Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

Paul couldn’t get a bite on the hook, so Mac had a crack and got it over the railing on the third go. It seemed to be a solid hold, but you never really knew about these things until you were halfway up the wall. They pulled on black fi ngerless gloves and Mac wiped the soles of his Hi-Tec Magnums by rubbing each on the opposite ovie leg.

He made a trial squeeze on the rope and the wrist didn’t feel too bad but he reckoned he had about forty seconds to do the business before he ran out of gas. It could be a wet ending.

Mac swung to the side of Golden Serpent, letting his knees bend as he hit painted steel. He felt his arms and wrists take the weight through his back, and he consciously kept his feet soft. Then he started to climb, right hand over left, small steps, trying to get the weight pushing out and letting the knees do the bending.

Two-thirds into it his arms started to lock out. His normal workout regime revolved around the boxing bag, and that kind of fi tness was pretty hopeless for a rope climb. He groaned it out, trying to relax the crook of the arms slightly. But he slipped back down the rope.

He got his feet on the steel again and pushed out, his arms and stomach crying out for respite. He started up again. Got to four-fi fths, and the arms were totally locking out at the elbows. Like the forearms and biceps had set solid and would never open again, and as he hissed through the agony his arms went into a full cramp. He gritted, mumbled, blew spittle and turned the word fuck into a very simple but long prayer.

He ground it out: three steps to go, two steps, one step. His mantra became the Royal Marines’ combat course instruction: Don’t let go of the rope until you’re over the edge.

But he was in too much pain, his arms needed rest and he reached out for the bottom rung of the railing in front of him. Like a whisper of hope.

He wasn’t past the edge.

In an instant, his legs fell out from under him, his rebreather on his chest bouncing him off the ship’s side so he was stretched out to a full traction position, his hands locking around that bottom railing.

Flying like a fl ag.

From the corner of his eye he saw the rope go taut again. Paul’s turn. Mac swung his legs side to side, then threw his right leg upward, catching a toe on the deck. Dragging his knee up, he pulled himself up to the iron bulwark, rebreather getting in the way, and willed himself over the railing.

He fell in a heap, caught his breath on his knees. Felt sweat dripping beneath the rebreather unit. Looked around. No one having a nosey-poke. Reaching into the side fl ap of his ovies, he pulled out the Heckler, checked for load, checked the breech, ejected the magazine, double-checked.

Mac looked at the decks above him. Still no movement from the bridge and no security detail like you’d expect if Sabaya was around the shop.

Paul came over the side. Collapsed with a groan. ‘Too old for this shit.’

They crouched there, got their breathing under control, got circulation back in their arms and hands. Paul pulled out his SIG, checked for load, checked the mag.

They’d landed almost directly below the bridge wings and were probably in the best place on the ship not to be seen.

They moved to the hatchway door that would lead into the deckhouse where they discarded their rebreathers. If the VX blew, it would wipe the ship out anyway.

After jiggling their ovies to check for change or keys, Mac took three strides to the hatchway door. Turned the lever handle.

Pushed in.

The ship hummed softly. The lights were on and Mac smelled breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee.

But no people. Nothing.

They were in a lobby, much like that of a mid-sized apartment building.

Paul pulled the hatchway door behind him, closing it silently.

Didn’t want to leave it fl apping and have some do-gooder come down for a nosey-poke.

Paul pointed downstairs; he wanted to check the troops before he stormed the bridge. Like Mac, he liked to know the numbers.

They went down a fl ight of stairs and into a storage area. From here, most of the food that ran a ship was kept cool till it needed to be freighted up the service elevator to the kitchens. The stewards’ area was down there too: all the toilet paper, the laundry, the cleaning gear.

They walked through the area, both breathing shallow, shit-scared about when that VX was going to blow. The silence was eerie.

They came to a cool store at the end, pushed through the clear plastic curtain and stood there in a room that was the size of a one-bedroom apartment. Five men, aged about nineteen to mid fi fties, lay on the fl oor. Filipinos by the look of it.

A carcass had fallen on one. Some were dressed in whites – kitchen guys probably, getting the provisions for the evening meal when the pirates hit. Two of them were in orange overalls, bullets in foreheads, behind ears. Blood across the fl oor, set like a dark carpet.

Mac tasted that metallic blood thing. Some people smelled it; he tasted it.

They pushed back out and went further into the ship. If Garrison and Sabaya had wanted this whole thing to go smoothly they would have needed most of the crew onside going into Singers. You couldn’t run a nine-thousand-container ship without engineers, general seamen and the offi cers. They’d waited and then executed the lot of them.

He needed to check the engine room. Even on ships this large there was only one engine and one screw shaft so it should be straightforward.

Mac accidentally knocked the claws loose on his wrist bandage, thought Bugger it and unbound the crepe. Chucked it.

They came to the hatchway door, AUTHORISED ACCESS ONLY written in several languages, Korean at the top. Paul couldn’t open it. There was a keypad on the wall beside it with a solid red light on top and a green light beside, but not on. Even large ships had manual overrides on their engines, so the last thing ship owners wanted was some seaman getting drunk and deciding it would be fun to fuck around with an eighty-thousand horsepower MAN B amp;W straight-14.

Paul turned to Mac. ‘Any ideas?’

Mac shrugged. ‘Someone’s birthday?’

‘Anything else?’

‘Four zeroes – always works for mobile phones.’

‘Let’s forget it,’ said Paul.

They walked back across the vast storage bays, noticing how many nooks and crannies and smaller offi ces and rooms there were. They could have searched the lot, but it didn’t seem like a lively place.

They hit the stairs to go back up. Paul stopped, brought his SIG up. Mac followed his gaze. Brought his own Heckler up.

Paul moved to his right, angling towards the stack of boxes that said Kleenex on the side. Mac hooked left. Moving in an arc, his breath was rasping now. He could feel the adrenaline pumping blood into his brain and ears. Everything roared. He couldn’t get enough air.

Wiping the wetness from his forehead he tried to concentrate.

Mac found a half-wall, propped against it, aimed up with a cup-and-saucer and fl icked the safety. Paul looked over and, happy with the cover, walked further forward, looking, looking. Mac tried to keep his breathing down. A shoot-out in a confi ned space like this left no room for retreat. Someone was going to drop. He didn’t want it to be him.

Paul moved forward slow, keeping the head, arms and shoulders absolutely still. His heavily muscled upper body fl exed against the grey cotton overall fabric, his legs moving beneath like they were independent of his body. His sleeves had two turn-ups; Mac could see his wrists fl exing.

Suddenly Paul leapt back, could barely get his SIG down fast enough. Hyperventilating.

Mac came out from the wall, ready for it, shooting stance going haywire, back and forth, up and down. Breathing all over the shop.