They came under cover of darkness and mist just before sunrise. Captain Guthrie had sent for Dave Armstrong, and when he arrived in the pilot’s house on the top deck of the accommodation block, the Captain pointed silently at the newly installed radar screen. It showed four tiny blips making straight for the Aristides.
Like the crew and the officers, Dave was unarmed. No weapons were allowed on board: the owners of ships sailing through the pirate-infested waters off the Horn had long ago decided that resisting the pirates would only lead to violence. It had turned out to be the right decision – not one hostage had been killed during the spate of hijackings in recent years. But just at that moment, Dave would have liked to have a weapon in his hands to defend himself.
He watched as the blips drew closer to the centre of the screen, then began to fade. He looked questioningly at Guthrie, who said, ‘The radar starts to dissolve at five hundred yards. That means they’re very close. Look.’ He pointed to the monitor where a larger blip had appeared in its upper corner. ‘That must be the French corvette. Our chaps should be in view any moment now.’
CCTV cameras had been positioned at the stern and bow of the Aristides, tilted down to show the waterline. Daybreak had come, but the fog had not yet lifted. Dave stared at an overhead monitor as a skiff came murkily into view at the stern. He could just make out three men in it, one of whom was manhandling the lower section of a ladder, holding it upright until its upper rungs were perched against the side of the Aristides. The man began pushing the bottom rungs of the second section, which slid upwards towards the rail of the stern deck.
Dave felt a tap on his shoulder and Guthrie pointed to the other monitor, which showed a skiff nestling up to the bow of the ship. There were also three men in this boat, and one of them, bare-chested and of Arab appearance, was standing up, holding a harpoon gun. He took careful aim then fired. A steel grappling hook shot up into the air, trailing an unravelling length of rope. Dave couldn’t see where the hook had landed but the line tautened sharply, almost pulling the harpoonist out of the skiff. One of his associates quickly cut the rope free of the harpoon gun, then lashed it around the low gunwale. Now the Arab who had fired the harpoon gun swung himself up on the rope and began climbing, hand over hand, towards the bow of the Aristides, which loomed above him. It would have been easy to go along the deck to the bow and cut the rope, thought Dave, but both men still in the skiff held AK-47s, trained upwards to cover the climbing man.
‘Time to go,’ said Guthrie; the other monitor was showing one of the pirates halfway up the ladder at the stern. Guthrie reached down and flicked a switch. The noise of a klaxon horn filled the air, and within seconds crew members were running along the deck towards the accommodation block.
Dave followed the Captain to the companionway, where they quickly descended two flights of steel stairs down to the ship’s staff room, which was level with the main cargo-laden deck of the tanker. The crew members, about twenty of them, were gathering there, looking uneasy. They formed a rough semi-circle as Guthrie stepped forward to address them. Dave noticed the Pakistanis weren’t there.
Guthrie clapped his hands together and the room went silent. He was not a big man but he looked tough, with square shoulders and an air of grizzled authority. Just what you needed in a crisis, thought Dave. Guthrie said, ‘Listen, men. Pirates will soon be on board this vessel. We expect them to head down here without much delay. You may have noticed that some of your fellow crewmen are missing… we think they may be helping the pirates.’ The men started to talk among themselves, and Guthrie held up his hand for silence. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ve locked the steel doors over there, though eventually the pirates will be able to open them and get in. But by then we’ll all be safely on the lower deck.’
There was more murmuring and one of the crew raised a hand – the Cypriot, who spoke very good English. ‘If they have control of the ship, they can just wait for us to come out.’
Guthrie shook his head. ‘Help’s on the way. With any luck we won’t be down below for long. Now get going!’
The men moved towards the rear door of the room, which led to the interior companionway that ran up and down the accommodation block. Dave lingered, waiting for Guthrie, who was checking the bolts on the door that led to the deck. Finished, he said, ‘That should hold them off for a while. And once we close the steel door to Level Two we’ll be safe until the cavalry rides to the rescue.’
The two of them started for the companionway, where they could hear the crew clanking their way down. Suddenly a figure appeared in the rear doorway. It was Fazal, who must have been waiting in the stairwell. He held a 9 mm handgun in his hand – the same one Dave had recently bandaged.
‘Drop the weapon!’ Guthrie barked. ‘That’s an order, sailor.’
