Greed

TEN

The boat ploughed steadily through the night water. Damien stood on the bridge, his hands steady on the wheel. It was one o'clock in the morning and a bank of clouds had drifted across the night sky, dimming the light of the moon. As the darkness descended upon them, their faces were illuminated only by the green glow of the radar screen.

Towards the back of the boat Matt could hear a pair of gulls squawking and the insistent monotonous hum of the engines. But the men had all quietened down — and so had the wind.

There is always a moment of stillness before a mission begins.

'How far?' Cooksley asked, standing next to Matt on the bridge.

'About three nautical miles,' said Matt. 'Maybe another twenty minutes' sailing.'

The radar screen showed their position as a small green dot. Ahead there was another dot, marking the position of the target. It was moving, but they were moving faster. To keep on its track, Damien just had to steer the boat into its slipstream.

Matt looked into the sky, watching the last of the moon slip behind the clouds. The darker it gets, the better, he decided. They can't see us, but we can see them.

Damien steered the boat in silence, keeping his eyes fixed on the radar. Their training was completed, and each of them had practised their moves a hundred times over. Each man knew exactly what he had to do and when. If everything went according to plan, they would be back on the boat in an hour, and safely tucked up in their hotel bedrooms in three hours.

But when did it ever work out the way the plan said it should?

Damien killed the engines on the boat. It was one forty-five. The level of noise suddenly reduced, a stillness descended upon them.

Matt could hear the waves lapping against the vessel — it seemed to be getting rougher as the wind started to pick up again. 'Get the dinghy ready,' he said. 'The target is a mile due west of here.'

Reid and Cooksley lowered the dinghy into the water, steadying it as it started to sway. Matt checked his Bushmaster rifle, made sure his pistol was securely fastened to the belt of his wetsuit, and that his night-vision goggles were strapped into place. 'All systems go?' he said, looking around.

Reid, Cooksley and Ivan nodded. Their faces were all blackened up, and they were wearing black wetsuits with lightweight body armour strapped around their chest. Through the pale light, only their eyes could be seen clearly.

'Your explosives in place?' Matt asked Ivan.

'Ready,' said Ivan.

Matt turned towards Damien. 'OK, we're off,' he said. 'When we've cleared their boat, we'll radio you. You need to get your foot on the accelerator of this thing as fast as possible and bring it across to join us. OK?'

Damien nodded. 'Let's just fucking do it.'

Matt jumped down into the dinghy and sat next to Reid at the back. Ivan and Cooksley were ahead of them. The outboard was already fired up and its engines sliced through the water. 'Due west,' said Matt, leaning back as the dinghy powered away from the boat. 'At least we haven't got that bastard Bulmer shouting at us.'

He could see only darkness ahead. The dinghy was bouncing across the surface of the water, crashing through the waves that assaulted its hull. Matt held the Garmin navigator firmly, checking their progress against the co-ordinates of the target. He still couldn't see it, even through the night-vision goggles, but at the rate they were travelling he reckoned they would be there in nine minutes.

'Two degrees left,' he muttered.

Matt could feel the dinghy changing direction. He checked their position again. The target was straight ahead of them now. The al-Qaeda boat was moving at a steady pace of eight or nine knots, but the dinghy was going much faster, rapidly closing the distance between them. They were now just one nautical mile from the target.

'Goggles on,' he shouted across the boat.

He pulled his Rigel down over his eyes, checking the rest of them had done the same. The frames felt heavy around his face, cutting into his skin. But Matt had fought in goggles before, and knew that the pain was irrelevant. In pitch blackness, the ability to see was the greatest weapon of all.

If you can see your enemy before he can see you then he's already a dead man.

Matt looked up. Cooksley and Ivan were marked out as green blobs. He scanned across the ocean. Right now, there was nothing except for a small flock of birds drifting through the sky to the east. 'One degree right,' he told Reid.

Where are you?

The target appeared as a tiny pale-green dot, floating on the edge of the horizon. Matt's eyes locked on to it, watching as it grew steadily larger.

'You see it?' he whispered to Reid.

'Clear as daylight,' said Reid. 'That's our boy.'

Matt checked the Garmin. The instructions from Bulmer were that the noise of their engine would travel no more than a thousand metres at sea — sound travels poorly across water because of the noise of the waves and because the curve of the earth deflects it away from the surface. But Matt wasn't planning on taking any chances.

