The Southwind Saga (Book 2): Slack Water

by Jase Kovacs

  SLACK WATER

  BOOK TWO of the SOUTHWIND SAGA

  Written by Jase Kovacs.

  FIRST EDITION. May 14, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Jase Kovacs.

  Edited by Kelly Cozy of BOOKSIDE MANNER.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS & THANKS

  In October 2016, I sailed a friend's yacht from Palau in Micronesia to Auckland in New Zealand. After several days battling engine issues, I decided to give myself and the crew a break. We dropped anchor at remote Madau Island in the Solomon Sea. The locals told us we were the first yacht to visit in two years. They welcomed us with such kindness that I couldn't imagine a better place to head at the end of the world.

  I have taken great liberties with the geography of neighbouring Woodlark Island, particularly the caves and rivers. That said, I am indebted to Steven Steddy, who shared with me his memories of working on the mine at Woodlark. Any mistakes and inventions are mine.

  I am also indebted to the Cannon Hill girls, on whose couch I crashed while I was in between ships and in whose living room the majority of this novel was written.

  Thanks to go to my editor Kelly Cozy, whose advice was invaluable, and to Jolene, my compass who always keeps me on course.

  — On board SY Labyrinth, Philippines, April 2017

  There, in the twilight cold and gray,

  Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

  And from the sky, serene and far,

  A voice fell, like a falling star,

  Excelsior!

  — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1841

  On reaching the coast, the tohunga (wise man) performed certain religious rites, and retired to rest alone, and in his dreams a spirit wouldcome and indicate the spot where the greenstone would be found.

  — Rev. J. W. Stack, missionary to the Maori, 1881

  CHAPTER ONE: ISAAC

  In the light of the false dawn, I come out of the jungle and walk along the beach. I look for salvage and wreckage and bodies.

  The shore slopes down at a shallow angle from the tree line to the sea. The fine, powdery sand is polished by the relentless action of the eternal surf and will blaze when the noon sun burns everything into crisp contrast. But, in the gentle dawn light, the beach is as soft and as inviting as a down bed. I sink up to my ankles and stretch out, pushing to reach the high tide mark, where a wide band of viscous oil has left stripes of darkness that glimmer with rainbows where the light falls upon them.

  The wind blows from offshore, and it brings the smoke to me, the air graced with hints of charcoaled flesh and the acerbic smell of burnt fibreglass. I squat and watch the smouldering wreck for a long time. The yacht has burned to the waterline. You'd think that .50 cal bullets kicking up fountains in front of you would be the internationally understood symbol for turn around. But not these guys. They kept on coming, at full speed, that big sail out — a spinnaker I think it's called. They didn't alter course, not a degree, bearing down on the island. The fringing reef, where the smooth, sandy bottom of the bay suddenly rises ten metres to the surface in a wall of living limestone, would have stopped them two hundred metres from shore. But once they crashed onto the reef, they could've got out and walked the rest of the way.

  And standing orders are no landings. Not until you've cleared quarantine.

  So we shot them.

  ***

  Piper had the morning watch yesterday; she's good, a bit too intense for a fifteen-year-old, but she's got sharp eyes and a keen sense of duty. She picked out the boat when it was still hull down, its sails a pink triangle catching the morning sun from over the horizon. Her three sharp raps on the ship's bell we use as an alarm brought me out of my cot in an instant. Duncan and Larry were already at the top of the tower by the time I climbed up, discussing the approaching boat as Piper glassed it with binos. They glanced at me, Larry's habitual smile strained at the edges, Duncan as dour as ever.

  "Zac. Morning. You've seen our friend out to the northwest?" asked Larry.

  The tower is six metres tall, with an old sail rigged as shade and made of bamboo, thick shafts we harvest from the northern end of the island. It's located at the north end of First Landing, the long, thin bay that runs up the northwestern edge of Madau Island. The island itself is shaped like a horseshoe, its open mouth facing southeast, the north arm mostly thick jungle, the southern arm where the village and the gardens and most of the locals live. To the east is Woodlark Island, which is overrun by the damned and off limits.

