Oceans on Fire: Sabotage at Sea

By Martin Granger

When Nathalie Thompson's cameraman doesn't show at the airport alarm bells start to ring. But, with a TV commission on the table and a job to do, she sets off across the world to make a documentary on ocean energy and its positive effects on climate change. As the camera rolls Nathalie's worst nightmares slowly unfold; accidents happen, drilling rigs sink and marine structures are mysteriously damaged. At the same time a US senator, involved in a controversial new law concerning ownership of the seas, is caught in a sordid sex scandal. With rumours of bribery and corruption at every turn there's more to her film footage than shale fracking and ocean engineering. In her quest to uncover the truth, Nathalie is in for a nasty surprise as she finds herself embroiled in a dangerous world of conspiracy, mayhem and sabotage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RedDoor Publishing
• Release date: Jun 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781783017171

Book preview

One

Crossing at night in the Yamaha-powered outriggers would be hazardous. At their narrowest point the Malacca Straits are only two kilometres wide and yet they are one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. High-sided freighters move in and out of Singapore like bees to a hive. They might easily make flotsam out of the wood and bamboo bangkas without even noticing them. But then being noticed was the last thing Eduardo Cordilla wanted.

There were four men on each craft, not many for the night’s work, but it was not unknown for fishing boats to use less. The bamboo poles skimmed along the water, suspended by their spider-like feet from the painted hulls. Anyone on the beach glimpsing the two boats through the intervals of moonlit cloud would not have been unduly concerned – it was usual practice for fishing to be done at night. No doubt large butane lit lanterns would be raised on masts to attract the fish when the bangkas had reached the fishing grounds. Seen from the shore it could look like a city of lights at night only to reveal a stretch of empty sea in the morning. This evening only Benny Serdiajio noticed anything out of the ordinary. Lying on the floor of his stilted shack he turned over and rested on his elbow to listen more closely to the outboards – Yamaha 200’s, rich fishermen.

Not more than two nautical miles away the Southern Mariner was slipping her moorings and being guided into the channel by the pilot boat. When the thirty-thousand tonne freighter was underway she would join the main shipping lane that was lit up like a motorway. It would take a while for her to reach the Phillip Channel, where the winking lights of the other cargo vessels and oil tankers became fewer as the ships spread out from the narrow straits into the open sea. The bangka crews had prepared for that. Eduardo Cordilla checked his watch. If his calculations were correct they were right on time.

In the middle of the channel there was not another boat in sight. Nothing but the dark, cold lapping water and the occasional glow of a cigarette from one of the bangkas. Eduardo cut his engine and shouted to the others to do the same. The men moved silently around their crafts. Ropes were tidied and boxes strapped down. They had done this before, but despite the outward calm they were nervous. Busying themselves was a way of relaxing. The bangkas looked like a cross between Viking warships and something out of a Star Wars’ movie. The raked-back cabins were placed towards the stern. A few paces behind, the deck of the crafts tilted like oriental pagodas over the water. The front of each vessel was open apart from a small stretch of canvas; cover for the chests that lay in the centre of the hull.

‘Open her up,’ Charlito Cordilla snapped at one of the crew.

A man began to unfasten the chest. Inside was a long coil of thick metal rope. Without a word he handed it to Charlito. On one end of the rope was welded a large clasped hook. By the small lantern on the masts of the vessel they slowly hauled the hook over the side and secured it onto the other bangka’s gunwales. Although it was nearly midnight the air was warm; humid tropical air that made the shirt stick to your back. The rope was heavy, and greased to hold back the rust. It was difficult to handle. Droplets of sweat ran down Charlito’s moustache.

‘No hurry’, he panted, ‘plenty of time.’

Eduardo lit a second cigarette and pushed the flip-top pack into the back pocket of his Levi’s. Real Levi’s, not the imitation label from Hong Kong. A man conscious of his appearance even on a night like this. ‘The boat hook,’ he muttered quietly, the cigarette still between his lips.

A long bamboo pole with a metal-strapped end was placed in his outstretched hand.