His stomach was heaving. The dinghy was rocking wildly with every wave, and it seemed rougher now than on any of their training exercises. He could see that Cooksley had already thrown up — some of it was now running down the side of Reid's wetsuit. The vomit was mixing with the water splashing over the side of the boat and swilling around Matt's feet. Ivan was making retching sounds, leaning over the side of the vessel. From the state of his own stomach, Matt thought he was about to join him.

They were drawing closer now, the engine growling at a steady pace. The noise of the ship and the hissing of the wind drowned out the sound of their dinghy. They didn't need any electronics to guide them towards the target. They could see it looming towards them, illuminated in vivid green on the screens of their goggles.

Matt scanned the surface of the vessel. From this distance it looked like a rough cargo ship, about eighty feet long, the sort you could see in any docks. There were a couple of winches at the back for loading and unloading, and a bridge at the front. Not much on deck. He could see the outlines of the stern, and the heat from the engine beneath it. He searched for signs of a lookout but could see nothing. It was now one-thirty in the morning, local time. There should certainly be one man on the bridge, maybe two, but it didn't look as if they had posted a lookout on the stern.

This might turn out easier than expected.

Matt's stomach heaved once more and he put his face low over the water, trying to keep as quiet as possible as he vomited burger and chips into the sea. He looked up and saw vomit smeared across Reid's face: the man was concentrating so hard on the target he had forgotten to wipe it away.

'Steady her,' he muttered to Reid.

They were approaching the tail-end of the wake, five hundred metres from the boat. 'There's someone there,' muttered Ivan from the front of the boat.

Matt looked up towards the target. There was the faint trace of a green object towards the stern. He steadied his head, letting the goggles get a lock on to the object — a round, green blob with things that looked like arms. No question — it was a lookout. The man was pacing up and down, and, as they got closer, Matt could see that he was smoking.

Stupid. He should know that night-vision goggles work on heat. You might as well wave a placard above your head saying COME AND SHOOT ME.

'Wait till we're down to fifty feet,' Matt muttered. 'Cooksley. .'

The plan was that they'd fire simultaneously. Matt picked up the Bushmaster rifle and held it tightly in his right hand. 'Move her up,' he muttered.

Now they were positioned right in the centre of the wake: the turbulence of the water would smother the noise as effectively as the silencer on a pistol. The prow of the dinghy jumped up as the engine roared forwards, the thick white water of the wake breaking over the top. Matt could feel the waves bouncing off the surface of his wetsuit but clinging to his hair and face. The glass of his goggles was constantly soaked, and he had to keep wiping them. They were within three hundred metres. 'Forwards,' he muttered to Reid.

He looked again to the surface of the ship. The green blob was pacing back and forth, the cigarette still dangling from its lips. Ahead, Cooksley was holding his rod, gripping it firmly between his fists. Ivan was at his side, both hands gripping the sides of the dinghy, his body swaying as the vessel rolled through the waves and the swell.

Two hundred metres. They're so close I can practically smell them.

Matt knelt forwards, struggling to find the perfect balance as the boat rocked through the wake. He took his goggles off, letting them hang freely around his neck. His forearms rested on the sides of the dinghy, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder, putting his eye to the kite-sight. Two yards ahead he could see Cooksley doing the same. He trained the sights on to the green blob, aiming precisely two inches above the cigarette. That, he calculated, should lodge the bullet directly into the man's brain.

He looked towards Cooksley. 'Now,' he muttered. If they both shot at the same time there was a greater chance of hitting the target, and no extra risk of alerting the rest of the crew.

Matt squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked back against his shoulder as the bullet flashed through the night sky. A wave hit the dinghy, and Matt struggled to stay upright. He kept his eyes locked on to the stern of the target. The blob was down — but whether he was dead or just wounded Matt had no way of knowing.

Piss off to meet Allah, you bastard.

Matt could hear the roar of the propellers as they drew closer: two massive blades of steel, cutting through the water. Another hundred metres to go. The smell of diesel and oil caught on the wind, filling Matt's lungs.

Reid turned the dinghy left then right, steering through the narrow channel of water dead in the centre of the wake. On either side of them, banks of white water were starting to rise, reaching six or seven feet into the sky. The water poured down on them, covering Matt's face in spray. 'Keep her steady,' he muttered.

The stern was looming above them now. It rose twenty feet, a solid wall of black steel, its surface pitted with rust. The tips of the prop blades could just be seen slicing through the churning surface of the water. They were twenty metres away. Matt could feel the engine starting to drag them towards it, the dinghy gliding across the surface of the water as if it were being sucked up by a vacuum. 'Turn it around,' he said.

