Synopsis
The Hunter Files
The Hunter Files
W. SOLIMAN
W. SOLIMAN
Why kill the survivors of a sinking ship?
A speeding boat rams a life raft, leaving no survivors. A man embroiled in an investigation of potential suicide bombers disappears…
Retired inspector Charlie Hunter's belief that the two events are related leads him to accept a job working a charter between England and France. The only way to find out the truth is to be the man on the inside.
But Charlie's life is at risk on the rough Channel because all is not as it seems on the shifting seas. Some players are holding secrets that will change the game…and the sunken life raft is the key.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The sea lapped against the boat's hull as though it were almost too much effort. I leaned on the guardrail and breathed deeply, filling my lungs with moist, tangy air. The surreal post-dawn tranquillity seeped into my bones, heightening my appreciation for the simple things in life. I gazed at the sea, a dozen different shades of turquoise reflected in its torpid surface, thinking about all the stuff I'd learned—or rather hadn't—during my trip to France.
The shrill urgency of a Mayday call crackled loud and intrusive across the airwaves, abruptly shattering my mellow mood. I scurried back to the wheelhouse to establish the precise nature of the emergency, not unduly worried because I doubted there actually was one.
"Some idiot's probably run out of fuel," I muttered, glancing at the flat, calm sea.
As it transpired, I couldn't have been more wrong.
"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the motor vessel Mistral, a 62-foot Azimut, current position..."
The caller reeled off his compass location. I checked the coordinates against my GPS and identified the boat in question as the closer of the two vessels I had visual contact with about five miles off my starboard bow. Their location explained why I'd been able to pick up their transmission so clearly. An adrenaline rush flooded my veins.
"We're bound for Dover, but have an uncontainable fire in our engine room."
Fire! My core temperature dropped several degrees. Boats might be surrounded by water, but fire was still one of the most feared shipboard catastrophes. A lot of craft had automatic fire extinguishers in their engine rooms for precisely that reason. If the vessel in trouble was fitted out with the appropriate fire-fighting gear, they obviously weren't using it. I pondered on that and missed some of the vital details that were supposed to be included in an emergency broadcast—such as how many people were on board, and whether anyone had incurred life-threatening injuries.
But then again, perhaps I hadn't. As an ex-copper, I'm used to listening to panicked accounts from victims of accidents or violent crimes. I'd developed a sort of sixth sense over the years for separating vital information from all the garbled excess. I was pretty sure Mistral hadn't broadcast that information, which didn't altogether surprise me. It's all very well practising these things, but when it's for real it's a different story. Thankfully I'd never been in that situation so I wouldn't know. Still, faced with the prospect of abandoning ship and bobbing about in a flimsy life raft, at the mercy of whatever the elements decided to throw at you until help arrived, following correct procedures probably didn't seem all that vital.
I reached for the microphone attached to my shipboard radio, and depressed the transmit button.
"Mistral, this is the motor trawler No Comment" I said calmly. "I'm five miles off your port bow. How serious is your situation? Over."
"Critical, we can't contain the fire."
I didn't waste time asking about fire extinguishers. If they had them, presumably they'd be using them. Trailing the long microphone cord behind me, I grabbed my binoculars and went out to the Portuguese bridge to better assess the situation. The enclosed walkway around my wheelhouse enabled me to step outside and still be protected from the elements.
When I trained the glasses upon Mistral, I realised that what I'd mistaken for early-morning sea mist a few minutes before was, in fact, smoke. Light grey when I first saw it, it was now a thick, heavy black cloud of pollution billowing above the Azimut. The boat had clearly lost all power and was dead in the water. I did a quick mental calculation, wondering how best I could help them. Even at my top speed of eight knots—nine if the currents were being kind—it would still take me half an hour to cover the five miles separating us.
Then I remembered that there was another boat out there, just a few miles away from Mistral. I looked at it through the glasses and immediately felt reassured. It was a cigarette boat, so it could reach them in a matter of minutes. Such boats were first used to smuggle cigarettes into Canada, hence the name, and are now a familiar part of the offshore powerboat racing scene. With engines capable of producing speeds of up to eighty knots on calm seas—such as today's—this boat was the answer to Mistral's prayers. No tankers or container ships were close enough to pick up Mistral's distress call, but even if they had been, they'd have taken at least as long as me to reach her.
