Smoking Gun
Book One
of the
Adam Cartwright Trilogy
By
Dennis Debney
Smoking Gun
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© Dennis Debney 2015
Except for the purposes of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be copied, reproduced or transmitted in any other form without the express written permission by the author. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction.
About the Author
Dennis Debney is a Chartered Professional Engineer and Certified Practising Accountant who has retired to find time to pursue his first love, writing.
After graduating in civil engineering in the 1960s he was initially engaged in engineering design and construction in New Zealand and Australia. Subsequent accountancy studies and qualification as a CPA led to project management roles covering technical, commercial and financial aspects.
In the Adam Cartwright Trilogy readers may wonder just where truth ends and fiction begins. Like many storytellers Dennis has been inspired by his real life experiences and has included actual situations and events in his stories.
Books by Dennis Debney
Hindsight (A memoir of four unforgettable years in Cairns)
Smoking Gun (Adam Cartwright Trilogy, Book One)
Due Diligence (Adam Cartwright Trilogy, Book Two)
GoldFinder (Adam Cartwright Trilogy, Book Three)
Smoking Gun
Definition: The term ‘Smoking Gun’ refers to an object or fact that serves as fairly conclusive evidence that a person is guilty of a crime. The level of proof being just one degree less certain than being caught in flagrante delicto.
The expression originated from the idea of finding a just fired gun in the hands of a person at the scene of a shooting. The still smoking gun being almost indisputable proof of that person having committed the crime. The phrase originated in the Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Adventure of the Gloria Scott’ (1893).
Significant Characters
Adam Cartwright Construction Engineer
Brian Clements Software Contractor, Adam’s friend.
Kate Moore Accountant, Brian’s fiancée.
Christine Moore Paediatrician, Kate’s sister.
John Segal Managing Director, CMA Ltd.
Jack Gilmore Mining Engineer, Red Rock Mine
Ted Brennan Mine Geologist, Red Rock Mine
Ewan Ryan CEO, Gibson Construction Ltd.
Tom Barton Project Manager, Gibson Construction Ltd.
Tony Payne Construction Foreman
Leonie Wran Site Accountant, Gibson Construction Ltd.
John Hall Subcontractor
Toby Jones Union Organiser
John Hargreaves Detective Inspector, Townsville Region CIB
Barry Strong Detective Sergeant, Townsville Region CIB
Toni Swan Senior Investigator, Qld C and C Commission
Peter Williams Investigator, Qld C and C Commission
Margaret Smith Investigator, Qld C and C Commission
Smoking Gun
Friday October 9
Offshore, Somewhere North of Cairns, Queensland
I regained consciousness slowly, stiff and sore with a blinding headache. When I tried to sit up I discovered that I couldn't move. For a moment I felt a surge of panic before realising that my hands and feet were securely tied. I lay there trying to gather my thoughts.
The last thing that I could remember was walking along the marina jetty in Cairns to my yacht, ‘Irish Mist’ at around eleven on a Friday evening. I had been looking forward to spending the next couple of nights on board.
I had no idea of where I was now or how I had got here. It seemed that I was on the after deck of a sizeable launch as I instinctively recognised the rhythmic movement was that of a fairly large vessel in motion. The drumming of a heavy diesel engine beneath me was felt rather than heard. It was dark. The sole source of light was the reflected glow of the stern navigation lights.
As I lay there trying to make sense of my situation the door onto the after deck opened. Two men emerged. I froze, my eyes now closed. A boot struck me in my side and pain shot through my ribs. It took a considerable effort for me to remain still and silent.
Eventually one of them spoke. “I told you the chloroform would make sure that he would still be out.”
A second person then grunted and said, “Okay, this spot’s as good as any. We’re at least forty kilometres offshore and his yacht is drifting a good ten kilometres away. This is about where you’d expect someone to end up after falling overboard.”
I felt my bonds being cut free and then, without warning, I was suddenly grasped by my shoulders and legs, lifted up and dropped over the stern rail.
I hit the water hard and was immediately tumbled about and pummelled as though in a washing machine. The wash from the propellers seemed intent on tearing my body into pieces. The rhythmic thudding of the engines pounded my senses but thankfully its intensity rapidly diminished. As I struggled to the surface, gagging and struggling for breath, I could see the stern of a launch rapidly disappearing into the night. The dark shapes of two men were briefly visible on the rear deck before vanishing through a doorway to a lighted cabin. Suddenly that meagre light was extinguished as the door closed leaving me alone, treading water in the rapidly thickening gloom.
My first reaction was to scan the horizon looking for any sign of land or other vessels. Stars were scattered across the clear sky. The surface of the sea was ruffled by a light breeze and weakly reflected the moon which was low on the horizon. Apart from the distant navigation lights of the launch, which appeared to be executing a wide 180-degree turn, nothing was to be seen. I did not know where I was but I was clearly a long way offshore.
