Jaws of the Tiger Page 5

  “I’ll advise the President,” she said, after being briefed by Jenkins and Kiefer.

  Chapter 12

  Looking back amongst the flow of passengers and assorted crew members, Dulac caught sight of another man dressed in an officer’s white uniform and nudged the ex-Army man walking next to him.

  “Take a quick look to your right, at the guy wearing whites,” whispered Dulac.

  Army slowed and half-turned towards the rear. “Definitely a short-stock Glock,” he whispered to Dulac.

  Suddenly everything became clear in Dulac’s mind: the drill, the misnomer of the ship’s bow, the course alteration, the pistols. He eyed Army, grabbed Karen by the arm and pulled her aside along the cabin wall. Army stopped next to them as the rest of the passengers kept walking.

  “What’s up?” Karen said, staring intently at Dulac.

  “These guys aren’t security officers.” Dulac nodded discreetly towards the man in whites ahead of them.

  “What do you mean?” said Karen, pushing a strand of hair from her face. She looked at the veteran, then back at Dulac.

  “What makes you—?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Dulac looked nervously around. “We’ve got to find a side entrance.”

  “But what do you—?”

  “Just do as I say,” said Dulac, his voice testy.

  Dulac, Karen and Army started again, slowly, letting other people go by. They were about to reach the end of Deck Five, and in front of them passengers had stopped before a set of twin doors, waiting to enter. Above the doors, an arrow pointing downwards indicated “Amphitheater”. Army stopped abruptly, as did Dulac and Karen.

  “Am I thinking what you’re thinking?” whispered Dulac to Army.

  “If you’re right and we go in there, we’re screwed,” said Army.

  Dulac saw it first. They were a dozen feet away from a narrow corridor to the left, between two steel columns. “There. He pointed and looked fore and aft along the deck. The safety officers were busy talking to other passengers. Dulac shot a glance at Army, then grabbed Karen by the waist and pulled her into the corridor.

  “Run,” he said and they started to sprint down the corridor. Halfway down, the sign on one of the doors caught their attention: Employees Only.

  “In here,” said Army.

  They stopped, opened the door and rushed in, closing the door behind them. Dulac groped for the light switch on the wall and finding it, flicked it on, revealing a set of lockers to the left, a cluster of mops and buckets to the right.

  “What… what the hell is this about?” Karen bent over and put her hands on her thighs as she gasped for air.

  “I’ve never heard a Naval officer who keeps referring to the bow as the front of the ship,” said Dulac. “Also, why is our security officer’s gun in a VHF holder? If P & W has changed its policy on guns, it can’t afford proper holsters?”

  Standing next to them, Army breathed laboriously, obviously affected by the dash. “Maybe he called it the front to make it clearer for the passengers,” he said. “By the way my name is Henry. Henry Porter. Folks call me Hank.”

  “Thierry Dulac, and this is Karen Dawson.”

  Hank eyed Dulac, who was breathing easily. “Say, you’re in pretty good shape.”

  “Not really. I was in a lot better shape three years ago after my Interpol training at Lyon.”

  “So you’re military, too?”

  “Not really, but we get to practice on the range with our pistols.”

  “It’s a pleasure.” Hank proffered his right hand. “Corporal Henry Porter, formerly 82nd Airborne.”

  “Corporal.”

  Karen shot an alarmed look at Dulac and said: “Thierry, are you saying these guys are… are..?”

  “Hijackers.”

  “Jesus! But the fire drill. They—”

  “It’s fake,” said Dulac.

  “Come on, I mean, how can you be sure?” Karen looked for a bit of reassurance and found none. “It seems perfectly logical to me for them to gather us to inform—”

  “It’s fake, Karen.” Dulac stared resolutely into her blue eyes.

  Karen took a deep breath. “So if the fire drill is fake, as you seem to be so sure of, why are they bringing the passengers to the amphitheater?”

  “To better control them,” said Hank. “Remember the Moscow hostage taking? The last thing any hijacker wants are stray passengers running all over the ship.”

  Karen stood silent, paralyzed, staring at Hank.

  “You mean, like us?” Her eyes were large globules of fear.

  Hank nodded gravely.

  “So what do you suggest we do now?”

  “We gotta get help. Don’t ask me how we’re gonna do—” said Hank.

  “My phone”, interrupted Dulac. “My sat phone. I’ve got to get back to our room.”

  “Why?” said Karen. “I thought you said they would check every room.”

  “I’ve got to get my phone. Once they see we’re missing from the manifest, the hijackers’ll hunt us down. We’ve got to call the cruise line for help.”

  “I’m with you,” said Hank.

  “This is way over the top,” said Karen. “I can’t believe this is happening. There must be some other, logical explanation to all this. I’m sure this—”

  Dulac grabbed her arms and stared into her scared eyes. “Listen, if I’m wrong, all we’ll have missed is a bland lecture on ship safety. We can catch up on that later. If I’m right, we’ll… we’ll have to think of something.” He turned towards Porter. “Hank, wait here with her. If I’m not back in ten minutes, you’re on your own.”

  Chapter 13

  Addington Manor, County of Hampshire, England, 9.45 am.

