Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘Jameson’s. Ice.’

‘On the rocks, as the Yanks say,’ said McConnell. ‘Bad bloody omen for a start.’ He pushed himself off the bench seat and ambled over to the bar. He had the rolling gait of a man used to a moving deck rather than solid ground. The beard made it difficult to place his age but Shepherd figured he was probably in his late fifties and that it had been a decade or so since he had last squeezed into an SBS wetsuit.

McConnell returned with a double whiskey and ice for Shepherd, and a pint of beer for himself. They clinked glasses and McConnell drained half of his in one gulp. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘So, from the Sass to the cops. Like paperwork, do you?’

‘My wife wanted me out,’ said Shepherd. ‘Too many nights away.’

‘Ah, wives,’ said McConnell. ‘I’ve had four, bless them.’

‘A girl in every port?’

‘All local, as it happens. Kids?’

‘A boy. Nine.’

McConnell grinned. ‘I’ve got five. Can’t remember how old they are.’

Shepherd could see that McConnell was the competitive sort, but that was generally the way it was with men who had served in the Special Forces. You didn’t get into the SAS or SBS by hiding your light under a bushel.

‘So, what’s your sailing experience?’ asked McConnell.

‘I did a crash course in trawlers, but as I was only a deck-hand I didn’t have to do much. But I’m okay on navigation.’

‘And you’ve used night-vision equipment?’

‘Sure.’

McConnell belched loudly. ‘Then the rest of it is like driving a car,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we have another round and then I’ll show you the boat? We can pop over to France and back to get the feel of it, then do a few night-runs.’

The sea spray blew across his face like a light shower and Shepherd narrowed his eyes. High overhead, seagulls soared on the breeze coming in from the English Channel. Whichever way he looked he saw other boats. A huge cross-Channel ferry heading for France, as big as a skyscraper turned on its side. Flotillas of small sailboats, some barely bigger than bathtubs. Freighters caked with dirt. Gleaming white executive toys with massive outboard engines. Fishing boats with rusting hulls.

‘It’ll be quieter at night,’ shouted McConnell, over the roar of the massive outboard engine behind them. He was standing up, leaning back against his seat, legs planted like trees, shoulder-width apart. His right hand was on the wheel, his left on a chromium-plated throttle lever. ‘This is us doing thirty knots.’ He banked to the left to avoid a twin-masted sailboat ahead.

Shepherd was standing next to the skipper, his left hand on a grab rail at the side of the boat. Even at thirty knots he could see the high degree of concentration necessary to keep the boat away from trouble. All the craft around them were heading at different speeds in different directions. Working out where they were all going in relation to one’s own boat was like some huge mathematical problem that required constant computations.

‘You want to divide the sea into three circles around you,’ shouted McConnell. ‘Far, near, and fuck-me-that’s-close. The far stuff, you have to be aware of where it’s heading and if it’s a potential problem. The near stuff, you need to know its speed and if you’re going to pass it to port or starboard. The other stuff shouldn’t be a problem, providing you’ve got the outer two covered. It’s all about anticipation. The big stuff is easy – you can see it from miles away. It’s the fair-weather sailors in their piss-pot fifteen-footers that you’ve got to watch out for. Or windsurfers who’ve gone out too far. Hit one of them at sixty knots and they’ll rip right through the hull. There’s flotsam and crap all around, too, everything from deckchairs to empty champagne bottles, so you can’t let your guard down for a second.’ He banked left again and increased the throttle. ‘That’s forty knots,’ he shouted, ‘and the engine isn’t even breaking sweat.’ He pulled the throttle back and the boat slowed to a little over ten knots. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘You take the helm, get the feel of it.’

Shepherd put his left hand on the wheel in front of him. McConnell kept a loose grip on it, but Shepherd could feel that he had control of the boat. It was responsive, with far less play on the wheel than he’d had when he was at the helm of Pepper’s trawler.

‘Take it up to fifteen knots,’ said McConnell. ‘Nice and slowly.’

Shepherd did as he was told. The boat kept slamming into the crests of the waves and the wheel bucked and kicked in his hand. He kept the speed steady at fifteen knots.

‘Okay, that’s us just before we start to plane,’ shouted McConnell. ‘We’re slamming into the waves rather than cutting over them. It’s a teeth-juddering ride, right?’

Shepherd nodded. He was concentrating on the water ahead of the prow.

‘Take it up to twenty knots,’ roared McConnell. ‘Smoothly as you can.’

Shepherd pushed the throttle forward. As the boat accelerated past sixteen knots the juddering stopped and it carved across the top of the waves.

‘That’s the planing,’ said McConnell. ‘You feel it?’

‘Awesome!’ It felt to Shepherd as if the boat was flying above the water now, barely skipping along the surface.

‘Keep it going!’ bellowed McConnell.

Shepherd pushed the throttle forward until the speedometer registered forty knots. He was finding it harder to concentrate on all the ships in the vicinity. There was a freighter off to starboard that seemed to be on a collision course and he steered away from it.

McConnell grinned when he saw what Shepherd was doing. ‘We’ll miss him by a hundred yards, he’s only doing twelve knots. The thing to remember is that out here we’re the fastest bastards, by far.’

It was like driving a motorcycle, Shepherd realised. Fast and furious, not worrying overmuch about what was behind you. Just keep focused on where you’re going and be ready to accelerate out of trouble.

‘Ready to put her through her paces?’ McConnell shouted.

‘Sure!’

‘Give it full throttle!’

Shepherd took a deep breath and pushed the throttle forward. The edge of the seat pressed against the small of his back as the craft surged forward, and the air beat against his face like a living thing. He was panting like a dog and fought to steady his breathing. His left hand ached from gripping the wheel too hard and he forced himself to relax.

‘See the branch?’ yelled McConnell, but Shepherd was already steering the boat to port. ‘Nice,’ said McConnell, approvingly.

Shepherd kept accelerating. The huge Yamaha outboard roared and the waves beat under the hull. The boat felt as if it was bouncing along the surface like a stone that had been sent spinning across a lake. The speedometer went past fifty knots. Fifty-five. Sixty. The throttle was in the full forward position.

‘Both hands on the wheel now!’ roared McConnell. ‘At this speed you have to steer your way out of trouble, so you need both hands.’

Shepherd did what he was told.

‘Try a hard to starboard!’

Shepherd turned the wheel right. The boat banked easily and he felt his body dragged to the left by the force of the turn. His eyes kept scanning the area ahead of the bow. There were a dozen craft close by, all yachts, none going at more than ten knots.

‘This is amazing!’ shouted Shepherd. ‘It’s as if everything else is standing still.’

‘Compared to us, they are! Come on, let’s go to France.’ McConnell pointed at the GPS screen mounted between the two wheels. ‘Just follow the dotted line.’

Shepherd put a pint of beer in front of McConnell, who grunted his thanks. It was a little after six o’clock and McConnell had insisted that they retire to a pub ‘for a drop more antifreeze’ before nightfall. He had a sketch-pad in front of him and was drawing a rough map of the south coast and the French shore with a Biro whose end had been well chewed.