to have a radar blind spot to the north-east. I’ll bring
Marlin
in again from there, but it will take fully that hour.’

‘Anything else, sir?’ asked Carrick quietly.

‘Just remember they’ve killed more than once already. We’re hoping Maggie and the Francis girl are alive – and maybe the rest of the coaster crew. But if they’ve got them they won’t hesitate to use them.’

‘Unless we get in first,’ mused Dave Rother. ‘Don’t we get the “no unnecessary violence” bit, Captain?’

‘I won’t be there,’ said Shannon. He turned on his heel and made for the bridge.

Normal lights burning,
Marlin
passed Moorach Island on her port side at less than half-mile range. To any observer she was coming back from some routine task, her radio was still silent.

But on the sheltered starboard deck aft the three scuba-suited figures dropped one by one down to the rubber raft alongside then rolled from there into the sea. They surfaced in line, came together while the stern wash of the rapidly disappearing Fishery cruiser clawed around them, then dived down and started swimming.

Leading the rough V-formation, demand valve clicking regularly while he settled his legs into a steady crawl beat, Carrick felt the first chill of the water pass as they travelled on. Now and again he
checked his wrist-compass then glanced round to check the air-bubble plumes on either side.

They surfaced briefly after ten minutes, saw the
Heather Bee
now only a short distance ahead, then went down again. Occasional shadow-like forms flitted from their path in the dark water, fish giving surprised way to their passage. But Carrick’s attention was on the wrist-compass, his mind locked on calculating their progress.

Suddenly Clapper Bell overtook him, nudged urgently, and pointed to their right. A darker patch of water showed above. Beckoning Rother to follow, they finned over, almost collided with the thin line of a mooring hawser, then surfaced quietly close under the seine-netter’s bow.

Easing closer, hand-holding against the hull, they waited and heard voices. Another moment and a door banged open, the voices became louder, and a cigarette end curved its fiery tip into the sea. Footsteps sounded above, a man laughed, then a dinghy was dragged alongside by its painter line. A man clambered down into it, seemed to look straight in their direction, then calmly unshipped the oars.

Pushing off, he called a farewell.

‘Just keep clear of the girl – she bites,’ came the answer from above. It was Fergie Lucas’ voice.

The men on deck laughed, then as the dinghy rowed away there were more footsteps and the door slammed shut again.

Edging beside Carrick, Rother let his breathing tube dangle and thumbed in the direction of the dinghy.

‘Best bet?’ he asked softly.

‘Carrick nodded, signalled to Clapper Bell, and they began swimming again, heads just visible above the surface, making no attempt to overtake the oarsman.

Heading for the rocks where the wrecked
Harvest
Lass
was a stark silhouette against the gradually lightening sky, the dinghy threaded past one jagged outcrop. Briefly lost from sight, there was a crunch as its bow grated against shingle, then a splash and more grating as the man aboard jumped ashore and dragged it higher out of the water.

Another moment and they saw him again as a match flared while he stopped to light a cigarette. Then he went on along the shore, heading in the opposite direction from the
Harvest Lass
.

Carrick waved his companions on. They waded ashore on the other side of the rock outcrop, quickly dumped their air tanks, then set off after their quarry – three wet, black-suited, almost invisible figures who moved in rubber-clad silence.

Three hundred yards along they reached another shoulder of rock, started round it, then drew back quickly. A glow of light was coming from a cleft just ahead and two figures stood at its edge. One, tall and thin, wore a grotesque home-made hood over his head. The man they’d followed was beside him, pulling on another.

‘Jackpot time,’ breathed Dave Rother. ‘Let’s take them.’

‘Our way,’ murmured Carrick. The tall, thin figure held a shotgun in the crook of his arm. ‘Wait here, give Clapper and me ten minutes to work round, then draw them out.’

Rother sighed, but nodded. Touching Bell on the arm, Carrick took him back a few yards, then pointed upwards.

The climb was steep but the worn rock gave plenty of foothold. They reached a grassy slope, crawled along it, then found themselves looking directly down
at the cave-mouth where the two men were still standing.

Clapper Bell grinned and they crawled on again. The way down, over another steep rock face, gave them one heart-stopping moment when a seabird exploded skywards almost under Carrick’s feet. They froze where they were while the bird circled, screaming angrily. The voices at the cave stopped. Then, after a moment, one of the men laughed and the murmur of conversation picked up.

Carrick and Bell finished the descent to shore level, grinned at each other in sheer relief, then crept closer. When they stopped they were behind a great, broken slab of rock only yards from the hooded figures.

Carrick checked his watch. As the final seconds ticked past he nudged Bell and they tensed. Exactly on the ten-minute mark Dave Rother stepped out of hiding and began crunching his way openly over the shingle, whistling casually as he came.

Both guards swung round. Startled, momentarily undecided, they peered at him through the gloom. Then suddenly the man with the shotgun cursed and started to bring up the long-barrelled weapon.

Halfway there already, Carrick catapulted the rest of the distance and took him hard from the rear, one arm locking round the hooded throat. They went down heavily, the shotgun clattering on the shingle. Clapper Bell had the other guard down and Dave Rother was sprinting towards them.

But all Carrick’s attention was focussed on his struggling opponent. Breaking free, cursing, the man kicked out wildly and a heavy seaboot smashed a numbing pain through Carrick’s side. Before he could recover, the hooded figure rolled frantically over the shingle and reached the shotgun.

Scooped up, the shotgun’s cannon-like muzzle came round towards Carrick – but at the same instant there was an odd, soft thud. The gun dropped again, the hooded man tried to claw at his throat, then gave a strange, gobbling moan which ended as he fell.

The hilt of Clapper Bell’s diving knife protruded from the rough canvas of the hood. The blade had sliced through before sinking into his throat.

