Hunting the Dragon

by Peter Dixon

  As Billy stared at the rifles, Gandara turned and looked at him for a long moment. The younger man wanted to run, but the captain’s green eyes held him. “I can feel it when you stare at me from behind my back. Remember that, niño, and remember the captain of this ship is your protector and master. If you work hard, and follow orders, your voyage will be uneventful.”

  Billy was stunned by the man’s intensity. For the first time in many years he answered subserviently, “Yes, sir.”

  The mate led him outside and Billy slowed to run a hand over the spotting binoculars. “Steiners, from Germany. Good optics.”

  “The best. We have the best of everything. The captain knows quality. He liked your drawings, you could see that.”

  “Want to buy one?”

  The mate’s frown shut Billy up, and he followed Santos along the side of the bridge. They stopped where a ladder led upward to the Hughes 300 helicopter strapped to the top of the wheelhouse. Santos bellowed at a small man standing on a red toolbox peering into the open hatch of the engine housing. “Mr. Lessing, the captain wants you to show this kid the boat. You know, fill him in about everything. He’ll bunk with you. He’s an American, so you can bullshit with him.”

  Before Santos turned away he grabbed Billy’s shoulders. He squeezed hard to make a point and said, “The captain likes you; do not do anything to dishonor him.”

  “Sure, he’s the captain.”

  “He is our father, and Lucky Dragon is our home. You will respect him and work hard.”

  Billy sensed the mate’s intense loyalty and knew any back talk would bring his fist crashing down. He said with a nod that was supposed to convey his sincerity, “I’ll pull my share.”

  “And more, niño. You must be prepared to give your life for him. Without the captain, we are nothing.”

  A voice came down from the helicopter carrying a tone of weary sarcasm, “Ah, come on, Santos. Save your sermon for the Catholics.”

  The mate looked up at Mr. Lessing and gave him a threatening scowl. The pilot peered down at them and said pleasantly, “Treat me right, Santos, or I might get drunk, crash this beat-up chopper, and miss spotting a pod.”

  “And you, Mr. Lessing, may a shark piss on your lips.”

  Santos turned away and walked aft as if he was king of the deck. Billy watched his muscled bulk vanish and thought, That is one tough dude. No way am I ever going to back talk to him.

  “So where are you from, kid?” came a voice from under the helicopter’s engine cowling.

  “Mostly the Southern California beach scene, but now, nowhere, really.”

  “Join the club. Come on up.”

  The pilot closed the engine compartment and reached into a cooler. He handed Billy a sweating can of Coke and popped the top off a beer for himself. “The name’s Arnold.”

  “I’m Billy Crawford. How come the captain and mate call you ‘Mr. Lessing’?”

  “Gandara honors me as a fellow officer. In the old days I was a captain in the army of the U.S.A.”

  “And the old days were where?”

  He saw Arnold’s face cloud. “That’s classified.”

  “Maybe this is an okay question. Why did Gandara go through my gear like a customs inspector?”

  “He doesn’t allow cameras—still, video, or movie—aboard.”

  “And he took mine. How come?” Billy asked.

  “It’s his ship,” Lessing added with a cautionary note that chopped Billy’s question right there.

  Billy took a long pull on the can. “That Gandara, he’s an intense guy.”

  “You might say that.”

  He sensed that Arnold played it close to the vest and switched the subject. “Must be a real chore keeping a chopper running out here, with the salt corrosion and everything.”

  The pilot placed a hand on the helicopter’s blue-gray cabin siding. The man’s touch was one of loving respect for the machine he flew. Billy saw that Arnold’s hair was thinning, his hands had a slight tremor, and that there was an eruption of reddish scar tissue around the back of the pilot’s neck that the man’s sweat-stained T-shirt failed to hide. Then he faced Billy and said, “Damn salt spray eats right through the aluminum if you don’t keep after it. And I got no crew chief to pull maintenance. Not like the old days when I only had to fly these birds.”

  Arnold lashed a canvas cover over the helicopter’s forward windshield, and with surprising agility dropped down the ladder to the deck without touching his feet to the rungs. “Let’s take a walk, kid.”

