by Derek Hansen
‘Gloria!’ he bellowed. ‘Sorry! PA Wainscott!’ Mickey heard laughter from the adjoining offices. Everyone knew where Gloria stood on the issue of correct naval procedures. But for once Mickey was in no mood to join in the humour.
‘Sir!’
‘Change of orders! I think the Shoto Maru will use the rain as cover and do a raid on the Gulf.’
‘On the Gulf?’
Mickey closed his eyes. If that was Gloria’s reaction, what would Phil Scriven’s be?
‘Get hold of Lieutenant Moffat on the Cormorant. I want him to run full speed down to the Mokes and wait there for further instructions.’
‘Sir, the Cormorant has advised that they’re low on fuel. Would three-quarter speed be adequate?’
Mickey looked at Gloria and slowly digested her report. Why hadn’t he been told? Why hadn’t he worked it out for himself? Why would he expect a returning vessel to have full fuel tanks, especially after running the previous hundred miles at two-thirds speed or better? ‘Three-quarters or marginally less would be fine, Gloria. Thank you for bringing the fuel situation to my attention. Now, be a good little naval officer and find out precisely how much fuel the Cormorant has left, so that I can make my plans with some degree of confidence! Move!’
The laughter in the corridor stopped abruptly. Mickey turned his attention to his charts. He’d made his decision on the basis of no information, and had nothing to back it up with other than intuition. Ordering the Cormorant south hadn’t hurt. He still had time to change his mind. He needed to think. Make plans and contingencies. Dear God, he wondered once more, who was he up against? He looked up to find Gloria standing in front of his desk.
‘Yes? What is it? Have you done what I asked?’
‘Sir . . . Lieutenant Commander Scriven wants to see you in his office.’
Mickey sensed something was wrong and stared at her closely. She’d turned pale and her shoulders were bowed. ‘For God’s sake, Gloria, what now?’
‘He’s called the operation off.’
‘What!’
‘Apparently aircrew from Ohakea have spotted a Taiwanese trawler inside territorial waters off Banks Peninsula.’
‘So?’
‘That’s all he asked me to tell you, sir. And to ask you to report to his office immediately.’
‘Shit! Gloria, tell no one. The show’s not over, not by a long shot.’ He took off down the corridor to the corner office, pushed past Miss Office Boff 1966, and charged into Philip Scriven’s office.
‘I see you got my message, Mickey.’ Lieutenant Commander Scriven was calmness itself. His affected disinterest was a ploy he frequently used on subordinates; one, to remind them who was boss and, two, because it made it seem as if he was in control. ‘Take a look at this.’ He handed Mickey a telexed message. ‘And sit down. Seems one of the Taiwanese fishing boats is straying right into our hands. With luck it’ll be the one that left the nets behind which drowned those poor Hector’s dolphins. If the markings on the nets still on board match up, we’ll prosecute. The public’s calling out for vengeance, Mickey, and this is our chance to give it to them. I want you to direct the operation.’
‘Jesus, Phil!’
‘Mickey, don’t shout. I have perfect hearing.’
‘What about the Shoto Maru?’
‘Well, we’ll just have to hold a watching brief.’
‘No way!’
‘Steady, Mickey.’
‘Sorry, Phil, but what I mean is this.’ Mickey thought quickly, trying to translate his suspicions into terms that Phil Scriven could understand and sympathise with. ‘The Shoto Maru has the greatest potential to embarrass us and discredit the fisheries squadron.’ Mickey could see that he suddenly had Phil’s full attention.
‘This had better be good, Mickey.’ Philip Scriven gave Mickey what he imagined was his look of steel. Mickey had seen it before and, laughable as it was, knew better than to ignore it.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about where our friend is likely to show. I suspect it’ll be where we’d least like him to, where he can do irreparable damage to the Navy’s reputation.’
‘And pray where might that be?’
‘On our doorstep, Phil. I think the blighter is going to use the rain and poor visibility to run a trawl through the Gulf.’
‘What!’
Mickey knew he had him. ‘Why would a skipper trawl where he would be visible, and possibly expected, when he could trawl where he would be invisible and not expected at all? And be assured of a good catch!’
