Читать книгу Sole Survivor - Derek Hansen - Страница 10

Five

“Come in, come in.” Lieutenant Commander Michael Finn rosefrom behind a swamp-green metal desk that looked like it had been built from a Meccano set. His office walls shared the same bilious color, and the only relief came from a window overlooking the naval docks that was partially screened off by drab, apple-green venetian blinds, and a painting of the light cruiser Achilles engaged in battle with the German pocket battleship Graf Spee. He’d heard about Red and half expected him to walk in naked. If he had, Red would not have surprised him more.

He wore a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit jacket with wing lapels that might have been popular before the war, but had been studiously avoided by fashion ever since. It was at least two sizes too big but helped hide the frayed blue shirt beneath. His trousers were black and stopped well shy of his ankles. It didn’t help that his shoes were brown. Col had done his best and scratched around for clothes for Red to wear but had had to make do with what had been left behind by guests at the hotel. The lieutenant commander had seen Guy Fawkes effigies on bonfires that were better dressed.

“Sit down, sit down!” he said.

Red sat. If someone had shot his legs out from under him he couldn’t have sat down faster. He looked for somewhere to put the package containing the little urn that held the last mortal remains of Bernie Arbuthnot, finally choosing the corner of the lieutenant commander’s desk. He couldn’t help but notice that the blotter was square to the desk, ruler parallel alongside and pens neatly in a cup. He wrongly assumed that the lieutenant commander was responsible for the orderliness.

“That your friend?”

“Sorry.” Red grabbed the package off the desk and looked for somewhere else to put it.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” said the lieutenant commander quickly. “Leave it there, it’s okay.”

Red’s hands shook as he placed the urn of ashes back onto the desk. His responsibilities toward Bernie hadn’t ended with the old man’s death. Someone had had to farewell the old boy and nobody else had rushed to put their hand up. The Great Barrier Island community had chipped in for the cremation and to fly the three of them to Auckland on the amphibian. They’d been given a discount to make up for a shortfall in funds on the grounds that a dog didn’t really constitute a person as far as fares went, and Bernie could travel as cargo.

Red and Archie had sat in the little chapel until the coffin had descended. The experience had made Red think of the prayers they used to say over the graves of fallen comrades in Burma and the tears he’d shed over the mate for whom Archie had been named. “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Nobody had warned him that the valley was so long and the shadow so deep.

“I appreciate the fact that you’ve come to see me.”

Red looked up, startled. He’d agreed to the arrangement so that the lieutenant commander wouldn’t send a patrol boat to Wreck Bay but wished fervently that he hadn’t.

“Should I offer condolences?”

“A cup of tea, please, sir. Some water for Archie.”

“No problem. Here, let me take your coat.”

If the man had released Red from stocks he could hardly have been more grateful. Lieutenant Commander Michael Finn smiled. It wasn’t every day people dropped in to his office dressed like pimps with a dog and a fresh urn of ashes. He hung Red’s coat on the back of his door and stuck his head into the corridor. “Gloria! Could you do me a tea, a coffee and a bowl of water please? Yeah. Bowl of water. Ta.” He turned and crouched down to let Archie sniff his hand. He ran his hand sharply up and down the dog’s spine. “Like that, do you?” Archie shuffled and made it plain that he did. The lieutenant commander concentrated on the dog and deliberately ignored his owner. Red was on the verge of hyperventilating, and the officer wanted to give him time to settle and relax. He found the spot above Archie’s tail that all dogs like having rubbed and stole a quick look at Red. The man looked like he was going to bolt out through the door at any moment. “Do you think we should have a beer for your mate later?”

“Sherry.”

“What?”

“He drank sherry.”

“Then we’ll have a sherry for him.” Mickey grimaced. “No. Perhaps not. Beer or nothing.”

Red forced a smile. He looked around the little office. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. At least it had a window so he could look outside if the walls started closing in. The lieutenant commander wasn’t as formidable as he’d feared, either, and showed no sign of shouting at him. He was a big bear of a man and seemingly ill at ease with his size. His limbs flopped haphazardly as if their owner only exercised occasional control. But their looseness also suggested that at one time the lieutenant commander might have been an athlete. They were near the same age, but while Red didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, the lieutenant commander had a few pounds too many and had the least military bearing of any officer Red had ever met. He hadn’t expected a lieutenant commander who got down on his hands and knees and patted dogs, and he found that reassuring.

