Hard Landing (52 page)

‘Could be lost,’ said the captain. ‘Navigation system might have failed and they’ve dropped down below the cloud to get their bearings.’ He muttered to one of the crewmen, who reached for a radio microphone. ‘We’ll try to make radio contact with them,’ said the captain.

Carpenter stared into the darkness. He was getting a bad feeling about the plane.

‘Alpha One, I have visual on the target.’ Gannon’s voice crackled in Shepherd’s earpiece.

Shepherd peered into the darkness. He could see Gannon’s black canopy in the distance, swooping down like a giant bat. But he couldn’t see the tanker. He looked down at his LCD display. The red dot was less than a mile away. He checked his altimeter. Two thousand feet. That should be more than enough height to reach the target. He looked back to Gannon, then beyond. Lights. Red, green and white. As he stared at them he could make out the shape of the tanker. It was sailing towards them at an angle. The superstructure was at the rear.

‘Alpha Two, I have visual,’ said Shepherd, into his mike.

Then Shepherd saw movement in the air, several miles beyond the tanker. It was the Nimrod, flying low. If Gannon’s plan worked, everyone on the ship would now be staring aft and the troopers should be able to land without being seen.

‘Alpha Three has visual.’

Gannon’s chute swung to the right, lining up with the tanker. Shepherd waited ten seconds, then did the same. He concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and even. It was easy to hyperventilate under stress.

‘Alpha Four has visual.’

Shepherd flexed his fingers on the toggles that controlled the direction of the chute. The key to landing without getting hurt was all down to the toggles. Getting the direction just right, slowing the descent, emptying air from the chute so that it deflated. Done right, it should be as easy as stepping off a chair. Done wrong, he’d slam into the deck or, worse, miss it.

‘Alpha Five has visual.’

The troopers were stacking up behind Gannon, drifting down towards the tanker. Shepherd wondered how many had done a similar jump before. The SAS regularly trained at HALO and HAHO, but during his days in the Regiment they’d never jumped on to a ship.

‘Alpha Six has visual.’

By the time the last trooper had the tanker in his sights, Gannon was only two hundred metres from the prow. Shepherd used small tugs on the toggles to keep his descent even. Suddenly he was no longer flying over waves but over metal plates, glistening wet, pipes and manholes, welds and rivets. Ahead he saw Gannon’s chute flare, then heard a thump as Gannon hit the deck and rolled, the chute flapping like a huge, dying bird. Gannon had hit midway down the length of the tanker, more than a hundred metres from the superstructure.

Shepherd pulled hard on both toggles and let his knees give as his boots hit the deck. He let go of the toggle in his right hand and hauled on the one in the left, deflating the canopy. He heard a dull thud behind him. Alpha Three. He grabbed armfuls of black silk, rolled it up tight and unclipped his harness. Gannon ran over, bent low. They shoved their chutes under a pipe and unclipped their oxygen masks. ‘Nice job, Spider,’ said Gannon, clapping him on the back.

Shepherd took off his mask and unclipped the oxygen cylinder. ‘Hell of a ride,’ he said.

‘You should knock the cop job on the head and come back to the Regiment.’ Gannon’s face hardened and Shepherd realised the major had remembered why Shepherd had left the SAS in the first place. Sue.

Shepherd waved away any apology that the major was about to make. ‘Let’s get to it,’ he said.

Another bump. Alpha Four. Shepherd looked up. The six remaining troopers were lined up in formation, coming in to land.

Shepherd unhooked his MP
5
from the webbing. Gannon had made it clear at the briefing that no one was to be hurt unless absolutely necessary. The mission was to apprehend Carpenter and take control of the vessel. The tanker was then to be sailed into US waters. The Americans would take it and the drugs, the British would apply for Carpenter to be extradited to London. Everybody would win. Except Carpenter and Carlos Rodriguez.

Gannon waited until all of the troopers had landed, stowed their chutes and oxygen tanks, and checked their weapons. Then he motioned for them to head towards the superstructure. He and Shepherd led the way. Four of the troopers moved across to the port side, and the second brick took starboard. They moved slowly, keeping low.

It took them several minutes to reach the base of the three-storey superstructure. Three hatches led from the deck into it, one each on the port and starboard sides, and one in the centre, facing towards the bow. Four men headed for the port, four went starboard, and Gannon and Shepherd took the centre. They opened the hatches and slipped inside, Heckler & Kochs at the ready.

