Repossession

By Nicholas Gill

A Liquefied Natural Gas carrier is hijacked in transit through the Gulf of Aden by Somali pirates. A ransom of fifty million dollars is demanded and negotiations begin with the insurers. Concerned about the crew and their families the ship’s owner looks for a back-up plan and is given the name of a discrete Private Military Company who have a reputation for resolving difficult situations. Fine Line Solutions are consulted and hired to do a covert reconnaissance. The recce report is favorable and, as ransom negotiations drag on, the decision is made to repossess the vessel and release the crew. The “Repossession” of the ship, its crew and cargo are effected but a number of small discrepancies give cause for unease. When a supposedly dead chief engineer makes contact with the shipping line alarm bells ring. This was not a simple ship-jacking for money - a deadly threat is revealed and the guys of FLS are the only resource in place to prevent a looming disaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Gill
• Release date: Jun 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310192142

Nicholas Gill

Author Profile – Nicholas Gill.As a young man the author served in the Royal Marines Commandos seeing active service in Malaya, Borneo, Brunei, Sarawak and Aden. In between active service postings, specialist courses and training included arctic warfare training three hundred miles inside the Arctic Circle in northern Norway, and desert warfare exercises in Libya and Western Australia. On leaving the Royal Marines he went back to his roots in engineering and worked in the power industries on refinery and power station construction projects. This led to involvement in the onshore construction of jacket and modular units for the emerging North Sea oil industry. A natural follow on from this was to work offshore on the hook-up and commissioning of major production platform installations.Planning for retirement involved the purchase and renovation of a derelict farm in Wales and ultimately the purchase of twenty-seven thousand acres of the Black Mountain. This proved expensive and returning to the offshore oil industry the author spent a further twelve years on the development of a major North Sea Field for a large American Oil company.On the termination of his contract the author found that he had passed his sell by date and no one wanted or needed his years of experience. Having spent many years writing engineering procedures and specifications it occurred to him that he was perfectly suited to becoming a best selling author! "Retribution" is the first fruit of that idea, and is the first part of a planned trilogy; it is available FREE from Smashwords. The second part, "Sedition", is now published with Smashwords, and the third part, "Attrition", is complete and was published with Smashwords in the last quarter of 2013. Six more novels are planned in detail and will use many of the same characters in further adventures.Read and enjoy,Nicholas Gill.

Book preview

REPOSSESSION

a novel by

Nicholas Gill.

Copyright 2014 by Nicholas Gill.

Smashwords edition.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Reproduction in any manner, except as authorized by the Copyright Act, is prohibited.

DEDICATION.

I dedicate this book with grateful thanks to my son Mark for his help and support in editing and formatting this manuscript and also to my wife Joy for her unfailing love and support at all times. Without their belief and encouragement this book would never have reached publication.

Nicholas Gill.

Quotes.

Repossession:- The act of repossessing property or goods.

Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary.

OUP 2003.

Religion is an insult to human dignity. With or without it you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things.

But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion.

Steven Weinberg.

Faith is an evil precisely because it requires no justification and brooks no argument.

Richard Dawkins.

Table of contents

PROLOGUE.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO.

CHAPTER THREE.

CHAPTER FOUR.

CHAPTER FIVE.

CHAPTER SIX.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

CHAPTER NINE.

CHAPTER TEN.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

EPILOGUE.

RETALIATION.

REPOSSESSION.

PROLOGUE.

Zahar Himya, Sana’a, Yemen.

The blistering heat hammered down from a white disk in a cloudless sky onto the stone and mud buildings of Zahar Himya, the north-eastern suburb of the ancient city of Sana’a. On rooftops and further out on the bleak mountain tops armed men sat with cell phones on drone watch.

Avoiding the mid-afternoon heat, in a heavily guarded house in a heavily guarded square, a planning meeting was in session.

‘We need another spectacular strike against the Infidel; Ayman al-Zawahiri himself has requested it.’ The speaker, a senior al Qaeda leader on the Arabian Peninsula folded a wad of khat, the green privet-like leaves, into his mouth and proceeded to chew.