  Billy followed him aft and the pilot remarked, “In port we don’t stand watches, except for an engine room guy, the mess crew, and one of the mates. In port he goes easy. At sea, it’s different. He’s a mean bastard then, and you’d better believe it.”

  On the way aft the pilot paused below the mainmast that sprouted half a dozen antennae and two radars housed in plastic covers. He pointed up at the enclosed crow’s nest and said, “Best place to stay cool in the ship, and about the only place for a little privacy, if you meditate or stuff like that.”

  “How about all those automatic rifles in the captain’s cabin?”

  The pilot had had enough of Billy’s persistent questions and gruffly answered, “Pirates, Billy, big-time down here.”

  Arnold indicated the long, thick boom of a crane that was fixed to the mast, which now lay on the deck. He led Billy to the end of the boom where a giant hydraulic-driven motorized pulley was attached to the top. “That’s the power block. It pulls the net out of the water and over the stern so the catch can be untangled and loaded into the freezers. That sucker’s so powerful it can haul in a thirty-ton load of tuna, and it has more than once.”

  They continued aft to pause before a small mountain of red nylon netting. “How long’s the net?” Billy asked.

  “A little over a mile, and it hangs down from the corkline some three hundred feet deep. It’s called a purse seine, because after the catch is encircled, we pull a line that closes the bottom, like closing a string purse.”

  They climbed the nylon mountain and saw Rocha sitting in the seine skiff with his back to them. The boatman was staring at the sea, unaware of their approach. Arnold went on explaining, “When Gandara orders a set, the skiff drops off the stern and hauls the net out in a circle to trap the tuna. Anyway, Rocha will tell you all about it. His job’s running the skiff.”

  They started down the tangle of webbing and Arnold called out, “Hey, Arthur. Meet your new boatman.”

  Rocha turned slowly to stare at them. Billy saw a look of sadness on the young man’s face and that he had been crying.

  “I already met Surfking. I’ll check him out on the skiff tomorrow,” Rocha said and turned his back.

  Arnold pulled Billy away and they climbed back over the net. Billy asked, “What’s his problem?”

  “He can’t go home anymore. What’s yours?”

  Arnold opened the door to his cabin and waved Billy inside. He was surprised to find the small, cramped room military-barracks neat. The only adornment was a calendar devoted to old racing planes mounted over the head of the lower bunk. Billy noticed that the bed was made with hospital corners and the thin blanket pulled so tight that a quarter dropped on it would bounce. He remembered that Arnold had been a captain and thought, He’s still an officer at heart.

  Arnold opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Inside, half a dozen more stood at attention. The pilot poured a shot for himself and said, “I’d offer you a drink, but this has gotta last.” He pointed the glass at the upper bunk. “You’re up there, and if you snore, you sleep on the net.”

  “The captain, is he Spanish or something?”

  “Portuguese, out of Mozambique, Africa. His people were big-shot colonials back to the time of Columbus. Would you believe he used to skipper a gunboat? Anyway, then came the revolution, and adios good times and exploiting the blacks. The Gandaras lost everything.”

  Arnold slugged down the vodka, pulled off his
shirt, and turned to brush his teeth. Billy winced as he saw the reddish scar tissue that ran down the pilot’s back from neck to waist.

  “Burns…?”

  The pilot turned to stare at Billy. “You writing a book or something?”

  “If you’re touchy about it, I’m sorry.”

  “I went down once and the chopper flamed.”

  “Come on, Arnold. There has to be more.”

  “It’s X-rated, and you’re too young, kid. Now go to sleep. Gandara has the day watch get up at dawn for inspection. Except for me. Rank has its privileges.”

  “Inspection?”

  “Yeah. He still thinks he’s commanding a gunboat.”

  “What war were you in? Vietnam? CIA in Afghanistan?”

  Arnold ignored him, poured another splash of vodka into his glass, and turned his back on Billy.

  Billy awoke to the rumbling of the engine and felt vibrations that trembled the steel frame of his narrow bunk. It was pitch black in the cabin, and Billy cautiously eased out of the top bunk to drop silently on the deck. As he groped for the light, he heard a metallic click sound from behind. He found the switch and the dim bulb glowed. Billy turned and saw Arnold propped up on an elbow clutching a .45 Colt automatic. The barrel was pointed at his guts. The pilot’s eyes were wide with dread, and the hand that held the gun trembled.