Back in the wheelhouse, I pushed the throttle controlling my single engine fully forward, setting a course directly for Mistral's position. I didn't immediately speak to them again, keeping the airwaves clear for the cigarette to offer her services.
Nothing.
Perhaps they were asleep with the radio turned off. That would be foolish, given that they were in one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, but it'd been known to happen. In England, anyone could buy a boat and put to sea without knowing the first thing about the rules of the sea, to say nothing of boat handling or safety procedures. Unbelievably, some people actually did that—mostly young males with money to burn and inadequacies to make up for.
The type who bought fast boats like cigarettes.
I checked that my throttle was set at maximum, trying not to mind that the rev counter was reading dangerously high, placing my precious engine in danger of overheating. I'd never get to Mistral in time if their situation was as serious as they'd implied, but couldn't live with myself if I didn't at least give it a go.
"Mistral, this is No Comment. There's a vessel just off your starboard beam. Do you have visual contact?
Over."
"We see them but they're not responding."
"Try letting off a flare," I suggested. "They obviously have their radio off, but they might hear or see the flare."
"No time," said the panic-filled voice. "We're abandoning ship."
"Do you have an EPIRB?" Some boats carried an emergency positioning beacon that transmitted a signal to the nearest satellite, alerting the Coastguard when a vessel was in trouble, giving them its precise coordinates. Presumably, if they did, they would have activated it, but people have been known to forget the most basic things when in panic situations.
"Yes, but we can't get it to work."
"How many of you are on board?" There was no response, so I assumed they hadn't heard me and repeated the question. "Mistral, I say again, how many of you are on board? Over."
"Oh, er...ten."
"I'm heading your way, Mistral, but it'll take me thirty minutes to get there."
Before Mistral could respond, the reassuring tones of the Dover Coastguard cut into the broadcast. I'd been wondering why they hadn't done so earlier. At ten miles or so off the English coast, they must have picked up the Mayday. They'd obviously been waiting to see if I could get to the scene of the disaster before them but, presumably, had launched the lifeboat in the interim.
"Mistral, this is Dover Coastguard. We're launching the lifeboat." I nodded my approval, glad of their calmly competent approach. "ETA ten minutes. Can you isolate the fire and remain on board that long? Over."
"Negative. Our situation is critical. We're abandoning ship now."
"Understood. No Comment, request you maintain your course in case you're needed. Over."
"Dover, No Comment. Will do."
"Mistral, Dover Coastguard. Launch your life raft and we'll pick you up in nine and a half minutes."
"We copy that, Dover."
I decided to let off a flare myself, even though the rescue services would soon be on the scene. Technically only a vessel in trouble should use a flare, but I was obviously dealing with a bunch of idiots on the cigarette, so unorthodox action was called for. There was a slim possibility they might see it and finally wake up to the fact that they could actually do something to help.
I went out onto the Portuguese bridge again, to the locker where I kept the emergency equipment, and took another look through the binoculars. I could see the life raft, webbing strap attached to the guardrail, being thrown over the side. As it hit the water, the pressure being exerted on the strap was supposed to make the craft automatically inflate. Given the state of Mistral's fire-fighting equipment and EPIRB, I wasn't holding my breath.
This time something went right for the poor devils, and as soon as the flimsy life raft hit the sea's surface, it unfurled as gracefully as a blossoming flower. A number of people, all wearing fluorescent life jackets, scrambled into it. There didn't appear to be any order about the evacuation. Blind panic had taken over. Hardly surprising since flames were now visible leaping from the boat's mid-section. I counted ten people, barely discernible through the thickening smoke, relieved they'd all made it into a raft that looked as though it was only intended for six.
I blinked in confusion as another figure hurled himself into it, and another two after him. None of these late arrivals wore life jackets. I scratch my head, concluding that the mayhem had caused me to miscount. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on. With my boat moving at maximum speed I couldn't hold the binoculars steady. The life raft was dangerously overloaded, as its low position in the water attested, but if they could just hang on they'd soon be rescued.
They had to be terrified, and I felt like a spare part just watching them, immobilised by my lack of speed. I fired up my wing engine—the small auxiliary I use when parking the boat—which afforded me another precious knot of speed. There was absolutely nothing more I could do to help. I tried calling them on the radio again, just to make sure they were hanging in there.