The captain took his binoculars away from his eyes and spoke to the communications officer in Ukrainian. He replied tersely.

‘No communication,’ the captain translated for Carpenter’s benefit but the officer’s shaking head had already told him that much.

In the distance, the plane was climbing again, showing that it wasn’t having engine problems.

‘Whatever the problem was, they seem to have sorted it,’ said the captain.

‘And there’s no ship heading our way?’

‘Nothing within fifty miles,’ said the captain.

‘And they weren’t talking to anyone?’

‘No radio communications,’ said the captain. ‘The direction they were heading, they might not even have seen us.’

Carpenter nodded thoughtfully. He still had a bad feeling about the plane. He left the bridge and headed down to the mess. It was deserted, but through the open doorway he could see half a dozen Colombian heavies sitting at a table. Roast meat was piled high on a platter and they were helping themselves to rice. Three more Colombians came up from the cabins. They had handguns in shoulder holsters and were all wearing skin-tight T-shirts with designer jeans. They headed into the canteen. They, too, regarded him as a nuisance.

As Carpenter turned for the stairs to the cabins, he heard footsteps. Several people, moving quickly. He frowned. There were five guards on the bridge, nine in the canteen. That was the full complement. The crew who weren’t on the bridge were in the engine room.

Carpenter dropped behind a sofa, his heart pounding. He knew instinctively that the men running up the stairs were connected with the mysterious plane. And that they meant trouble.

Major Gannon had obtained structural plans of the tanker from its original builders, a huge industrial conglomerate in South Korea. They’d rehearsed the storming of the superstructure a dozen times in the Stirling Lines barracks in Hereford with troopers from the counter-revolutionary warfare wing playing the part of the Colombian foot-soldiers. Gannon had never managed to seize the objective without taking fewer than two casualties. But the counterrevolutionary warfare wing troopers were the best-trained soldiers in the world bar none, and the Colombians on the tanker were just thugs with big guns.

Shepherd had been at the briefing and at the rehearsals. Twice he’d taken a fictional bullet in the chest. Not that it worried him: that was the purpose of rehearsals, to iron out all the kinks so that no one got hurt during the real thing. Now he followed Gannon up the narrow stairway that led from the deck to the crew’s quarters. Troopers were already moving through the cabins. All were empty. Four troopers headed down towards the engine room.

The rest moved up the stairs to the mess and canteen level, with Gannon and Shepherd.

They rushed through the mess area, sweeping their weapons from side to side, and heard laughter from the canteen. The lead trooper burst through the open doorway, telling the men to get down on the floor. One of the Colombians got to his feet, grabbing for his Kalashnikov. Two more troopers piled into the canteen. One let off a three-round silenced burst and the Colombian slammed into the wall. The rest raised their hands as their colleague slid to the floor in a pool of blood. The troopers pushed them to the ground and started to bind their hands and legs with plastic ties.

Shepherd did a quick head count. One dead, eight captured. No home team casualties. So far so good.

Gannon waited until all the Colombians had been bound and gagged, then motioned for three of the troopers to move up the stairs to the bridge. The fourth stood guard over the Colombians. There were two stairways, at either end of the mess room. The three troopers went up the right-hand side, Gannon and Shepherd the left.

As Shepherd reached the bridge he heard the muffled explosions of a three-shot burst and saw a Colombian slump to the floor over his Kalashnikov. The captain was standing with his hands held high. Another Colombian had his weapon up and was about to fire. Gannon let loose a burst and the Colombian spun round, blood spurting from his neck.

There was more gunfire from Shepherd’s left and a third Colombian slammed against the window and fell to the floor, blood pouring from his chest. The last two dropped their weapons and raised their hands.

Shepherd looked round the bridge. There was no sign of Carpenter.

Gannon went over to the captain and jabbed him with the barrel of his MP
5
. ‘The Brit, where is he?’

‘Downstairs.’

‘Where downstairs?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the captain. ‘He left just before you got here. Who are you?’

Gannon turned to Shepherd and nodded for him to go downstairs.

‘Who are you?’ asked the captain. ‘Americans?’

Gannon grinned at him. ‘If we were Yanks half our men would have been hit by friendly fire.’

‘You are SAS?’