  Most expats live just inside the tree line at First Landing, so they're always the first to respond to the rare alarms. The tower is built on the old concrete foundations of an American bunker, left over from World War Two, where a slight rise dominates the northern edge of the beach. The northern and western horizons are an unmarked curve of blue.

  I took the binos and scanned this curve, searching for the stranger. Piper muttered, "No, Zac, northwest is over this way," and pushed me around to face the boat. The sun was above the horizon by now, and the sails had lost their pink tinge. The front one was a big yellow bulge adorned with a white bear leaning on the word BUNDABERG.

  "It seems to be quite fast, leaning over at an alarming angle," I said. "Is that normal?"

  "She's got a lot of sail up for this breeze. It's a wonder that spinnaker hasn't split," said Larry as he took the binos from me. He's a stout Englishman whose love of the locally brewed hooch has allowed him to keep his large belly despite our sparse island diets. He and Duncan shared a significant look: one of those knowing glances that yachties love to use around us landlubbers, who have no idea about the subtleties of boats.

  "How long has it been since the last—"

  Piper cut me off before I could finish my question. "We haven't seen an expat boat in over a year."

  "Three local sailing canoes in that time. One was a registered trading boat from the Trobes who followed quarantine. The other two veered off as soon as we fired warning shots. We never knew where they came from." Duncan had the binos to his eyes, and his mouth frowned through his thick salt-and-pepper beard. Duncan's gruff Scottish burr was as taciturn as always; the only time I've ever heard anything like warmth in his voice was when I overheard him talking privately to Larry, neither of them aware that I had come to the door of their hut. "I don't like it."

  "Five, six miles out," murmured Piper. She removed the protective canvas cover from the .50 cal mounted on the tower. The gun can fire half-inch-diameter bullets out past a mile. If Piper's estimate of the boat's distance was right — and I'm sure it was — then it would be about half an hour before the yacht was in range.

  By this stage, other expats had gathered beneath the tower. They sat on the mossy concrete of the bunker and chattered with nervous excitement, like a crowd attending a public execution in olden times. A few locals appeared, and coconuts were opened and drunk. I saw a couple of Council members — Michael and Big Kev — down there. But it was already pretty crowded up at the top of the tower, so no one climbed up to join us.

  "The question is, are they coming here?" said Larry, watching the yacht stand on.

  "Of course they're coming here. The question is, how do they know we're here?" muttered Duncan.

  "If they know we're here." Piper spun the gun on its mount so she could pluck the canvas sheath from the muzzle. "They could just be coming back to an old anchorage."

  "You're sure there's been no radio chatter?" Duncan asked Larry.

  "Definitely not. No strangers on any HF channels in over six months."

  "Who was the last?"

  "I picked up a m
ayday from a boat named Mirabelle in… September, it must have been. He was half delirious. Said he was in Kupang, that his anchor was dragging, and he was being blown on shore by the afternoon sea breeze. But he never answered any hails and never came up again."

  There was a brief silence in the tower as we considered this unknown mariner's fate. But Piper and Duncan are too businesslike to waste time in idle reflection. "There's no change in quarantine procedure," said Duncan. This was his simple way of telling Piper that she was to sink the boat if it didn't stop. He made no allowances for her age; by his own words, if Piper is old enough to stand a watch, she's old enough to shoot.

  Her only acknowledgement was a tight nod, the gun's spade handles gripped tightly in her hands. The ammunition tin was clipped on, but she hadn't fed the belt of bullets into the gun yet; Duncan is a stickler for quarantine procedure and doesn't let anyone load until it's almost time to fire.

  I didn't know how Piper could be so calm; my own heart was beating a mile a minute, and my hands trembled at the suppressed emotions flowing through me. Piper had only been standing watches for six months, and now she was ready to destroy the first ship we'd seen in that time. I was in awe at her composure — and a little scared by it. But then, she doesn't have the memories that I have: of the day the green schooner came down on Woodlark Island and brought the damned to our shores.