‘Cast off and let them drift. I’ll signal when to start up.’

The crews of the two craft acted instantly as they always did when this pale Filipino with his soft American accent calmly gave instructions. The pole was eased against the side and the two bangkas floated apart. The metal rope between them slowly sank into the ocean.

The Cordilla brothers looked at the sky; the clouds were still gathering. Less and less of the moon’s upside-down crescent appeared between them. The evening had started clear, but now the time was closing, the blacker the better.

The bangkas were still within hailing distance but Eduardo went to his cabin and removed an Eveready black rubber torch from a lacquered hardwood drawer. Back on deck he pointed it like a pistol at the other boat and pressed the switch through the spongy rubber cover. Three flashes, a moment of silence, and then the Yamaha outboard kicked into life. The throttle was closed, leaving a throaty, rhythmic echo of sound in the air. Slowly, Charlito’s bangka moved away until all that could be seen were three pin pricks of light. Eduardo paused a while before kneeling to shine his torch into the sea beyond the metal rope that was hanging over the side. Within minutes the beam caught the snake of metal rising in its glare. Cordilla flicked the torch upwards – three more flashes and the outboard fell silent. The bangkas continued to drift apart and then a sudden jolt. The men held onto the masts to steady themselves. They peered into the sea between the two craft – just below the surface, a long and sinewy umbilical cord threatened like a serpent. They sat and waited.

The massive hull ploughing into the steel rope nearly took Charlito Cordilla off his feet. The bangka was caught like a marlin on a line. The two crews wrestled with their bamboo poles to stop the vessels’ outriggers smashing to pieces as they were dragged in towards the freighter. From the air it would have looked like two strange oriental water skiers being pulled along by the massive ship. Within minutes the bangkas were held close against the metal cliff of the freighter. The tyres roped to the sides helped cushion the impact and the vessels were soon speeding along, three abreast.

The first grappling hook fell back into the water but the second throw was more successful. The prongs held fast onto the freighter’s superstructure. The eight masked men clambered up the vertical painted rust face like expert mountaineers. In the shadows any crew member who had been on deck would have seen the outline of their backpacks – AK-47’s, lethal equipment that could pump out six rounds a second but, as expected, not a crew member was in sight.

The first thing that Seaman Rivera could remember was seeing Chief Officer Castellano walk out of the chart room with both hands on his head. It looked comical and it took him a while to connect this bizarre behaviour to the man behind. A short man, something strapped over his shoulders, with dark-skinned hands, grasping a pistol pointing at Castellano’s head.

‘Captain, you captain?’ snapped a voice. Tomas Rivera couldn’t move, think or speak.

‘Officer? Officer?’ screamed the man. In his state of suspended animation it dawned on Tomas that he was being asked a question.

‘No, no officer! Seaman! Seaman!’ he heard himself screaming back.

‘Down! Down!’ shouted the man, waving the pistol wildly about in front of him. Rivera fell to the deck and heard a crash as a bullet smashed into the starboard side radar. A figure stepped over him. Tomas half opened an eye to see a large knife being pulled from a belt hanging at the waist. He began to shake. The knife slashed downwards, once, twice. The cables of the VHF radio and the bridge telephone to the engine room hung lifeless.

Rivera closed his eyes and lay as still as he could, which was difficult. He felt nauseous, and his body was involuntarily shifting from side to side. It had a life of its own and wanted to be anywhere but here on the cold metal bridge deck. His hands felt the ribbed coils of the hastily applied paintwork. It was green, applied too thickly and had dried as molten lava with a wrinkled crust. It was vivid green; he remembered having to remove the stains from his cheap white T-shirt with gasoline from the ship’s stores.

‘Captain, captain, where captain?’ screamed the voice. It seemed to echo through the metal dark into his ears.

Castellano muttering, a shuffle of deck shoes or bare feet, a groan, a muffled clang. Then a terrible whining noise, cold fear flushed through Tomas’ body as he began to hallucinate.

