Chapter 2

Why I did it, I don’t recall thinking about it. Maybe it was second nature, but I checked the magazine of my 9-millimetre, placing the magazine back in the weapon. I checked the safety and stuck the Beretta 92s in my belt, dropping my jacket flap back over it. There were still three spare filled magazines, and some loose rounds of ammunition in my kitbag. Grabbing my kitbag and flight bag, I went out, locking the door behind me. I’ll be back within the week.

Once outside, I shouldered my kitbag and started down the road to the harbour. The fog was still lingering with fine little droplets floating down onto the pavement and road, colouring the surface with a darker shade, wet and slippery. The light from the lamp posts was painting funny colours through the fog.

As it was not far to the harbour entrance, I walked along the road towards the slight kink that you could almost describe as a turn or slight corner. There was no one around; not even the car that drove off with the bearded guy was to be seen. All seemed to be tranquil and quiet. I said; ‘seemed to be’.

Just before I rounded the slight curve in the road, I heard the piercing sound of a woman’s scream of fear. I quickened my pace and rounded the corner. Through the fog I could see the slight figure of a girl struggling with a larger figure of a man. The larger man had the girl’s arms pinned to her back, trying to get the struggling girl down on the ground. Another dark figure approached the girl from the front with its arms outstretched, as if to grab hold of the girl also, helping his comrade in getting her down on the ground.

“Quiet, you bitch!” The one said.

I could not let this go on. I dropped my kitbag and flight bag, reached for my 9-millimetre, pulled it out of my belt, clicked the safety off, and worked the slide in one fluid, fast motion. The sound of me operating the firearm slide sharply echoed into the night. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked was like a thunderclap in the silence of the night. Both figures, about fifteen paces away, looked in my direction.

“Not your fight, buddy! Just leave, go, and take your cannon with you.” The one guy hissed. At that moment all hell broke loose.

The girl saw the opportunity and reacted violently. I thought she kicked the guy in front of her in the groin. But instead, she ran her feet up along his legs and torso, and like an acrobat, flipped over the head of the guy holding her, breaking his hold on her arms. She landed like a cat on her feet behind him, and before he could turn towards her, kicked him from behind in his unprotected groin between his open legs with the force of a speeding express train. Growling like a wounded lion and grabbing for his balls, the guy went down like a sack of potatoes.

Ignoring me, the other guy rushed the girl. Balancing on the balls of her feet she waited for him, and just as he got near her, she grabbed his outstretched right arm, and propelled him under his own energy, straight into a lamppost. The lamppost vibrated so violently with the impact that I was afraid the light bulb at the top of the pole would shatter. Well, it was lights out for the guy running into the lamppost. He dropped back after his collision with the steel of the lamppost and lay unmoving on the pavement in a tangle of legs and arms.

Turd number one lay puking where he had fallen. I looked at the girl standing there, eyeing me with her body in a defensive pose: that of a Jiu-jitsu fighter, the light from the streetlamp casting an eerie glow over her ginger red hair.

“Miss Rothman?” I asked, lowering my still levelled gun. The fight was over before I could even answer the guy addressing me.

“Yes, Mister Windsor. Thanks for interfering, but I had it under control,” Angie said, breathing normally and dusting off her clothes.

“Pleasure to oblige.”

“Yeah, cocking that peashooter of yours took their attention away from me long enough to teach them a lesson in how to treat a lady.”

“Why did they attack you?” I asked. “They don’t look like your run-of-the-mill street criminals.”

“I wouldn’t know. I think one tried to follow me when I left you.”

“I saw it. He came out of the shadows behind the wall around the guest house. He saw me at the window, turned away, got into a car, and then left.”

“Would it be the car parked up ahead?” Angie asked.

I looked towards the car. It appeared to be the same one.

“Yeah! That’s the one.”

“It looks like a late model and a little on the expensive side too. No, not your normal street criminals out to abuse a lonely vulnerable woman in the dark,” Angie said.

“Nope. Do you think it’s got something to do with your uncle?”

“Why should it have to do with my uncle?”

“One never knows,” I said.

“If you distrust my uncle that much, then why did you agree to work for him?”

“I can’t answer you.”

“Can’t, or won’t answer?” Angie asked, and I detected a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Come, let’s get to the ship. It’s getting late, and I don’t want my uncle to be running out on me.”

“Just a minute,” I said, and went over to mister snoring and bleeding on the pavement near the lamppost. He was out for the count with what looked like a broken nose and a good busted-up eye. Blood was dripping into his beard. Could have a fractured skull for that matter, but who cares? Serves the bastard right. He will remember this skirmish with a girl for a long time to come.

