Traitor Read online

  ‘And you took one in the leg.’

  ‘As a result I had to leave the mob.’

  ‘What about the team leader?’

  Jordan gave him a look. It was an interesting question. He hadn’t intended to discuss that side of it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you blame him, right?’

  Jordan did blame Stratton but he experienced an internal conflict whenever he thought about it. He had always liked and respected Stratton. The man was highly rated by everyone in the SBS and to accuse him of incompetence did not sit well with most of them. It felt awkward - traitorous, even. ‘I suppose so,’ he finally admitted.

  ‘What do you mean, you suppose so? It was ’is fault. You got shot. Why didn’t you take it out on ’im?’

  ‘Because that’s not how it’s done.’

  Deacon, seething inside, studied Jordan. ‘Don’t take this wrong - just like you said to me with your comments about my old regiment - but I think you’re a pussy.’ ‘What’s that?’ Jordan asked, surprised. He hadn’t seen it coming. This was one old soldier telling a war story to another.

  ‘I’ve been in so many contacts, some that’d make yours look like an exercise on Salisbury Plain. Getting shot at is all part of the big show. Listen to your crap. You know what the difference is between the SAS and the SBS? You’re all a buncha whingeing pussies.’

  Jordan’s eyes narrowed. He felt a cross between brimming anger and confusion.

  ‘Sorry, mate, but I ’ave to call it as I see it.’

  Deacon’s radio came to life. ‘This is Pirate. I think there’s someone on the lower spans.’

  Jordan and Deacon remained staring at each other despite the significance of the interruption. Jordan was the first to disconnect. This was why he was here, in command. There were more important things to deal with.

  Deacon was far more self-destructive in nature and could easily value emotional issues above practical essentials. It would have needed a similar madness from Jordan to sustain their dispute. Deacon’s only respect for Jordan came from how decisively he had dealt with the Lebanese thug. That was warning enough not to give him any advantages. He suspected Jordan would not do anything to jeopardise the operation. It was the same weakness that had stopped him from challenging his team leader on that Afghanistan mission.

  Jordan got to his feet. ‘Tell all your call signs to go silent unless it’s an emergency,’ he said as he pulled on his coat.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Deacon asked, remaining in his seat and looking at Jordan.

  ‘Because if your bloke’s right and someone has climbed onto the rig, it will most likely be the forward recce. It’s too soon for an assault. That means in turn they’ll be putting in a technical option, which means they’ll be able to hear you.’ Jordan felt a little better, talking down to Deacon like this. He made his way to the door. ‘Where’s this Pirate feller?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Deacon said, getting to his feet and pulling on his waterproof as he stared at Jordan. He disliked him even more for the way he was talking to him.

  In the driving wind and rain outside Jordan squinted beyond the rails into the blackness where the join between the sea and sky had disappeared. It was as if the platform were shrouded in a tempestuous cloak that allowed no light in from the outside world. The cold rain beating against his face was refreshing, a cleansing balm against the anger that had engulfed him back in the control room.

  He wondered who might be on the platform and if he knew them. His thoughts went to Stratton, not just because of the discussion with Deacon. Bumping into him at the airport the other day had been a strange coincidence and he wondered what the chances were of him being in the first wave. He dismissed the idea as quickly as he had thought of it. If Stratton was involved in any way it would be leading one of the assault teams, not the recce. He felt grateful for it.

  ‘This way,’ Deacon shouted, walking past Jordan, his hood pulled over his head.

  Jordan followed. Deacon deliberately walked too quickly. He paused at the top of a flight of riveted metal steps to wait for the former SBS operative, a mean glare in his eyes that Jordan would never be able to see in the darkness and inside his hood.

  They descended to the low-blocked accommodation deck and walked across an open space in front of the cabins to another flight of stairs going down. They followed these to the lower deck and on down a set of narrower, steeper steps to the machine deck, the lowest operating deck before the spiders. There was a mixture of machine equipment, storage containers and piping of every description stacked everywhere. The thunderous boom of the powerful swell pounding against the rig’s legs grew louder with each step down. The black-painted metal railings were wet and slippery.

  They halted beside one of the four massive legs. A wide ladder leading down was welded to its side. Here the wind was even more turbulent, its pressure dropping and increasing alternately as it pushed between the supports.

  Deacon’s pace slowed and became more cautious as his concentration focused ahead. Partway around the curved surface of the huge leg he stopped and pressed himself against it. He removed his hood and slowly leaned over a rail in order to look below.

  Jordan gradually closed on him.

  Deacon had to search for a while before he eventually spotted the Pirate squatting on a cross-brace some twenty feet below. Only when the jet-black Somali looked up and revealed the whites of his eyes could Deacon make out which part of the dark bundle was the man’s head. The Pirate pointed down and diagonally opposite.

  Deacon could see nothing except shadows and shimmers of light absorbed by the white water breaking around the rig’s legs. He looked around at Jordan. ‘I’ll bring the team in. We can ambush them as they come up.’

  Deacon brought his radio to his lips but Jordan stayed his hand. ‘They won’t be coming up.’

