Manila Harbour

Martin Granger

Description

When the Southern Mariner, a huge cargo ship, is hijacked in the Far East, young TV journalist Nathalie Thompson is sent to investigate the story behind the theft. Joining forces with Philippine coastguard Peter Ramos, she embarks on an exciting quest that plunges them headfirst into the dark and dangerous world of piracy. But, when another thousand tonne freighter with its million-dollar cargo disappears and its American captain is killed, events start to spiral out of control. Together, Nathalie and Peter must find the courage to confront a force on the high seas that stands above the law, and escape from a violent world of guns, corruption and cold-blooded murder.

Informations

• Publié par: RedDoor Publishing
• Date de parution: 25 juin 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781783017188
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Published by RedDoor
www.reddoorpublishing.com
2015 Martin Granger
The right of Martin Granger to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
ISBN 978-1-78301-718-8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design: Sheer Design and Typesetting
Typesetting: www.typesetter.org.uk
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Also by Martin Granger
OCEANS ON FIRE
About the author
One
Crossing at night in the Yamaha-powered outriggers would be hazardous. At their narrowest point the Malacca Straits are only two kilometres wide and yet they are one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. High-sided freighters move in and out of Singapore like bees to a hive. They might easily make flotsam out of the wood and bamboo bangkas without even noticing them. But then being noticed was the last thing Eduardo Cordilla wanted.
There were four men on each craft, not many for the night s work, but it was not unknown for fishing boats to use less. The bamboo poles skimmed along the water, suspended by their spider-like feet from the painted hulls. Anyone on the beach glimpsing the two boats through the intervals of moonlit cloud would not have been unduly concerned - it was usual practice for fishing to be done at night. No doubt large butane lit lanterns would be raised on masts to attract the fish when the bangkas had reached the fishing grounds. Seen from the shore it could look like a city of lights at night only to reveal a stretch of empty sea in the morning. This evening only Benny Serdiajio noticed anything out of the ordinary. Lying on the floor of his stilted shack he turned over and rested on his elbow to listen more closely to the outboards - Yamaha 200 s, rich fishermen.
Not more than two nautical miles away the Southern Mariner was slipping her moorings and being guided into the channel by the pilot boat. When the thirty-thousand tonne freighter was underway she would join the main shipping lane that was lit up like a motorway. It would take a while for her to reach the Phillip Channel, where the winking lights of the other cargo vessels and oil tankers became fewer as the ships spread out from the narrow straits into the open sea. The bangka crews had prepared for that. Eduardo Cordilla checked his watch. If his calculations were correct they were right on time.
In the middle of the channel there was not another boat in sight. Nothing but the dark, cold lapping water and the occasional glow of a cigarette from one of the bangkas. Eduardo cut his engine and shouted to the others to do the same. The men moved silently around their crafts. Ropes were tidied and boxes strapped down. They had done this before, but despite the outward calm they were nervous. Busying themselves was a way of relaxing. The bangkas looked like a cross between Viking warships and something out of a Star Wars movie. The raked-back cabins were placed towards the stern. A few paces behind, the deck of the crafts tilted like oriental pagodas over the water. The front of each vessel was open apart from a small stretch of canvas; cover for the chests that lay in the centre of the hull.
Open her up, Charlito Cordilla snapped at one of the crew.
A man began to unfasten the chest. Inside was a long coil of thick metal rope. Without a word he handed it to Charlito. On one end of the rope was welded a large clasped hook. By the small lantern on the masts of the vessel they slowly hauled the hook over the side and secured it onto the other bangka s gunwales. Although it was nearly midnight the air was warm; humid tropical air that made the shirt stick to your back. The rope was heavy, and greased to hold back the rust. It was difficult to handle. Droplets of sweat ran down Charlito s moustache.
No hurry , he panted, plenty of time.
Eduardo lit a second cigarette and pushed the flip-top pack into the back pocket of his Levi s. Real Levi s, not the imitation label from Hong Kong. A man conscious of his appearance even on a night like this. The boat hook, he muttered quietly, the cigarette still between his lips.
A long bamboo pole with a metal-strapped end was placed in his outstretched hand.
Cast off and let them drift. I ll signal when to start up.
The crews of the two craft acted instantly as they always did when this pale Filipino with his soft American accent calmly gave instructions. The pole was eased against the side and the two bangkas floated apart. The metal rope between them slowly sank into the ocean.
The Cordilla brothers looked at the sky; the clouds were still gathering. Less and less of the moon s upside-down crescent appeared between them. The evening had started clear, but now the time was closing, the blacker the better.
The bangkas were still within hailing distance but Eduardo went to his cabin and removed an Eveready black rubber torch from a lacquered hardwood drawer. Back on deck he pointed it like a pistol at the other boat and pressed the switch through the spongy rubber cover. Three flashes, a moment of silence, and then the Yamaha outboard kicked into life. The throttle was closed, leaving a throaty, rhythmic echo of sound in the air. Slowly, Charlito s bangka moved away until all that could be seen were three pin pricks of light. Eduardo paused a while before kneeling to shine his torch into the sea beyond the metal rope that was hanging over the side. Within minutes the beam caught the snake of metal rising in its glare. Cordilla flicked the torch upwards - three more flashes and the outboard fell silent. The bangkas continued to drift apart and then a sudden jolt. The men held onto the masts to steady themselves. They peered into the sea between the two craft - just below the surface, a long and sinewy umbilical cord threatened like a serpent. They sat and waited.