I searched his pockets. A nice six-inch blade hunting knife, a Glock 9-millimetre and two extra magazines, but no ID. I repeated the search on mister puking and found nothing of interest. Also, no surprise, no ID on him. I returned to my kit bag and flight bag, retrieved them, and went back to Angie, who was standing slightly shivering in the cold. I suppose the adrenaline had started to wear off.

“Here, you might need it,” I said and handed her the Glock and the two extra magazines.

“And why should I need it? I can hold my own.”

“Oh, for ducks fake! You have just been assaulted. I know you can take care of yourself; I’ve just seen you do it. But take the damn thing and protect yourself. Better have it and don’t need it, than need it, and don’t have it.”

“Okay. Thanks, mister Windsor...” Angie said, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. For a moment I thought she would add something, but she just took the gun, checking the magazine and safety as if she had done this ritual before. She then slid the gun into her denim trouser waistband, turned, and started to walk in the direction of the harbour entrance, shivering in the cold with her arms folded around her.

I silently followed Angie and thought of how she disabled the two guys. Jiu-jitsu? Using their own movements and energy against them? And the little ritual with the Glock? What an enigma of a girl. I wondered where she got all that experience. Definitely not from her uncle.

“Come, Mister Windsor! We are going to miss supper!” Angie said over her shoulder. I thought any girl would be in a state of shock and emotion after being attacked by two assailants, yet Angie seemed calm and in control of herself. Shivering with cold, but in control of herself and her emotions.

This was a working ship with a crew of about ten sailors operating the various systems. As far as I could determine, there were eight cabins: four large ones and then four single berth cabins. The captain of the ship had one single berth cabin. I suppose Roland and Angie each had one. I was shown by the steward to my cabin on the left side of the ship. Okay, port side, for those who are into ships, boats, floating bathtubs, whatever.

This struck me as funny. If you come from the south of Port Owen, the harbour is on the right side, starboard side, that is, so, why not call it port side, the side the port is on? Never mind. We flyboys abandoned that stuff years ago, when someone eventually woke up to the fact that a ship and an aircraft are two totally different things, unless boats can fly and aircraft can swim.

I chuckled to myself, visualizing an aircraft swimming in the sea, using its wings as flippers. Yip, such is life. I made use of the steward/cook’s invitation, dropped my kitbag and flight bag onto the bed, and went in search of a hot meal. Okay, we’re on a ship, so berth instead of a bed, but they look ridiculously the same. Suddenly, a rope is not a rope any more. Now it’s a line. A line, I say. Yip such is life.

Apparently, Roland could not sleep either, for he stood in the galley, (kitchen, for all you landlubbers, me included.) savouring a mug of coffee.

“Welcome aboard,” Roland said. “Cookie saved you some grub. It’s there in the warmer oven. Fish chowder ... not bad, but come four days on you’ll crave a steak.”

“Reminds me of my Air Force days. Once on a deployment, we went two weeks on chicken. Chicken for breakfast, chicken for lunch, and chicken for supper. Only Friday lunch was over-fried, dry fish and chips,” I said, taking my plate of supper out of the warmer oven.

“So that’s where you developed your love for chicken?” Roland asked and took a sip of his coffee.

“Are you being sarcastic? I hate chicken,” I said and looked at the bowl of fish chowder in my hand. At least the fish was cooked, and the sauce looked good. There were even some black mussels and vegetables in. It did smell good.

“Has Angie retired for the night?” I asked. Roland looked at me, squinting his eyes. I thought that I had maybe touched a nerve. Then he drained his coffee, placed the mug in the sink, and turned to me.

“Yes. Yes, the little bitch is in her cabin. Came aboard with you, gave me some lip, and then went to her cabin,” he said. “We will sail at 03:00. The fog will be gone by then. I’ll turn in now, as I want to be on the bridge as we leave port.”

“Why not wait for sunrise?”

“Nope! I want to be gone by morning. Oh, by the way, don’t snore too much. Angie’s cabin is next to yours. If you snore, she’ll come to smother you with a pillow. Sleep well.” with that he turned and left the galley. I had a distinct feeling that Angie would be able to overpower me, but not without a good fight!

I finished my supper while still standing by the galley stove. Placed the empty bowl and spoon in the sink and left for my cabin. I think I’ll also be up on deck as we leave port.