  ‘Then we’ll go down and get them.’

  ‘Bring your man up in case he’s seen,’ Jordan ordered.

  Deacon looked at him as he yanked his hand free. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we don’t want to start a war with special forces. You know them as well as I do. If we kill just one of them they’ll want revenge. Remember, there’s no law out here to govern us. There’s little to govern them, either. We’ve been there, right?’ Jordan added by way of subtle manipulation.

  It made sense but only to someone who didn’t like confrontation. Deacon was convinced that Jordan was weak, and usurping him became suddenly a very serious consideration. The one thing stopping him from doing it, for the moment at least, was that Jordan still held a significant ace up his sleeve. ‘When are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘You’ll find out in good time.’

  ‘This is your moment of power, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody childish. Now bring your man up.’

  Deacon took his time going back to the rail. When the Pirate looked up, Deacon gestured for him to join them. The Somali moved slowly back along the strut to the leg and began to climb the ladder.

  Jordan turned to go but Deacon grabbed his arm. ‘At least tell me what our next move is.’

  Jordan was beginning to get some pleasure out of squeezing the little shit. He was prepared to kill the fool if he showed serious signs of becoming a threat but he expected the man ultimately to control himself. ‘They’ve come to do a job down there. When they’re finished they’ll go and I suspect it will take them minutes rather than hours. Then, if things have gone to plan, we may be able to leave too.’

  ‘You’re serious? We could be gone in hours?’

  Jordan yanked his arm free and shuffled back along the gangway.

  Deacon watched him go, feeling quite pleased. The prospect of getting off the platform lessened his concerns about Mackay. He had mentally prepared himself for a long-drawn-out affair. This was uplifting news, to be sure. Another half-million would be in his account in days or even hours and then he could begin the pleasant business of spending it.
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br />   Stratton began the climb up the robust steel platform ladder on the side of the massive black pile. He had removed his hood to improve his all-round senses and his SMG was slung just below his chest. The sea rolled into the structure beneath him, thumping the side of the supports as he steadily took one rung at a time. His gaze never left the dark cavernous network of girders and spars above. He felt exposed. This was ambush territory. He would have practically no control if he came under fire other than to drop and take his chances on the way down. If he hit nothing he’d still have to deal with the rolling seas. He might be able to combat the elements and to a certain extent control the fools who had come with him. But the enemy, their numbers and skills unknown, held the high ground and had the advantage. They could wait for him to come to them. It all depended on how professional and vigilant they were. If they had night-vision aids and accurate weaponry he’d be an easy target.

  He made it to the next spider deck, a complex intertwining of horizontal spars that connected the four legs. Stratton paused to take a breather and a better look above. Each step brought him closer to the enemy and perhaps into the cleaner view of a sniper. He glanced down to see Binning not far below. There was movement beyond him - Jason and Rowena.

  Stratton pulled himself up onto a wide span and moved along it to leave room for Binning to join him. Rowena and Jason had stopped on the level below and as prearranged would wait for Binning to secure the device and come back down.

  The first operational deck came next, a dark enclosure of machinery, drilling and pumping apparatus, the humming from its engines and generators mingling with the sounds of the sea and wind. The squally rain continued to pelt them. The water ran down their faces and into their eyes and mouths as if they were looking straight into a shower head.

  ‘Is this high enough?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘This should do fine,’ Binning replied, looking around. ‘I’ll need to take a reading, though.’

  ‘You happy with the procedure from here?’ Stratton said.

  ‘Do you really need to go?’ Binning asked. ‘You’ve come this far and risked so much already.’

  ‘I’m not prepared to die for Jordan or for anyone. If I can’t get him, well, at least I will have tried. Get that kit in place, go down and join the others and get going,’ Stratton said. He pulled himself up.

  Binning watched him go, then glanced below to see Jason and Rowena looking up at him. The black container was still attached to his harness but he made no attempt to remove it.

  11

  Stratton eased himself onto the gangway between several massive, noisy pumping machines and shale shakers and held the silenced SMG in his hands. It felt good to be standing on a wide floor and holding the gun. And to have got this far. He felt more confident now that he had not been watched. An ambush would have come long before he reached firm footing.

  He checked the magazine pouch and the spare ammunition it held and moved forward, his rubber-soled neoprene lace-up boots practically silent on the metal flooring. After a brief pause at the foot of a narrow stairway at the end of the line of machines, he quickly made his way up the steps, crouching at the top to reduce his silhouette. Above the main machinery the area was sparsely lit, with shadows everywhere. Now he cherished the wind and rain as they whipped between the piles of equipment, finding the gaps and flapping loose tarps or lines, adding to the cacophony. He wiped his face and padded across an open section to a corner of the platform and another set of broader steps leading up to the living deck.

  Stratton took the steps slowly at a slight crouch. He waited at the top. This deck was a congested area of accommodation: galley, hospital, laundry and utilities. He scanned around once again. In front of him a broad, exposed space led to an illuminated door to the accommodation block. Beams of light filtered by the griddle deck above bathed it in a yellow glow. If he walked across the space anyone who might be there would see him. Stratton chose to go around the outer edge, keeping in the shadows thrown by the bulky containers and smaller items of machinery.

