Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

Mac landed on the cockpit decks as the engines fi red in a deep, rough growl. There were pops and splutters and an incredible vibration through the fl oorboards as the engines roared to full song.

Mano saw Mac’s reaction, and smiled. ‘V12s. Can take a while to warm up,’ he said, then bowed down, gripped his fi ngers under a handle fl ush with the decking and pulled up a trapdoor. ‘You travel with Mano, you travel with the best.’

Looking down, Mac saw two large engines with alloy-coloured manifolds leading to six pipes on either side. Along the manifolds were the BMW rondels and a sign that said M-POWER.

‘Six litres, each one,’ smiled Mano. ‘Not fucking around here.’

They cruised at around eighty knots as they headed due west for Idi on the east coast of northern Sumatra, a place Mac had hoped he’d never return to. He could have fl own in but Benny had warned him against it – Indonesian coast guard would see a private plane, put in a call and, next thing, Mac’s lack of immigration papers and the presence of the Glock handgun he’d borrowed from Benny might put him in the cells. On a good day, a simple bribe might work. On a bad day, there’d be beatings, maybe the German shepherds would have some fun.

The speed of the craft was giving Mac’s body a battering and he wondered what he’d feel like if Mano hadn’t insisted that he put on the kidney belt. The Malacca Strait was not only one of the world’s busiest waterways for container shipping, it was also the main source for the fi sh markets from Medan, Penang and KL to Singapore, Riau and Kelang. There were fi shing vessels everywhere, some of them too small to be out so far in the channel. The container ships sounded their foghorns for minutes at a time as they steamed through clusters of boats carrying on with impunity. In the Malacca, locals ruled and they weren’t going home for some dickhead in white shorts and a funny cap. Through all of this Mano kept the speed up, occasionally slowing down for a bunch of boats.

In the middle of the Straits, the size of the swell meant they had to back off to fi fty knots. Mano and Mac didn’t speak because of the noise, but as they approached a bunch of eight small vessels, a red speedboat peeled away from the bunch and headed in their direction, a big rooster-tail of spray pouring out the back. Mano wasn’t happy with the deal and stood up to face the rear.

‘Shit,’ said Mano.

Mac turned and saw a white speedboat a quarter of a mile behind them, motoring at high speed by the look of the spray and the attitude of the vessel.

‘Drive,’ Mano told Mac, and went to the rear of the boat where he opened one of the white plastic seat-lockers.

The revs dropped and as Mac took the wheel he saw why: the boat had a dead-man’s brake in the footrest. Mac stepped on it and the revs came up again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Mano heft and check an M4 assault rifl e of the kind used by special forces.

Bringing his eyes back forward of the black beauty, Mac saw the red speedboat gunwale-dancing in from their two o’clock, clearly heading straight for them.

Suddenly, a tapdance of three-shot rifl e bursts came from behind and Mac smelled cordite. Acid rose in his throat, mixing with the fuel fumes and exhaust. He felt sick. The red boat at their two o’clock was closing quickly, now just eighty metres away. Mac could see three locals crammed at the windscreen, one of them holding a rifl e.

The gunfi re continued from behind and as Mac looked back the white boat was fi fty metres away and closing. As Mac tried to steer away from the red boat’s trajectory, a star of shattered glass appeared in the windscreen in front of him, shards spinning out like gossamer in the sunlight. His fi rst instinct was to duck down, which initiated the dead-man’s brake again and the revs cut to an idle.

‘Fuck,’ said Mano as he came forward and clambered onto the bow decking. ‘When I say it, you hit the throttle, okay? Give it everything.’

Mac came to his feet in a crouch. ‘Sure.’

Mano made to kneel on the decking – diffi cult as the black beauty rode the swell – but before he could get a shot off, his right leg sagged and a puff of meat bounced out the side of his shorts. Mano took all his weight onto his left leg, tried to get his balance but the shock to his leg was too great and he collapsed sideways off the deck and into the Malacca Straits.

Swivelling around, Mac saw the speedboats were almost on him and he shut down the throttles, swore to every sea god he could think of and prepared for the boarding. He could have grabbed the Glock from his backpack under the transom seats and involved himself in a shoot-out, but he wasn’t in the hero mood. Mano was out there somewhere and Mac had to get to Idi, had to make that meeting with Freddi.

The white boat got to him fi rst and two young locals clambered on board, the taller one with a battered AK-47, the other one with what looked like a Soviet Makarov handgun. The third guy stayed at the helm of the white boat, letting the big black Mercury outboard idle.

Mac held his hands up but the pirates basically ignored him, the short one moving straight to the tiller and taking control while training his Makarov on Mac. The taller one pulled open the hatchway between the pilot’s and passenger seats, and disappeared into the boat’s long below-decks. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. A strange smell wafted up from the hatch door – sweet but musty.

‘How’s it going?’ said Mac, hands held high as he smiled at the gunman.

The red boat pulled up in what North Americans call a ‘hockey stop’ and two thugs in sarungs, plastic sandals and T-shirts leapt onto the black beauty and started yelling at Mac. One walked up and barrel-whipped him across the left side of his forehead with an AK. Mac staggered back but stayed on his feet. As the blood gushed down his face, Mac watched a small Malay man get out of his white Naugahyde seat, jump across to the black boat, and walk up to Mac.

‘G’day, how’s it going?’ said Mac, blood dripping off his left jaw and onto his overalls.

The little man smiled – full lips like a woman and beautiful but crooked teeth.

‘Ah, oop-oop!’ he said with a smile.

They all laughed. In South-East Asia, oop-oop meant an Aussie, thanks to what an Asian thought a kangaroo might sound like as it hopped.

‘Yeah, cheers,’ smiled Mac. ‘Sweet as.’

The little man looked him up and down, though thanks to the height differential it was more up than down. Then he pointed his thumb at his chest and said, ‘Anwar,’ and said it as though he might have been saying President and CEO of Ford Motor Company.

Mac exhaled and smiled. ‘Mac,’ he said, pointing his thumb at his own chest.

Anwar turned his mouth down in an attempt at dignity. ‘Anwar

– the boss.’

‘Sure, boss,’ said Mac, his blood now splashing on the wooden decking.

Anwar smiled and looked at his gang for vindication, and pretty soon they were laughing again, Anwar pointing a thumb at his chest and saying, ‘The boss!’

The tall pirate stuck his head out of the cargo hatch between the front seats and yelled something to Anwar.

The boss turned to face Mac slowly, shaking his head with theatrical sadness. ‘No ganja today, eh Mr Mac?’ He looked down at his feet, then looked Mac in the eye. ‘Which mean… you got cash, yeah?’

Mac shrugged, smiled wanly.

Anwar shook his head, pursed his lips. ‘No money – no ganja.

That no good for the boss.’

Mac cursed more sea gods. Benny had booked him on a frigging drug boat.

The pirates soon found the large shopping bag full of things that Benny had insisted Mac buy before he left. Following instructions to the letter, Mac had lugged the thing onto planes, Land Rovers and drug boats. Now, as the boss and his pirates pulled bottles of Johnnie Walker and cartons of Marlboros from the bag, Mac fi nally got it.