  Sir Adrian Bolding, CEO and majority shareholder of P & W Cruise Lines, preferred working the early hours of the day at home, away from the hectic bustle and constant interruptions at the company’s headquarters.

  Sitting alone in the cavernous dining room of his seventeen room, 16th century ancestral mansion, Bolding had not slept well the previous night. The September sales report had been tabled at the meeting of the executives the previous afternoon. They were disastrous, down 20% from last year, and down 15% from the month of August. Worse, according to his contacts, Carnival and Norwegian’s sales had increased significantly during September. Looking up across the room at the portrait of his grandfather and founder of P & W, Sir Geoffrey Bolding, Sir Adrian was reminded of his responsibilities and duties as President and sole heir to the family shipping line. Some days, and this was one of them, he wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t caved in to his father’s constant rebukes, and instead followed his dream of becoming a violinist. He could still remember his father’s last speech to him, word for word. Your duty to the family comes first, Adrian. Besides, do you really think you can keep Addington on a violinist’s revenue? Let’s be honest, Adrian, you’re good, but not that good. You’ll never be a star. Take it from me, make money first, then you can fiddle all you want.

  Still, a first violin position in an orchestra…. Too late now.

  He parked that train of thought in a distant place and brought the coffee cup to his mouth. Just then, his butler Higgins appeared in the doorway, phone in hand.

  “Excuse me sir. It’s a call from your office. David Winston wishes to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.”

  Bolding waived Higgins over and took the phone.

  “She’s headed for a damn reef? A SASS? Why didn’t you call me earlier?” said Bolding, getting up and throwing his monogrammed cloth napkin onto the table. “How much time till she reaches the reef?”

  “About four hours. Sorry, sir. We’re still not sure if—” said Winston.

  “Bloody hell. That’s all I need.”

  Bolding pressed the end call button and eyed Higgins. “Get Jennings to bring the car. Now.”

  “Yes sir. Right away sir.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, dressed in an
open collared pink shirt, sleeves rolled up, Bolding sat in the windowless video conference room, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table while waiting for the monitor to come to life. Beside him sat David Winston, a worried and intent look on his flushed face, still burning from the rebuke he’d received earlier from his boss.

  Bolding turned towards his newly appointed Chief Security Officer. “So Winston, second week on the job and you’re in the arena with the lions.”

  “Yes, sir. Didn’t expect it quite so soon.”

  Feeling his level of exasperation rise, Bolding reached across the table, picked up the phone and dialed his secretary’s number.

  “What’s happening with that call to Sir Hays, Sheila?”

  “He hasn’t called back. I’ll try again, sir.”

  Bolding hung up and turned towards Winston.

  “Damn civil servants. All the same. You’d think that with the exorbitant salaries we pay them they’d be a little more responsive.”

  Fifteen more minutes, and the video screen finally flickered to life, Britain’s Home Department emblem adorned the screen briefly, then gave way to the picture of two seated men. Bolding recognized one of them, the man with the slightly bulging eyes, the tight, thin-lipped mouth and the patted-down reddish hair, someone he knew only too well, his classmate at Eaton and an arrogant, smug sob. Sir Terence Hays, the Home Secretary, responsible for Britain’s MI 5, MI 6 and New Scotland Yard.

  “Good morning gentlemen, can you see us?” said Hays.

  “Glad you could get back to us, finally. With me is our Chief Security Officer, David Winston.”

  “Quite,” said Hays, “and to my left is Rear-Admiral Arnold Archibald, Commander Operations.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Bolding, surprised. He hadn’t expected Hays to escalate matters so quickly, especially all the way up to the level of a rear-admiral. He was about to find out why.

  “Before we go any further,” said Hays, “I would like to clear up a small matter of protocol. Sir Adrian, in the future, let us contact the Americans, if you please. None of us appreciate being blindsided, especially the PM. Is that clearly understood by everyone?”

  Bolding felt the blood rush to his face. Here was a bloody civil servant worried about being blindsided when Bolding was possibly facing the sinking of one of his ships and the drowning of passengers and crew. He kept his temper in check and said: “We were simply following IMO protocol. The Caravan Star is headed for Miami. So naturally we—”

  “Well, fine and dandy, Adrian but the US coast guard and Navy know more about this than we do. You can maybe imagine that our chaps don’t appreciate being told by a foreign state about what’s happening to a ship under British registry.” Hays turned towards Archibald.

  “Quite,” said Archibald. “We can coordinate things much quicker and more efficiently. Saves a lot of red tape, too.”

  Bolding thought quickly. This was not the time to get into a pissing contest with Hays and Archibald over protocol. Let Hays win this one. “We notified you as soon as we could. Next time we’ll make sure you’re in the loop from the beginning.”

  “Fine. Now then, Sir Adrian, what is the situation?” said Hays.

  Bolding took off his reading glasses, rose from his seat and took short, quick steps to the far side of the room where a map of the Atlantic hung from the wall. With his right hand, he stretched up to a spot on the map. “The Caravan Star is approximately here, “said Bolding, his small, rotund stature in net contrast with the height of the large map. “She’s altered course north by northwest towards the Azores and increased her speed to 24 knots. After much discussion here, we decided to try and reach her by Inmarsat and high-frequency radio. She’s not responding to either. The only communication we’ve had from her was the text report from the radio operator. The weather information was so wrong we believe he was trying to notify us of the attack.”

