by Derek Hansen
Rosie had washed and dried the dishes and sat down for a quiet read when she heard Archie whining and scratching at her door. ‘That you, Red?’ she called. She dragged herself out of her chair and opened the door. She patted Archie but there was no sign of Red. ‘Got too cold for you, did it, boy? Come on in.’ But Archie stayed outside whining and feinting to go back down the veranda stairs. He looked up at her, whined, feinted again. Slowly the penny dropped. Archie hadn’t left Red. Archie would never leave Red. Red had left Archie. She looked at the dog first in disbelief then in anger. ‘Red O’Hara, you bastard!’
She grabbed her heavy sweater and parka, sickened by the implications. He’d promised and he’d lied. He’d lied to her! She ferreted around in her drawers until she found her woollen beanie and gloves. Hardly Christmas wear but it didn’t feel like Christmas any more. What else would she need, she wondered. The gas lamp! Hurriedly she fitted a new cylinder and pocketed a box of matches. Her torch. Fortunately the batteries were relatively new. She thought about looking in on the boy to see if he was awake. What on earth would she say to him? ‘Sorry, have to duck out for a moment. Red’s just gone to blow up your ship.’ She stepped out into the night unclear of her intentions, having thought no further than to follow Archie.
The dog was clearly anxious, racing ahead then coming back to make sure she followed. Perhaps Red had tripped and fallen? No, Red didn’t trip. Archie led her down to the beach and stared straight out to sea. With the aid of her torch she could make out her boat and Angus’ but there was no trace of Red’s. Just the Bronlund and Anderson dinghy hanging off the mooring where his boat should have been.
Where’s Angus? she thought furiously. He also had a lot of explaining to do. She retraced her steps back up to the old pohutukawas and took the track to his cabin. A single light burned in the living room but no one was home except Bonnie. The cat purred its pleasure at Rosie’s unexpected company, but to no avail. Rosie was gone as quickly as she’d arrived, following Archie up the goat track that led to the lookout. She was out of breath when she reached the top and saw Angus’ huddled figure beside the waning lamp, but it didn’t stop her from giving him a piece of her mind.
‘Angus!’
The old Scot jumped and spun around.
‘You lying bastard! What have you and Red cooked up? Where is he? You tell me or I’ll –’ The beam of her torch caught his face and held it. Even in its uncertain light she could see that Angus wasn’t well. ‘Oh Jesus, Angus, are you all right?’
‘Aye . . . I couldn’t stop him, you know. I tried, Rosie, believe me. He promised me he wouldn’t do anything, he promised!’ Angus was shivering. His shoulders slumped and he looked every day of his sixty-five years.
‘It’s okay, Angus. Sorry for yelling. He’s gone after them, hasn’t he?’
‘Aye. One of his moods took him. Got the better of him. God only knows what goes through that mind of his. Help me down with the radio, could you? I need a spell out of the wind. There’s no stopping that man when the devil takes him.’
Rosie picked up the radio and reached for his lamp.
‘No! No! Leave that there. That’s for Red. That’s for Red so that he knows we’re watching out for him and so he can work out where he is. He’ll not see his own hand in front of his face out there. Help me down, then keep watch a while for me. Will you do that, Rosie?’
Rosie helped him down into the lee, found the flask and poured him a hot coffee.
‘Get on up there now, lass, and keep your eyes peeled.’ Angus added a generous, warming shot of whisky. ‘I’ll have a word with the Lieutenant Commander.’
Rosie lay down on top of the rise with Archie pressed in close alongside her. She picked up the binoculars and put them down again. Why did she need glasses when she couldn’t see anything? Angus’ lamp was failing as it used up the last of the gas in its cylinder. She lit hers, turned it up to full brightness and ran her hand slowly up and down in front of it, wondering if Red would see her signal and realise it was her. She hoped desperately that he would. He had to be reminded that he had others to think of besides himself. She looked at her watch. Eleven o’clock. ‘Angus, when will the Kotaku get here?’
‘Two-thirty, from the north.’
‘Two-thirty!’ Rosie bit her lip. Three and a half hours of waiting and fearing the worst. She put her arm around Archie and pulled him close to her for comfort.