‘Just do as you’re told, Captain, and you’ll be fine.’

‘I am just a seaman, doing my job.’

‘You can argue that with the DEA when we get to port,’ said Gannon, ‘but if you make a move to dump any of your cargo I’ll personally tie you to an anchor and throw you in after it.’

Shepherd headed for the stairs. The mess was still empty so he went to the canteen. The eight tied Colombians were struggling in vain to get loose.

Their Kalashnikovs had been piled on the table. Shepherd frowned. An SAS trooper was supposed to have been standing guard over them. He pushed the door open. The trooper was lying on the floor, face down.

Shepherd cursed. He stepped out of the canteen and felt the cold barrel of a gun press against his neck. ‘You couldn’t leave well alone,’ said Carpenter.

‘It’s over, Gerry.’

‘Drop your weapon.’

‘I can’t. It’s on a sling.’

‘Let go of it.’

Shepherd let the MP
5
slide through his fingers. It swung loose on its webbing.

‘You’re my ticket out of here, Shepherd. Again.’

‘They won’t wear that, Gerry. This is officially sanctioned. The government wants you back. The Americans want the boat.’

Shepherd raised his hands and turned slowly. Carpenter stepped away from him. He was holding a blood-smeared Kalashnikov. ‘You’re not taking me in,’ said Carpenter.

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Gannon. He was standing in the middle of the mess room, his MP
5
aimed at Carpenter’s chest.

‘I’m not going back to prison,’ said Carpenter.

‘That’s your call,’ said Gannon.

As Carpenter looked across at Gannon, Shepherd took hold of his MP
5
and slid his finger on to the trigger.

‘I want off this boat,’ said Carpenter.

‘That’s what we’re here for,’ said Shepherd.

Carpenter looked back at Shepherd. ‘You’re not taking me back. You were there. You’ve seen what it’s like. I can’t take twenty years.’

‘If you can’t do the time . . .’

‘Fuck that!’ said Carpenter.

‘No one forced you to do what you did,’ said Shepherd. ‘You made choices every step of the way. You dealt drugs, you had Jonathon Elliott killed, you had Rathbone and Yates killed, you tried to kill Sandy Roper, you kidnapped my son. Did I forget anything?’ He frowned. ‘Oh, yeah, you tried to shoot me.’

‘I should have done it when I had the chance,’ said Carpenter.

‘One of life’s missed opportunities,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s over, Gerry. They’ve got Fletcher and he’s singing like a canary. Can’t shut him up.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Pat Neary, too. The guys they paid to break into Roper’s house got caught in a black-on-black shooting in Harlesden and they gave up Fletcher to cut themselves a deal. And Digger’s become very co-operative. Selling you down the river and Tony Stafford, too.’

The colour drained from Carpenter’s face. ‘So it’s over,’ he said quietly. ‘Bar the shooting.’

‘Pretty much.’

‘I could shoot you now,’ said Carpenter. ‘Easy as pie.’

‘It’s an option.’

‘You’d get off one shot, so you’d better make it count,’ said Gannon coldly, ‘because if you fire that weapon, I will take you out.’

‘That’s all it would take, one shot,’ said Carpenter.

‘You’d be firing at an unarmed man,’ said Gannon.

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

Gannon continued to stare at Carpenter. ‘You didn’t think we’d give him live rounds, did you? Spider here’s out of practice, he’d be a liability firing real bullets.’

Carpenter frowned. ‘Bullshit.’

‘Not that shooting unarmed men is a problem with you, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘Jonathon Elliott didn’t have a gun. Neither did Sandy Roper.’

‘If you’re going to shoot anyone, I’d be the one to aim at,’ said Gannon.

‘I don’t care about you,’ said Carpenter.

‘Making it personal is a big mistake,’ said Gannon.

‘Shut up!’ shouted Carpenter. ‘Let me think!’ He kept the Kalashnikov levelled at Shepherd’s stomach.

Shepherd stared back at him. Gannon’s revelation that his MP
5
was loaded with blanks was worrying, but Shepherd figured it was a bluff. But he had one secret that he was keeping from Carpenter: underneath the black thermal suit he was wearing a Kevlar vest. The Kalashnikov was a powerful weapon and Carpenter was up close and personal, but with luck the vest would hold. It would hurt like hell but the bullets shouldn’t penetrate.