Castellano’s voice in the distance, ‘I have children, a wife,’ but it was not now spoken in quiet, subservient tones; it was awful, pitiful, pleading. ‘Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, please don’t …’ the sentence ended in a gargle of sobs.

The apprentice officer, Francis Tsang, was woken by the shot. He was in his cabin on the second deck. Fully awake, he rushed to his door, opened it, and instantly closed it again, throwing the lock. Two hooded men brandishing machine guns were running down the gangway, throwing open doors as they went. He heard another shot interspersed by a short scream.

The boatswain also on the second deck opened his door to see the captain tied up with a rope in the alleyway. Shaking, he ran to the toilet and locked the door.

Salvador Rocco banged on the bulkhead to alert the second engineer. There was no need to wake him. After a quick interchange they decided to leave their cabins through the portholes. Dropping down on the deck, they made their way to the stowage hold and lay on the floor in silence.

Charlito found Eduardo on the deck, staring out to sea. ‘We’ve secured the captain and the chief officer and there’s a guy on the floor shitting his pants in the wheelhouse.’

‘The others?’

‘Not giving any problem, the radio is out and they didn’t have time to send a message. A pushover; shall I get the guys to round them up?’

‘Yes, tell them to keep their masks on and get a lifeboat ready. The sea’s calm enough, they should be able to reach the shore without too much trouble.’

Charlito turned to make his way to the metal ladder. Without looking back, he shouted some words into the air: ‘You’re too good to them. Chuck them in the drink, that’s what I would do.’

Eduardo laughed, he doubted it. Charlito was his crazy elder brother, but not that crazy. Years ago he had worked tirelessly in a garage repairing jeepneys, those Filipino-decorated versions of Second World War jeeps. All to raise money to get Eduardo into naval college. Well, if they got this ship to their destination then he would be paid back handsomely. Eduardo had met his paymasters at Annapolis; they’d picked him out on graduation day. He was the only one not throwing his hat into the air. When a close friend asked him why he hadn’t done it, he had thrust the cap into his friend’s hands and told him he could keep it. The two suited Malaysians had spotted the air of discontent and had made their approach. But that was years ago and, step by step, he had become enmeshed in this business. Charlito could be a fool sometimes but he was a good mechanic and game for anything. When he had been offered the opportunity to join Eduardo he had jumped at it.

‘Are you going to leave us to do all the fucking work, or are you going to keep pretending to keep watch?’ his brother’s voice came from the deck above.

‘You keep to your part of the deal and I’ll keep to mine,’ called back Eduardo. ‘Have you got those guys into the lifeboat yet?’

‘A couple are missing but don’t worry, we’ll flush them out.’

‘The captain?’

‘He’s still tied up by the wheelhouse, started to make a fuss so Roscoe hit him over the head and he’s bleeding a bit.’

‘A bit?’

‘Okay, quite a lot. I think we should bandage him up before we stick him in the boat.’

‘Well, get on with it. Are you sure he’s all right?’

‘Yeah, a few aspirin and he’ll be fine,’ laughed Charlito. ‘I’ll get Roscoe to play nurse.’

‘Give him time to recover, don’t move him until he’s fit to stand. We’ve got time; we need to stay on this course for a while to avoid attracting attention. You do one more sweep of the ship to make sure you’ve got everyone and then send two of the guys back with the bangkas.’ Eduardo started to climb the metal rungs of the ladder. ‘I’ve finished here, I’ll come up there and start the paperwork.’

Eduardo reached the main deck, scowled at Roscoe and stepped around the captain, avoiding the pool of blood seeping across the alleyway. Peeling the ski mask from his head, he slipped into the cabin. His breathing was smooth and even. Like a hunter returning from a day’s sport he gently placed his AK-47 on the table and manoeuvred himself into the captain’s chair. The desk was basic, an unfinished letter on the surface and an untouched revolver in the top right-hand drawer. Taking a ship couldn’t be easier. One revolver and a fire hose against half a dozen heavily armed thugs. Actually stealing it took a little more guile. He found the safe instructions carelessly left in a bottom drawer. Ships were home to Eduardo. Without looking around he made straight for the safe, knelt down and laid the instructions beside him. Everything was as he expected: the documents and the ship were as good as his.