‘Don’t worry, Rosie.’ Angus tried to sound reassuring. ‘You know Red. He’s a survivor.’
Shimojo began his return run a third of a mile in from his northerly run, using the sweep of his turn to execute the first zig-zag. Again the dense glow of the fish-finder indicated they were over the school. He turned to his radar operator to check that the contact they’d identified earlier would not interfere with his trawl. He was surprised when the operator reported the contact to seawards of them, yet still apparently stationary. By rights, the contact should have been four to five hundred yards inshore of them. He was surprised but not alarmed, and took no action other than to instruct his radar operator to keep a close eye on it.
The net recorder reported a thick river of fish flowing into the net. Shimojo’s decision to continue fishing despite the nor’-easter was vindicated. Being a third of a mile closer to shore made all the difference. The school was consistently dense. His intuition, his knowledge and his daring had paid off. He checked the position of the contact a quarter of a mile ahead of the trawler and turned sharply south-west to make certain they passed well inside it. He didn’t want whoever was fishing there to panic as the trawler drew close and inadvertently moved into his path.
He stared through the bridge window to see if he could spot the contact’s anchor light or running lights. It took him a moment or two to realise that the contact wasn’t showing any lights. He knew why his own boat wasn’t showing lights, but why wasn’t the contact? Surely whoever was out there could hear his engines and would want to make sure they weren’t run down. He glanced at the taped-up bullet holes and his blood turned icy. He ordered his first officer to the bridge. He threw him the ring of keys from his pocket and instructed him to bring a high-powered rifle and twenty rounds of ammunition from the ship’s armoury.
‘Angus! I think I can hear something. A motor.’ Rosie lifted onto her elbows and peered into the blackness. Sometimes she thought she could hear it clearly, but at other times there was nothing.
‘You’re imagining things, Rosie. Nobody would be fool enough to come in so close that we could hear them. Not on a night like this.’
But Rosie wasn’t convinced. ‘Look at Archie.’ The dog was staring straight into the wind, sitting up, alert. ‘Look at his ears. He can hear it, too.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Angus. He was cold and too tired to argue. ‘If they’re not too far out the wind might carry the sound to you.’
Rosie was staring in front of her, to where she thought the sound was coming from, when it erupted before her eyes.
‘Angus!’
‘What?’
Rosie thought she saw the flash bounce off the trawler and off a white shape nearby. But then it was gone, over in an instant, swallowed in the darkness. But where was the sound? That was the thing she remembered most from their trial detonations. She was beginning to doubt her own eyes when it reached her. A solid, thunderous boom. ‘Angus . . .!’ she screamed again. Then even louder in a voice charged with anguish and fear. ‘Angus!’
She had no need to call out. Angus had missed the flash but couldn’t escape the bang. He bounded up to the top of the rise. Rosie was on her feet, the binoculars jammed to her eyes.
‘Did you see where it was?’
‘Right where I’m looking, Angus! And close in.’
Angus peered intently into the gloom. He followed the angle of the binoculars and shook his head. Nobody would come in so close to the pinnacles with the gale blowing. Another explosion ripped the night, proving him wrong.
CHAPTER
Red’s heart raced faster than his straining motor as he surged ahead of the Shoto Maru to deploy his next bomb. The pinnacles were looming up in front of them, unseen in the night but no doubt glowing in warning on the trawler’s radar. Shimojo would have to turn, and Red had to make sure he turned the right way. If he detonated the next bomb too far ahead, he’d open a gap behind him and allow the trawler to escape to sea. He pulled back on the throttle. Where was the trawler? Had it already turned away, risked the bombs and cut through his cordon? He could hear the pounding of the Shoto Maru’s diesels, the raised voices of the crew, but could see nothing. There is a decisive moment in any battle and Red was well aware that the moment had arrived. The outcome hinged on the next thirty seconds. He lit the fuse and lowered the bomb into the water.