“Red—you don’t mind me calling you Red?—would you please call me Mickey.” He gave Archie one last pat and stood. His uniform had crumpled into familiar folds. The crease in his trousers zigzagged as if unsure of the way to his shoes. “I’ve been called Mickey ever since I started school. My parents hated it, and I hate it. But when they named me Michael Finn, what the hell did they expect?”

Red snorted, an attempt to laugh by a man who had forgotten how. Mickey’s charm was beginning to bite and had a pleasantly familiar ring, like the laconic good humor of the Aussies. A young woman in naval uniform interrupted them with the tea, coffee and Archie’s bowl of water. She appeared very young to Red, almost too young to be in uniform. But then, they’d all been young once.

“Third Officer Gloria Wainscott, my ever-so-efficient assistant. Red O’Hara.”

Red rose awkwardly to his feet and held out his hand uncertainly. He wasn’t sure that shaking hands with women was the right protocol. Women made him uncomfortable and brought back memories.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Hara.” The young woman blushed, disconcerted. Red was staring at her. No, not at her. It was as if he was staring through her, past her to some distant spot only he could see. Gently but firmly she pulled her hand from his grip, and drew the only other free chair up toward the desk. The lieutenant commander gave her a quick glance and cut in.

“Red, is it okay if Gloria joins us? If you prefer …”

“No, it’s okay,” said Red, anxious to please and get the interview over. He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt, pulled at it until the top button gave.

“Right,” said Mickey. “Take your tie off before you choke. While we have our tea, just let me fill you in. Some of this you’ll know already but it won’t hurt to hear it again. Up until January this year our territorial waters extended only three miles from shore. That’s not a lot of water to protect unless you’ve only got four patrol boats to protect it, which is all we had. Despite the blurb our publicity department put out, we did a lousy job. So lousy that at the beginning of the year the government extended our territorial waters to twelve miles, on the theory that if we can’t catch poachers inside three miles, we can catch them inside twelve. When the navy pointed out that they’d actually increased the area of water we had to patrol by four hundred percent, they solved the problem by giving us two more patrol boats. Bit like sending school prefects out to control the mafia.”

“You’re still better off,” said Red quickly, unsure whether he was allowed to comment.

“True. Except that Japan refuses to recognize the twelve-mile zone and has appealed to the International Court of Justice. It’s just a delaying tactic, of course, because our people in Japan know that five prefectures there are about to follow our example and impose their own twelve-mile limits. In the meantime, the Japanese are grabbing all the fish they can and coming down heavy on our guys in trade negotiations. Japan is a major buyer of our wool, so their kanji kaisha—their champion negotiators—simply linked the needs of New Zealand sheep farmers with the needs of Japanese fishermen. The result? They run rings around our blokes, and our government agrees to license a limited number of longliners to fish as close as six miles from the coast. Give us twelve miles and our Sunderlands stand a chance. Give us six and the Japanese skippers laugh at us.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Red.

“I’ll get to that. How’s the tea?”

“Fine.”

“What the government fails to appreciate is that we’re up against the most sophisticated and aggressive fishing fleets in the world. Everybody’s heard about the cod wars off Iceland, but believe me that’s just a sideshow. We’ve got the Japs, and they’ve got the best fish finders in the world, the best techniques, the biggest nets, the longest lines, the most dedicated crews, and they’ve got radar that can find us, often before we can find them. Their dories are faster than anything we’ve got except the Sunderlands, and the flying boats can only photograph poachers but can’t catch them.

“We’ve also got the Russians, who tend to fish out deeper but are not averse to a bit of poaching, either. Their mother ships are equipped with electronic surveillance gear so they can do a bit of intelligence gathering on the side, which, of course, also means they can keep better tabs on us than we can on them. Then there are the Taiwanese, the Chileans and even our friends the Americans. At any time there can be as many as twenty to thirty foreign boats harvesting the waters around New Zealand. Against this armada we have six Fairmiles. Six pathetic Fairmiles.” Mickey Finn stopped talking and took a long sip of coffee. Red shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“What about the Sunderlands?” Red asked.