A rumble of approval greeted his words. Around the room bearded men lounged on cushions against the wall. Trays holding fresh bunches of khat were placed centrally on the floor. Thermos jugs of sweet tea and bottles of 7up were placed around the room, with trays of glasses alongside them; goatskins of well water, cooling by evaporation, hung from wooden pegs in the mud plastered walls. Everything was ready for the afternoon khat session. This was the traditional way for the men of the region to spend the afternoon hours.

All the eyes in the room were fastened on the speaker; all the pairs of eyes were slightly glazed from the narcotic in the khat leaves.

‘How are we to achieve this? The eyes of the infidel Americans are in the drones in the sky; their ears are in the satellites high above. We are watched, we are targeted, our movements become known.’ The speaker, a thin elderly man in an old tweed jacket and a checkered lungi, with a silver decorated khanjar at his waist, posed the difficult question. His words were received with respect.

A tall rangy man replied, ‘You speak truth, Mohammed Abdullah, our struggle becomes more difficult every day, but Allah is with us, He will show us the way.’ This man, a senior al Qaeda leader stated his views with conviction.

He gestured towards a short fat man in the shadowy corner of the room. ‘Our brother in faith has had much experience in the fight; his associate more so – what news of him?’

‘Ah, no news; nothing for several weeks now; it is as though he has disappeared from the earth,’ Najib Shawa replied heavily.

‘He has taken money and retired?’

‘No, no, not that man; he was truly committed, none more so. I fear for him.’

‘He was a fighter before Allah; if he is gone from this earth he will be in paradise now.’ the al Qaeda leader said firmly. ‘Do you have any other ideas that we might employ?’

‘Well, as you have rightly observed, we are watched and eavesdropped upon; an attack at this time must be on an unexpected target and must come from an unsuspected direction.’

‘You have such an attack in mind?’

‘There is a way – but it will be very expensive…’

‘How expensive? Monies can be made available if the proposal has merit,’ the senior Al Qaeda leader said, his eyes fastened on the short, fat figure of Najib Shawa.

Najib ignored the question of price. ‘We must adapt the opportunities the evil west presents to us as we did in the attacks of 9-11.’

‘You mean to take over more civilian aircraft and use them as weapons? They surely are wise to that now,’ the al Qaeda leader objected.

The short fat man paused, as if deep in thought, then he spoke.

‘No, not aircraft, as you did before, we must strike where they are not looking…’

CHAPTER ONE.

Jolo Autonomous Region, Muslim Mindanao, Philippines.

Angel Caligdong descended through the cathedral-like pillars of the primary forest until he reached the dense band of secondary growth bordering the oil palm plantation. He stripped off his disruptive pattern fatigues and green canvas boots and took from his rucksack a pair of blue denim jeans, a logoed tee shirt, a short sleeved check shirt, and a pair of cheap, rubber, flip flop sandals. Quickly dressing in these unremarkable civilian clothes, he cached his automatic rifle and his rucksack and thrusting his 9mm pistol into the back of his waistband he pushed through the thick secondary growth. It was hard going even though food supplies were brought this way occasionally; the rate of tropical re-growth quickly closed any man-made paths. But this was a significant factor in keeping the members of the Moro Liberation Front secure in their jungle hide-outs.

Once through the thick band of shrubs and coarse, head high lalang grass he made his way between the oil palm trees until he came to a dirt road. The dirt road, little more than a track, led to a concrete paved road and that took him to a village. There he climbed aboard a jeepney with workers heading for the city and got off near the Jolo Grand Mosque. He was eager to pray in a real mosque; it had been many months since he had been able to do so, but his real purpose in coming here was for a meeting. Someone important wanted something; the message had been peremptory and urgent. It was unusual and he was curious to find out what the requirement was.

Cleansing and washing, purifying himself for prayer, he entered the quiet of the mosque and took a place as close to the wall facing Mecca as he could. Although he was unaware of it, his entry and presence was noted by two separate and unconnected people.