The trawler’s spotlight stabbed the water behind him, tracked him, found him. Red slammed the throttle forward, turned and raced back along his wake. The spotlight also worked in his favour, showing him where the trawler was and where it was heading. He positioned his boat between it and the open sea. The spotlight clung to him, stayed with him despite the pitch and roll of both vessels. He crouched as low as he could, waiting for the bullets. Saw the flash from the bow, heard the sharp crack. Then another and another. He swung around viciously to cut back across the trawler’s bows, waited, counted, prayed that his bomb wasn’t a dud. The ocean erupted ten yards in front of the Shoto Maru’s port bow. Crack! Crack! Timber splintered somewhere forward as bullets found their mark. Red wrenched the wheel hard over to seawards. Which way would the trawler turn? The spotlight swung off him, swung forward, touched gently on the pinnacles as it swung in an arc. Red nearly shouted with relief. Shimojo had turned away from the bombs, turned to starboard, turned into the bay. Now all he needed was a little luck and a wayward marksman.
Shimojo realised he’d sailed into a trap. The glimpse he’d caught of Red’s boat left him in no doubt as to the identity of his enemy. The Red Devil was no vengeful spirit guardian but a determined man of flesh and blood who had once fired on them with a rifle and now used bombs. He had no way of knowing what the bombs were or what they were made of. But the flash, the bang and the amount of water they threw up convinced him to do everything in his power to avoid them.
Their escape route was risky, but not too risky, provided they completed their turn quickly. He ordered full power. The Shoto Maru turned so sharply that it began to wheel around its own net. Shimojo knew the loss of forward momentum would cause the net to settle and snag and ordered the helm to straighten. A wise man would have abandoned the net then and there, cut through the hawsers and made his escape to sea. But Shimojo was loath to give away his fish so easily. The bay wasn’t large but there was enough room to widen the turn. The question was, would the lunatic in the lifeboat try to block their exit?
The spotlight caught Red again as he prepared to dash in close, off-load another bomb and force the trawler to widen its turn even more. He could see three flashes now, from the bow and bridge, but the tossing seas and wind made him a difficult target. All the same, one lucky shot into one of his bombs and all of Rosie’s painstakingly turned vases would be blown to smithereens and him with them. He dropped his bomb and veered east, looked over his shoulder and saw the trawler straighten away from the coming explosion. Two more bombs and he could stand off, safe from the bullets. But if the Shoto Maru completed its turn and began its run to sea, he had little choice but to allow it to escape. He didn’t have enough bombs to keep the trawler bottled up all night. And there was a limit to how long he could dodge their bullets.
Shimojo realised he was being manipulated. His enemy had wanted him to turn into the bay, had manoeuvred him in, and begun to dictate the radius of the turn, but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t understand why his adversary didn’t just save his bombs and block his escape. He ordered the first officer to get every weapon in the armoury and position men on the bows. His intention was to run straight to sea after he’d completed the turn and attempt to hold the lifeboat off through sheer weight of firepower. He began to straighten the turn caught a glimpse of reefs and rocks on the depth recorder and wondered how many tons of snapper would be lost to snags. Another explosion blasted water over his bows.
The Shoto Maru staggered momentarily under the weight of the fish trapped in the net. His second officer stood waiting for the order to cut the hawsers. Yet Shimojo hesitated, still not ready to surrender the catch. He was a man unaccustomed to doubts. He did what lesser men always did in similar circumstances. In the absence of will to make the right – though painful – decision, he made no decision, made no attempt to seize back the initiative. He continued the turn, straightened and waited for the Shoto Maru to surge forward and produce a rush of speed for the run to open sea. The spotlight had his adversary in its beam off to starboard and the way was open. But the surge didn’t materialise. Instead he was almost thrown off his feet as a harsh vibration ripped through the ship. Before he had a chance to grab the intercom, the engine room alarm assaulted his ears. Shimojo reached for the phone. Another bomb exploded to the right of them. He screamed down the phone, stood stunned as the engineer relayed the news. The Shoto Maru had fouled its props.
Shimojo rushed out onto the observation platform, grabbed the spotlight, panned it left and right over the water looking for clues. A round white object bobbed up by the stern, followed by another, and another. He flashed the spotlight in front of him and up towards the bows. Floats. He realised instantly why the lifeboat had shepherded him inshore, but the knowledge gained him nothing. Without power, the trawler was helpless before the wind and waves and it began to slide backwards over its net into the bay. He raced back onto the bridge to order the anchors lowered, then pulled up with the sickening realisation that he was too late. The boat had already drifted over its net. His hesitation had cost him dearly. He should have ordered the anchors lowered and the hawsers severed the instant the props had fouled.