My ribs ached, the back of my head was sore and I had a throbbing headache. I reached up and felt gently above and behind my right ear. A large lump was evident but I couldn't feel any lacerations. I kicked my shoes loose and struggled out of my jacket and trousers. Tendrils of fear filtered through me. I began to shiver but not due to the water temperature as I was only 15 degrees from the equator and the weather was clement. I forced myself to focus on my survival. Obviously treading water in the same spot indefinitely was not an option.
My best chance seemed to be to try and reach ‘Irish Mist’, but where was it. If the departing launch had turned to retrace its tracks then, based on the conversation that I had overheard, it could have been set adrift ten kilometres away in the direction that the launch had departed. That seemed to be one heck of an assumption but it got worse. It would take me at least three hours, possibly four, to cover the ten kilometres. In the meantime the vessel would have drifted with the tide and wind. The wind was almost non-existent but the tidal flow could be between one to two knots northwards along the coast.
Luckily the sky was clear and the stars readily visible. Even so it took me several anxious moments to identify the Southern Cross. Knowing that due South was a point to the right of the star group I estimated that the launch had seemed to be heading close to due South. With luck, if I swam westwards, towards land, I might end up to the north of my yacht’s current position and intercept it as it drifted in a north-westerly direction parallel to the coast.
This course of action had the advantage of me swimming towards land. But that was a dubious advantage as, according to my assailant, land was at least forty kilometres away. That was
greater than the distance between England and France. I thought of myself as being a strong swimmer but the prospect of having to swim the English Channel, plus a bit more, did not fill me with confidence.
The alternative was to tread water until daylight and hope to be seen by a passing boat. It did not take long to reject that strategy as I did not know how far I was from the reef. The weather was fine and although there could be a number of fishing boats about, either locals or commercial tourist ventures, I could not be sure that I was in a popular fishing location.
All this time my mind was being bombarded with questions. Who were my assailants? Obviously they did not intend that I survive but what did they expect to achieve? What should I do when, or if, I reached safety? I felt suddenly cold and tired. I couldn't afford to spend further time wondering. I had to do something. Daunting as the task before me seemed, I had to subdue my fear and concentrate on finding my yacht. It was my best, if not my only, chance of survival. Treading water I held up my wristwatch, and activated the illumination button. It was a quarter past one. By dawn, if I could last that long, I would have a chance of seeing the drifting yacht.
I started swimming. In order to ensure that I kept heading towards the West all I had to do was to regularly check that the Southern Cross was always visible over my left shoulder as I swam.
My focus was on slow even strokes and slow even breathing. Plan A was to find my yacht. Plan B was to get seen and rescued by a ship or trawler. Both plans required daylight and that was still some hours away.
My immediate enemy was fear. Fear that I would become too tired to keep swimming. Fear of sharks. Fear of never finding my yacht. Fear that I had made the wrong decision and that I should have headed East and relied on either seeing Green Island or being seen by a tourist vessel after daybreak.
***
I knew how fear could weaken one physically as well as destroy one’s resolve.
I had experienced such fear years before when I was 17 years of age. On that occasion I had been camping on a deserted beach with three friends on the NSW south coast during a summer holiday. I had been floating outside the breaker line on my air bed while the others were relaxing on the beach. It was so peaceful that I dropped off to sleep and did not notice that an offshore breeze had sprung up and was pushing me further offshore.
When I awoke I was startled to realize that I was at least a kilometre offshore and being pushed further away by the breeze that was definitely strengthening. My initial reaction was to wave and shout to my friends on the beach. But they did not notice me as I was out of earshot.
I had no option but to start paddling with my hands towards shore. Initially I was nervous but not fearful. It was difficult to make headway against the now brisk offshore breeze so I began paddling even more strenuously. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to make headway and I was suddenly apprehensive. A thought had hit me like a blow. My life was at stake and I was completely reliant on my own resources.
Perhaps it was nervousness that had caused me to paddle too vigorously, but whatever the reason, the airbed slipped away from underneath me. Instantly, the now very buoyant air bed began scudding along the water powered by the breeze. I turned and started chasing the air bed but it was now skimming along faster than I could swim. I stopped and looked back at the shore. I waved and shouted without being noticed by my friends.
For the first time in my life I experienced real fear. I already felt exhausted and had real doubt that I could make it back to shore. But I had no option and began swimming.
As I swam I was constantly fighting off thoughts of drowning. My arms were like lead and I was fighting to breathe slowly and regularly. The sea was becoming increasingly choppy and, on several occasions, I accidently swallowed a mouthful of water and choked.
Panic was threatening to take over but I somehow managed to fight off the demons of fear. I had been so tired that I just wanted to give up trying and rest. Eventually, when I reached the shallows and my hands touched sand, I stopped swimming and tried to stand up. But I couldn’t. I was so exhausted that I had to literally crawl out of the water. I barely made it clear of the waves before collapsing on the sand.
