Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

Kurt stayed out of the way, keeping his eye on the trawler. Spotting a man on deck with a machine gun, he shouted a warning. “Get down.”

The crew heard Kurt shout and dropped behind the patrol boat’s steel wave blocker just in time to hear small-arms fire pinging off the outside of it. Another spread of bullets raked the superstructure above, denting the armor and blasting chips from one of the windows.

“Do they always fight this hard?” Kurt asked.

“Only when they have something to hide,” Zama said. “Last year, one of their ships rammed one of ours. Turned out they had a cargo hold full of very expensive tuna.”

The lieutenant addressed the men around him, half of whom were armed with rifles. “Return fire. Keep them pinned down. And ready the fifty-caliber, in case they don’t want to play nice.”

Working in synchronized precision, Zama’s men popped up above the rail in separate places. They peppered the bow of the trawler with shots, then the stern and then amidships. Their gunfire drove the machine-gun-wielding man back into the hull.

They pulled up beside the trawler, swinging close and slowing until they were in a position abeam the midship section of the Chinese ship.

“Now,” Lieutenant Zama ordered.

His men fired three rocket-propelled harpoons at the trawler. The first plunged into the side of the ship’s superstructure and held fast. The second harpoon hit the metal plating surrounding the base of one of the fishing booms. It also held fast. The third harpoon glanced off some equipment, skittered to the right and failed to secure itself.

The man who’d fired it began hauling on the line.

“Leave it,” Zama said. “Two lines will do.”

While that man put the launcher aside, the South African sailors hooked themselves onto the ropes and shimmied across the gap between two ships.

Kurt moved up behind them, but Lieutenant Zama kept him back. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay behind until we’ve secured the ship. I did not expect this type of resistance.”

“I’d really hate to sit this out,” Kurt said.

“I insist,” Zama said. “You’re my guest.”

Kurt nodded. He was in no position to argue, even if Zama and his men were endangering themselves on his account. He stood down as the men moved across the rope. It was a dangerous way to go from ship to ship.

At one point the trawler came toward them again, trying to sideswipe the patrol boat. When the South African helmsman reacted by turning away to keep them at a safe distance, the trawler swung abruptly in the other direction.

“Back to starboard,” Zama ordered.

The patrol boat leaned into the turn, but one of the lines had become stretched. It pulled free before pressure could be relieved and two of the commandos were dumped in the sea.

They swept out behind the speeding ships, bobbing to the surface thanks to the buoyancy of their life jackets.

“They’ll be okay,” Zama said. “Keep us in tight.”

By now the other two commandos had reached the trawler and dropped onto the deck. They were immediately outnumbered and pinned down.

“Let’s go,” Zama said to the last of his men.

The two of them hooked into the line and began pulling themselves across the churning waves. As they went over, Kurt watched the trawler like a hawk, looking for any sign that it was about to turn.

With the South Africans halfway across, the Chinese ship began to roll to the outside, a sure sign that it was turning toward the patrol boat again. This time, the line sagged. Kurt grabbed it and pulled, taking up some of the slack.

“She’s turning in,” he shouted to the helmsman. “Pull away, but not too hard. Be ready to turn back as soon as she rolls level.”

The pilot did as Kurt suggested. Between the course change and Kurt’s effort, they managed to keep the line from dipping in the water.

Kurt cut his eyes to the stern of the trawler. A change in the rudder position would cause an instant change in the eddies swirling around the stern of the ship. It would be visible crucial seconds before the two-hundred-foot vessel began to swing away from them.

Leaning back with the line hooked tight around his arm, Kurt saw the water change from frothing white to dark sea green. The rudder had swung opposite.

“Back to starboard,” he shouted.

The trawler was turning away. The rope connecting the two ships rose as the gap widened. It began to pull taut. Kurt released the slack and the patrol boat responded to the helm, easing back toward the trawler and narrowing the gap once more.

With the line remaining anchored, Zama reached the trawler and dropped onto the deck. The commando behind him was not as lucky.

The Chinese man with the machine gun had reappeared, this time accompanied by several friends. They took up positions around the superstructure, sniping at the boarders down below them.

As the gunfire rained down, another crewman took a fire ax to the remaining line. It broke loose with a single chop and a third South African went into the water.

At almost the same time, a separate group of Chinese sailors appeared near the aft section of the fishing boat. They lit and hurled Molotov cocktails toward Zama and his men. One of the makeshift grenades exploded on the deck. A second fell amid a stack of nets that quickly burst into flames.

The South Africans had no choice but to open fire, cutting down two of the attackers and causing a third to take cover, but the act had turned the tables. Kurt could see more crewmen on the tail end of the ship gathering up fishing gaffs. It had the look of a mob ready to charge. And with smoke from the fire obscuring this new threat, Zama and his men were in trouble.

“Pull in closer,” Kurt shouted to the helmsman.

“My orders are to maintain station,” the helmsman shouted back.

“Closer and forward,” Kurt demanded, “or you’re going to lose your commanding officer and the rest of the team.”

The helmsman was no fool. He could see the situation was getting out of control. He did as Kurt requested, though he had no idea what this American had in mind.

Kurt wasn’t exactly sure either, he was making it up as he went along, but it dawned on him that outflanking the Chinese would make it possible to beat them at their own game. He grabbed the last of the rocket-propelled harpoon canisters, disconnected the line and slung it over his back using the shoulder strap.

As he readied himself, the patrol boat picked up speed, drawing even with the outstretched fishing boom. “Get in front of the boom and drop back.”

The helmsman didn’t question Kurt this time and the patrol boat pulled wide, surged forward and then tucked itself back in close. Kurt raced to the stern as the patrol boat lost a few knots of speed and drifted into the boom.

Kurt didn’t even have to jump. He just grabbed the boom, pulled himself up and crawled the rest of the way. In a few seconds, he’d dropped neatly onto the trawler’s deck.

He took cover as the dull and rapid hammering of the machine guns continued, broken occasionally by the sharp crack of the assault team’s carbines and shouts on both sides. Smoke billowed out from the gunfire, making it impossible to see the stern, but Kurt knew the mob was back there.

He needed a quick way to end this and there was only one person on board who could make that happen. The trawler’s captain.

Moving with surprising speed considering the bazooka he was carrying, Kurt ducked around the front bulkhead of the superstructure, reaching the far side of the ship. With all eyes focused to port, where the South African patrol boat and the commandos were, Kurt found it easy to race up the starboard ladder and push his way onto the bridge.