Читать книгу New Empires Rising - Mike Trial - Страница 3

Arsenal ship Challenger moved north at eight knots through placid African waters, almost to the coast of Senegal.

Ex-Royal Marine, Stan Weatherfield, now a mercenary in the employ of Maritime Security, came up the companionway to the wheelhouse carrying a cold cup of iced tea.

“Hot day,” Stan said amiably to the Canadian helmsman. “Brought you some cold tea.” He handed the man the stainless steel cup and eased his bulk into the navigator’s chair, which groaned as his weight settled.

“I’m sixteen stone,” he always joked with the Canadians, who didn’t like his schoolyard bully attitude at all. “You run this ship, but I’m in charge, and any bloke who crosses me will regret it.” He waved a meaty fist under their noses and brayed his laugh.

The four Canadian crewmen detested the twenty British mercenaries on board, and Stan Weatherfield, the chief of the mercenary contingent, most of all.

The Canadian sipped his drink, occasionally glancing at the autopilot as the ship plowed over glassy seas. Forty-eight more hours and he’d be free of these louts, off this stinking ship, and into the airport at Dakar, Senegal to catch his flight back to Toronto.

Stan stepped out into the tropical sun, smiling into the breeze. “Surprised these knackered old diesels held up for twenty days running,” he said conversationally, as he pretended to study the black smoke coming out of the funnel. He made a small gesture with his right hand, invisible to the Canadian, but clear to his men crouched outside the wheelhouse.

The chronometer showed five minutes before noon. “I need to talk to the lot of you, so call your mates up here,” Stan ordered the steersman.

The Canadian picked up the intercom microphone, remembered it didn’t work, and put it back. “I’ll go get them.” He went out of the wheelhouse and disappeared down the steel steps into the ship.

“Right,” Weatherfield said to two of his men who had come up the stairs from the port side. They both carried Zastava M2010 assault rifles and wore body armor.

“Shoot them as they come out on deck, but not so they go overboard,” Stan instructed. “The rest of our men are below deck out of range, right?” One man nodded.

They took up their positions. In a few minutes, the Canadians trooped up on deck and were shot so quickly they had no chance to run.

“Well done,” Stan told the shooters.

Stan and the two shooters went down the steel stairs to the deck where the bodies lay and checked that they had indeed been fatally shot. Blood seeped out onto the deck’s green non-slip paint. “Clear the bodies of identification,” Stan told his men. “Wallets, jewelry, rings, piercings, tattoos. Cut them off if you have to. Then strip off their clothes and roll the bodies overboard.”

In few moments it was done. Their clothes and bits of skin, jewelry, and wallets lay in a plastic container.

“Scatter that lot into the sea bit by bit over the next four hours, including everything of theirs in their quarters. I want no evidence they were ever aboard.”

Stan returned to the wheelhouse and checked the ship’s position on the autopilot screen. He had watched the Canadians on the voyage round the Cape of Good Hope, and had learned enough about the ship’s controls that he could maneuver her to the oil platform loading dock once they arrived.

Stan thought of his boss, Andy Mitchell, owner of Maritime Security. “Andy, you’re too old for this business,” Stan said jovially to himself. “And too conservative by half. Time for new management.” He laughed his raucous laugh, thinking of the briefcase a secretive Brit had handed him with 200,000 crisp US dollars in it.