My friends thought that I was being a clown and had laughed at what they saw as a comic performance. Too embarrassed to admit what had actually happened, I went along with the joke.
I slept little that night. Partly because I had to sleep on the sand without an airbed. But mainly because I was reliving the experience and trying to understand why I had come so close to failing to make it back to shore. It eventually came to me that fear itself had been the enemy. It had weakened me, and made me doubt my ability to survive.
I resolved then that I would never be the victim of fear again. It was the perfect example of the saying, ‘if it doesn’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger’. I was now ten years older. Stronger physically and mentally, I now knew how to control fear and make it work for me, not against me. My mind was fully committed to swimming steadily. I was determined that negative, fearful, thoughts would not distract me.
***
The distant throbbing of a heavy marine engine took some moments to fully register in my consciousness. I could feel the noise through the water rather than hearing it through the air and could not discern the direction of its source. I had no idea how long that I had been in the water. I stopped swimming and looked around while treading water. There was still no sign of daylight. As each swell gently lifted me I scanned the horizon. No lights could be seen that would indicate shipping or any other watercraft. Within a few minutes the heavy pulse of a ship’s engines had completely receded and I was again alone in the silent starlit sea.
I rolled over onto my back and pressed the illumination button on my watch. It was just after four a.m. I had been swimming for almost three hours. My arms were tired and my shoulder muscles felt hot, as though they were being sunburned. Still an hour or more to go before daylight. Checking that the Southern Cross was squarely to my left, I put my feelings of tiredness aside and resumed swimming.
As I swam my mind tended to wander. Even though I tried to keep my mind blank and focus on swimming, part of my brain was attempting to seek an explanation. Before I was fully aware of my thoughts I found myself attempting to recall events that may have led to my predicament.
The attack was definitely aimed at eliminating me. It was not just a warning. It was direct and irreversible action. Nothing in my personal life would justify such violent, premeditated action. So it must have arisen from my work.
I was a construction manager in charge of the construction of the mine infrastructure and facilities at the Red Rock Mine, two hundred kilometres inland from Cairns. Being responsible for more than $100 million worth of capital works, friction with subcontractors was an everyday event but I was not aware of any personal animosity or threats against me.
Some time later I became aware that I was unable to check my bearing as the Southern Cross was no longer visible. I stopped swimming and treaded water while scanning the horizon. Nothing was to be seen. Just an empty seascape becoming lighter by the minute.
I rolled onto my back and checked my watch again. I had now been swimming for almost four hours. By my reckoning I was probably about ten kilometres closer to land. If I kept swimming for another twelve hours, and did not get spotted by someone on a boat or a ship, then I might reach the coast somewhere south of Port Douglas. But the thought of swimming for another twelve hours was a daunting one.
I pushed the thought aside and bobbed up and down on the low swell, scanning the surrounding sea. As the sky lightened I could see land in the distance. The coast itself was not visible but the dark outline of the range of hills comprising the Atherton Tableland could be clearly seen against the brightening sky. I reckoned that I was probably about thirty kilometres offshore but at least I could be certain of the direction of land.
Each time I was lifted by a wave I desperately searched for the sight of a vessel. Afte
r a few minutes without success I resumed swimming.
Some time later I stopped swimming and again scanned the horizon for a vessel of any sort before checking my watch. I had now been swimming for four and a half hours. Even though the sun had risen, no sign of life was to be seen. Stifling thoughts of having to swim all the way to shore I resumed swimming. I had not yet given up hope of either intercepting my drifting yacht or being seen from a passing ship or boat.
A short time later I again stopped and scanned the horizon. It was now fully daylight, but still nothing was to be seen. I was about to resume swimming towards land when I glimpsed the sail of a yacht some distance to the south. At first I could not determine which direction it was heading. But successive glimpses on a series of waves enabled me to decide that it was drifting northwards, more or less parallel to the coast. I estimated that it was perhaps two kilometres away and that its line of drift would take it on a line at least a kilometre further offshore from me.
If I wanted to intercept the drifting vessel I would have to turn back and swim away from land. If the vessel was ‘Irish Mist’, as seemed to be likely, then I had swum too far inshore. If I had been able to do so, I would have kicked myself. But now was not the time for self-recrimination, I needed to focus on intercepting the drifting yacht.
This time I swam for about five minutes before rechecking the location of the vessel. Every time that I stopped swimming to check its position I lost swimming time and made the interception more difficult. Finally after about fifteen minutes I could readily see the top of the yacht’s mast without having to stop swimming. My spirits lifted as I decided that it was definitely ‘Irish Mist’. But then disappointment set in when I realised that it was drifting faster than I could swim. The tidal current combined with the rising breeze could well be my downfall, if I missed intercepting the yacht as it drifted past I would not be able to catch up with it.
Smoking Gun (Adam Cartwright Trilogy Book 1) Page 1