by Derek Hansen
‘Your happy snaps, sir.’
He turned at the sound of Gloria’s voice. She kept her face deadpan, allowing no hint of what they showed.
‘Well go on, for Christ’s sake! Are they any good?’
‘I did say they were happy snaps, sir.’
‘Top tart!’
Gloria winced.
‘Well? Show them to me!’ He held his hand out for the prints but Gloria refused to give them to him.
‘Sir, I am not a top tart.’
‘You are, by God!’
‘Sir, I am a Third Officer in the Royal New Zealand Navy.’
‘Yes, Third, you are.’ Mickey tried to sound contrite. Almost succeeeded. ‘Now give me the prints.’
‘Couldn’t you say “well done” instead of “top tart”, sir?’
‘Yes, Third Officer Wainscott, I could. I definitely could. Well done. Now give me the prints!’ He reached up and snatched the photos from her hand. The top print had been greatly enlarged and had grain the size of gull’s eggs, but the name on the stern, though indistinct and blurred, was still legible.
‘Top tart!’ he shouted. ‘Gloria, you bloody beauty!’
His eyes swung instantly to the chart he’d pinned on the wall. What would the Jap bastard do next, he wondered? He felt sure he’d sneak inshore again after nightfall, but which way would he trawl? A cautious man would run north, a bold man south. But if the man was cautious he wouldn’t have risked trawling so close in the first place, nor drilled his crew to work in the dark. That showed clear intent. So it had to be south. But if he was both bold and smart, he’d probably head north. ‘God damn!’ said Mickey under his breath. It was like trying to guess which direction a seagull would fly after it had stolen his sandwich.
He realised he could do nothing with any degree of confidence until the phantom had made enough raids to establish a pattern. But would the skipper hang around long enough for the Navy to creak into gear? Probably not. Once again he’d have to rely on intuition and guesswork, act on the basis of one more sighting, and put his balls on the line for everyone to take a swing at. He hoped he’d get through the exercise with them still attached. Mickey had hardly begun the long and speculative business of examining options, of making decisions based on next to no information, when fate once more stuck a leg out to trip him.
‘Sir?’ Gloria the bright and beautiful had reappeared. ‘A message for you, sir.’ She handed Mickey the message and left immediately. That should have warned him.
Mickey skimmed through the note and slammed it down on his desk. ‘Buggeration!’ he screamed. Under cover of darkness, a Taiwanese fishing boat had slipped in close to the northern shore of Banks Peninsula off the mid-east coast of the South Island and set nets. A local fisherman had chanced upon them and sent out an urgent call for help. A school of rare and protected Hector’s dolphins was swimming among the nets, probably attracted by trapped fish. According to the fisherman, some had already become entangled and drowned. A patrol boat had been diverted to assist the locals in an attempt to herd the dolphins away from the danger zone. That left Mickey with the job of identifying and locating the culprit. It was a distraction he didn’t need, but he had no choice.
He picked up the phone and rang his counterpart at the Ohakea Airforce Base with a request for aerial surveillance. The Squadron Commander was happy to oblige. Secretly, Mickey wished they’d send a fully armed Canberra bomber to blow the offender out of the water and, doubtless, his counterpart would also have preferred to resolve the matter that way. The fact was, there wasn’t a New Zealander who didn’t have a soft spot for Hector’s dolphins. Found nowhere else in the world, they had the black and white markings of killer whales, but with almost childishly joyful expressions on their faces. They were the pygmies of the dolphin world, rarely bigger as adults than the newborn calves of bottlenose dolphins. It was impossible to watch these miniature clowns of the sea and not share their joy. Naturally, they were a protected species, and it was Mickey’s job to protect them from foreign fishermen.
Ideally he would have liked the nets left in place to trap the invaders when they came to collect them. But the risk of snaring more dolphins excluded the option. He had to accept that the offenders had got away and were safe until their next incursion. He was aware of two Taiwanese boats operating outside the limit off Banks Peninsula, and each would provide an alibi for the other. To add to the difficulties in apportioning blame, there were also a Japanese trawler and a Russian trawler operating nearby. There was a chance that the impounded nets would reveal the identity of the offender, but many of the foreign ships had long since realised the foolishness of marking nets in a way that could be traced back to them.