His prayers finished, Angel felt both refreshed and empowered as he retrieved his sandals and walked to the madrasa adjacent to the mosque. There in the assembly hall he came face to face with the man who would control his destiny.

‘You are Angel Caligdong?’

‘I am he.’

‘You are a graduate of the Maritime Academy of Asia and the Pacific,?’

‘I am.’

‘You trained as a deck officer?’

‘Yes.’

‘You trained at Kamaya Point, Bataan?’

‘Yes.’

‘And graduated as Bachelor of Science in Marine Transportation and Engineering.’

‘That is so.’

‘So you have a sound knowledge of Marine Engineering also?’

Angel nodded, ‘Yes sir.’

‘As integral parts of your course you were trained in Liquid Cargo Handling, Refrigeration and Liquefied Natural Gas handling.’

‘Yes.’

‘You have served as first officer on LNG carriers.’

‘Yes, seven years’ service in that position, all with the same company.’

‘But then you were dismissed.’

‘Yes, but it was an unfair…’

‘No matter, we are aware of the details; are you committed to Allah?’

‘I am a Muslim first, a Filipino second, and a Merchant Marine Officer third.’

‘Are you prepared to be Witness? To be Shahid?’

‘I am prepared.’

‘You know Shura 3 Ayat 169-170?’

‘Think not of those who are slain in Allah’s way as dead. Nay, they live, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord; They rejoice in the bounty provided by Allah: And with regard to those left behind, who have not yet joined them (in their bliss), the Shuhada’s glory is in the fact that on them is no fear, nor have they (cause to) grieve.’

Angel quoted the words from the Qur’an faultlessly from memory.

‘Good, good, the words of the third Shura ring out with truth; but what are your personal feelings?’

Angel quoted from memory again: ‘By Him in Whose Hands my life is! I would love to be martyred in Allah’s cause, and then get resurrected and then get martyred, and then get resurrected again and then get martyred and then get resurrected again and then get martyred.’

‘A true Hadith, you quote from Muhammad al-Bukhari, is that truly how you feel?’

‘Truly, that is how I feel.’

‘You are commended for your faith. Are there others from your community with seafarer’s certificates, others who feel as you do?’

‘There are, I have selected them. They are gathered; they are ready.’

Ceerigaabo, Puntland, Somalia.

Najib Shawa was caked with dust and as uncomfortable as he had ever been in his entire life. The heat was unbearable, the sweat poured out of his pores and soaked into the ever thickening layers of dust crusting onto his exposed skin, dust thrown up by the wheels of the small convoy he was travelling in. He had thought the journey across Yemen from Sana’a to the port of Aden bad, he had done that particular journey twice now, but for difficulty and discomfort this trip had that journey beaten by miles. Also the crossing of the Gulf of Aden by Dhow had been most distressing; never a good sailor at the best of times, a choppy crossing had kept him prostrated in the misery of sea sickness for the whole of the mercifully short voyage.

Leaving the Port of Djibouti the armed convoy had passed through Saylac and Berbera, following the arid coast until Maydh where they turned inland. Now climbing up through the hairpin bends, on the road through the passes of the Daalo Mountains of the Sanaag region, the air became cooler and was perfumed by the scent from the ancient frankincense forests. This was the Biblical land of Punt.

It was also an extremely dangerous land. Divided by warring political factions and with no unifying government, most of the country was ruled by localized warlords asserting their authority at gun point. In spite of the cooler air at this higher altitude, Najib continued to sweat; it was from fear rather than from the heat. He would not have come at all had it not been the case that he was under the protection of al Qaeda’s representatives. That organization was rapidly consolidating its foothold in Somalia, as it was in Yemen, taking advantage of the political turmoil to put down roots in countries where authority was either nonexistent or so disorganized that it was powerless to stop them. With ample funds available and plenty of greedy warlords hungry for cash the opportunity to expand into these countries provided safe haven for al Qaeda activists fleeing from lands where they were being confronted and hunted down.