What I didn’t realize was that there was an interconnecting door between Angie’s and my cabin. There was some sort of poster depicting a ship at sea hanging next to my little desk in the cabin. Not until a soft knock came did I realize it was an interconnecting door. I then only saw the doorknob, partly hidden by the bookshelf. Funny cabin, I wondered who decorated it.

Turning the knob, I opened the door. I was greeted by a little redhead dressed in fleecy pyjamas that covered her from the neck down to her tiny feet, with pink nail polish on her toes. She smiled up at me, and it was as if the sun came up.

“We have met on a rather sticky tone, Mister Windsor. May I come in?” Angie said.

“Oh, of course. Do come in...” I stammered.

“Don’t get ideas. I only came to thank you again for saving me back there and saying nothing of it to my uncle.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Rothman.”

“Angelique, you may call me Angie,” she simply stated.

“Ashwin, Ash to my friends.”

“Am I a friend?”

“I’d rather be on your good side, then have you as an enemy,” I said.

Giggle. “Friends,” she said, and held out her small right hand. I took it in mine.

“Pleased to meet you Angelique, Miss Angie,” I said. Green eyes flashed at me.

“Miss Angie?” She asked, cocking her head to one side, coldly eyeing me.

“I work for your uncle, Angie. In public, let’s go with Miss Angie.”

“Very well, Mister Ash, in public!” Giggle. With that she plopped down on my bed with her back propped up against the bulkhead. Her feet were dangling off the side of the bed, arms folded over some non-existent breasts ... at least it looked that way. Okay, maybe an A-cup, leaning to AA-cup. I pulled out a chair from under the table and sat down with the backrest in front of me.

“Let’s talk!” Angie said, and I wondered where I heard those words before.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“What you told me; about that I can keep the aircraft.”

“Well, Angie, you said that it’s yours, and rightfully so. It is yours; I don’t need a DC-3. I will fly it to wherever you need to have it flown to. No problem. The problem is that your uncle lays claim to the aircraft too. Why I don’t know.”

“It’s because of the cargo on board, if it is still there,” Angie said.

“And why would it not be there anymore?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Angie said, looking down at her feet, wiggling her toes. “It’s cold in here, and I forgot my slippers.”

“Here,” I said, opening a drawer on the cabin dresser, and handing her a pair of socks. “They may be a bit big.”

“Thanks for the gesture, but I have socks and slippers in my cabin.”

“Well, are you going to run there and then back again? Put the damn socks on your feet.”

“You’re assertive, I see. I think we might manage to get along,” Angie said.

“Good! Now tell me, why do you think the cargo is not there anymore?”

“The cargo was for my uncle. He was the company on the west coast. He needed the stuff to get the ship going again. My uncle bought the stuff from an Angolan Company and my mom and dad offered to fly it here for him. They left and never ... came back.” Angie said, and a dark cloud covered her green eyes. She wiped her eyes with the back of a small hand.

“Well, after about five months, suddenly the ship was running again. Dredging the seabed and getting diamonds. My uncle was happy again,” Angie continued.

“So you think that your uncle went to the crash site and recovered the cargo?” I asked.

“Yes!” She almost spat. I sighed.

“Angie, let’s not jump to conclusions. Let’s get to the crash site and see for ourselves. If the cargo is gone, so be it. We can always trace it later. Let’s then just consider getting the aircraft out for you. If that is possible, maybe it is worth a couple of bucks, unless you decide to run an airline or air freight service.” I said.

“You talk as if my mom and dad’s remains ain’t there, no more?” Green eyes swimming in wetness, questioning me.

“If your uncle did go there and removed the cargo, do you think he would have left the bodies there? Either bring them back already or maybe ... just buried them there?”

“It ... It may be possible...”

“You don’t trust your uncle, do you? I asked.

“No, I don’t trust him at all.” Angie softly said looking away to the corner of the cabin.

“Well, Angie. Let’s go there and see for ourselves, and not sit here and formulate ideas on hearsay.”

“Okay, Ash. Thanks for listening and advising a girl on her own. I don’t know who to trust. I feel that the incident tonight could have been anyone who knows about the aircraft and what it may contain. I just don’t know why suddenly the aircraft became such an interesting subject. Why could my uncle just not leave it there?” Angie asked. Then she got up and skipped out the door to her cabin, without waiting for an answer.

“Good night, Ash,” she said with a quiver in her voice, and softly closed the door. I heard the latch lock in place.

After Angie left, I sat for a while, just thinking about all the stuff that happened today. How to proceed? If the rumours on the street corners are true, my primary objective will be finding out about the diamonds being “salted” into the Rothman Concessions. Now, I’m mixed up in some other scam. That would only be solved by visiting the crash site.