Читать книгу New Empires Rising - Mike Trial - Страница 5

In the tropical heat, Challenger was a steam bath belowdecks. And it stunk.

“Somebody relieved himself in the toilet that doesn’t work,” Wendt told Stan as he followed him to where the men were assembled.

The men had rigged their hammocks and sleeping bags on deck to avoid the dark and stinking interior rumbling with continuous engine noise.

For this meeting, the men had put fans here and there to keep the humid air moving. Stan, his shirt off, stood on the bottom step of the ladder in front of his twenty mercenaries crowded into the steel- walled compartment. He opened a briefcase and displayed packets of US $100 notes. “$10,000 for each of you!” Stan neglected to mention he was keeping $100,000 for himself.

“Whose wallet did that fall out of?” Wendt asked.

“And what’s the job?” someone else shouted.

“These beauties,” Stan said with a grin, “are from our mysterious new employer, whose identity is not our concern. Our concern is to sink the oil platform ESTA-20.”

“Thought our job was to defend ESTA-20,” a Midlands-accented voice said from the crowd.

“That was the job Mitchell got for us. We’re now independent. Our job is shorter and very much sweeter.” Stan kissed a bundle of banknotes and closed the briefcase.

“Likely some tribal bloke wants the oil platform blown up because it’s an offence to the old gods.” Wendt guffawed.

Stan barked, “What do you care? You’d go to hell with me if the money was right!” There was a rising wave of talk. Weatherfield raised his hands for quiet, and when only the fans roaring in the dimness could be heard, he continued.

“We approach the platform like we’re expected to so that any oil workers aboard won’t get suspicious. Once on board, we dispose of them, set our charges, and take this ship south to Gambian waters. We sink it, go ashore in the two boats, and catch a flight back to civilization. You’ve all got the Irish passports Mitchell provided, right?”

The next morning Stan rose at dawn. He checked the autopilot, ran through a short set of his fitness routine, then went into the wheelhouse with four packets of tinned field breakfast, sat down at the pilot’s chair, and ate them all. Afterwards he sat watching the autopilot steer the ship up the coast. Mid-morning, he took his two lieutenants aside. “Any rumbles from the blokes?” Stan asked in his Midlands accent, inherited from two generations of workers in the Sheffield wire mill.

“No complaints about the pay,” Wendt said.

“Some don’t like the idea of killing innocent workers,” Pierson, the tall redhead, muttered.

Stan’s black eyes narrowed. “You tell me these complainers’ names so I can keep an eye on them. During a firefight some of our own people sometimes get hit.”

Wendt and Pierson shut up.

“Good,” Stan said. “The fewer the questions, the fewer the worries. Just follow orders and this thing will go like clockwork. Draw what you need from the munitions storage box.” Stan tossed Wendt the keys. “We’ll be there tomorrow.”