From Najib’s point of view - and in turn he had impressed this point of view upon the al Qaeda leadership in Yemen - this was the place where the expertise they needed could be found. They needed a ship. Not any old ship but a particular type of ship; and for their plan to be implemented they needed to have it in a secure location for a short period of time.

The small convoy crossed the divide of the Daalo Golis range and began the long descent to the town of Ceerigaabo. ‘Why are we going inland, away from the coast?’ Najib asked his guide, ‘surely the people we need are back there near the sea?’

‘Yes, but they no longer have autonomy; they are controlled by more powerful gangs who saw the money to be extorted and have taken them over. We are going to visit with the leader of one of these tribal armies that we are going to use and it is here that we have to make payment.’

‘Ahh,’ Najib understood, payment had to be made at the top; it would be from there that the power was wielded. ‘So they will issue the instructions to the pirates?’

‘Once they have been paid, they will authorize the pirates to act for us. We must then explain in detail exactly what we want.’

‘Hmm, okay.’ Najib couldn’t help but wish that he still had his old accomplice George Liani to handle the job at the sharp end, but Liani had disappeared without trace. Until he could find a reliable replacement he would have to do the dirty work himself.

Ras Gas LNG Plant, Ras Laffan, Qatar.

‘Begin loading LNG,’ the first officer gave the order as he made his entry in the log. The complicated procedure to purge the five massive spherical tanks and cool them to receive the mixed cargo of Propane and Liquefied Natural Gas had been completed without problems. The Propane was safely loaded in the first sphere. Now the loading of thirty three million gallons of LNG, the equivalent of twenty billion gallons of natural gas began.

The first officer began checking the crew members monitoring the instruments. His eyes flicked over the familiar banks of dials and gauges; pressure, temperature, flow meters, capacity, all were functioning as they should be. He straightened his back and tried to relax, but he was acutely aware of the responsibility he carried. The energy content of this gas carrier when full would be enormous; he could not afford to relax too much.

Captain Bill Renton stepped into the control room from the bridge. ‘Everything correct Number One?’

‘Yes sir,’ the first officer snapped to attention but did not salute. ‘Loading procedures completed correctly, Ship’s Log entries are up to date and LNG loading has just begun.’

‘Very good Number One, I’ll be in my day cabin if you need me. Carry on.’

‘Aye, aye, Sir, everything is going smoothly, I expect we will be able to sail on time.’

Captain Renton nodded and returned to the bridge for a final look round before going below.

*

‘Cargo status?’ The captain looked at the deck officer on duty.

‘Propane loaded in number one sphere, all five spheres at 98.5% full, pressure gauges steady at 20kPa, temperature readings minus 140degrees Celsius, all pumps and compressors checked and on stand-by.’

‘Very good, tug lines attached?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Good, cast off and tell the tug skippers to get us under way.’

Minutes’ later brown silt began to boil up under the sterns of the harbor tugs as they began the delicate task of easing the massive vessel away from the loading dock. The length of three football pitches and with her bridge at the after end of the ship very little could be seen for three quarters of a mile to her immediate front. The Fisk Elenor would need plenty of sea room before proceeding under her own power; once under way it would take her five miles to stop.

*

Laden with a cargo of rice and bound for the port of Aden the ancient wooden Dhow cleared Karachi port and headed out across the Gulf of Oman towards the coast to the south of Muscat. Her timbers silvered by the sun and salt water she was hard to spot from a distance, only her angular shape and triangular sail made her stand out from the grey-green of the sea. This was her regular run; rice and some spices to Aden, dried fish and squid, and camel hides from Aden back to Karachi. Her papers were in order, her captain known to the port authorities across the region. There was nothing untoward about her. Approaching the Omani coast she slowed in the water and hove to a couple of miles short of the busy shipping lanes running parallel with the land. She had a minor engine problem, if anyone, like the Omani Coast Guard for instance, came asking questions, but her real purpose would have been of far greater concern to them.

Ceerigaabo, Puntland, Somalia.

