by Derek Hansen
‘We have to be patient, Rosie,’ said Angus unhappily.
‘You’re prepared to let his parents believe their son is dead just so you can play your little games?’
‘Only for twenty-four hours, Rosie. I have the Lieutenant Commander’s word.’
‘Well, let me tell you something. First thing in the morning I’m walking over to Fitzroy and I’m bloody well going to ring the Japanese Embassy myself!’
‘We’ll speak in the morning, Rosie. We have to go now.’ The two men edged out through the doorway and began to pull on their warm clothing and wet-weather gear. Archie joined them, ears flattened and tail between his legs, as they opened the door onto the veranda.
‘One more thing, Angus!’
They both turned at Rosie’s voice.
‘You can make your own bloody flask of coffee!’
Neither man spoke until they reached Angus’ place and he stopped to collect his camping gas lamp, binoculars and a thermos of coffee.
‘You know Mickey wants you kept out of the way, don’t you, Red?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘What’s there to see, man? Orders are orders, and they don’t want you getting in the way of their operation like you did last time up at Aiguilles.’
‘I’m not yet convinced they have an operation.’
‘Don’t be a fool, man. They’re sending the old mine sweeper, the Kotaku. I told you that.’
‘Yes, you did. But we don’t even know if they’ve left port yet. And, in these conditions, we don’t know how long it will take them to get here.’
‘Away with you. I promised the Lieutenant Commander. It’s their job to arrest those poachers, not yours. I’ll not stand by and let you interfere. Remember the Sunderland, Red! Your meddling has already cost the Navy dearly.’
Red stared sullenly at his feet. It wasn’t just his fight. Perhaps it wasn’t his fight at all. ‘Okay, if the Kotaku’s on its way, I’ll keep clear.’
‘Good man!’ Angus was pleased at how easily Red had given in and did nothing to hide it. ‘The best thing we can do is be their eyes. Come on. I have some whisky – for the coffee, you understand. The wind will be fearsome.’
Red took the radio and let Angus lead carrying the rucksack. The track rose sharply towards the lookout, and Red could sense Angus beginning to struggle. Why wouldn’t he? The old Scot had been up at dawn, saved a drowning man, and climbed Tataweka Hill twice. Red simply adjusted his pace. The roar of the wind let them know when they were approaching the seven hundred and sixty foot high peak. It roared like Eden Park football stadium when the All Blacks went over for a try. Angus had cut a clearing to open up the view, but by doing so had left the peak exposed to the nor’-easters and southerlies, which was why the scrub had been slow growing back. But it afforded the sort of view that made their labours worthwhile. They could see past the tip of Aiguilles Island and all the way east and south across Waikaro Point to Overtons Beach and Arid Island.
Angus reached the top and continued over the brow onto the southern side to escape the wind. He slumped down on the ground. Red joined him and began to set up the radio.
‘What’s the procedure, Angus?’
‘Let a man get his breath back! Have you no patience at all?’ Angus exhaled noisily and coughed. ‘First, we try our luck and see if we’re high enough to get through to Devonport direct. If we can they’ll put us on relay to the Kotaku. Otherwise we have to call up Police Sergeant Milne at Claris airfield to relay messages. The Sergeant will have to act as intermediary.’
‘Let’s hope you can get them direct.’ Red climbed back up to the top of the rise clutching the binoculars and lay flat on his belly so that the wind would pass over him. Archie lay alongside, one front paw touching Red’s elbow, letting him know he was there. If they had to go via Claris, everyone on the island with a ham radio would be listening in and adding their twopence worth. He listened to Angus calling up Devonport and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard them respond.
‘Ask them what time the Kotaku left,’ Red called down. He scanned the night in front of him but nothing was visible beyond the looming presence of the first line of trees.
‘They’re just casting off now.’
‘What!’ Red shone his torch onto his watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Almost time for Shimojo to show himself if the game was on. ‘Find out what time they expect to get here.’ Red did a quick calculation, trying to figure what speed the old mine sweeper could muster running head on into the sea. It didn’t look good.