Two

The London dawn gathered gloom in the October outside. The noise of the rain hitting the Fulham first-floor flat window was incessant. Untroubled sleep became more difficult and then the phone rang. Slowly a hand reached out from beneath the mountain of blankets, eiderdowns and crumpled sheets. She tried to say hello and give her phone number but all that came out was a primordial grunt.

‘Nathalie, is that you?’ A controlled and authoritative male voice was coming down the telephone; far too controlled and authoritative for this time of the morning.

Nathalie reached out blindly towards the cloudy glass of water by her bed. Pulling herself up on one elbow, she took a mouthful. The petrified film in her mouth softened and she experimented with speech once more.

‘It’s Nathalie Thompson here, yes, who’s that?’

‘It’s Geoff. Bagatelle Films. Have you got a moment?’

Nathalie looked at the radio alarm by her bed; the dim display flashed 07.38. ‘Geoff, it’s seven-thirty. What in the hell are you doing in your office at this hour?’

‘God, so it is, sorry. I get in early to avoid the traffic, been here a while. I thought it was later. Shall I call you back?’

‘No, I’m awake now and it’s pissing with rain so hard that it’s impossible to sleep anyway. What can I do for you?’

‘Well, it might be what I can do for you. Are you working at the moment?’

Nathalie’s survival instincts went into automatic. The word ‘working’ triggered enough adrenalin for her to switch into professional mode. She reached for the shell-shaped reading light by her bed, sat up and switched it on, all in one movement.

‘Bits and pieces, you know Geoff, but I could probably squeeze something else in if you’re pushed.’

Geoff was probably smiling to himself. He had been producing television programmes for more than twenty years; if he didn’t know freelancers by now, he never would.

‘How are you fixed later this morning to come in for a chat?’ Nathalie was about to pretend to check her diary when Geoff said, ‘Around eleven-thirty? We could grab a bite to eat afterwards.’

‘Eleven-thirty’s fine. Do you want me to bring anything?’

Nathalie could hear another telephone ringing in the background. ‘No, just yourself, see you then,’ said Geoff, putting down the receiver.

Nathalie Thompson was at one of life’s crossroads. At twenty-eight years old – or, as she would put it, in her ‘mid-twenties’ – she had made a successful, if not sporadic career as a television production co-ordinator. They used to be called production assistants, but these aspiring film directors and producers felt demeaned by the words and so now they were all called by this new amorphous term. Production co-ordination was an exciting job for young, energetic twenty-year-olds. You had to do anything and everything, from buying the crew’s coffee to cleaning up after a shoot. From time to time, depending on the director, you would take part in more televisual things: finding locations and participants for documentaries; logging the shots; and helping out in the edit suite.

The problem came when these freelance production co-ordinators wanted to become producers or directors. Once you had made your first low-budget film as a director you were reluctant to return to being an assistant, unless of course you were desperate for work. Television companies didn’t like this. They wanted to know where they stood. Were you offering yourself as a co-ordinator or a director? Not one thing one day and another thing the next. This was the position Nathalie found herself in. In the spring she thought she had made the breakthrough; her first film as a real television director. Okay, it was a five-minute insert into the National Geographic Channel, but she had done it all on her own. She told all her contacts she wasn’t co-ordinating any more, she was looking for proper directing jobs. But summer had come and gone and not one piece of work. She was now broke and paying the rent with a loan from her mother. In desperation she looked for co-ordination work.

‘Oh, I thought you were directing now,’ came some replies. ‘Didn’t ring because we didn’t think you were doing it anymore,’ came others. ‘We will put you on file and call you if anything comes up,’ and so on.

But nothing had come up, until now.