As far as Mickey was concerned, the incursion could only split his focus and divide his resources. He could accomplish nothing. But public opinion would demand action, and action would have to be seen to be taken. The Navy was becoming very good at doing things like that. Mickey reckoned PR was the only naval department that worked to its full potential. Nevertheless, the incursion meant work for him and it was work best got out of the way so that he could concentrate on his phantom. He attacked his file and began to prepare a background report on the two Taiwanese boats and their captains to give to the Commodore who, in turn, would prepare a statement for the Minister of Marine, or whoever else put up his hand to be spokesman. The routine was all too familiar. A Protest Note would be sent to the Taiwanese Government which, officially at least, would be contrite. A patrol boat would be stationed off the peninsula for a couple of days and the Airforce would fly a few more patrols, perhaps accompanied by the odd reporter to take photos and reassure the public that something was being done.
Mickey sighed. The charts on his desk and wall demanded attention he was unable to give. His throat was dry and the old cloud of despondency had returned to hover above him. The search for the Shoto Maru had stalled before it had really begun. He’d earned a beer, needed a beer, but would have to make do with Gloria’s poisonously strong Nescafé. She had many talents, he reflected, but coffee making did not number among them.
Shimojo Seiichi read the latest intelligence reports and assessed the risks. Snapper were seasonal and the season was in its death throes. The rest of the Japanese trawler fleet had already moved south to the winter fishing grounds chasing mackerel and hoki. There were still snapper to the south and logic suggested that was where he should fish. But there were risks. The Navy would almost certainly be aware of their presence, but what could they do about it?
He’d just been informed that a patrol boat had left its station off the west coast of Taranaki Province and was heading north to round the tip of the North Island and make its way down the east coast to its home base at Devonport. This coincided with reports of activity around the patrol boat Shearwater, suggesting that it was being readied to put to sea. If the two patrol boats were swapping places, the Shoto Maru ran the risk of being caught in a pincer movement. The patrol boats were a threat but not one he had to face within twenty-four hours. Only the Sunderlands posed an immediate danger, but they were ineffective at night and rarely used. The skipper made his decision. Trouble, if there was to be any, would not come until the third or fourth night, when the Navy would have begun to realise what he was up to. But what could they do? How could they find him? The new moon and overcast sky hid him except when he had to use his lights. And soon he’d slip into the cover of the rain that was drenching the Hauraki Gulf and Great Barrier Island. Then he’d be as good as invisible, lights on or off.
Lieutenant Commander Mickey Finn arrived at the naval base HMNZS Philomel half an hour early, despite his late night, and sincerely wished that he hadn’t. Unlike the foreign fishing fleet, his department did not work around the clock, and only had a skeleton staff at weekends. He was on call if an emergency arose, but breaches of territorial waters hardly rated as an emergency unless they were by an invading fleet. There’d been little likelihood of that since 1945. Even as he parke
d his Triumph Herald convertible, he heard the phone ringing in his office. It seemed as though half the population of North Auckland had stayed up all night to catch a glimpse of the intruder and were now determined to let the Navy in on their secret. Once he established that the Shoto Maru had fished in as close as two miles and as far south as Bream Head, he took the phone off the hook. If anyone had a problem with that their complaints would go to the PR department, which wasn’t under-staffed or sleep-deprived.
Mickey penned two more requests to the Japanese Embassy and a draft press release. He’d spent the night formulating a plan but it wasn’t without significant flaws. Its biggest problem was that it required the co-operation of Commodore Auckland, unless he could think of a way to convince his immediate superior to act upon his own initiative, something Staff Officer Operations, Lieutenant Commander Philip Scriven, had successfully resisted doing for the entire duration of his career. Mickey was not hopeful. Superior officers tended not to be enthusiastic about allowing the Navy to be portrayed as incompetent, a suspicion they normally went to great lengths to allay. But Mickey was concerned that the Shoto Maru might be in touch with its representatives in Auckland, and he needed to conceal the extent of his knowledge. Again, under normal circumstances, the Navy usually contrived to appear more knowledgeable than they actually were. Mickey tried to imagine how Lieutenant Commander Scriven would react to a reversal in tactics and thought about tearing up his press release and tossing it in the bin. But, on the dubious basis that the Navy was always most likely to do what was least expected, he walked down the corridor to the corner office instead.