Reid spun the engine into reverse. At this point in the approach, the suction from the ship's engine was enough to drag them forward: they needed the outboard to stop them moving too quickly towards it. If they collided with the propellers it would slice up the boat.

'Got it,' Reid said, looking back at Matt.

The dinghy was moving more steadily towards the stern now — forty, thirty, then twenty feet. Cooksley stood up, Ivan gripping him at the sides, and slung the hook forwards. It clanked against the metal of the stern, bounced, and started falling backwards.

Christ, man, don't drop it.

Cooksley gripped tighter to the pole, slinging it forwards again. This time the hook settled into the stern, the metal catching on metal. Cooksley tugged once. It was secure.

Ivan grabbed a thin aluminium caving ladder, holding it steady as Cooksley used the hook to pull them closer to the ship. Ivan slipped the ladder on to the stern, holding it steady, a ramp between the dinghy and the boat. 'She's ready,' he said.

Matt moved swiftly forwards. His feet bounced off the surface of the dinghy, his hands gripping on to the sides of the ladder. He steadied his balance, then yanked himself forwards.

The first man over the top faces maximum danger. That's my job.

He started hauling himself upwards. Three rungs up, a wave crashed over the side of his body. The force of the water knocked him sideways, his left hand breaking free from the ladder. His left foot was bashed out, leaving all the weight on his right foot, and a bolt of pain ran up to his knee. He could feel himself starting to be washed down towards the propeller. His right hand gripped tighter to the ladder, desperately hanging on. The salt of the water was stinging his eyes. When he managed to get himself squarely back on to the ladder he moved swiftly up five more rungs. Christ, he thought. That was close.

Using his forearms he pulled himself up on to the deck, then crouched down low, ripping the Bushmaster from his back. He held the gun to his eyes, looking out over the deck. For forty feet it was empty metal, with two cranes at the side and a lifeboat. To his right he could see a body lying crumpled on the deck, a pool of blood seeping out of the hole in the head just above the ear, and a cigarette still smouldering at its side. Matt glanced back down to the men behind, giving them the thumbs-up sign. Reid was already on the ladder pulling himself upwards.

Ahead, Matt could see the back bridge. One light was illuminating the deck, and he could hear the tinny sound of radio music being carried on the wind.

Behind him, Reid landed on the deck, then Cooksley, then Ivan. Matt checked the dinghy was secured to the stern with a rope. All four men then lay flat on the cold, wet metal: blacked-up, out of sight of the bridge.

'There's two up there, I reckon,' Matt whispered. 'Move up to twenty feet, then we'll drop them.'

Matt rose slowly and started walking stealthily across the deck, holding his breath, taking care not to make a sound on the metal surface. Right now, surprise was the best weapon. A single sound and they would lose it. Reid walked two paces behind him, ready to give him covering fire if any shooting started.

When they were twenty paces from the bridge, Ivan and Cooksley moved up ahead to attack from the front. Ivan was following standard operating procedures as if he'd been in the Regiment all his life.

No wonder those bastards were so hard to kill when we crossed the water.

Matt paused until they were in position, and watched as Cooksley glanced through the front windows of the bridge. Cooksley waved two fingers in the air, indicating that there were two targets on the bridge. Matt pointed to the ladder that linked the bridge to the main surface of the boat, then with Reid at his side walked up the metal stairs.

Matt stood by the metal door of the bridge and waited until Ivan and Cooksley were in position by the front windows of the bridge.

'Fire!' Matt barked, putting a thumb up.

Matt heard four shots firing in unison, the tracer fire lightening their faces. He watched as the man on the wheel spun round then collapsed, his body colliding with the deck. The sound echoed down the length of the boat. The second man reeled back on his heels, staggering towards the hold. He was clutching his shoulder, his face clenched in agony. Wounded, Matt judged — but not yet fatally.

'Forward!' he shouted. 'Let's get in there.'

Matt sprinted the last few feet, Reid right behind him. He swung open the door and burst on to the bridge, running forwards, his rifle held out before him. Immediately a hail of bullets filled the tiny metal room. Matt could see the wounded man leaning down towards the hold, blood streaming down the side of his neck. His ear had been shot clean from his face. 'Hajaba!' he shouted. 'Hajaba!'

