Hunting the Dragon

by Peter Dixon

  The real foe, Benny had discovered, was public apathy. He needed people’s hearts and money, lots of money—money for the Zodiac chase boats and cameras, money to pay for the 5,000 gallons of diesel fuel Salvador consumed at sea each month, money to pay for insurance and new radios and a 24-mile-range radar, money for a nationwide mailing to raise more money. And money to fill the freezers and food lockers for a voyage of six months. And he would need extra money to make the old minesweeper’s bow even stronger, to ram through the steel side of a 268-foot tuna clipper named Lucky Dragon. The clipper was out there somewhere in the Pacific and Benny was determined to find and sink her.

  He had had just enough money after presenting his cashier’s check to the Canadian Navy to sail Salvador to Los Angeles. L.A. was where he would find the big donors, if he could create sufficient media interest and produce an “event” to draw movie people and other celebrities to his cause. Enough of them lived along the coast to be familiar with the dolphins who frequently swam, leaping and diving, in front of their Malibu Beach homes. That was where Sarah Thornburg and her movie producer father, Sam, lived. The Thornburgs cared enough to contribute generously to the survival of the dolphins and had supported environmental causes for as long as Sarah could remember.

  At the highest tide of the month he had sailed Salvador into Marina del Rey yacht harbor. Benny intentionally grounded her on the sandbar at the entrance to the marina. As the tide receded, Salvador stuck fast. She would be stranded there inside the harbor until next month’s spring tide—time enough for Benny to accomplish his mission.

  The harbor patrol, coast guard, and Los Angeles County lifeguards had all screamed he was breaking the law. Benny stalled for time, flew his “Save the Dolphins” banners, invited the media aboard, faced the television news cameras and skeptical reporters from the Los Angeles Times, and worked them over as skillfully as a TV pitchman selling miracle potato peelers.

  Sarah and her father, Sam, had come aboard to visit during one of his media blitz events. Benny sensed that the girl and her father were appraising him to determine if he was a phony. When the press and camera crews had retired to their laptops and editing rooms, Sam and Sarah stayed and talked with him through the night about saving dolphins. Father and daughter were pragmatic and wanted to help. Sam knew the money-raising game, had the mailing lists and contacts with the movie business folks. He could organize a phone tree, was well-connected to the rich, and believed in Benny’s cause. Sarah and her father were a team in every respect. They went to work raising the money Benny needed to send Salvador on an odyssey that might lead to losing his ship or, if he succeeded, possibly going to prison for a long time.

  Sam and Sarah had good friends among the environmental organizations and the Hollywood activist crowd, and a very long donor list. Sarah’s father created a tax-exempt foundation to support Salvador and the money flowed. When all was settled and the sailing date set, Sam had asked one favor of Benny. His daughter was taking a year off to work before starting college with a major in film arts. She wanted to join Benny’s crew and sail aboard Salvador. Would Benny accept her?

  Benny had insisted the voyage could be dangerous, the work hard, and she wouldn’t earn a cent.

  “It’s what she’ll learn from you that’s important,” Sam insisted. “And no amount of money can buy that experience. And besides, she’s really good with a camera.”

  A week later Benny had an eye-to-eye talk with Sarah and asked, “Have you ever been in the water with a wild dolphin?”

  “No, but I’ve studied them, seen them in tanks, touched them at SeaWorld, and felt whatever energy or life force they radiate flow into me. And it’s wrong to kill them for profit. That’s why I’m here, Benny.”

  He made up his mind to accept her. “If you promise me one thing, I’ll take you swimming with wild dolphins.”

  “Whatever it is, I promise,” she said seriously.

  “This is not a game, kid. Or a movie set. You’re headstrong and you’re your own person. I admire that. But aboard Salvador, there’s only one captain, and that’s me. At sea, you follow my orders. Remember that, and we’ll get along just fine.”

  She agreed, and Benny said, “Okay, you’re part of the crew. Between now and when we sail, learn everything you can about seamanship and dolphins.”

  * * *

  It was full daylight now, and she surrendered the wheel. “Your turn, captain. I’ve got that newsletter to write for you.”