Lieutenant Commander Scriven’s guardian was absent from her post behind her desk, where she did a pretty good job of preventing access to her boss. She was a petite but pneumatic brunette with a fiery temperament who could type like a tornado, make instant coffee taste percolated and who, it was widely rumoured, allowed her boss to slip his submarine into her pen. Mickey knocked discreetly and stuck his head through the door.
‘Ahhh . . . Mickey, come in, come in.’
‘Thank you. Morning, Phil.’ It grated with Mickey that Lieutenant Commander Scriven held seniority over him, but he had to accept that the dapper little man in front of him had qualities he lacked, which in the Navy’s eyes made him better equipped for the job. He was diplomatic, politically aware and a stickler for protocol. He also looked impressive on television, and had the sort of rich voice people respected. They believed him when he assured them that the Navy ‘would take strong action’, even though Lieutenant Commander Scriven hadn’t the slightest idea just what that might entail.
‘Sit down, sit down. Time I had a chat with you.’
Mickey sat, groaning inwardly. He’d been the recipient of Phil Scriven’s little fireside chats before. He couldn’t imagine what he’d want to talk to him about this time, so he decided to take the initiative, something he, at least, was capable of doing. ‘Phil, I’ve come to talk to you about this latest incursion by the Shoto Maru and how we should handle it.’
‘Yes, yes. But I got in first.’ Lieutenant Commander Scriven settled back in his chair and tried to look fatherly. ‘Been a complaint, you know. Nothing official, of course. Strictly off the record.’
‘A complaint?’ Mickey recognised the tone, Phil’s self-styled, quiet voice of authority, and went on his guard. ‘Yes, from . . . let me see now . . .’ He rummaged through some papers on his desk, found the one he was looking for, held it at arm’s length and pretended to read from it. ‘From Third Officer Wainscott, your personal assistant.’
‘Gloria?’
‘Yes . . . that appears to be her name. Seems you’ve been over-familiar with her.’
‘Over-familiar, sir?’ Mickey was stunned. Here was this jumped-up squirt, who everybody knew was knocking off his secretary, accusing him of being overly familiar with Gloria. Gloria, the untouchable and uncommonly stitched-up. Meanwhile, the Japanese fleet was fishing so close inshore it was practically chipping oysters off the rocks. How the hell did this man decide his priorities?
‘Yes, apparently you ignore her salutes and address her in a manner which she regards as altogether too informal.’
‘She said that? The bloody tart!’
‘Precisely. She objects to being referred to as “gorgeous”, “darling”, “sweetheart” and . . . “top tart”.’
‘Phil, is this a formal reprimand?’
‘Oh, good God no! No, strictly off the record, she insisted upon that. Didn’t want to involve the Commodore. Asked me if I’d have a word with you, man to man, as it were. She’s obviously fond of you.’
‘Man to man?’ Mickey bit his tongue. It was bad enough having to defer to Philip Scriven without having to cop the pompous little bastard’s advice.
‘Better she complains to me, Mickey, than to her father!’
‘Her father? What’s her father got to do with it, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Quite a good deal, actually. Commander Wainscott is attached to the Chief of Naval Staff, Director of Plans.’
Mickey felt the floor sink away beneath him. ‘Commander Wainscott? Gloria is Commander Wainscott’s daughter?’
‘I think it’s Queen’s regulations from now on, Mickey, don’t you? Either that or take her out and give her a darn good boffing. That’ll do the trick. Bring her into line.’
‘Is that a practice you recommend, Phil?’
‘That’ll do, Lieutenant Commander!’ The man-to-man protocol had clearly ended. ‘Now, you mentioned some other business?’