‘They expect to round Aiguilles at about two-thirty, that’s if Shimojo has put in an appearance. Anything else?’
Two-thirty! Red clenched his fists in dismay and tried to imagine the havoc the Shoto Maru’s gaping net would have caused by then. There’d be precious few fish left and the sea bottom ripped apart. He began to hope with all his heart that he was wrong, that the boy was wrong, and that Shimojo wouldn’t show. He’d just settled back down on his rock when Archie emitted a low growl. He looked up and his skin prickled into goosebumps. No ghost could have startled him more.
‘Bloody hell, Angus! The bastard’s right on our doorstep!’
Without warning the Shoto Maru had suddenly lit up just south-east of them, little more than two miles out from Waikaro Point. Red heard Angus shouting into the radio but couldn’t drag his eyes away from the apparition. He grabbed the binoculars and held them to his eyes. He could clearly make out the yellow-jacketed crewmen with their orange helmets scurrying around the stern ramp, see their safety lines and the signals they gave each other. Judging by the angle of the deck, the catch was good. It had pulled the stern down so far that the bows broke clear of the water as they crested each swell. How many snapper did it take to weigh down the stern of a two-and-a-half thousand ton trawler, he wondered? How many breeding snapper that would never live to breed? His face flushed with sudden anger. He could feel it surge through his system, boiling, roiling, building in force. His hands shook and his temples began to throb. The roaring in his ears reached a crescendo. He had to do something! He tried to line the trawler up again in his glasses but his hands wouldn’t hold steady. He had to do something! Had to work! Had to do something! His agitation grew and fed on itself until his anger became panic, until the pounding in his ears became unbearable and threatened to split his head apart.
‘No!’ he screamed. ‘Bastards!’
Angus swung around as Red screamed, saw him leap to his feet and the binoculars fall. Saw him turn and bolt back down the hill, Archie hard on his heels.
‘Red! You come back here! Come back here, you bloody fool!’ But Angus knew he was wasting his breath. Agreements mattered for nothing when Red had one of his turns. ‘Damn you, Red O’Hara!’ He started climbing to the top of the clearing but stopped dead in his tracks as the Shoto Maru came into view. ‘Dear God in heaven!’ He picked up the binoculars just as the cod end of the net emerged from the water and began to inch up onto the ramp. All around the stern the water foamed pink with blood in the glare of the arc lights. ‘Dear God!’ Angus said again, but this time in little more than a whisper. What chance did Red have against such a formidable enemy? Suddenly he felt scared. Scared for Red and scared for Rosie and her unborn child. What did Red think he could do against the trawler? It was insanity, pure and simple. Suddenly, Red’s little bombs seemed just that. They seemed puny, pathetic even, and the swirling, blood-stained water a chilling warning.
‘He’s done it! The bloody fool’s gone and done it!’
Mickey stared at the speaker in the Kotaku’s radio room in dismay. Things had gone beyond his control. He thought of Red alone in his little boat up against the Shoto Maru. Surely the man must have learned something from his last encounter with the trawler. What did he hope to achieve? He thought of Red’s bombs and the likely consequences. Shimojo was certain to return fire. At worst there’d be loss of life, at best an international incident. Either way the Navy would wind up on the rack and God on
ly knew what would happen to Red if he managed to survive. He felt sick and dismayed. The man was a fool, but in his heart Mickey knew the Navy was also partly to blame. They’d procrastinated when they should have acted. It was always the same story. Too bloody little too bloody late.
‘Can we get some more speed out of this bloody tub?’ Mickey looked around but everyone studiously avoided his eye. It wasn’t his call and they all knew it. The commander of the Kotaku was well aware of the situation and doing his best. The Kotaku was an old girl, she was old when they took her over from the Australian Navy, and, as everyone knew, mine sweepers tended not to be sprinters even when young. But it handled the short, steep, pounding chop of the Gulf well, carving through waves that made life on patrol boats a misery.