‘I hope you’re wrong, Mickey.’ The arrest of a Taiwanese trawler off the South Island would do nothing to ease the fury of Auckland’s half-million residents if they ever found out.
‘I hope I’m right. I’ve asked for the Cormorant to be moved south to the Mokes and wait there. I’m now debating whether to hold the Shearwater off Katherine Bay on Great Barrier or further south, to cut off the Colville Channel.’
‘Sit down, Mickey, sit down. Coffee!’ he yelled, all pretext of calm abandoned now that his career prospects were under threat. ‘Two cups. Now! Right-oh, Mickey, let’s look at each of our problems in turn and work out what to do. Let’s start with the Taiwanese boat.’
‘If you insist.’
‘As Staff Officer Operations, I do! Now, latest reports put the Yu Shan – that’s the intruder involved – about ten miles east of Lyttelton and apparently heading for it. I say apparently because it’s wandering about a bit like a drunk on Friday night, probably having trouble with its steering. It’s down to about three knots but not fishing.’
‘Clearly they have problems. They’ve hit something or broken something.’
‘Even I can work that out, Mickey. Because they’re not fishing, there’s no point in photographing them. After all, they’re allowed inside territorial waters if they’re making for port, which this one appears to be. However, they could just be heading into calmer waters to effect repairs before heading back out to sea again, in which case we lose them and the chance to link them with the dolphins.’
‘What’s the weather forecast for the area?’
‘Winds fifteen knots, gusting to twenty-five, seas moderate to rough on six foot swells, and quite a severe storm building in the Southern Ocean to the west. All in all, good reasons to come inshore to effect repairs.’
‘How close is our nearest patrol boat?’
‘We’d just sent it back up to Kaikoura. Reports of a tuna boat fishing the drop-off in close. We’ve recalled it to the peninsula of course.’
‘Let me see if I have this right. We have a disabled Taiwanese trawler heading towards Lyttelton, heavy seas and a storm imminent, and a patrol boat, say, twelve hours away – probably less – which the Yu Shan would know was in the vicinity. We also know there happen to be two Taiwanese trawlers working off Banks Peninsula. It occurs to me that if the Yu Shan’s problems were capable of being remedied at sea, the sister ship would have offered assistance and they would have headed further south, away from prying eyes and patrol boats. With me?’
‘Mickey, you can be irritating at times.’
‘Now can we discuss the Shoto Maru?’
‘Not so fast. You’re absolutely convinced the Yu Shan’s heading for port?’
‘No other explanation. How far off is that storm?’
‘I would imagine it’ll reach them by the early hours of the morning.’
‘Then stand by for a request for assistance. Five pounds says we’ll get a call before midnight, probably before nine tonight. The smartest thing we can do is alert the Lyttelton Port Authority to have a tug standing by. No point putting our lads through the mill for the sake of a bunch of ratbag Chinese poachers. In fact, I’d send them out now with instructions to offer assistance. That same five pounds says it won’t be refused.’
‘I tend to agree with you, Mickey. Perhaps our bird is being handed to us on a plate. Well, I think we’ve put that one to bed. All we have to do is arrange a reception committ
ee, which hardly requires your considerable skills.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I think I’ll handle this one myself.’
‘Thank you, Phil. Now about the Shoto Maru?’
‘Just do it, Mickey. I’ll attend to the Yu Shan. Just keep me informed.’ Philip Scriven began to relax and congratulate himself on his skill in handling the situation. First he’d get the kudos for the arrest of the Yu Shan and then for the apprehension of the Shoto Maru. No politician would dare come thundering down on his head for arresting a Japanese trawler fishing in the Hauraki Gulf. On the contrary, he’d probably take a step nearer to the promotion he wanted – as an adviser to Chief of Naval Staff. He began to plan his schedule. A day of press conferences and media interviews followed by a quick flight to Christchurch to be there when a positive connection was made between the Yu Shan and the killer nets which had drowned the dolphins. All front page stuff. Provided he could keep the Commodore out of it.
Gloria was waiting for Mickey as he strolled casually back to his office. He made a point of whistling his favourite song, ‘Sea of Love’, certain that he wouldn’t swap his life for the Prime Minister’s. Grinning faces poked out of offices. Gloria stood with her most admiring, marry-me-tomorrow look on her face. Mickey enjoyed it all, enjoyed it a whole lot.