Matt didn't know much Arabic, but he knew that word.

The bastard is telling them to hide.

Cooksley and Ivan's initial burst of fire must have been deflected by the strengthened glass. That was the only way the men could have survived the initial attack. The man now held up a pistol. He tried to steady himself but blood was pouring from his ear, dripping over his eyes and obscuring his vision. One shot rang out as he fired. Matt heard the metal somewhere behind him cracking as the bullet hit it. Another shot. This time it seemed to have winged Reid, as his arm dropped in agony.

Matt levelled his Bushmaster to his eye, steadied his arm and pulled the trigger. The shot was true. The bullet exploded between the man's eyes, sending him reeling backwards, his mouth wide open and blood trickling down the side of his face.

Matt rushed forwards, put his rifle to the head of the first man, and fired a double-tap into his skull. He looked dead, but there was no point taking any chances.

'You OK?'

'Just grazed my arm,' said Reid.

'So the rest are in the hold,' said Matt.

They had no way of knowing for sure how many men were on board. MI5 had reckoned six, meaning there could be three below, but it could be more. A metal stairway led down from the bridge into the hold, but it was pitch black. Matt knelt down, level with the stairs, swivelling his eyes through the space. Even with the goggles, he could see nothing.

'Torch!' he shouted.

Reid collected a torch from his belt and shone it down the stairwell. A bullet broke through the silence, striking the wheel and ricocheting into the window of the bridge. It had flown through the three-yard opening to the stairwell, but it was impossible to tell exactly where in the hold it had come from, or who had fired it. The sheet of glass shattered into fragments, tumbling on to the floor. Matt ducked. If they were in the hold, and this was the only entrance, they were well dug in.

This could be a nasty fight.

Behind him, Ivan and Cooksley had entered the bridge. The boat was rocking from side to side as it steamed forwards with nobody at the wheel. 'See if you can shut this bloody thing down, Ivan,' Matt snapped. He looked towards Cooksley. 'See if there's another way down,' he said.

Cooksley ran down the length of the boat, inspecting the cranes, the lifeboat and the engine hatch. 'Just the engines,' he said, returning to the bridge. 'We can get down to that, but I don't know if it leads anywhere.'

Reid shook his head. 'Unlikely,' he said. 'The engine room is usually sealed off from the rest of the boat. Even if it's not, any man going down there will get fucked.'

'We got some stuff to blow away the bastards in the hold?' said Matt.

'We have Semtex,' said Ivan.

'Reckon you can make a small bomb that's not going to sink the ship?' said Matt.

Another bullet rattled out of the stairwell, followed by three more. All four men instinctively moved out of range. 'Give me two minutes,' answered Ivan.

Matt, Reid and Cooksley approached the edge of the stairwell, pointing their rifles down, loosening off a few rounds of ammunition: if there was anyone down there waiting for them, they needed to clear them out of the way. The sound of gunfire echoed through the hold. Matt could hear the metal bullets hitting metal walls and listened out for the familiar sound of bullet ripping into flesh, the cry of a wounded man. But he could hear nothing. This was useless, he decided. They were just shooting into thin air. The men down there had taken cover and were just waiting for them to come down the stairs.

Then they'll pick us off one by one.

It was almost two o'clock, Matt realised, glancing at his watch.

If we hang about, they'll radio someone for help. We need to get this finished off now.

Ivan returned holding a small round ball of Semtex wrapped up with black tape, no bigger than his fist. A detonator cap was fitted to it, with two long pieces of wire stretching out. 'This thing scares the crap out of me,' he said. 'So I hate to think what it will do to them.'

Despite himself, Matt smiled back. The wind was starting to pick up, and the waves were smashing into the side of the vessel.

Ivan motioned to Matt to stand well back. Reid and Cooksley followed, and the three men stood at the back of the bridge, moving out of range of the blast. Ivan joined the two wires together, then dropped the bomb down the length of the stairwell. He turned swiftly on his heels, running to the back of the bridge, and placed the wires on to the battery pack.

The explosion rocked through the vessel. Matt could feel its steel frame shuddering under the force, the bolts and rivets shaking loose. A pale cloud of smoke started to emerge from the hold.

'Nice fireworks,' said Cooksley.

'It's still early days,' said Ivan grimly.

'Let's get down there.' Matt stepped towards the hold. 'Reid, Cooksley, you cover me.'