What the hell was Red playing at? wondered Mickey. He’d pressed Angus for a more precise description of Red’s bombs and had come away little wiser. What was he trying to do? What was his plan? If all he intended to do was warn Shimojo off, there was no point in their busting a gut to get there. The bird would have flown. And if that happened he’d have Red on toast for breakfast. They’d been handed the perfect opportunity, with eyes on the shore reporting on the Shoto Maru’s position and Great Barrier providing a radar shield. Shimojo would have had no time to react and no chance to run. They would have him cold if Red kept out of the way.
But Red hadn’t kept out of the way and Mickey suspected Red had other plans in mind – but what? He groaned in frustration. He wanted to grab hold of Red with his massive hands and beat some sense into him. Dear God! The man was mad! But the undeniable truth was that, if Red hadn’t made his bombs, and if he wasn’t so pig-headed, they wouldn’t have been given the Kotaku or be in a position to effect an arrest. He checked his watch. The next five and a half hours would be purgatory and, possibly, the most decisive in his career. A sub lieutenant passed him a steaming mug of coffee.
‘Sub Lieutenant Zoric?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The young officer looked pleased that Mickey had remembered his name. But what Mickey had remembered was the taste of his coffee.
‘Give Gloria a few more lessons with the filter, will you?’
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Red raced blindly down the track, his torch swinging so wildly that it was virtually useless. He blundered into scrub, bounced off the trunks of pungas and nikau palms. A root trapped his foot and he fell heavily, flat on his face. The impact shook him, shook him enough to convince him to stay there until he’d come back to his senses. He tried to steady his breathing and still his mind. But rage flared, fiery and bitter. He wanted to scream and lash out. His mind flipped back to the days immediately after the war when his sudden fits of rage earned him a stay at Carrington Road mental hospital. When he was considered dangerous, put in straitjackets, fed slops and tranquilisers that left him numbed out and gibbering, when he’d fought those who’d tried to help him and those who didn’t care. He remembered his frustration, his tears, his anguish, but most of all he remembered the futility. He’d been helpless then, unable to help himself, unable to change anything. Helpless. Hopeless. He sat up, closed his eyes and began to draw in long, deep, calming breaths. Carrington Road was a long time ago and there was no going back. He forced himself to release his anger. It hadn’t helped him before and wouldn’t help him now. He felt Archie’s wet tongue lick his hand. Good old Archie.
Red sat cross-legged and motionless until he was sure he’d regained control. He picked up his torch and walked at a quick but steady rate to Angus’ cabin where he helped himself to a bottle of methylated spirits, a box of matches and an empty Golden Syrup tin. He dragged Angus’ dinghy down onto the hard sand. He didn’t have time to strip off and swim, besides which the night would be cold enough without him being wet. The swells had grown since he’d loaded his boat and formed a shore break that thundered in onto the sand. He dragged the dinghy to the extreme eastern end of the beach where there was some protection.
‘Stay, Archie!’
The dog sat, obedient to his master’s wish but decidedly unhappy about it. He began to whine and shuffle forward on his bottom. But there was no place for him on board. He began to yelp anxiously as the dinghy was swallowed up in the gloom. He wanted to leap into the surf and dog-paddle after his master but was prevented by his instructions. Instead, he began to run in short bursts up and down the beach, barking, pleading, beseeching Red to come back for him. He kept running back and forth long after the sound of Red’s diesel had faded away, lost in the roar of the wind and the crashing of the surf. Archie turned and sprinted as fast as he could up the track towards Rosie’s. It was too much for a dog to bear alone.
Red headed north-east into the gale and seas, keeping well clear of the shore and the Christmas crayfish pots. He didn’t dare use his torch. There’d be alert eyes on watch aboard the Shoto Maru, so he had to err on the side of caution. He momentarily regretted the fact that he’d forced the cray fishermen from Leigh to drop their pots so wide. He stared hard to his right. Already the shape of Bernie’s Head was indistinguishable in the dark. He held his course. If the Shoto Maru still had its lights on he expected it to swing into view. He stared south scanning left and right but there was no trace of the intruder. He cupped his torch in his hand and held it close to the face of his watch. Nine forty-five. The Shoto Maru had switched off its lights and begun another trawl. But where? He strained his eyes, peering into the gloom trying to locate the pinnacles before making his turn south. He was beginning to have doubts that he could achieve anything. If he couldn’t find the pinnacles, what chance did he have of finding the trawler? What chance did he have if he had no bearings, no position to fix on, nothing to show him where he was? He felt the first gnawing of despair when a weak light flickered into view above and behind him. It appeared, disappeared and reappeared. But the further out he went the more constant the light remained. He broke into a smile. The old Scot was lending a hand the only way he could.