Nathalie shook herself out of bed and headed for the shower. At last an interview. Television never called them interviews, always just ‘chats’, but these chats could end up with you getting a job. Whatever it was, this time she would take it; her rent was overdue and she really needed the money.

After a number of changes, a grey cashmere polo neck, a short but respectable stiff denim kilt, and a pair of navy tights won the day. Her coveted designer biker boots completed the look. She looked at her large-faced watch, far too big for her slender wrists. Nine o’clock, only two and a half hours to go before ‘the chat’.

‘Only one thing for it, Nathalie,’ she said aloud, ‘breakfast at Valerie’s.’

Twenty minutes later and she was on the London Underground heading towards Earls Court. She could see the man opposite peering around his paper to glance at the kilt riding above her knees. She stared right back at him. He looked away in embarrassment as she caught his eye. The tube train doors hushed open and, shaking her head, she slipped out and made her way to the Piccadilly line.

The London rush-hour was supposed to be over but the rain had attracted travellers to the tube like ants to their tunnel. She had to stand all the way to Leicester Square and it was a relief to emerge from the crush to make her way northwards along the Charing Cross Road. Nathalie never tired of London’s Soho district. Behind the anonymous doors of the backstreets resided hundreds of sound studios, edit suites, and television production companies. London’s film land. She could feel the buzz because she belonged here. Patisserie Valerie had been in Soho since the 1920s. The original clientele of bohemian artists had now been replaced by the media set. The waiter brought a cappuccino and a croissant. Nathalie sat back with her free London paper. She still had an hour to kill before her stroll to Bagatelle Films in Soho Square, plenty of time to absorb the atmosphere.

Geoff Sykes extricated himself from his third morning meeting. Like policemen, television commissioners seemed to be getting younger and, also like policemen, they didn’t know anything about making films. He kicked the wire wastepaper basket across the polished floor of his immaculate production office.

‘If that fucking woman thinks I’m going to re-cut the whole movie, just because her mother doesn’t like the music on the rough-cut, she’s …’

‘She’s what, Geoff?’ interrupted his PA, poking her head around the open door.

‘She’s going to have to wait until you have kindly asked that nice composer to create a whole new lot of tracks based on her mother’s, rather than the British public’s taste,’ continued Geoff, with hardly a pause. ‘And …’ he spoke the words slowly, one at a time in exasperation, ‘without – Any – More – Money.’

‘I’ll ring him straight away, Geoff. Someone called Nathalie is in reception, she says she is a little early. Shall I give her a coffee or show her up?’

‘Show her up and give her a coffee, and thanks for ringing the musician – they always take it better from you. Oh, and Stefanie …’

‘Yes Geoff?’

‘Take that knowing smile off your face.’

‘Yes Geoff,’ said Stefanie, smiling knowingly.

A few years ago Nathalie would have just swanned through reception and made her way via the lift to one of the various production offices. But today things were different; a new face at reception and a confident-looking girl called Stefanie, who she assumed to be Geoff’s new PA. She had been treated like an unknown guest or a new client.

‘Please take a seat while I contact Mr Sykes. What time is your appointment? Would you like a cup of coffee?’ All very polite but all very irritating when you were used to being treated as part of the family.

When she was directed to Mr Sykes’ office on the second floor, she couldn’t help but pointedly remark that she knew where Geoff’s office was.

Once in the lift, Nathalie took a few deep breaths and touched up her lipstick. The doors slid open and she made her way down the corridor.

‘Nathalie, thanks for coming in, you look great,’ said Geoff, really meaning it; he’d forgotten how striking this young woman was.

‘Thank you, no problem,’ said Nathalie in as casual a way as she could muster. But she was aware of his appreciation and had already felt her cheeks reddening.

‘Did they get you coffee?’ asked Geoff hurriedly, sensing the awkwardness.

Nathalie was pleased to follow the distraction. ‘It was offered, but I popped into Valerie’s on the way here so I’m coffee’d out. Haven’t been there for ages, but it still feels like home.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll be visiting there more often. A project’s come up that you might be interested in.’ Geoff threw a newspaper across his desk. ‘Did you read this in the Sunday papers?’