Boats are supposed to keep what's known as a grab bag for emergency situations. Such bags contain bottled water, highenergy snacks, blankets, basic first aid equipment, flares and, crucially, a hand-held radio and spare batteries. Either Mistral didn't have such a bag or, more likely, they'd forgotten about it in their anxiety to get clear of the stricken craft. Whatever the reason, my call went unanswered.
I pointed the glasses toward the cigarette again, more in hope than expectation of seeing any signs of life on board. To my utter astonishment I discerned two men, also with glasses pressed to their eyes. They were observing the plight of Mistral but clearly didn't intend to offer their help. Furious about their total disregard for human life, I set off my flare, wondering what I hoped it would achieve. They could see what was going down, but if they were the sort of callous individuals who were prepared to stand by and watch people drown rather than try to help them, I didn't see what difference my warning shot would make.
I mulled over the peculiarity of the cigarette crew's reaction, or lack of it, as I made slow progress toward the life raft's position. Something wasn't quite right about their determination to remain uninvolved. My copper's antennae were on high alert, but I couldn't figure out what their game was. They'd been travelling at just ten knots earlier, the same speed as Mistral. I was sure of that because I'd been watching them on my radar screen for quite a while. Were they shadowing her for some reason? It seemed like an odd thing to do, but why else would they elect to move so slowly when they had all that power at their disposal? They might not want to go flat out all the time—the fuel costs alone would be prohibitive—but why would speed freaks (which all cigarette owners by definition have to be) travel at a measly ten knots?
Unless my previous conclusion was correct. They'd been asleep, and the smell of smoke had woken them. That would explain why they'd now stopped altogether, apparently wondering what to do. It was against maritime law to ignore a vessel in distress, but if these were the type to put to sea without even turning their radio on, they probably weren't aware of that.
I adjusted my glasses, endeavouring to read the cigarette's name from its transom, determined to report their lack of cooperation to the authorities when I reached Dover. It was turned away from me, my angle wasn't right and I was swaying about, legs braced against the motion of the boat. The cigarette swung with the current, and for a fleeting moment its name came into my line of vision. I only caught a glimpse, but I was pretty sure it was called Spectre. As I continued to observe them, I noticed the men on board training their binoculars on the No Comment. Perhaps they thought I'd be undertaking a rescue, so I tried the radio again to put them straight.
No response.
My attention was diverted by an earsplitting explosion. I could only watch, helpless as Mistral erupted in a spectacular ball of flame. The fire ignited the fuel tanks, making it feel as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the air. Gil, my shaggy mongrel, whined, looking first at me and then toward the scene of the disaster, as though wondering why I wasn't doing something to help.
"I wish I could, mate," I told him, sighing with frustration.
Debris shot high into the sky like an uncoordinated pyrotechnic display. Flaming pieces of motor yacht fell back to sea, fizzling out as they floated for a while and then slowly sank. Fire streaked across the surface of the sea in crooked lines, the putrid smell of burning oil reaching me on the wind. Mistral's bow pointed skywards, as though in supplication to a higher deity, but whatever prayers she offered up fell upon deaf ears. She broke apart and the sea rushed in to claim her. Slipping in graceful slow motion, she quickly gave up all resistance and disappeared below its surface.
I held my breath, waiting for the smoke to clear, aware that the overloaded life raft had been right in the middle of all that devastation. I didn't see how it could have survived such a violent explosion at close quarters and wondered why they hadn't evacuated earlier. Any captain with half a brain ought to have known they were doomed and taken the appropriate action much sooner.
I scanned the area through my binoculars. To my considerable surprise I located the life raft bobbing about in the centre of the debris, singed but still just about floating. Euphoric, I punched the air in celebration. They were going to survive!
Finally the cigarette's engines roared into life. Better late than bloody never. The lifeboat would have a wasted journey but they wouldn't mind about that. It was better for the survivors to be picked up immediately. They must have incurred burns at the very least, being that close to the explosion. Anyway, their ordeal was almost over because the helmsman of the cigarette was certainly making up for lost time. He'd thrown both throttles fully forward, and the powerful boat now leapt and crashed through the water as it cut a path directly toward the tiny life raft.
"Careful," I muttered. "You'll make it capsize if you don't slow down."
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