Red judged he was a mile north of Bernie’s Head and turned east straight out to sea. If Shimojo was catching fish he knew he’d still be somewhere in the area working the school. The question was whether the trawler was working north or south. He started thinking through his options, something he should have done before. The trawler had been facing north when it had lit up. Logic suggested that it would continue north if it was still catching fish. He switched off his engine and listened. The wind roared at his ears and the waves burst in anger against his hull. His boat creaked and shuddered but even so, if the Shoto Maru was anywhere within a mile or two north-east of his position, he expected the wind to carry the throb of the diesels to him. It took power to drag big nets. Shimojo could turn off his lights but he couldn’t silence his engines. Red heard nothing. He decided to back his judgement and head out deeper. Behind him and away to his right, Angus’ light flickered encouragement
He reduced his speed so that he barely made headway against the waves. He realised there was no point in chasing blindly all over the ocean. If he was over the school and if there was any merit in his reasoning, Shimojo would come to him, probably from the south. He dropped anchor.
The school of snapper failed to broaden out on the trawl northwards, restricting the trawler to working north–south along a narrow corridor less than two miles from shore. Only the length of the school and its density justified trawling so close, but even then a wise skipper would refuse the challenge. Shimojo accepted the risks, knowing his only alternative was to quit and run into deep water where catches would be insignificant. He zig-zagged along the outer edge of the school. The first haul had weighed in at just under fifteen tons, almost all snapper, and the second promised more. Midway through the trawl, his radar operator drew his attention to a blip on the screen indicating a small craft half a mile inshore of them. It appeared to be stationary. Shimojo dismissed the contact as a local fisherman, an opinion that appeared to be confirmed by a weak light shining on the headland. A small
craft would need a bearing to find its way home in the conditions.
Red wished he’d brought bait with him so that he had something to occupy his mind while his boat tossed and bucked at anchor. At least he’d know if he was over snapper. His first job had been to suspend the Golden Syrup tin with a half-inch of methylated spirit in the bottom and secure it. When the time came to light the fuses on his bombs, the burning tin of meths would serve well. Then he’d checked and rechecked the lines from which his bombs were suspended. They held fast and there were no breakages. He thought of Mickey charging out towards them in the Kotaku, cursing him for interfering, but what did he expect? By the time the mine sweeper arrived the Shoto Maru would’ve stripped the ocean, swallowed all the fish and ripped apart the shellfish beds. There’d be precious little left of his fishing grounds after the trawler had raked over them. A sound reached him, indistinct and definitely out of place. He froze and turned his head slowly into the wind. There it was again. Unseen but unmistakably mechanical, the throb of a massive diesel pushing against both wind and sea, pulling against the deadening drag of the net.
Red listened intently, eyes closed. The sound came in waves carried on gusts of wind but he gradually established the trawler’s position. It was working northwards, too far out for him to do anything. His anger swelled to cold fury as he tried to imagine the damage the nets would be inflicting. The crime demanded punishment! But what? How? Red calculated the trawler was far enough away to pass outside him on its return trawl, but close enough for his bombs to warn it off and force it out to sea. But he wanted more. That wasn’t punishment. That wasn’t retribution. Justice demanded retribution and the time for warnings had passed. He stared grimly into the night as he contemplated a change of tactics. His plan was fraught with danger. But if he was successful, the Shoto Maru would never fish in close again.
The school thinned out as the Shoto Maru neared Aiguilles Island. Shimojo brought the trawler around to head back south for its third run. Even on the bridge he could hear the sound of the surf. The whole coast was treacherous in a nor’-east blow, but the storms reserved their worst for Great Barrier’s northernmost tip.