The Watchman

Sixty-Seven

The senses become overworked in times of stress, leading to confusion and misunderstandings when normally the brain would be able to filter each piece of information received and sort it into a logical sequence. Tiredness plays its part, too.

Spurred on by the realization that Musa’s position had been hit by a drone strike, I concentrated on the course ahead. Being stopped now would be too cruel. It couldn’t happen.

But the euphoria didn’t last long.

It seemed like only moments later that I heard the heavy beat of approaching engines bearing down on us, and realized we had run out of time.

I ignored the itch between my shoulder blades, imagining the guns of the pirates coming to bear on my back, but didn’t look round. Instead I moved the tiller as much as I dared to get a snake-dance going and put them off their aim. It would undoubtedly use more fuel, but it was the only way I had left to fight back unless I elected to stop and use the AKs.

As a last resort I made sure the Vektor was ready.

Time seemed to drift as we pounded through the swell, and I kept my gaze firmly fixed on an out-jutting piece of land in the distance. I had no idea where it was; it was probably just a deserted piece of rock and scrub miles from anywhere. But it represented a haven of sorts if we could reach it, and easier to hold off an attack for a while. I heard an occasional shot coming from behind us, but nothing came close. They were trying to intimidate and show how near they were.

Then something about the engine noise demanded attention. It had changed in volume and depth. Exhaustion made me slow to respond, and I made do with thinking that the pirates had tired of the game and had put on a burst of power to finally run us down.

Seconds later there was a blast of sound and a dark shape swooped by overhead. The familiar thudding noise of helicopter rotors was beating down on us and ripping off the tops of the waves, and I felt the battering of the down-force across my shoulders and tugging at my shirt.

I looked up and saw a grey Lynx helicopter curving round on an intercept course to meet the oncoming boats. A figure in dull green was crouched in the doorway, giving me the nod, the early sun flashing off his visor. I could see other faces crowding behind him, peering out. Helmeted marines at a guess, ready to do their thing.

I nearly lost the tiller at that point, and remembered in time to hold on tight.

I checked the position of the Somali boats. The two slower craft had already peeled away and were heading north, unwilling to take on the helicopter’s superior firepower. But the lead boat was on course and coming up fast, the men on board crouching down. As I watched, three of them aimed their rifles at the Lynx, one letting off three rapid shots. The sounds were lost in the rotor noise, but the puffs of smoke from his barrel made it look like tackling an elephant with a pea-shooter.

The Lynx didn’t waver and the figure in the doorway stayed where he was, supremely confident. He shook his head, then gestured deliberately with a gloved hand at the missile pods slung beneath the aircraft. To emphasise the point, the pilot swung the nose round to focus menacingly on the pirates and show them what was about to come winging their way if they didn’t back off.

For a few seconds there was no response. The Somali boat continued on its course, the men still waving their rifles, although the shooting had stopped. The Lynx held its position, edging backwards to follow the boat’s course, the pilot doing a superb job of holding it steady. I imagined the count-down going on in his head and waited for the spurt of a missile leaving its pod. Would they, wouldn’t they?

I found myself hoping they would. This shit had gone on long enough.

Finally the pirates saw sense. The helmsman waved his arm and the boat’s nose dipped and turned, immediately losing way, the members of the crew grabbing the sides to hold their balance. As soon as it was pointing away, a heavy spray burst out from the stern and the twin engines powered them on a wide curving course to follow the other two craft to the north.

Seconds later, they were mere dots in the distance and the Lynx was hovering alongside us, the crew member in the doorway grinning and signalling for me to slow and stop.

I smiled back and cut the engine. I’d never been so pleased to obey an order in my life.

The pleasure was short-lived. As they sent down a crewman with a stretcher and winched Tober gently on board, eager hands pulling him inside the fuselage, I happened to glance back at the smoke rising near Kamboni. Something about it looked wrong. At first I couldn’t figure out what it was. I’d seen lots of smoke from many war zones and scenes of destruction. And this didn’t look right.

Then it hit me.

It had dispersed too quickly. It was now little more than a wisp of grey drifting lazily along the shoreline. Yet I was remembering all those rocket-propelled grenades Tober and I had seen stacked up inside and outside the villa. If a drone strike had hit that lot, the explosion would have been bigger, the smoke darker and longer-lasting as the fabric of the building continued to burn long after the initial bang.

But there was none of that.

It was a miss. Musa was made of Teflon.

I heard a whistle and looked up. The winch was coming down again, this time with a harness for me. The crewman guiding it was signalling for me to get it on fast so they could get out of the area.

I waved it away and signalled that I was going back to land.

This wasn’t finished yet.