  “Hey, Arnold, it’s me, Billy,” he said soothingly.

  He casually uncocked the automatic and slid it under his pillow. “Sorry, kid. I forgot you were here.”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  “I dream too much. Not to worry. I’ve never shot anyone yet. And you’d better report to the mess hall for inspection. If you’re late, Santos will kick your butt.”

  Billy hurried on deck and paused for a moment to look at the first pink tint of sunrise on the eastern horizon. He breathed in the sea air, liking the iodine scent and salty moisture. Then he became conscious that the clipper was moving swiftly. He looked forward and saw its bow cutting a clean furrow through the glassy swells. He felt excitement rising and remembered the one bit of good advice his father had given him, “Never say no to adventure.”

  He began to think about his dad and the bad times that had split his family apart. It was his father’s drinking. After he came back from Iraq he began drinking more and more. The man couldn’t stop. He drank vodka like Arnold. Maybe I shouldn’t fly with him. Dad wasn’t violent or anything. He just wouldn’t admit he was an alcoholic and going wacko.

  He was home when the California Highway Patrol called his mother. She listened quietly, hung up, and told him simply, “He was drunk and ran into a tree. He’s dead.” He was ten years old when the police called.

  The Veterans Administration paid for his dad’s funeral. Six months later—six months of feeling like a lost unwanted kid—his mother married one of his father’s army buddies. After his third tour in Iraq, Billy’s new dad was assigned to Fort Hood, Texas. Mom and his stepfather moved to his new assignment. He didn’t want a kid around.…and she left me with her sister and her husband. Aunt Betty and Uncle Al were the best. They really took me in hand. He remembered their house built over the office of the small boatyard the couple managed and all the lively boaters that came in and out of their lives.

  A rough hand clamped down on his shoulder. Billy snapped out of his memories and looked up at Santos.

  “Get your ass into the mess, niño, or you’re going to be late,” the mate warned, and Billy hurried after him.

  As Billy followed Santos inside, he saw that most of the crew not on duty sat around long wooden tables eating breakfast. Fishermen looked up at him, showing more interest this time. In the serving line, Billy helped himself to coffee, stewed fruit, and eggs scrambled with some sort of dark sausage. At the end of the line stood a tray of bottled condiments with labels that Billy guessed were written in Portuguese. Ahead of him, an old fisherman warned, “Watch out for that hot sauce. It’ll burn your guts out.”

  “Hey, thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Billy spotted the skiff operator and sat down opposite him. Rocha looked up, and then back at his plate. “Eat your eggs before the speeches, or they’ll get cold.”

  When the captain entered nobody saluted or stood at attention. Instead, conversation ended abruptly, coffee mugs held in midair went back on the mess table, backs straightened and faces became attentive. Billy watched Gandara eye the men and noticed that most of the crew seemed eager for what the captain might say.

  The first mate spoke first, “All crew onboard and accounted for, captain. Nobody in sick bay and I haven’t had a complaint all morning.”

  Rocha muttered under his breath, “Who’d dare?”

  A short, ruddy-faced man, who spoke with an Australian accent, reported to the captain, “Engine room in order, fuel tanks topped off, and the maintenance schedule is well under way, sir.”

  The Australian snapped the last out with crisp British military tradition.

  “Well done, Mr. McNeal,” the captain offered.

  A young mate, who Billy guessed was some sort of college-educated technician, stood and described the health of the ship’s electronics and that all was well.

  “Thank you, Mr. Marusak,” the captain responded and turned to face the men. “Does anyone have anything to say this morning? Anything at all. Feel free to speak up.”

  No one accepted the invitation and Gandara continued, “After we unload at Samoa, we’ll be heading for the west coast of Central America. When we start fishing, I want Lucky Dragon to be one hundred percent operational. Last night, over the radio, came good news. The price of tuna jumped to sixteen hundred and seventy dollars a ton. That’s an all-time high. And I’m sure you know what that means.”