Skidding to a halt, Dave Rother stared down.

‘My God,’ he said softly.

Shakily, Carrick got up and looked around. The second man was sprawled face down, lying still. Sitting beside him, Clapper Bell gave an odd grin but didn’t try to rise.

‘Thanks,’ said Carrick dry-lipped.

Stooping, he eased back a corner of the dead man’s hood, saw a face he didn’t know, then gradually realized that Bell still wasn’t moving and that the bo’sun’s right leg was twisted awkwardly.

‘I’ve broken my flamin’ leg,’ said Bell with a touch of disbelief. He thumbed without rancour at the cause beside him. ‘This stupid devil toppled us the wrong way.’

Going over, Carrick removed the second hood. This time the face revealed was one he’d seen around Portcoig. The man was still breathing.

‘I only thumped his skull.’ Bell shifted slightly and grimaced quickly. ‘Hell – look, sir, toss me that shotgun. I’ll just keep an eye on things from here.’

Dave Rother was heading into the cave. Carrick brought the gun over then followed the sharkman. For a few feet back the cave entrance was a narrow slit, then it widened abruptly and ended in a bowl-shaped area slightly higher than a man. A small kerosene lamp was burning on a ledge, its light
shining on startled, almost unbelieving faces. He saw Sheila and Maggie, two men who were strangers in seagoing clothes, a third man lying still, then a babble of voices broke around him.

Grinning, Dave Rother had his knife out and was sawing at the ropes that tied Sheila hand and foot. Carrick did the same for Maggie, then the seamen. The third man, his head bandaged and his face ashen, barely managed to stir and move his lips in a feeble thanks.

When he turned, Sheila was sitting up and rubbing her wrists where the rope had left deep weals on her skin. She gazed at him thankfully, looking as if she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

‘How did you do it? How … ?’

‘He’s got a private crystal ball,’ said Rother dryly.

‘It should have worked sooner.’ Putting an arm around her, Carrick helped her up. ‘How about you, Maggie – all right?’

Maggie MacKenzie nodded, massaging her ankles. ‘Just tell me where we are and who these devils were, that’s all I ask,’ she said angrily.

‘You don’t know?’ Puzzled, Carrick glanced at the others.

‘We don’t know anything,’ grated the older of the seamen. He turned to Sheila, gesturing towards the bandaged man. ‘Miss, could you have another wee look at him-he’s breathing worse.’

Nodding, Sheila crossed over.

‘That’s our skipper, mister,’ said the second seaman, sandy-haired and with dried blood outlining a cut above one eye. ‘When those yobs in hoods came swarmin’ aboard us in the bay one o’ them used an iron bar on him. Johnny Vasey, our engineer, tried to belt the louse wi’ a shovel.’ He stopped, moistening his lips hopefully. ‘Did Johnny … ?’

‘No.’ Carrick shook his head. ‘He didn’t make it.’

‘Webb,’ – bent over the coaster skipper, Sheila beckoned him over – ‘they’re right. He’s worse. How soon can you move him?’

‘We can’t – not yet.’ He decided the others might as well know too. ‘Listen, all of you. We only dealt with a couple of that gang. The rest are still near enough – and we’re on our own till
Marlin
gets here.’

The relief on their faces faded.

‘How long till she comes, mister?’ asked the sandy-haired seaman.

‘Under an hour. That’s what we’re hoping, anyway.’ He waited as Sheila rose, then told her, ‘Clapper’s outside. He says his leg is broken. Dave …’

Rother nodded and went out with her.

‘Now do you tell us where we are?’ asked Maggie MacKenzie peevishly.

‘Not far from home – we’re on Moorach.’ Carrick grinned at her surprise. ‘Where did you think?’

‘A lot further than that.’ She shook her head, still openly confused.

‘What happened to you anyway?’ he asked. ‘You took Graham’s package out, right?’

She nodded wryly. ‘And there was nobody on deck when we got to the
Lady Jane
. So like a damned old fool I climbed aboard and they just grabbed me. Then it was Sheila’s turn.’

‘We were all stuck into a cabin under guard,’ grated the older seaman bitterly. ‘Never saw as much as one o’ them without those hoods – then, a spell after we’d left the bay, they blindfolded us, threw us on some fishing boat, and locked us in the fish-hold.’ His fists clenched. ‘I know what I wanted to do wi’ them – but I don’t argue against guns.’

They’d been blindfolded again before they’d been brought ashore. Maggie MacKenzie hadn’t
exaggerated. They had had no idea where they were or what had been happening.

‘Who are they, Webb?’ she demanded.

‘Alec MacBean, Lucas and assorted friends,’ he told her, thinking as he spoke, ignoring her snort of rage.

He had two injured men on his hands now, neither of them likely to be easy to move. The only sensible plan seemed to be to stay in the cave until
Marlin
arrived … and the sooner that happened the better. Mind made up, he opened the watertight pouch at his waist, brought out the little two-way radio then stopped and almost groaned.

The radio’s casing was smashed, its transistorized interior was buckled. Grimly, he remembered the kick he’d taken on his side and tried the set’s switches. Nothing happened, it was useless.

Swearing under his breath, Carrick threw the wrecked set aside then looked round as Sheila came back into the cave.

‘I’ve seen Clapper – it’s a clean break.’ She looked pale in the kerosene lamp’s light. ‘Dave’s looking for some driftwood to use as a splint. And I – I saw that man. The one who …’

‘I should have warned you.’ Carrick nodded his understanding. ‘Anyway, we’ll move Clapper in here now.’

‘You mean we’re not leaving?’ asked the sandy-haired seaman apprehensively.

‘Here’s as good as anywhere,’ answered Carrick bluntly.