  Benny gripped the wheel lightly. He liked the feel of the teak deck under his bare, callused feet. He was a seaman first, a crusader next, and a tough guy who knew he could knock out anyone half his age if he had to defend his honor, a girlfriend, or the life of a dolphin. He lost himself in thoughts about his time in the navy until he noticed he was hungry. “Where the hell’s that kid who’s supposed to relieve me?” he barked at no one in particular.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sarah sitting in the deck chair typing on a laptop computer. She was fixed on the screen, and Benny had to bellow to get her attention. “Turn that thing off. Don’t you know it’s bad for your brain?”

  “But, Benny, I’m writing the newsletter for you.”

  “What newsletter?”

  “To your board of directors,” she said as if the whole subject pained her.

  “What board of directors?”

  “The directors of the Dolphin Society. Remember, that’s the tax-exempt foundation my dad created to send us out here? Or have you forgotten that the foundation is paying our way?”

  “Oh, yeah. The foundation…”

  She noticed he seemed preoccupied and asked, “What is on your mind today beside mother ocean and dolphins?”

  “Fuel, a fouled bottom, a generator that has to be overhauled, and a Portuguese African pirate named Gandara who’s heading toward Costa Rica while we’re going to Fiji for repairs. That’s why we’re pulling into Suva, remember?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They stood in the battered gray seine skiff that sat on Lucky Dragon’s stern with its aft end pointed downward ready to launch. Rocha explained patiently to Billy, “She’s twenty-four feet long, powered by a three-hundred-and-eighty-horse Volvo diesel, and it takes every bit of power she’s got to pull the net off the stern.”

  Rocha leaned forward, and Billy saw him forcing his tough look. The boatman continued, “So after we launch, we go like hell and haul the seine out and around the catch. If we screw up and don’t connect the ends fast enough, and the school escapes, Captain Gandara will have my ass. Then I’m going to have yours.”

  “So, how many fish does that net hold?” Billy asked, knowing that a question would defuse Rocha’s L.A.-tough-guy veneer.

  “We don’t count ’em. We catch ’em by the ton. Last time we fished the ETP—that’s ‘eastern tropical Pacific’—we made one set that netted twenty-three tons of yellowfin. That was some haul. And those mothers are big. Some weigh two, three hundred pounds. And the freezers only hold about a hundred and sixty tons. It took the guys half a day to brail those tuna.”

  “Brail?”

  “I thought you worked on a fishing boat.”

  “Where I fished, we caught ’em on hook and line.”

  “Sport fishing, right? Anyway, brailing is bringing ’em aboard with big scoops, or gaffs, or taking ’em out of the net by hand when it’s hauled. That net is a real killer. When it gets pulled in tight—tuna, sharks, turtles, dolphins—everything in it goes crazy, jumping and thrashing, and all the time we gotta keep the net out of the skiff’s prop. Look over the stern.”

  Rocha indicated the skiff’s big three-blade propeller and warned Billy never to get near it when the engine was running. He noticed the boat’s name painted across the wide transom in Latino graffiti style: YOLANDA.

  “Nice name,” Billy said. “Your girlfriend’s…?”

  “None of your business,” Rocha said threateningly. “What is it with you that—”

  A loud, repeated bla
st of the clipper’s klaxon horn stopped Rocha in midsentence and Billy asked, “What’s going on?”

  The Latino kid leaped out of the skiff and yelled, “We got an alert, report to your station!”

  Rocha sprinted away for the bridge and Billy called after him, “Where’s my station?”

  Rocha didn’t hear and vanished into the superstructure. The klaxon bleated again and again. Billy wandered toward the bridge, and thought, Are we going to war or something?

  He saw men running. In front of him, two seamen pulled a fire hose off its reel and stood by the railing as if to repel boarders. He asked what was happening. One yelled, “Report to your station, on the double!”

  He saw movement on the bridge above him. Two men appeared by the railing. One was Rocha, who clutched an automatic rifle and had a bandolier of cartridge magazines slung across his chest. The other scanned the horizon through high-powered binoculars.