The man Najib Shawa had come so far to see was named Hagi Daoud; he was a warlord who controlled a large swathe of northern Somalia, an area ostensibly the territory of five different political factions. In addition to his brutal band of para-military thugs, Hagi Daoud was a senior leader of al Shabab, the Somali affiliate of al Qaeda, with strong links to al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, a group more often referred to by the security services of the west as AQ-AP. This position coupled with his considerable private army ensured the respect of the leaders of the five different political factions; they left him well alone. His principal concern was to extract as much money as he could from wherever it was to be found, and one of the most lucrative cottage industries in Somalia was the taking and ransoming of shipping passing through the Gulf of Aden. The practice had begun with angry fishermen, whose livelihood had been destroyed by large foreign fishing fleets and their attendant factory ships. After these had decimated the local fish stocks the indigenous fishermen had to do something or sit and watch their families starve.

The early success achieved by some small groups of fishermen-turned-pirates had alerted Hagi Daoud to the huge sums of money that could be extracted from the shipping companies or their insurers. He had moved in on the operation in force. Now several coastal pirate groups operated under his direction; they did the hijacking of the ships. Hagi Daoud did the negotiating for the ransom monies – and kept most of it for himself.

‘Definitely the man I’m looking for,’ Najib Shawa had remarked when he had been given a briefing to go with a letter of introduction.

Najib Shawa’s small convoy of four-wheel drive vehicles drove into the tree lined streets of Ceerigaabo and turned into a walled compound. They were expected, and the armed guards on the gate waved them through. As a testimony to the profitability of piracy the compound was filled with brand new Japanese all-terrain vehicles and, Najib saw, at least two Hummers.

The first order of business was to wash and cleanse away the dirt of travel prior to attending midday prayers at the nearby Mosque. Only then did Hagi Daoud deign to introduce himself to Najib. ‘Salaam Alekhum, sedigi, kief halek?’

Najib bowed politely, ‘Alekhum Salaam, tamaam, tamaam,’ he replied, and Hagi Daoud, smiling broadly, waved him through into an inner room of his substantial house.

There were cushions around the room against the walls and in the center of the room were the customary trays of khat, Thermos jugs of sweet tea, and porous clay jugs of cool well water. The usual relaxed afternoon session of khat chewing would while away the hottest part of the day.

After a, by Arab standards, very short twenty minute period of polite social chat, Najib could restrain his impatience no longer. ‘Did you get my message?’ he blurted.

There was a lengthy silence as Hagi Daoud pondered Najib’s rudeness. He had been told that this man, a Lebanese, controlled large sums of money. On balance therefore he decided to ignore Najib’s rudeness. ‘Aywah, shukran, the message requirements were unusual, but nevertheless were very clear.’

‘And do you foresee any problem in taking such a vessel?’ Najib barged on regardless of the niceties.

‘Such vessels are not so common as others, but we have been informed that one such vessel recently completed loading at Ras Gas in Qatar, and has put to sea. It will be approaching our waters sometime in the near future.’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ Najib rubbed his sweaty little hands together delightedly. ‘And is it likely to be difficult to take such a vessel?’

Hagi Daoud shrugged. ‘I have given the job to my best team; they are well equipped and very experienced. They will succeed, Insh Allah!’

Maakhir, Puntland, Somalia.

The brassy sun baked the teetering shapes of the Ha igu soo dhi’in, the Don’t fall on me rocks, looming high above the black sand beach as Abdi Jamal supervised the preparations on his boat. The black rocks had absorbed the heat of the day and now radiated it back up around the sweating crew. Food, fuel and water were already loaded; extra weapons and ammunition were being brought down from the village on camel back. Abdi Jamal looked at his gold Rolex watch, his pride and joy, taken from a captured yacht skipper who had tried to bargain for his life. The sun would set in an hour and Abdi’s two boats would float off the hard sand with the rise of the spring tide as the full moon climbed in the sky. He muttered impatiently, this country was lawless and he wanted to be off the beach as soon as possible; it was not so much the authorities he feared, rather it was local tribesmen from a rival village.