‘No questions, Wainscott, just your unbridled admiration. We’re back in business, Gloria of the beautiful brown eyes, and we are going to spend a long and exciting night together.’
‘They’re hazel.’
‘What?’
‘My eyes are hazel.’
Mickey watched colour once more invade Gloria’s cheeks. She was blushing like a school girl. And smiling. So there was hope. Yes, perhaps she did need a good boffing. Perhaps for once Lieutenant Commander Scriven had got something right.
At five-thirty, under cover of darkness and a blinding rain squall, the patrol boat Shearwater cast off and motored out towards the Rangitoto Channel. Forty-five miles to the north, the Shoto Maru penetrated New Zealand territorial waters eight miles south-east of the Mokohinau Islands, a thief in the night running without lights and with visibility cut to less than five hundred yards. The pouring rain made the chances of detection virtually negligible. Shimojo Seiichi ordered speed reduced to six knots and posted lookouts on either side of the bridge to watch for lights from any small craft which might have slipped beneath his radar, not that any were expected so far from land in such atrocious conditions. His radar operator reported a clear screen but the rain storm had brought interference which cut his effective operating range to less than five miles. The only compensation was that it also blinded the Navy’s radar if they were out there looking for him. The skipper picked up the intercom microphone. The time had come to light up and deploy the nets. Almost immediately Shimojo felt the boat shudder, seem to pull up, then surge forward as the otter boards bit. They were on the Navy’s doorstep, and about to beard the lion in his den.
There was still the remote chance of being spotted by a small craft which might be equipped with radio. He assumed his radar operator would be smart enough to alternate between mid- and short range but gave no specific instruction to that effect.
It was precisely the sort of mistake Mickey Finn was praying for.
‘Weather’s worsening, sir. Lieutenant Moffat reports the Shearwater’s visibility down to less than four hundred yards.’
‘Thank you, Third.’ Mickey looked up grimly. He’d been wondering morosely if God was Japanese. He’d ordered the Shearwater to head straight for the Colville Channel and to stand off Port Jackson, using the Gulf islands as cover along the way. They were down to playing radar games and for once they had a level playing field. He picked up his mug of coffee. The good news was that it was percolated. Lieutenant Commander Scriven had seen fit to contribute his percolator, if not his actual presence. The bad news was that coffee grounds had escaped and made every mouthful gritty. But even if they hadn’t, the coffee probably wouldn’t have improved his mood. They’d managed to tee up a small army of coast watchers on the off-chance that the rain would lift. Instead, it had intensified. Mickey guessed they’d all be making plans for bed and an early night, and wondered if he shouldn’t be doing likewise.
The Cormorant was speeding southwards using the Mokohinau Islands to shield it from the Shoto Maru’s radar, on the assumption that the trawler had already penetrated the Gulf. Their only hope of locating the trawler was by radar, but to do so they had to close to within five miles of their quarry. Then it would be a case of who saw who first. Just to make their job even more difficult, they had to catch the Shoto Maru by surprise and in the act. If the Japs had time to recover their net they could claim they were only taking shelter. Then the Navy would have the burden of proving that the crew had been fishing. If they could get a boarding party onto the Shoto Maru to search the holds for live fish, they’d be home and hosed. But the chances of the skipper accepting a boarding party at night and in a storm were nonexistent unless they had solid grounds. The Japanese would respectfully suggest they wait until morning, and work overtime processing the fish so that it would be packaged, frozen and stored before the boarding party set foot on board.
Mickey took another swig from his mug. The reality was that the Shoto Maru could have gone anywhere. Back up north or out to sea trawling the deep water. Or it could already be in the Gulf out of radar range. All he could do was wait and pray. For a sighting. A snagged net. And for a hot and breathy, triumphant Third Officer Wainscott offering her body as tribute to the victorious.
By ten o’clock, most of the hangers-on had given up the search as a lost cause. The excitement which had caused the volunteers to raise their hands had evaporated, and in its place was a sullenness and a resentment towards the hangers-on for leaving, and towards Mickey for making them stay. The phone had rung four times to report sightings from the Bay of Islands down to Whangamata, a hundred miles south of Cape Colville. None of the sightings had been confirmed. Nobody held out much hope when the phone rang once more.