Fazal shook his head, and tightened his grip on the handgun as he stepped into the room. He looked so nervous that Dave was scared he’d fire the gun by mistake. ‘Fazal, listen to me,’ he said, taking a small step forward. ‘If you hand over the gun, I promise nothing bad will happen to you. But if you hold us here with that, I can’t make any guarantees.’
From outside the accommodation block they heard the sound of a loud hailer, though the words were unintelligible. That’s the cavalry, thought Dave, and just in time. He pointed towards the bolted door leading to the main deck. ‘There’s a French patrol boat full of commandos out there. They’re heavily armed, and they won’t hesitate to shoot you if they see the gun. Make the smart move, Fazal, and give me the pistol.’
The boy hesitated, and for a brief moment Dave thought he was about to relent. But suddenly, from behind him, Perjev came rushing through the doorway, holding an AK-47. Seeing Fazal, he shouted at him in Urdu, and the boy swung his pistol up to cover Dave. As he did so, Perjev went over to the door leading to the deck and undid the bolts. Using both hands, he swung the steel handle to vertical and heaved the heavy door open.
A man stepped in from the deck, a tall Arab with hard eyes. He looked agitated. Waving his gun, he motioned Dave and Captain Guthrie out of the open door. ‘Go!’ he shouted, following closely behind as they stepped through on to the deck. Perjev came too then stopped and gestured back inside. ‘Our two mates are down below. We’ll get them.’
The Arab hesitated then said sharply, ‘Quick! The French are here.’
Turning to Dave and Guthrie, he pointed down the long central corridor on the deck with twenty-foot containers lined up on either side. It stretched to the bow of the ship almost two hundred feet away. ‘Move – to the bow – fast,’ the Arab said, waving his gun.
Guthrie hesitated, and the Arab pointed the AK-47 straight at him. ‘Go or I’ll kill you both.’ His English was excellent and only lightly accented; Dave guessed he had lived in the States.
They ran then, ran as fast as they could, with the Arab right behind them. Dave couldn’t understand what this man was up to. The French must already be on board at the stern. What on earth was he hoping for?
As they reached the bow, the figure of another man appeared out of the mist, standing by the rail. He also held an AK-47, upright in his hands like a barrier, forcing Dave and the Captain to stop. Beyond him Dave could see the sea, still shrouded by a low mist. He could just make out a skiff far below, nestled near the port side of the bow of the Aristides. In it sat a single armed pirate; it was secured by the long rope that Dave had seen fired from the harpoon gun just minutes before. The tall Arab came up behind them, and the guard with the AK-47 asked him, ‘Where are the others?’
‘They’re coming,’ he said curtly. But just then a crackle of automatic weapons fire came from the stern of the ship. The French had boarded, thought Dave.
The tall Arab cursed. ‘We must go.’ He turned to Dave. ‘Down!’ he ordered, gesturing at the rope.
‘What?’ asked Dave incredulously.
‘Down the rope.’ He waved his gun menacingly. ‘Hurry.’
Dave hated heights; he couldn’t climb down all that way on that little rope; he’d fall off into the sea. He gulped as he moved to the rail and looked down. He turned back, but the pirate was threatening him with the gun. There was no choice. Gritting his teeth, he threw one leg over the rail, then the other, and slowly crouched down, grabbing on to the rope just below its thickly knotted end. He closed his eyes and began to lower himself down along the rope as Guthrie watched from above, waiting his turn.
Dave descended slowly, trying to keep control of his speed, his hands burning on the coarse thick hemp. What the tall Arab had done was clever. The French would have sent a boarding party in dinghies to the stern of the Aristides, knowing that the crew had locked themselves in the lower floors of the accommodation block. The corvette would be anchored a hundred yards away, and in this mist the French would never see the skiff at the other end of the ship. They’d free the crew, capture some of the Arab hijackers and, crucially, the four Pakistanis, but they wouldn’t have the slightest inkling that others were getting away. By the time the rest of the crew told them that the Captain and Dave were missing, it would be too late.
And two hours later, as a French sailor was showing his commanding officer a rope hanging from the bow rail of the Aristides, Dave Armstrong and Captain Guthrie were being led across a beach at gunpoint ten miles south of Mogadishu.