  “I see,” said Hays. “Do we have any idea who is behind this?”

  “Afraid not,” said Bolding.

  His expression somber, Hays looked at Archibald. “What have you got, Arnold? Anything within range?”

  Archibald, a man with a round, fleshy face and a wisp of grey hair combed sideways, cleared his throat: “Our frigate HMS Vixen is nearest to the Star. She’s about 250 nautical miles to the northeast. At 32 knots flat-out, she could intercept the Star in approximately 8 hours.”

  “Anything closer?” said Hays.

  “We can send one of our Orion P-3 reconnaissance aircraft out of Gibraltar, but it can’t do much except shadow the Star for a while until a more substantial unit gets involved. Besides, that would be getting pretty close to its range limit at this point.”

  “You’ve been in touch with the US navy, I believe?” said Hays.

  “Not yet,” said Archibald. “The chap who contacted us is a certain John Kiefer of the USCG, who is coordinating temporarily. I’ve placed a call to Admiral West of the US Navy. We’re expecting a call back from him at any moment. He may have a ship closer to the Star.”

  Hands clasped in front of him on the table, Hays shifted his attention to the video monitor. “Adrian, is there any way of communicating with someone on the Star?”

  “Since the ship’s communication systems are shut down and she is well out of cell phone range, our only chance is that an officer—”

  “We checked all the officers’ satellite phones and no one is responding,” interrupted Winston.

  “Thank you, Mr. Winston,” said Bolding, shooting a reproachful look at his overly-eager young officer. “If I may finish.”

  “Sorry sir.”

  “I was saying that our only chance is that either a member of the crew or a passenger has a satellite phone in an unobstructed transmission and reception area,” said Bolding. “Our people are cross-checking the passenger and crew manifest with the satellite phone companies’ registries to see if we can get a match with one of them.”

  Elbows on the armrests of his chair, Bolding shifted slightly in his seat before resuming. “There is something everyone should be aware of. According to her current heading, the Star is headed straight for Torrais Reef off the island of Corvo. Unless she alters course, she will hit it in less than four hours.”

  Chapter 14

  Aboard the Caravan Star, 7.55 am. Ship’s time

  “You had me worried,” said Karen as Dulac rushed in, gasping for air, his brow covered in sweat.

  “This only works with a clear view of the sky,” said Dulac, showing them the black Motorola sat phone.

  “Back on deck?” said Hank.

  “We can try,” said Dulac, “but reception will be better off the open platform at the stern.”

  Dulac opened the door cautiously and looked right, then left. No one.

  They started down the richly carpeted corridor that ended in front of a pair of French doors. Dulac peered through. Inside, the dining room was empty, its indirect wall lights illuminating the mahogany-paneled walls with a soft, bluish glow. To the left, a marble-topped buffet bar in the shape of an “S” spanned the entire length of the room. To the right, the tables had been readied for what seemed like a breakfast setting.

  “Must be one of the five smaller dining areas mentioned in the brochure,” said Dulac to Karen and Hank. “Let’s take a look.”

  They entered and were half-way through the room when a rotund man dressed in chef’s whites came out of the swinging kitchen doors. “Sorry, we are closed until 8 am. The fire drill.” The man waived his hands dismissively, turned and started to walk balk towards the kitchen.

  “Hey!” Dulac shouted.

  The man spun, startled. “Sir, we are closed. I cannot—”

  Dulac moved in closer, towering over the short chef. “Listen to me. I’m an Interpol agent. The fire drill is fake. Hijackers have taken over this ship. Do you understand? Pirates. Hijackers.”

  The chef looked at Dulac in wide-eyed disbelief, then at Karen and Hank, who nodded in approval.

 
; “Do you have a computer?” said Dulac.

  “Si, but why—?”

  “Where is it?” said Dulac, losing patience.

  “I show you. Please follow.” The chef led Dulac and the others into the kitchen, through its narrow passages lined with vast arrays of stainless-steel pots and pans, past three cooks whipping eggs in large saucepans. “Over here,” said the chef, pointing to a computer on a small table.

  “Try your internet connection,” said Dulac.

  The chef sat down and typed in his password.

  Dulac, Karen and Hank gathered around and read over the man’s shoulder. Connection failed, try again later.

  The chef tried again. To no avail.

  “They’ve closed down the router,” said Dulac. “No one can call in or out.”

  “Dios Mio!”

  “Where are the other cooks?” Dulac looked about at the near-empty kitchen.

  “They went to the fire drill.” The chef pointed to his helpers. “We stay behind for my eggs soufflé. I—”

  “Are there weapons aboard?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guns, pistols?” Dulac made a sign with his forefinger and thumb.

  “No, No. Ees not allowed. We—”

  “—have a gun-free policy,” said Dulac. “What about flares? Surely you must have flares?”

  “I no understand.” Hunching his shoulders in ignorance, the chef looked at Hank, then Karen for help.