‘Lieutenant Commander Finn.’ Mickey automatically assumed it was Philip Scriven checking in.
‘Signals, sir. Good news.’
‘Yeah?’ The excitement in Mickey’s voice caused ears to perk up and heads to appear around the door jamb.
‘Message from the lighthouse keeper on the Mokohinaus. Some hardy soul has just run out there in a supply boat.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Mickey’s heart began to race. The long shot was coming in. The one in a million chance of a sighting.
‘Apparently he was minding his business about ten miles south-west of the Mokes when a trawler running without lights lit up less than half a mile away from him.’
‘You beauty!’
‘He cut his own running lights and watched. He’s sure it was a Jap and they were deploying their net.’
‘When was this?’
‘Around eighteen hundred hours, sir.’
‘Jesus Christ! Why didn’t he tell us sooner?’
‘Out of range of his radio. Too much static. He couldn’t reach us until he’d anchored up in the lee beneath the lighthouse. Then he had to row ashore to use the lighthouse keeper’s transmitter. All takes time. But the man’s no fool. He’s given us a bearing. The trawler was heading south-west on a course which would take it west of Little Barrier, sir.’
‘Who am I talking to?’
‘Able Radioman John Press, sir.’
‘Listen, John. You talked to the man. How much credence do you give him?’
‘Like I said, sir, he’s no fool. He turned off his running lights to avoid detection. He took a bearing. He rowed ashore in conditions which could not have been very pleasant to make sure we got the message. I’d say he was a good seaman and very much on the level. Do I believe him? Yes, sir, I do.’
‘Owe you a beer, Sparks.’ He rang off. ‘Action stations! Gloria, get hold of the Cormorant. Tell them we have a positive sighting of the target . . . let’s see, where
would the trawler be now . . . five miles west of Little Barrier and heading south at between four and five knots. Plot the likely position of the target and tell them to approach at full speed using Little Barrier Island as a radar shield. Got it?’
‘Sir!’
‘Then get going!’ For a moment he thought she was going to kiss him. West of Little Barrier and heading south. Whoever the skipper of the Shoto Maru was, the man had balls like pumpkins. Mickey moved his eraser into position and tried to predict the trawler’s likely course. How greedy were they? Would they hit and run or, having got in there and found the conditions to their liking, go for all they could get? Mickey felt a tremor of excitement. He didn’t see pumpkin balls as the hit and run type. It had to be the Colville Channel. One broad sweep then out through the Channel before dawn and away south. It seemed so logical that Mickey wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. The Shoto Maru was heading south to the winter grounds, taking what it could along the way.
He thought about ordering the Shearwater to make full speed to cover the channel, then hesitated. He had no guarantee that the Shoto Maru would still be fishing when it reached there. That would depend on how wide an arc they fished, whether they were catching fish, and how late they arrived. He could do everything right and still end up with no evidence to make an arrest. Mickey groaned. He had to catch them actually fishing. But would they be where he wanted them to be in three hours’ time? And how could he get a patrol boat within five miles of them?
‘Gloria! Contact the Shearwater and tell them to hold their present position until the Cormorant is within five miles of Little Barrier, then make full speed towards the intercept point.’ He moved his eraser and glider clips into position on his charts. The odds had shortened but nowhere near enough. If the Shoto Maru deviated at all from its projected course the Cormorant had little chance of finding her, and even if it did, his patrol boats could still come up empty handed. He couldn’t count on the crew of the Shoto Maru taking twenty minutes to retrieve the net. The Gulf waters were too shallow and the crew too well drilled. Five miles gave them time to get their catch safely on board and below decks, or to take the low risk option and dump it. His only chance lay in catching them unaware. In the Navy’s favour, the patrol boats had a low profile which could be missed in the steep chop and interference. They also had the element of surprise. The skipper wouldn’t be expecting them and wouldn’t be looking over his shoulder. If the Cormorant ran up behind the Shoto Maru in its wake, if its radar operator was less than vigilant, there was an outside chance they might just catch the Japanese with their trousers down.