  The captain swept his eyes across the gathering. “It means,” Gandara stressed, “that you can count on an extra two or three thousand above the usual share when I pay off. Work well, honor the ship, and do your duty.”

  He turned abruptly and left the mess. Santos took the captain’s place and said, “That also means you work hard and be thankful God has blessed us with the birds and dolphins to lead us to the tuna. Dismissed.”

  Rocha stood and looked down at Billy. “You stay here and help clean up. After that, report to the skiff. Understand right now, dude, you do what I tell you, and we get along okay. Got that?”

  “Sure. You’re the boss. I do what you say.”

  Benny liked dawn the best. There was always the expectation that the rising sun would bring something new into his life. His senses were fully alive to the sea and the vastness of the pink-tinted sky overhead. Benny’s fingers gripped the wheel lightly, feeling every nuance of Salvador’s slow, steady passage through the rolling swells.

  This dawn, Benny Seeger was a happy man. Last night monitoring the radio, he had picked up a garbled transmission between Lucky Dragon and a tuna packer’s agent broadcast in some sort of company code. It was clear to Benny that Gandara was heading for Samoa to unload, and then on to the clipper’s traditional fishing grounds off Costa Rica. That bit of intelligence would save them weeks, maybe months, of searching.

  Sarah appeared next to the captain and handed him a mug of coffee. The rich smell of the filtered brew she had made brought Benny out of his musing and he said, “Not only do you raise money, but you make a hell of a cup of coffee.”

  “You taught me.”

  He sipped and moved away from the wide stainless steel wheel. “You take her. Steer zero-three-zero.”

  Sarah grasped the metal rim and stared into the dawn. Watching the sunrise together was a ritual they had come to enjoy these past weeks at sea. When he had finished his coffee she said, “Benny, you love this old boat, don’t you?”

  “I guess I do, but I wouldn’t be commanding her without you and your dad.”

  “And the hundreds of people who contributed to the foundation. And if I may, you should be writing your contribution to the foundation’s newsletter.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, yeah, the newsletter. You know what to say. Why don’t you write it for me?”

  Sarah gave Benny a look of annoyance and thought, Okay, cool it. He’s the captain and Benny has lot more to worry about than I do.

  She remembered her father’s advice before they sailed. “You grew up in a far different world from Captain Seeger or his crew. You’re a privileged child. And your father, he’s sort of famous and rich beyond what he ever dreamed he’d be. What I want you to do is remember that on Benny’s ship you’re no one special. It’s like you were drafted into the army. Follow orders, do your job, and you’ll have a hell of an experience.”

  Sarah had replied, “You’re saying that my famous dad won’t be around to bail me out if I get in trouble.”

  “Well, I’m glad you got that.”

  Sarah and the captain watched the sun emerge from a low band of lacy, tropic clouds. Benny’s thoughts switched from thinking about Gandara and Lucky Dragon to his own vessel. He wondered just how seaworthy Salvador really was. The keel had been laid long before Sarah was born.

  Salvador was ancient by today’s naval standards. She had once been a Canadian Navy minesweeper and had crossed the North Atlantic five times. Her last voyage was from Halifax through the Panama Canal to her final berth north of Vancouver at the torpedo test center near Nanaimo, British Columbia. The navy budget cutters had declared her surplus and the little wooden warship that had never sailed into battle went up for auction. Stripped of military electronics and her single 40 mm cannon, and in need of a refit, the vessel acquired a new owner who tendered the winning bid of 148,000 Canadian dollars.

  Benny knew the minesweeper’s wooden hull was sound, and her big Cummings diesels would run another 150,000 nautical miles at an honest twelve knots without an overhaul. He considered the vessel a bargain. The Canadian Navy had even left the dishes, galley equipment, and bedding aboard. Benny was pleased with his ship. Though small, and tender in a following sea, she was what he needed. With Salvador’s bow converted into a sharp stainless-steel-reinforced battering ram, she was a dangerous weapon in Benny’s hands. Now, after twenty-seven years of joint Canadian-NATO exercises the ship would at last sail against an unlikely, nonpolitical enemy.