Posting sentries he gathered his crew and began leading evening prayers, his men laying their prayer mats on the sand of the beach pointing north-north-west across the Gulf of Aden towards the coast of Yemen and Mecca beyond.

As prayers finished the camels arrived, and with them the man from Ceerigaabo. Rumor had preceded the man; some said that he was from Al Qaeda, but he had neither denied nor confirmed that rumor; in truth he had said very little. In fact he was a senior leader of al Shabab, the Somali affiliate of AQ-AP. Abdi Jamal alone knew of this connection, knew that the man was paying well, and had provided the much coveted automatic weapons. He had also supplied plenty of ammunition and the vitally important hand held GPS and radio link.

For this practical help, this senior al Shabab representative had demanded the taking of a specific type of vessel; one not so commonly found in the Gulf of Aden; it would mean a longer time than usual at sea, a longer wait for the right vessel to come along, and consequently a higher level of risk. This unusual arrangement was the reason for the extra food, water, and fuel they had already loaded, and for the extra weapons and ammunition now arriving on the camels.

A few things niggled at the back of Abdi Jamal’s mind; why this particular type of vessel? Why would anyone pay him good money in advance to do what he normally did for himself anyway? He shrugged off his concern, his crew was loyal and would honor the one who paid and led them. And of course there was the promise of ransom money. With this Al Shabab assistance and with Allah’s blessing he might well be able to afford to retire, make this his last job.

The weapons and ammunition were soon loaded and the flat aluminum hulls of the two boats began lifting on the small waves lapping the beach. Soon the boats were swinging on their moorings and Abdi gave the order to pull the iron stakes driven into the sand. The boats were pushed off and the last of the crews clambered aboard. The powerful Japanese outboard motors were started and the pirate boats headed out to sea leaving behind them broad creamy wakes.

Abdi Jamal reviewed his options; his food and water was limited, the length of time he would have to wait unknown at this time. He decided he needed a mother ship; he knew exactly where he would find one.

Strait of Hormuz, Persian Gulf.

The Fisk Elenor threaded her way between the many islets of the strait keeping well away from the jagged rocky shore of the Musandam Peninsular. Captain Renton gave the helmsman a course change and the huge vessel slowly turned to the south-east leaving Qushm Island and the Iranian coast behind on the port side and keeping the coast of Oman to starboard. ‘Full ahead all engines.’ The captain’s order was set on the engine room telegraph and the ship began to increase speed out into the Gulf of Oman heading towards the open waters of the Arabian Sea.

‘Contact the naval authorities and check the convoy situation for the transit of the Gulf of Aden.’ Captain Renton was thinking ahead for the safety of his vessel.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ the number one was just as concerned as the captain, ‘I’ll get sparks to contact Combined Task Force 150 and check out convoy availability.’

The captain nodded. Combined Task Force 150 was a multi-national effort by the navies of western powers to combat the worrying increase in pirate attacks in the waters between the Somali coast and the coast of Yemen. In recent years the attacks had escalated into a very real threat to international shipping, particularly in the Gulf of Aden. Satisfied with his first officer’s response the captain stepped into the chartroom to check his position on the satnav system and to double check his course on the chart.

The first officer, picked up the phone and issued the captain’s instruction to the radio officer; then with binoculars slung around his neck, and keeping one eye on the forward looking radar he proceeded to scan the horizon. In the distance the angular shape of a dhow showed against the flat grey of the sea. Silvered as she was by sun and salt water she appeared more like a shadow than an object with substance, her sail looking more substantial than her superstructure. The first officer adjusted his binoculars and took a closer look. There were no fishing skiffs in evidence, so unlikely to be a mother ship, he thought, probably one of the many trading dhows that plied the waters between the Arab states and Pakistan; they were a common sight in these waters.

This was one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world; a continuous stream of heavily laden tankers ran through these waters carrying crude oil to the refineries of the west whilst an equally large stream of tankers in ballast flowed in the opposite direction to take on crude at the loading jetties of all the oil producing nations of the region. If you added the combined approach speeds of any two vessels, a dangerous collision could happen very quickly, and the first officer didn’t want even a near miss to be reported on his watch. Satisfied that the forward horizon was clear he placed a hand on the helmsman’s shoulder. ‘Keep her steady on 135 degrees,’ he said.

