Free Sword of Allah by David Rollins Page B

intercom to the ship’s engineer.
    ‘That’s it. I’m very sorry to tell you, but we’re going as fast as we can,’ said the engineer, who also happened to be the master’s brother-in-law. It wasn’t his fault that the tanker’s massive engines were long past their use-by date.
    ‘Well…do what you can,’ said the master.
    Briggs spoke briefly to Drummond through his mic and then nodded at Matheson. The gunner of the watch pulled back the Browning’s bolt, arming it, and sighted the barrel on a point roughly seventy metres ahead of the Ocean Trader ’s bow. He squeezed the trigger and the Browning bucked. A burst of tracer spat from the weapon’s muzzle.
    The master brought the binoculars back to his eyes in time to see the muzzle flashes from the warship’s bridge. Moments later, red tracer arced through the air well ahead of his bow. If this went on, the warship would get serious and, rather than a machine gun, the large gun on its bow would be employed. If that were to happen, he would probably lose his life, as would his crew. The Americans and their allies were becoming increasingly impatientthese days. His ship would burn for days if it didn’t sink, leaking a million barrels of oil into these beautiful, deadly waters. ‘Have I been paid to die?’ the master asked himself aloud. No , I have not . Indeed, there were now two million American dollars in a Cayman Islands bank account waiting for him. The fishing boat was out of harm’s way and his job was done. ‘Give us full astern,’ he said distractedly into the intercom, keeping the binoculars trained on the warship.
    ‘Full ahead and now full astern,’ muttered the engineer. It was likely the engines wouldn’t survive this treatment, but the ship’s master knew what he was doing, didn’t he? Besides, the engineer had been promised a huge bonus just to make the voyage, so why argue? He made the appropriate adjustments on the engine’s control panel and the enormous cylinders wheezed to a stop momentarily before reversing. There was a sickening shudder through the thick steel decking under his feet. Yes, he thought to himself, this would be the Trader ’s last voyage.
    Commander Drummond saw the white water swirling under the tanker’s stern as its monstrous propellers began making turns in reverse. He was relieved that its master had finally come to his senses. ‘Okay. Trader has pulled over, X. Let’s go breathalyse her, shall we?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Briggs.
    ‘Carry on, X,’ said Drummond, glasses still trained on the tanker, way coming off it quickly now. What’s bugging me about this?
    The fisherman swept the tanker and then the warship with his old brass telescope, the one that had belonged to his father and his father’s father. The ploy had worked as they said it would. A tanker obviously full of illegal oil and claiming to be a cargo vessel? It was the perfect decoy, the perfect diversion – almost too perfect. Perhaps this warship was a recent arrival in the Gulf, its captain too keen to charge in. The fisherman allowed himself the moment of smugness, if only because the terror of being discovered had passed. Calling the warship up on the radio and volunteering to be inspected by offering to sell the infidels his catch was an enormous risk. But it had paid off. The reality was that he had been heading away from the warship as fast as his old diesel could manage. Also – and this was the level of risk he was playing with – the fish in his hold were old, their eyes cloudy. If the warship had called his bluff, it would have been the end. Fortunately, the manoeuvring had concluded in his favour. The warship was engaged in boarding the tanker and, because of this, he had escaped detection. They’d seen him as a harmless fisherman, which, ordinarily, he was.
    The approach had been made via the company that most often bought his catch, even when the harvest from the sea was thin. They had asked him not to fish on this trip,