‘The Shoto Maru made another inshore trawl last night. From Cape Brett to Bream Head. Same routine. Lights out during the trawl, lights on when they haul the catch aboard. It’s a deliberate tactic on their part and well-rehearsed. If our information is correct, they made four trawls before heading back outside territorial waters. They’ve got their turn-around time down to around twenty-five minutes, so we’re not dealing with a bunch of lucky amateurs. These guys are serious and they’re going to try again. When they do, we stand a chance of catching them.’
‘You have a plan?’
‘Yes, I do. I’m convinced the Shoto Maru is heading south. We have the Shearwater ready to go to sea. I know it needs a shakedown, but I’m not asking for it to go much further than twenty or thirty miles north of Great Barrier. The Cormorant must be close to rounding North Cape and heading for home. If we can make them run at full speed there’s a fair chance that the Shoto Maru could become meat in our sandwich.’
‘How will you know where the trawler is? Do you need aerial surveillance?’
‘No, that’ll tip our hand.’
‘Then I ask again, how will you find your trawler?’
‘Listen to the phones ringing, Phil. Everyone between Russell and Whangarei has been on the phone to us. They’ll find our man for us. But we need to keep our phones manned twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Gloria and I will manage.’ He caught the little man’s look. ‘Sorry, Personal Assistant Wainscott, daughter of the Commander, friend of the powerful. Plus, I don’t expect to have any difficulties in finding volunteers. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? That’s why we joined the Navy. It’s a rare opportunity to go on the offensive and get some results.’
‘Mmm . . . not sure that everybody will be quite as pleased as you if we’re successful.’
‘I need the Shearwater on stand-by, but on no account is she to put to sea. I believe the Shoto Maru is in contact with its agents in Auckland. If the Shearwater makes any move whatsoever, we may just as well send the skipper of the Shoto Maru a telegram advising him of our intentions.’
‘Point taken.’
Mickey took a deep breath. He’d poured the foundations, paved the way, now it was time to test his handiwork under load. ‘On the same basis, I believe we should be rather circumspect in what we tell the press. They’re already chasing a statement. The Department of Marine are after us, too. I’ve
prepared a draft release in which we do little more than acknowledge what they already know. We should give no indication that we are aware of the name of the intruder or its nationality. Or whether we regard it as the action of one trawler or more. We should simply acknowledge that we are aware of the incursions and are investigating.’
‘Show me.’ Lieutenant Commander Scriven scanned the brief release. ‘Heavens above, Mickey, you’re not serious! You’ve built the cross, provided the nails, and now you want me to go for a fitting. Are you out of your mind? Yesterday we had a Taiwanese trawler steal in right under our noses and drown our pet dolphins. That did not make us look particularly clever. Now you want me to prove that we’re positively incompetent.’
‘Yes, Phil.’
‘This is outrageous, Mickey.’
‘And in two or three days or less it could prove to be pure genius. Phil, if we name the trawler the crew will know they’re under surveillance. I’ve already blundered by sending a request off to the Japanese Embassy for their details. I covered my mistake this morning by sending off similar requests relating to two other trawlers. Hopefully that’s muddied the water. But if we go full frontal with everything we know then we tip our hand, and the skipper of the Shoto Maru will laugh in our faces.’
‘All right, Mickey, I’ll take this up to the old man. But if you foul up you can forget all about boffing Officer Wainscott. You can forget about boffing anyone ever again because vital parts will be missing. You understand me?’
‘Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!’ Mickey stood, flashed his best smile and bent his elbow.
‘Mickey?’
‘Phil?’
‘Was that supposed to be a salute?’
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘Get Officer Wainscott to show you how before you try another. And Mickey . . . please try to reflect the dignity of your rank. We have the junior ratings to think about, too, you know.’ Philip Scriven watched Mickey leave his office and glanced back down at the press release. He added a couple of lines, high-sounding and utterly meaningless, but which could provide cover if he was forced back on the defensive. But the power of obfuscation was not unlimited and Phil Scriven wasn’t foolish enough to believe that it was. He could improve the presentation of the apple but that didn’t alter the fact that the core was rotten.