‘Aye sir, steering south-east on 135 degrees it is,’ the helmsman responded, and the first officer decided he could relax enough to get a cup of coffee from the thermos jug provided by the steward. Perching on one of the high bridge swivel chairs the first officer allowed himself to relax a little, the voyage was going smoothly, everything was under control. He could not know it but this state of affairs would not last much longer.

The first sign of trouble came as the radio officer stepped onto the bridge with a message flimsy in his hand. He looked a little glum. ‘Sir, we’re going to miss one convoy by several hours, the British Royal Navy are escorting a convoy through the Gulf of Aden at first light tomorrow. We can’t get to the forming up point in time.’

The first officer did some quick sums in his head. The radio officer was right. ‘Will they wait for us?’

‘Negative, they say we will have to go through with the next set of escorts.’

‘Hmm, okay, so what time is that convoy leaving and what are the forming-up co-ordinates?’

‘Well, that’s another problem; the next set of escort vessels are French, and they are unwilling to include a large LNG carrier in the convoy.’

‘Why?’

‘They say it’s too dangerous.’

‘Shit, that’s what they’re there to do, give us protection.’

‘Yeah well, they’re saying if there is any live firing, we could be a danger to all the other vessels in the group.’

‘So what are we expected to do? Sit around twiddling our thumbs for days waiting for another convoy group?’

The radio officer shrugged. ‘Even then there’s no guarantee that we’ll be allowed to join the group.’

‘Is this a new policy then?’

‘I don’t know sir, but I’ve heard radio chat that the big insurance companies are behind it.’

‘Okay, I’m pretty sure the owner won’t want us sitting around here for days, but that will have to be a decision between him and the Captain.’

Jolo, Philippines. – Berbera, Somalia.

Angel Caligdong’s crew came down from the forests of central Jolo in much the same way as he had done himself some days earlier. In ones and twos they made their way to the small fishing community of Parang on the south west corner of the island. Their rendezvous was at a fish dock at the western end of the town where the many houses set on posts driven into the seabed began to thin out. There a Banca, one of the ubiquitous, long, narrow boats of the region with two bamboo out-riggers was waiting for them. As the sun set with the rapidity of the tropics, the last two of Angel’s crew jumped aboard and the Banca was pushed away from the jetty.

Indistinguishable from any one of the thousands of Banca’s that ply between the seven thousand, one hundred and seven islands of the Philippines, this Banca threaded its way between the many small islands of the Sulu archipelago, passed by the larger island of Basilan and, just before dawn, nosed its way into the jetties of the Badjao settlement, just to the west of Zamboanga City.

The crew used the last minutes of darkness to negotiate the narrow alleys and boardwalks of the over-the-water settlement and arrived at the roadway where a bus was waiting to take them to the airport. On the short drive to Zamboanga Airport Angel checked the identity cards and seamen’s documents of each of the passengers and gave each his Philippine Airlines ticket for the morning flight to Manila.

None of the seamen were on a watch list, all had valid ID and correct tickets. Check-in was routine, boarding normal and the flight uneventful. As it was an internal flight, no customs checks were applied and for Philippine nationals no immigration checks were required either. Collecting their bags from the carousel all the men made their way outside to where another bus waited to take them to a small local hotel in Paranaque, just a few miles from the airport. It was only a two star hotel and by no means palatial, but in comparison to the jungle camps they had been living in it felt like the absolute height of luxury. As seamen they all had valid passports and the first action after getting to their rooms was for the passports to be collected and taken away to have exit visas stamped into them. Next each man was issued with a work permit and the accompanying documents. All were going to join ships of a Yemeni trading company based in the port of Aden.