  Arnold dashed out of the bridge and scrambled up the ladder for the helicopter. He was only a few feet away, and Billy ran for him, calling, “What’s happening?”

  Arnold paused halfway up and looked down at Billy. “Don’t you have a station, kid?”

  “I don’t even have a life preserver,” he shot back.

  “Well then, come along for a ride. You’re my observer. Let’s go. I gotta get airborne right now!”

  He followed Arnold up the ladder and was waved into the passenger seat. The pilot pointed to a safety belt and helmet. Billy jammed the plastic dome over his skull and pulled the harness tight across his lap and shoulders.

  He watched Arnold flicking switches, readying the heli-copter for takeoff, and realized the helmet’s earphones were transmitting the pilot’s preflight dialog. “Bluebird to Dragon, we’re lighting the power plant. Request you turn into the wind and give me a reading on target direction and speed.”

  A voice Billy recognized as the first mate’s boomed in his ears, “Bluebird, we are turning into the wind. Wind speed six knots out of the southwest. Target about thirty miles north-north-west at zero-niner-zero. Estimated speed, twelve knots.”

  “Acknowledged, Dragon. Up in the air, Junior Birdmen, up in the air we go!”

  Billy felt the rotor blades turning overhead—faster and faster—until the cabin shook from the air blasting down on the cockpit. The helicopter’s engine screamed to full power. Then, with startling abruptness, the Hughes leaped from the deck. Nose down, the helicopter climbed skyward so rapidly that Billy’s stomach sank and his butt was pressed into the seat cushion.

  Arnold tapped him and pointed to a binocular case fixed to the passenger side door. Billy drew out the field glasses and moved the tiny microphone that sprouted out of the side of the helmet to his lips. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “A small ship that isn’t supposed to be out here. Should be dead ahead. The sun’s behind us, so they probably won’t spot us.”

  “What’s going—”

  Arnold reached out, rapped hard on Billy’s helmet and put a finger to his lips. He flipped a switch and said, “Now Santos can’t hear us talking.”

  “What’s going on, Arnold?”

  “A little game called catch the big bad wolf. Gandara isn’t liked by some people who don’t like the way he fishes. Oh, just in case you haven’t figured it out, Billy, we’re the pirates. Now put those glasses to work.”

  Miles ahead, through the binoculars’ stereo vision, a small ship appeared, contrasting vividly against the calm, deep blue ocean. Billy noticed that the glasses had a zoom feature and brought the image closer. “It’s some kind of old navy ship, could be a minesweeper. Maybe a hundred and twenty feet long.”

  As they flew closer Arnold asked, “Is she flying any kind of flag, or identifying numbers?”

  “Yeah, the American flag!” Billy said with surprise. “And on the bow there’s a couple of painted leaping dolphins.”

  Arnold demanded, “Any Zodiacs on the stern, with big outboards?”

  “Two, on davits, like lifeboats.” Then he gripped the binoculars tighter and shouted, “And hey, there’re women on board.”

  “Like college girls?” asked Arnold.

  “Get closer and I’ll give your their measurements.”

  “Couple minutes more and we should know for sure. Now look for a big guy on the bridge, big chest, big all over.”

  “Hard to tell…”

  Billy stared through the lenses. The ten-power magnification brought the images of the man and young woman on the bridge into sharp detail. He was big all right, and deeply tanned. Then his attention held on the young woman and Billy thought, Nice legs and body.

  Arnold reached for the binoculars and focused on the ship, at the same time slowing the helicopter until it hovered. “That’s him. Benny Seeger. We found him, or he found us. Doesn’t really matter. Time to go home.”

  The chopper banked and flew away. As it did, the rotor blades flashed a momentary reflection. Billy grabbed the glasses and caught a last glimpse of the young woman. She’s really something.

  * * *

  From inside Salvador’s wheelhouse a young man watching the radar scope called through an open window, “Contact, Benny. Some sort of big ship. Range fifteen, sixteen miles out, and heading east at fifteen knots. She’ll show off our bow in five minutes.”