  Duncan had the binos up to his eyes again as he moved next to Piper. The girl isn't his daughter, although she might as well be. "Bastard must be doing eight, nine knots." He dropped his hand onto her shoulder. "Don't get excited, kiddo. Who's out?"

  The last question was directed to Larry, who acts as our harbour master. He didn't need to scan the bay, dotted as it was with half a dozen moored yachts, before answering. "Only Matty in Voodoo. She's on a scavenger run out to the Solomons."

  "I assume that she's solo?" That was Duncan's idea of a joke — Matai is the nineteen-year-old skipper of a yacht named Voodoo, and her irritable, aloof nature is notable even by solo sailor standards.

  Larry chuckled dutifully. "She's been gone three weeks — but she hasn't come up on a scheduled radio check in over a fortnight. Last sched, she said she was investigating a strange island ninety miles to the east of Pockington Reef."

  "There's no island there!" objected Piper. She had wanted to go out with Matty and was still piqued at Matty's out-of-hand dismissal.

  "Yes, I suggested as much when she called it in. Her response was… well, not suitable for your young ears."

  "That's unlike Matty to be prickly. She's probably dumped the scheds to teach you a lesson." Two jokes from Duncan in as many minutes. He was in high form, which I thought odd with the unknown boat approaching. I was about to try my own hand at wit when I realised: No, he's not in good spirits. That was his way of diffusing tension and keeping the team — and those within eavesdropping distance — calm.

  "Captain Duncan, sir!" We looked over the side of the tower to see Roman among the gathered crowd. Roman is the nephew of Auntie Ruthie, one of the island's local leaders. His cheerful nature and good English mean he's often carrying messages back and forth between the expat camp and the local village. I like him; he has a soldier's disdain for politics and is never happier than when he's fishing from his canoe off the reef. But, like a soldier, he never shirks from duty, no matter how unpleasant the task, and his loyalty to Auntie is unquestioned. His curly black beard framed his brilliant white teeth as he grinned a good morning at us. "Do you have a message for Auntie?"

  "Good morning, Roman. I'm pleased to see you." Duncan pitched his voice to carry across the bay; he knew that most expats followed his lead when dealing with the locals and so was always exceptionally hearty and direct with them. "Please wish Auntie a good morning too and let her know that an expat yacht is heading towards the island. We don't recognise it, so we'll follow standard quarantine procedure."

  Roman's happy-go-lucky nature causes some expats to underestimate him, but he's no fool. "Do you think there will be good fishing this morning?" I realised the subtext of his question immediately. Meaning: Was it safe for the fishermen to go out? Meaning: Do you think there will be shooting?

  Everyone was silent as Duncan weighed his response. He knew his words would set expectations of the coming situation. The waves lapping on the shore and the morning calls of jungle birds seemed unnaturally loud in the gentle morning breeze. "I think it would be better if the fishermen waited until this afternoon," said Duncan.

  Roman nodded in understanding and trotted off into the jungle, following one of the main paths that connected the beaches, settlements, and vegetable gardens of Madau Island like a cobweb. Below the watchtower, there was a quiet murmur as the slower expats were filled in: Duncan expected there to be shooting.

  Larry pursed his lips as Duncan turned back to us. "Do you think that was wise? It just reinforces to the locals that outsiders are a threat."

  "It reinforces to them that we treat our own no less severely than we would treat them," Duncan said. We could see the bear on the sail clearly now, even without binos. The yacht didn't seem to have changed its course or speed one bit. "Everything about this is wrong."

  "Like what?" I asked.

  Duncan glanced quickly at me, as if he had forgotten I was there. "They should've doused that spinnaker when the sea breeze picked up after dawn. Hell, what are they doing flying it at night anyway? Recklessness is one thing, but look how the boat is heeling, how the bow is lifting on every rise?"