From Manila an Etihad flight took them to Dubai; from Dubai a Royal Jordanian flight took them to the southern Yemen port of Aden, landing at Khormaksar. From the Aden International Airport at Khormaksar to al Ma’ala waterfront is only a few miles. There a large ocean going Dhow flying the pale blue and white star flag of Somalia was waiting to ship Angel and his crew across the Gulf of Aden to Berbera. They had been travelling for twenty two hours and were dog tired. They would spend the entire crossing asleep.

Off Al Mukalla, Yemen.

Abdi Jamal steered as near to due north as makes no difference using only the stars for guidance. Crossing the busy shipping lanes at night presented no problems, as all the international shipping carried navigation lights, even if he did not; the big ships were thus easy to avoid. Closing with the coast of Yemen he could see the lights of the Yemen LNG plant at Balhaf off to his left. To his right, some miles to the east of Balhaf loomed the bulk of an extinct volcano. He smiled in the darkness, he was exactly where he wanted to be; he roused those members of the crew that were sleeping, and steered to close with the second skiff, to make sure they were all awake and knew to follow his lead.

Turning to the east he began following the coast but keeping a few miles offshore. Soon he saw the brilliant lights of al Mukalla. Some small lights began to wink in the darkness; Yemeni fishermen were going about their business, working hard to bring in the morning’s catch. As the dawn began to break the small lights of oil lanterns could be seen moving towards a cluster of lights sitting higher out of the water. This was what Abdi Jamal was looking for; these lights were from ocean going fishing dhows. He issued some brief orders to the second skiff and the two boats separated. In that boat, and in his own, weapons appeared as if by magic, were cocked and made ready. The two skiffs began to follow in the wake of a Yemeni fishing dhow.

*

Gradually the smaller boats began to peel off and go about their business of catching fish for the midday market. Soon there were only three vessels in sight, the dhow heading for deeper waters further from the shore and Abdi Jamal’s two skiffs. The captain of the dhow would have seen nothing to alarm him, the two skiffs following him had been indistinguishable from local boats, and there was no reason to suppose they were shadowing him.

Abdi Jamal gave the signal; the men at the helms of the two skiffs gunned their powerful outboards and rapidly closed the distance between them and the dhow. The captain of the dhow and his crew were unprepared; in a matter of a few minutes one skiff was alongside and the dhow was boarded. The second skiff stood off with weapons leveled a mere fifty yards away.

‘Imshi! Imshi! Get off my boat!’ The dhow captain had nerve, and was empowered by indignation. He began to quote from the Qur’an a Shura on the evils of theft.

Abdi Jamal was in no mood for lectures, and he was in a hurry to get this business done and get away from there. He slapped the captain of the dhow across the face. ‘Shut up! Order your crew on deck!

The dhow captain spat in his face.

Abdi Jamal shot him in the mouth, his lips still pursed to spit again. The 7.62 Kalashnikov round, flattened and distorted by bone and teeth blew out the back of the captain’s head. Blood, brains and splinters of bone sprayed over the man at the steering oar. The crew members arriving on deck saw what happened and were under no illusion as to what would happen next. They tried to rush Abdi Jamal; a pace or two nearer and one of them might have made it close enough to grapple with Abdi and take his gun. The distance was just that bit too far. Abdi had time to depress his change lever to automatic; he discharged a full magazine into the mass of men, hosing them with bullets and dropping them at his feet.

The helmsman at the steering position leapt over the side into the sea. More of Abdi’s crew from the second skiff piled on board.

Abdi Jamal pointed at the moaning twitching heap of bodies. ‘Feed them to the sharks.’

CHAPTER TWO.

Big Sur Coast, California, USA.

Mike Edge pressed his body against Anna Sutherland’s body, her body in turn pressed back against one of the giant California Redwoods in the valley behind her beautiful, old wooden house. He kissed her on the lips, on the cheek and then on the side of her neck. Anna let out a low moan and arched her head back. She looked up the long straight trunk disappearing into the branches and foliage above. ‘Stop, stop, before I lose control,’ Anna whispered.

‘But I want you to lose control,’ Mike whispered back.

‘I know, I know, but you have to wait.’

‘Why? There’s no one around.’

‘Well, it’s a little delicate, no love making for weeks then so