He held the Bushmaster in his right hand, approaching the edge of the hold. He scanned the stairs, but could still see nothing. Cooksley and Reid stood behind him, their rifles raised to their shoulders ready to fire. Matt lowered his foot on to the first rung.

If one of them gets me, at least he'll go down in a hail of bullets.

He jumped the three feet on to the floor in one swift movement, his knees breaking the fall. The last two rungs had been mashed up by the explosion. He rolled over, using his goggles to scan the room. The smell of the explosion and of melting steel was thick in the air, and smoke still filled the room. He could make out a shape that looked like a man. Correct that, he told himself. Three shapes that each looked like a third of a man.

He walked on through the hold. About ten yards from the staircase lay the head of a man. A couple of yards away, his torso, and on the other side of the room his legs. Blood, guts and intestines had spewed from him, spilling out on to the metal floor.

'That's one,' said Reid suddenly, standing behind Matt. 'Where's the rest of the buggers?'

'Over there, I reckon,' said Matt.

The hold was narrow and dark. At the side there was a small kitchen area and a stock of food. A TV and DVD player was on a chest, but the screen was now blown out. At the back there were six bunk beds and a few travel bags.

'Seven beds,' said Ivan. 'I count four bodies — three upstairs including the lookout, and one down here. That means there are three men left.'

Matt moved further forwards. At the front of the hold there were two thick steel doors. The steel bolts on the outside were open, but the doors were firmly shut. 'They're in here,' he said. 'They've locked themselves into the walk-in safes — the gold and the diamonds will be in there as well.'

Ivan thumped his fist against the door. 'Christ, about eight to nine inches thick,' he said. 'Solid steel. Reinforced. That's not what we planned for.'

'I don't give a fuck what it's made of,' snapped Matt. 'Can you blow it or not?'

Ivan ran his hands across the door, his finger running over its steel skin as if he were giving it a massage. He paused, focusing on the joint where the open outside lock was. 'This is the weakest part,' he said. 'I reckon a strip of Semtex will create enough force to crack this thing open. But it could blow a hole in the hull.'

'What are the odds?' said Matt.

'I'm not a fucking bookmaker.'

'Just give us the bloody answer,' said Cooksley.

'About sixty — forty in our favour,' said Ivan. 'Position the Semtex in the right way, and most of the force of the explosion travels on a horizontal axis. It goes into the door and punches a hole in it. But you can't stop some of the energy the blast releases from travelling downwards as well. And that could put the loot at the bottom of the sea. And us with it, if we don't get out damned sharpish.'

Matt looked towards Reid and Cooksley. 'Shall we take a vote?'

'What are the options?' said Reid.

Matt shrugged. 'They can't have much to eat or drink in there. At some point, they're going to come out, take a chance on whether we shoot them or let them go.'

'They'll call for help,' said Reid. 'They could easily have a radio or a satellite phone in there.'

'And they are fanatics,' added Ivan. 'They might just decide to die in there rather than let us nick their stuff.'

'I say we blow them now,' said Reid.

'Me too,' said Cooksley.

'Go to work,' said Matt, looking towards Ivan.

'I'll need a couple of minutes.'

Matt climbed back on to the deck, followed by Cooksley and Reid. Ivan had explained that when the blast went up, the over-pressures created by the explosion would kill anything within twenty yards. They needed to be out of range. Matt switched on his radio, patching through a connection to Damien. 'Start sailing to meet us,' he said. 'There are four men down here. Ivan's about to blow them, but there's a chance he might sink the ship. So I want you nearby.'

Matt tucked the radio back into its holder and leant over the side of the ship. The waves were beating against the hull and the wind seemed to have gathered yet more strength, sending the clouds swirling through the sky. Inside his wet-suit it was suddenly starting to feel very cold. It had been more than two years since he had killed a man: the last mission before he left the Regiment had been the hostage rescue in Chechnya, and two men had gone down. Over his career, he calculated there had been twenty-eight to thirty-six kills, depending on which bullet had hit whom. He remembered each one of them, and would carry the memories to his grave.

Ivan was back on the deck now, alongside Cooksley and Reid. 'The charger is ready,' he said. 'Take cover.'

Matt turned his back to the bridge, leaning on the railing at the stern. He crouched down, preparing for the impact of the explosion.

If the Irishman hasn't got it right, Cooksley and Reid will

be sending him to the bottom of the sea to get our stuff.