  Larry kindly translated for me. "What Duncan means is the wind is too strong for so big a sail. They should have put it away and switched to something smaller."

  "And look, it's brand new too… who the hell has a brand-new spinnaker in this day and age?" Duncan added. "Bundaberg is in Australia, right? Isaac, if they heave to, I want you to go out in the quarantine canoe. Find out what their story is."

  "Of course." I didn't bother pointing out that the only thing Australian about me is my birth certificate. My parents were Australians who ran a dive centre in Madang, a town on the New Guinea mainland. Technically I'm Australian too, but the only time I ever spent there was the two weeks following my birth at Cairns General Hospital, necessary for Australian paperwork. I've lived all of my twenty-two years in New Guinea, and it's my knowledge of the local culture and languages that bought me a seat at the Council Table despite my age. It's why I was allowed up the tower, so I'd know the story from the beginning.

  Duncan's thoughts flickered across his face as the yacht neared, never deviating from its course, its great yellow sail bulging until even I could see it was on the verge of splitting.

  I knew that the quarantine procedures were developed for a reason. With most of the world destroyed by a virulent plague thirteen years ago — and with the damned survivors driven by a tortured compulsion to spread their disease — we can't risk the slightest chance of an infected getting ashore. We only need to look to the east, where Woodlark Island looms, completely given over to the damned, to remind us of the consequences of laxity.

  The airborne variant of the plague hasn't been seen in over a decade. It was a victim of its own success; in the end, it killed its hosts faster than they could infect the dwindling pool of survivors. The strain we deal with today that creates the damned is passed in fluid transmission: blood and saliva. Thus our vigilance. Thus quarantine.

  Even so, I couldn't help but wonder. Duncan, Piper, even Larry, were committed — if that boat crossed an invisible line out there in the jagged, choppy waves of the bay, they would have no hesitation about cutting it to pieces.

  But how would the yacht's crew know where this line was?

  Every minute brought the yacht a quarter of a kilometre closer. We had barely four minutes before the yacht hit the reef, where anyone on board would be able to just wade ashore. I understand the importance of quarantine — but even so, there was something relentlessly cold-blooded about the way the moments piled one on top of each other, slowly and then so q
uickly, as we rushed to an event that could never be undone.

  "Hail them," said Duncan.

  Larry raised his handheld VHF radio to his mouth. "Sailing vessel, sailing vessel, sailing vessel, this is Madau Control on Channel 16, heave to or you will be fired upon." He paused and waited for a response. After half-a-dozen breaths, he tried again. When his third hail went unanswered, he said, "Switching to Channel 9." As procedure dictated, after trying Channel 9, he would go to 68, then 72, and then 10, cycling through all the other channels that could possibly be in use.

  "Load," said Duncan, only loud enough that we could hear.

  Piper moved firmly and decisively. I knew she was proud of her weapons proficiency. She popped open the cover, laid the thick belt of shining bullets carefully on the tray, slapped the cover closed and then stepped aside. I was surprised; I wouldn't have expected her to pass up the opportunity to finally fire live. But she was just making space so that Duncan could help her with the only thing she couldn't handle — she lacked the strength to rack the powerful charging lever. He pulled the tight, spring-loaded lever twice to cock the gun, and she took it back, her thumbs next to but not on the leaf trigger, carefully drawing a bead ahead of the yacht.

  Larry had barely finished the last hail before Duncan said, "Warning shots."

  The whole tower shook as Piper let off a short burst. The gun sounded like a flurry of hammer blows striking an anvil. She watched her fall of shot carefully, as the rounds kicked up fountains of white water fifty metres to the side of the yacht. The spinnaker blanketed the whole vessel — we could see nothing of the cockpit or any sign of crew from our position.

  "Are any other vessels manned?" asked Duncan, looking southward to the five boats tucked into anchorage at the southern end of the harbour. There were two sloops, Larry's Razzmatazz and Duncan's Excelsior; two catamarans, Shiloh and Fidelio; and Queen Victoria, an old rusty ferryboat.