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this job off. Someone was smiling down on him because the sun was shining, there wasn’t a breath of wind and the sea was as calm as a lake. There might be ten metres clearance on either side of the ship’s thirty-two metre beam, but even a slight swell or a stiff breeze would have made it impossible to pass safely through the gap in the reef without tugs and slow, careful manoeuvring with the ship’s bow thruster.
    Alex walked back inside the bridge, stood next to Kevin and held his breath.
    â€˜We’re through!’ The Australian turned and grinned at him, but Alex wasn’t ready to celebrate just yet.
    â€˜Engine full ahead, hard-a-port,’ Alex said.
    â€˜Aye,
Captain
. Engine full ahead, hard-a-port.’
    â€˜Idiot!’ the Norwegian captain railed. ‘You’re going to beach us, you fool.’
    â€˜I sincerely hope so.’ Alex went back out to the starboard bridge wing.
    The
Oslo Star
had slowly turned, so that its starboard side was almost parallel to the rapidly approaching coastline.
    â€˜Five metres, three metres, two . . .’ Kevin called from inside reading off the water’s depth under the keel. Captain Berentsen looked down at the deck and shook his head.
    The
Oslo Star
touched bottom. Alex looked down. The ship’s massive screw churned in the water, trying to drive her closer to shore, but because of the angle at which they had beached the
Oslo Star
the dry sand still looked twenty metres or more away. He pressed the ‘transmit’ switch on his throat microphone. ‘Shark Two, side ramp down, side ramp down.’
    â€˜Yes sir,’ Mitch said, sullen as usual. The American was in the ramp control station at the aft of the ship.
    The
Oslo Star
had two ramps for disgorging her cargo of vehicles; one at the stern and one on the starboard side. Both ramps were designed for use with the ship alongside a quay. The stern ramp was angled, but reached only a little more than thirteen metres from the side of the ship, while the side ramp was twenty-five metres long. Alex knew the ramp could only be lowered twelve degrees from the horizontal. There were no guarantees they had beached the ship close enough to shore to begin unloading.
    â€˜I’m going down to check on the ramp,’ he told Kevin. ‘Take the captain back to the mess with the rest of his crew and relieve our man on guard duty, so he can help shift the vehicles. If anyone tries anything, shoot the captain first. That should put the wind up the rest of them.’
    â€˜Roger,’ Kevin said.
    Alex left the bridge and walked to the rear of the accommodation deck, past the prisoners, and got into the lift that stopped at every second deck. Stepping out onto the car deck he saw a growing dazzle of light at the ship’s starboard side. Ahead of him was row upon row of gleaming Hummers, the civilian version of the American military’s workhorse tactical vehicle. These models had their garish yellow, blue and shiny black flanks plastered with sheets of white stick-on vinyl film to protect their panels from scratches.
    With Henri guarding the prisoners and Kevin on the bridge, the job of unloading was left to Alex and three others. Mitch would join them once the ramp was fully down. Heinrich, the German, was walking along the rows of trucks releasing the nylon straps that held the Hummers down to the deck.
    The hold was filling with exhaust smoke as vehicle engines were revved to life. The ramp was almost down. Alex strode between the vehicles, making for the opening in the side of the ship.
    With the captain and crew safely under guard he removed his gasmask, savouring the breeze that cooled the sweat in his unkempt mop of raven hair as he walked down the ramp. It juddered to a halt beneath his feet. He looked up at the control booth, high above.
    â€˜We’re short,’ Mitch said into his earpiece.
    â€˜So I see.’ They were close – the edge of the