Red spun around as the Shoto Maru’s alarm sounded and the trawler suddenly lit up. He’d noted the change in the sound of the big diesel engine, hoped his plan had succeeded, but was nevertheless overwhelmed to receive confirmation. He saw the armed men retreating and the trawler swing around broadside onto the swells. He pulled the throttle back and watched in dismay and bewilderment. Why hadn’t Shimojo dropped his anchors? The stern of the trawler lit up blue as crewmen attacked the steel hawsers with acetylene cutters. The trawler kept turning, pushed by wind and wave. What would happen when they cut the net free? For the first time Red grasped the full extent of the trawler’s plight. He’d schemed to foul the Shoto Maru on the Christmas lobster traps, not to run it aground on the rocks. But that seemed the most likely outcome.
The boy awoke the instant he heard the ship’s alarm sound. He swung his legs over the side of his bed, feeling for the bunk below before jumping to the floor. But there was no bunk beneath him. He remembered where he was, the woman who tended him and the strange red man who spoke his language. Why then did he hear the ship’s alarm? He stumbled blindly through the darkness towards the glow that outlined the front windows. He looked down towards the bay and gasped out loud, spun around and went searching for clothes. Unbelievably his ship was lit up right in front of him. Even more unbelievably, it was foundering.
‘My God! The fool’s done it! He’s done it!’ Angus stared at the sight of the Shoto Maru, exhilarated, relieved, incredulous. Rosie grabbed hold of him and hugged him tight. She wanted to celebrate but still wasn’t sure what they were celebrating. Below them they could see the crew of the trawler running to their emergency stations. The trawler rolled heavily as it took the sea beam on. Its powerful lights lit the bay and Angus didn’t need the braying alarm horn to tell him it was in serious trouble.
‘Let me have the glasses, Rosie. Ah . . . just as I thought. Red’s run them into the crayfish pots. Bloody genius!’
‘Where’s Red, can you see him?’
; ‘Aye! He’s still patrolling the mouth of the bay. No doubt he’ll stay out there away from their rifles till the Kotaku arrives. You see they’ve stopped shooting?’
‘Thank God for small mercies. You better get in touch with Mickey and tell him what’s happened.’
Angus looked down at the Shoto Maru. ‘I don’t fancy the look of that.’ His concern was justified. The trawler had completed its one hundred and eighty degree swing so that its bow now faced directly into shore, and the stern straight out to sea into the teeth of the gale. The weight of the net was the only thing keeping it from being swept inshore, but it also had the effect of pulling the stern down so that the swells and waves crashed over it. Spare net floats washed free by the seas littered the water around the stern. ‘She’ll not last long like that.’
Rosie looked at her watch. It had just turned midnight. ‘Will it last another two and a half hours?’
Mickey listened in amazement. Everyone in the radio room and the corridors outside wore Cheshire-cat smiles. Shimojo Seiichi was finished, that much was clear. But the Shoto Maru might be finished as well and lives lost. Mickey wasn’t smiling. If the trawler was in trouble, so was Red, and it was a toss-up which of them was in it the deepest. Mickey could see a major international incident looming. ‘Local fisherman uses explosives to force Japanese trawler onto rocks.’ He shuddered. Poaching was a serious matter but it didn’t warrant the sinking of ships or deaths among their crews. He realised he’d have to act fast to have any hope of saving Red’s neck. He decided to take on face value Angus’ claim that the bombs Red had made were all sound and no fury. ‘Hero fisherman scuttles Jap poacher with fireworks’ had a much nicer ring to it. That was a story the media would love to run with. ‘Little bloke defies the might of the Japanese fishing fleet.’ The whole country except the wool and beef lobby would rally behind him. No one would dare prosecute Red then, provided no lives were lost. Mickey realised he had to set the agenda and preempt the official view. He pulled out his wallet and rifled through for the business card of a friendly Herald reporter to whom he owed a story. With Gloria as go-between, it was time to deliver.