The blast shook through the vessel. It felt as if the explosion heaved the boat several feet above the water. The hull shook furiously as the boat caught a wave and started to lurch to the left. Water started to splash across the deck, washing over each of them. Matt could hear the sound of creaking metal, the noise of joints and girders being wrenched out of position. The smell of charred and melting steel drifted through the air.

Matt walked unsteadily back towards the stairway. The boat was rocking still, tossed around by the waves. As he looked down, he could see the stairs had collapsed. He slung his rifle aside and took out his pistol. Using his arms, he levered himself down into the hold. The smoke was intense, making him choke as soon as the fumes hit his lungs. Matt released the safety catch on the pistol, looking into the darkness. The door had collapsed inwards, a hole punched clean through the metal. Matt levelled his pistol and fired six shots in quick succession.

If anyone is alive in there, that should draw some return fire.

He waited five seconds, reloaded the pistol with a fresh magazine, then started walking slowly forwards. Cooksley, Reid and Ivan were at his side, their pistols cocked, ready to fire. The door had been turned into a mess of twisted and burnt metal, scraps littered across the floor. Matt pushed it aside, shining a torch into the strongroom. His eyes locked on to the figure of a man sprawled across the floor. His leg was severed clean from his body, and blood was pouring from him. His gun was lying several feet from where he had fallen.

'Rahmet,' he was muttering. 'Rahmet.'

Sorry, pal, thought Matt. You can beg for mercy in any language you like but you're not going to get it. He knelt down, pressed the nozzle of the Beretta 92 to the man's head and squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded into his skull, sending his brains spilling out on to the floor. His eyes closed and blood started to pour out of his still open mouth.

Matt looked around. There were two other men in the hold. One was already dead, his head blown clean away from his body. The other was slowly dying. A gaping hole had opened up his chest where a chunk of steel blown out of the door had cut straight through him. Now his ribcage was sticking out of his torso. His clothes had turned into shreds. Reid jammed his pistol into his mouth, finishing him off with one shot.

Somewhere I can hear water. Gushing.

'Is she holed?' Matt shouted to Ivan.

Ivan looked up from the doorway, his expression tense. 'Afraid so,' he said. 'It's torn a strip of metal the size of a man from the bottom of the boat. We're shipping water.'

'It's going to sink?' said Cooksley.

'You stupid Irish twat,' shouted Reid. 'I knew we shouldn't trust you.'

'Shut it!' Matt snapped. 'Damien is on his way with the mother ship. I reckon we've got twenty minutes to get this gear transferred before she goes down.'

He looked towards the back of the hold. The boxes were stacked one on top of the other, maybe fifty of them in all. Opening the first one, Matt looked inside. Diamonds. Tray upon tray of them, stacked in neat rows like chocolates. He opened another box. Gold. Ten bars, five on each side of the crate. For a moment he was transfixed by the display of wealth laid out before him.

More money than any of us ever dreamt of.

'Let's get this stuff on deck,' he barked.

He took the first crate and walked back to the broken stairway. Reid positioned himself at the top, a bandage now strapped over his arm wound, Ivan stood beneath, ready to pass the crates up. Matt passed the boxes from the hold to Ivan — and once they were on deck, Cooksley stacked them close to the dinghy. It was back-breaking work, the water spitting up from the hull all the time, soaking their feet. The diamonds were light enough, a few pounds of glass and tissue paper, but the gold was like carrying sacks of coal. Sweat was starting to pour from Matt's brow as he lugged box after box. But there was a lightness in his step. They had faced the risks and overcome them. This was just grunt work.

'We should go,' said Matt, the water swirling around his knees and rising fast. 'There's only a few crates left.'

'No,' snapped Reid. 'We've risked our lives. We take it all.'

'Don't be an idiot,' said Ivan. 'There's no point if everything goes down to the bottom of the ocean.'

Reid jumped into the hold and jabbed his finger into Ivan's face. 'You got us into this mess.'

Matt looked at both men, exasperated. 'Shut the fuck up and get up the top, we've only got another five minutes, man.'

Matt waded through the rising swell of water, and started lifting the last few crates four at a time on his shoulder. He passed one load up to Cooksley, then the next. 'That's it,' he said, passing the last of the crates to Ivan. The boat was filling rapidly. Somewhere beneath him, he could hear the sound of metal tearing, as waves beat against the hole ripped open in the hull.

Christ, the sooner we're out of here the better.

Matt levered himself on to the deck. The boat was starting to list as water filled the hull. They were drifting helplessly, tossed about on the waves. 'Any sign of our ship?' Matt asked.