The massive hull ploughing into the steel rope nearly took Charlito Cordilla off his feet. The bangka was caught like a marlin on a line. The two crews wrestled with their bamboo poles to stop the vessels outriggers smashing to pieces as they were dragged in towards the freighter. From the air it would have looked like two strange oriental water skiers being pulled along by the massive ship. Within minutes the bangkas were held close against the metal cliff of the freighter. The tyres roped to the sides helped cushion the impact and the vessels were soon speeding along, three abreast.
The first grappling hook fell back into the water but the second throw was more successful. The prongs held fast onto the freighter s superstructure. The eight masked men clambered up the vertical painted rust face like expert mountaineers. In the shadows any crew member who had been on deck would have seen the outline of their backpacks - AK-47 s, lethal equipment that could pump out six rounds a second but, as expected, not a crew member was in sight.
The first thing that Seaman Rivera could remember was seeing Chief Officer Castellano walk out of the chart room with both hands on his head. It looked comical and it took him a while to connect this bizarre behaviour to the man behind. A short man, something strapped over his shoulders, with dark-skinned hands, grasping a pistol pointing at Castellano s head.
Captain, you captain? snapped a voice. Tomas Rivera couldn t move, think or speak.
Officer? Officer ? screamed the man. In his state of suspended animation it dawned on Tomas that he was being asked a question.
No, no officer! Seaman! Seaman ! he heard himself screaming back.
Down! Down ! shouted the man, waving the pistol wildly about in front of him. Rivera fell to the deck and heard a crash as a bullet smashed into the starboard side radar. A figure stepped over him. Tomas half opened an eye to see a large knife being pulled from a belt hanging at the waist. He began to shake. The knife slashed downwards, once, twice. The cables of the VHF radio and the bridge telephone to the engine room hung lifeless.
Rivera closed his eyes and lay as still as he could, which was difficult. He felt nauseous, and his body was involuntarily shifting from side to side. It had a life of its own and wanted to be anywhere but here on the cold metal bridge deck. His hands felt the ribbed coils of the hastily applied paintwork. It was green, applied too thickly and had dried as molten lava with a wrinkled crust. It was vivid green; he remembered having to remove the stains from his cheap white T-shirt with gasoline from the ship s stores.
Captain, captain, where captain? screamed the voice. It seemed to echo through the metal dark into his ears.
Castellano muttering, a shuffle of deck shoes or bare feet, a groan, a muffled clang. Then a terrible whining noise, cold fear flushed through Tomas body as he began to hallucinate.
Castellano s voice in the distance, I have children, a wife, but it was not now spoken in quiet, subservient tones; it was awful, pitiful, pleading. Please don t kill me, please don t kill me, please don t the sentence ended in a gargle of sobs.
The apprentice officer, Francis Tsang, was woken by the shot. He was in his cabin on the second deck. Fully awake, he rushed to his door, opened it, and instantly closed it again, throwing the lock. Two hooded men brandishing machine guns were running down the gangway, throwing open doors as they went. He heard another shot interspersed by a short scream.
The boatswain also o