  He crept across the deck. He did not see the figure that stepped out a few metres behind him. Yet he heard them, even through the hum and whip of machinery and weather. Stratton’s highly tuned senses picked up the out-of-place noise which sounded like a small piece of metal rolling along the metal floor. He stopped, his senses suddenly screaming but at the same time warning him not to turn around just yet.

  Pirate hadn’t seen the tiny bolt that he’d scuffed with the toe of his heavy boot. His stare had been fixed on the back of the figure he had seen coming up through the guts of the platform. He had moved back from his position as ordered. He hadn’t engaged anyone. Yet. But he couldn’t comprehend the figure’s presence. He wasn’t used to taking orders, or obeying any that he considered stupid. That was how he had become a commander. During the attack on a Russian ship in the Gulf of Aden a couple of years before, his boss, a man from his own village and like him a former fisherman, had ordered the men not to kill any hostages. Pirate knew the Russians to be dangerous but when he suggested they should shoot the first crewman as a warning to the others the commander chastised him.

  When the Somali thugs scrambled on deck, Russian crewmen stepped out of the engine room with their empty hands held high. The pirates moved forward to capture them, signalling to the boats to come alongside. The ship was theirs. But then the Russian crewmen dropped to the floor and others carrying AK-47 assault rifles leaped from cover. Their bullets tore into the pirate ranks, cutting them down.

  Further along from the fighting Pirate had climbed unseen onto the vessel. He fired his RPG at the ambushers, killing several, wounding others, and setting the ship alight. Those who could fell back into the superstructure. Pirate led the charge but this was no longer an attack for profit. It became a battle for revenge. He went through the vessel room by room, killing anyone he found. He shot the captain and officers on the bridge. He walked calmly into the communications shack to kill the radio operator.

  Pirate never knew what happened to the ship, neither did he care, after abandoning it ablaze. The attack had been a waste of time and manpower. A resulting argument with his commander left the leader dead, a knife buried in his neck, the hilt firmly in Pirate’s hands. And for his efforts the others made him commander.

  From that day on his pirate philosophy had been to kill first, capture later. But his command turned out to be short-lived. His methods were shunned by other pirate commanders as counterproductive and he was soon forced out of his position under threat of execution.

  Such was the way of his world. One’s power rose and fell like the tide. Surviving was the only important thing. And so here he was again, forced to obey orders that he believed to be wrong. He had watched this man step past him carrying a gun and knew he was a threat not to be ignored. And so he decided to act. ‘Move one more step and I kill you,’ the African warned.

  Stratton’s mind raced. The fact that he had not been shot already told him the man was not quite prepared to kill him yet, for whatever reason. That gave him a narrow margin in which to negotiate. ‘I’m not alone,’ he said, hoping to unnerve the man.

  ‘You will be when I shoot you,’ Pirate replied.

  Stratton sensed the murderous confidence in the foreign voice immediately.

  ‘Put your gun down on the floor now or I put a bullet into the back of your head.’

  ‘Okay,’ Stratton said, trying to sound nervous. ‘Don’t shoot.’

  As he leaned forward he used his thumb to click the selector catch on the weapon from single-shot to fully automatic and moved the barrel round so that it angled across his body instead of facing his front. With nothing to go by but the voice he estimated the man to be three or four metres behind him. The barrel of the weapon was now pointing at a head-height container forming a wall to his side. He angled the gun a little further back as he bent at the waist and lowered it to the floor. Before it touched the ground he pulled the trigger. The only sound that resulted
was the click, click, clatter of the moving parts as the weapon shuddered in his grip and the bang of the bullets hitting the metal container. The silenced SMG fired low-velocity rounds: bigger bullets than the average high-powered rifle but slower and less penetrating. They couldn’t pierce the skin of the container, for instance. Stratton held on to the trigger and emptied the entire magazine, the rounds striking and then ricocheting off the metal wall like billiard balls. He turned to see the figure of a man, juddering as he fell, a gun slipping from his grip.

  Stratton moved to the man to look down on him. He was alive but breathing in short, rasping breaths. Stratton checked around to ensure they were alone. He couldn’t leave the Somali in case he was discovered. There was too much more to be done. Under normal circumstances a follow-up team would take care of him, the details of such cases depending on the nature of the operation and its ability to absorb enemy prisoners. In most cases this would be zero. That certainly applied to Stratton’s current situation.

  Stratton couldn’t get the man to the platform’s outer edge because of the deck configuration: he’d have to drag him around the container and machinery to do that and risk exposure. The only choice he had was a gap between the narrow gangway he had climbed and the edge of the deck. A more or less unobstructed line of sight straight down to the water.

  He slung the SMG over his back and dragged the man to the gangway. He heaved him up, leaned him over the top rail, picked up his heels and let the weight take him the rest of the way over. The man fell silently into the blackness. At first. But instead of a distant plop as he hit the water, a couple of dull thuds followed by a single deeper one came back up, as though the body had struck something very solid.