  Benny waved for Sarah and called, “Take the wheel, and right now.”

  She knew from the tone of his voice it wasn’t the time to ask why, and moved quickly to relieve Benny. She noted the compass heading. He grabbed binoculars and with surprising agility for a man so large, raced up a ladder to the top of the bridge. From there he scrambled up the mast that held the radar and radio antennae, then climbed into the lookout’s perch. In the crow’s nest he peered through the field glasses, scanning the horizon.

  He saw nothing but sea and sky. He knew that the radar turning above him would bring in a return farther than the human eye. He also knew that sometimes the eye could beat electronics. He lowered the binoculars and moved his head back and forth allowing his peripheral vision to come into play. At that moment he caught a high bright burst of sunlight reflecting off metal. He lifted the glasses and saw the departing shape of a light blue helicopter. With a cry of surprise he shouted, “Off the bow. Helicopter!”

  He leaped for a cable that ran from the mast’s crosstree to the deck and slid down to the bridge. Sarah glanced up at Benny, admiring his agility.

  Seconds later, Benny took the wheel and sent Salvador on a heading after the chopper.

  “What’s a helicopter doing this far out at sea?” she asked excitedly.

  “You’re going to college, you figure it out.”

  He was demanding that she use logic, and Sarah reasoned, “We’re about two hundred nautical miles from the nearest land, right?”

  “About…”

  “That’s a long way for a helicopter to be out at sea.”

  “Unless it’s on some sort of search and rescue flight, or a military helicopter.”

  “In that case it wouldn’t have flown off. So, let’s conclude it came from the ship we picked up on radar. Which means it’s a spotter chopper and it could have taken off from a tuna clipper.”

  The seaman at the radar called again. “That ship’s changing course, Benny…heading away from us.”

  “Damn, we’ve been spotted. Every time we get close, they send up a chopper and haul ass.”

  He picked up the glasses and studied the ocean again. Far off, where sea met sky, the faint outline of a vessel stood in sharp contrast on the knife-edged horizon. He immediately recognized her rakish bow and the tall steel mast thrusting upward from the aft deck. As he watched the escaping clipper his frustration erupted. “We gotta have a chopper if we’re ever going to nail that guy.”

  She was offended by his harsh tone and said, “Have you any idea what a helicopter, and paying a pilot, will cost?”

  “Fund-raising. That’s your job, remember? You wanted to see it all for you
rself. Okay. When you go back, you tell those candy-ass environmental dilettantes what it’s like out here, and why we need a chopper.”

  He lowered the binoculars and glanced at Sarah. He realized his abrupt response had hurt her. He didn’t mean it. Her skin was too thin. With a grin to ease the tension, Benny said mischievously, “It doesn’t have to be a new one.”

  She accepted Benny’s peace offering and returned his smile.

  He lifted the glasses and studied the ship again. He knew her silhouette from past, fruitless chases that ended with the clipper vanishing into the vastness of the Pacific. Passing the binoculars to Sarah he said, “There she is.”

  “Lucky Dragon?”

  “And that’s the last you’ll see of her in these waters.”

  “Where’s Gandara heading?”

  “The clipper’s low in the water. That means her freezers are full and they’ll be unloading at the Samoa cannery. After that, he’ll head for the coast of Central America, probably Costa Rica. That’s his usual fishing grounds.”

  “And we can’t intercept him?”

  “Not at our speed, and maybe never in this part of the Pacific, now that he knows we’re after him. But off Costa Rica, he can be found. And one of these days, I will find him dead in the water with his net out, and believe me, I’ll sink his ass.”

  “Benny, there are laws.”

  “He’s a pirate…outside the law. In the old days they’d have blasted his ship out of the water, and hanged him.”

  “You’d really do it?”

  “There are greater laws, Sarah.”

  “That makes you a pirate, too. Have you thought about that?”

  As Arnold descended for the bridge heliport he suddenly aborted the landing to send them climbing high over the clipper. In an excited voice he yelled into the mike, “Got a flock of birds five, six miles off the bow. Could be a school, Santos!”