Nathalie picked it up and looked at the headline: Pirates Back in Bloody Business. She looked puzzled, ‘No, I can’t say that I did. What’s it all about, DVD copying?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Geoff with a smile.

Nathalie unfolded the paper so that she could see the rest of the story.

‘British captain cast adrift,’ she read aloud. ‘Sounds serious, not another Somali Pirate attack?’

‘Not quite, read on.’

She began speed-reading the rest of the paragraph. ‘Malacca Straits, where’s that?’

‘Near Singapore, busiest shipping lane in the world. This stuff makes Somali pirates look like small beer. I’ve had Stefanie check out some of the background. This piracy has been going on under the radar for years. They are nicking ships the size of skyscrapers, chucking the crew overboard and flogging the two million-dollar cargos.’

He threw another, more formal-looking sheaf of papers across the desk. ‘And the amazing thing is it happens every couple of weeks; just look at these figures.’

Nathalie spread out the closely typed sheets in front of her. At first they looked like pages from a math’s textbook, columns of numbers and percentages. Looking more closely, it began to make more sense. ‘Appendix 4: Deaths due to piracy, women raped, persons abducted, boats attacked, number of attacks.’ The dates above the rows and figures were quite recent.

‘This is scary,’ said Nathalie, turning the pages and poring over the columns. ‘Why do you think the press haven’t covered these stories until now?’

‘Parochial interest. British captain. The others have all been Brazilian, Russian, Chinese, you name it. This guy’s wife is all over the news. Her husband has been attacked, battered and stuck in a lifeboat with the rest of his crew. They were lucky, picked up by another cargo ship. Could have easily all died.’

‘Interesting story, Geoff, but what’s it got to do with our chat?’

‘Well, a couple of days ago I had lunch with a commissioning editor. Casually asked him if he would be interested in broadcasting a documentary on the story. He took me by surprise and jumped at the idea. I’ve no idea if we could even do it. So I stalled and said we would need some development money. It’s normally like getting blood out of a stone with these people but he offered me twenty grand, there on the spot. I acted cool, pretended this was the sort of thing I was looking for and said I would come up with the finalised programme plan within three months. He faxed me the contract late yesterday evening.’

Nathalie waited for the punchline as Geoff paused and sat back in his chair. There wasn’t one so she broke the silence.

‘So where do I fit in?’

‘How does a three-month research development job sound to you? I need someone with a lot of experience, but it means travel to the Far East and, more to the point, it could be dangerous, so take your time.’

‘Time taken,’ replied Nathalie immediately, ‘it sounds awesome.’

‘I like your enthusiasm, and that’s why I called you in, but I think we should go over some of the basics before you commit. Job description, salary, project brief and so on. How about we do this over lunch? Do you like fish? I’ve booked a table at Zilli’s.’

As they passed the reception Nathalie turned to look at the girl at the desk. What a difference a few minutes could make. Half an hour ago she had been an anonymous visitor, now she was part of the production company, strolling confidently out to lunch with the boss.

It had stopped raining and the streets of Soho were teeming with casually-dressed people clutching their smartphones and iPads. Lunchtime here meant business, and inviting bars and restaurants were filling up with small groups of men and women who were either part of the media or aspiring to it. Waiters greeted them like long-lost friends and made spare chairs available for storing laptops and papers. Nathalie took in the electric atmosphere as she passed the contrasting lurid sex shops and stylised fronts of the television facility houses. Lunch at Zilli’s in Brewer Street would be a real treat. The closest she had been to it was a year ago, in the sandwich bar next door, when grabbing lunch for a director she was working for. Now this was the real deal, a full-on lunch talking about a television project. But she mustn’t get too excited, show him she was desperate for the job. A calm interested exterior would stand her in better stead.

They were directed to a quiet, white-clothed table at the back of the restaurant. The waiter seemed to know Geoff and had shaken his hand warmly before taking their coats. A chair was pulled out for Nathalie as Geoff sat down