Cooksley and Ivan took the corpse of the first man they had killed and tossed it down into the hold. Then they heaved the two bodies from the bridge down the stairs. It was important to make sure all the men went down with the ship, leaving no traces on the surface of the sea. By the time they had finished their hands were smeared with blood.

Reid shook his head. 'He can't be far.'

'About two miles,' said Ivan. 'It could take him fifteen minutes to get here. That's if the bugger knows how to steer in a straight fine.'

'I thought you said he knew about boats,' said Cooksley. 'That's why we brought him along.'

'He does, and he'll be here,' said Matt. 'Just get this stuff on the dinghy.'

They started loading, each crate carefully placed in the craft. They stacked the boxes one on top of another, using the straps from the life jackets to belt them into place. All the time, the water was filling the boat at a faster pace. It was leaning badly to one side, making walking difficult without slipping, and the waves were climbing closer and closer to the rim of the deck. Come on, Damien, thought Matt. She won't hold for more than a couple of minutes.

Matt scoured the horizon, looking for some sign of the boat. Nothing. He knew Damien would be steering without lights, so he might well not see him in the pitch dark. He tried the radio again, but the device was struggling to locate the frequency. Either that or Damien wasn't answering.

You'll have to be here soon. We can't swim from here, and we're not abandoning the gear.

He could see from their faces that the gang was losing its patience. Damien should have been there at least five minutes ago. Cooksley and Reid's eyes kept squinting towards the horizon. Ivan's face was tense and uncertain. 'What the hell is keeping him?' said Matt, his words almost drowned out by the wind and spray hitting his face.

A wave rolled over the surface of the deck; the boat was struggling to stay above the surface.

I can feel her slipping beneath my feet.

Matt worked with Reid and Cooksley to lash the crates to the dinghy, each crate packed tightly to the next one. As they worked, the boat was starting to sway and heave as the waves broke closer to its deck. Matt looked out into the horizon. Total darkness. The boat was wobbling like a jelly beneath his feet. He slashed at the ropes securing the dinghy. Behind him he could hear a giant sucking sound, like water disappearing from a bath but amplified a hundred times.

I've never heard a boat sinking before, he thought. But I bet it sounds something like that.

The crates took up the entire dinghy. 'Pull on life jackets,' shouted Matt. 'We might have to swim for it.'

He tightened one of the jackets around his waist and dived into the water. Two ropes were dangling from the dinghy. He grabbed one, holding on to it, and kicked his legs to keep his head above water. Wave after wave broke over his head, pushing him below the surface of the ocean.

I can survive out here, but not for long. If the dinghy goes down then we are all fucked. And it's dangerously low because of the weight it is carrying.

Matt glanced around. Ivan was holding on to another rope. Reid and Cooksley were bobbing about in the water, taking huge gulps of air every time their heads broke free of the waves.

Now I know why Buhner wanted us to practise our swimming.

Struggling to keep his head above water, Matt realised he could hear it before he could see anything — the noise of an engine, the sound broken up by the waves, but growing steadily louder. Behind him, he could hear the hull of the boat cracking, and saw one half disappear into the sea. Another hour, and all trace of it would be gone.

A light shone in the distance. Damien, thought Matt. He watched as the searchlight moved rapidly towards them, beaming out across the sea. Matt raised his hand into the air, waving it frantically, before remembering that they had blacked up faces and had worn black wetsuits to make sure no one could see them. That worked both ways. Damien wasn't going to see a hand in the water.

'There should be a flare,' shouted Ivan. 'See if you can reach it.'

Matt levered himself up to the side of the dinghy and peered over the rim. At the back, there was a small box with a red cross marked on it. Medical supplies, thought Matt. And maybe flares.

Pulling himself into the boat, he reached into the box. Bandages, disinfectants, antibiotics, aspirin.

For fuck's sake, who needs this rubbish?

Flares, he noticed, grabbing them. He held the gun high over his head, firing the flare into the sky, watching as it hung like a firework over the ocean. Beneath its fierce light he could see the boat vanishing underneath the waves. And he could see their own ship, maybe four hundred metres away.

Matt perched on the edge of the dinghy, watching while Damien steered his craft closer towards them.

It pulled up alongside, and Damien killed the engines. His searchlight was turned on to the water, picking out the crates and the four men.

'You blokes look like you could use a cup of tea,' he said.