“Ahhhh … our ace in the hole. A dozen Sunderlands patrolling night and day and a government with balls, and our problem would sail peacefully over the horizon. At least beyond the twelve-mile limit. But we never have more than one Sunderland up at a time and we’re lucky to get that. They’re not ours, they belong to the air force, Number Five Squadron, so we have to rely on interservice cooperation. They’re not bad, the blokes out at Hobsonville, and the aircrew are as committed to nailing the Japs as we are. But it makes things difficult. For example, I can convince my superiors that an intercept is in order, but they in turn have to convince their opposites in the air force. And those blokes have heavies breathing down the phone at them, as well. The Aiguilles operation was ours. We’d planned to intercept that Jap bastard before he reached the Coromandel Peninsula. By the time I’d convinced our guys, and our guys had convinced their guys, and somebody from both services had put their gold braid on the line, two weeks had passed, and you know what happened then. The air force got egg on its face and flipped it neatly onto ours. Christ, you should’ve been here. The phones were on meltdown. Your unfortunate intervention is only going to make it harder for us to get a Sunderland next time.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s history. We have to accept that the current system doesn’t work, and we have to get a whole lot cleverer. It’s no good you or the fisheries ringing us with sightings of poachers, because by the time we do anything about them they’re long gone. They’re too fast and too smart. Our only chance of success lies in targeting the most incorrigible poachers, learning how they operate and then setting a trap for them. To do that, we need an informal network of dedicated observers to keep us informed. That’s where you come in.”

Red leaned forward expectantly, his nervousness forgotten. Mickey found himself pinned by the most startlingly intense eyes he had ever seen. He forced himself to continue.

“You may have read recently that the navy was throwing additional resources behind solving the problem of poaching. I am those resources, or should I say, Gloria and I are those resources. We have been assigned to the fisheries protection squadron to gather intelligence and formulate strategies to counter incursions by foreign vessels. I have some control over the operations of our patrol boats, but in reality I can’t actually do anything without informing my superior, Staff Officer Operations, who in turn reports to Commodore Auckland. This particular Staff Officer Operations is a button polisher and social climber. Rumor has it that he’s never actually set foot aboard a boat. It’s also fair to say that nailing poachers is not the navy’s highest priority. Nor is it necessarily the government’s. There are plenty of people in power who don’t want us to catch the Japanese, fearing the effect incidents might have on our trade relations. They’re worried the Japanese might stop buying our beef or our wool. The government talks big but isn’t prepared to back its words. Yet despite this, we believe we can have some impact. With your help.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Gloria will draw some binoculars and a radio from stores. We want you to report every sighting you make of foreign fishing boats. What can you get out of your boat? Eight knots?”

“Twelve.”

“Do your best to get a solid identification, but call us anyway. If you don’t get the name, hopefully someone else will. You won’t be alone in this. We’re setting up a network of spotters up and down the coast.”

“What happens when you catch poachers?”

The lieutenant commander’s shoulders sagged. “You want to tell him, Gloria?”

“If we’re lucky enough to surprise a foreign vessel fishing in close, we still have a need to gather evidence so we can mount a successful prosecution. If we can get close enough to photograph a mother ship taking dories back on board, identify it and hopefully gather some of their longlines, we can put together a case. Similarly if we catch a trawler at work or hauling aboard nets filled with fish. Then we can make an arrest and use the fish they caught as evidence of poaching. Even so, we have to make the arrest within the twelve-mile limit or, in the case of the licensed longliners, the six-mile limit.”

“Once they’re in international waters there’s not a lot we can do,” cut in Mickey. “If we can’t get them into court we can’t fine them. Instead we send a complaint to their embassy and the vessel is usually withdrawn temporarily from New Zealand waters. I say temporarily advisedly, because give them a couple of months and they’re back again and up to their old tricks. By the way, do you know what the maximum fine is for a skipper of a boat caught poaching? Tell him, Gloria.”

“Fifty pounds, and twenty pounds per crewman. Technically, they can take out thousands of pounds’ worth of fish, all at the risk of a fifty-pound fine.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Red. He could feel his anger rise and fought to suppress it.

“Gets worse,” said Mickey. “The way the laws are written, the only thing our courts can get them on is fishing without a license in an unregistered boat. That’s the irony. They can invade our waters, and the only thing we can do is fine them for not having something they’re not allowed to have in the first place.”

“So why do you bother?” asked Mickey.

“It’s my job and someone has to do it. Look, the fines themselves mean nothing. It’s the time the boats and crews lose in port, waiting for the case to be heard. Meanwhile our fearless prime minister sends an official protest note to Japan, which usually results in the vessel being withdrawn back to Japan in disgrace. That costs the fishing companies a lot of money. That’s the big stick we wave.” Mickey leaned back in his chair and opened his arms expansively. “We don’t pay, the hours are long and the conditions lousy, but will you join our little band anyway? Be our eyes and ears?”

“If you think it’ll help.”

“Good man! So look and don’t touch from now on?”

“What if the dories are fishing in close?”

Mickey took a long look at Red and surrendered to the inevitable. “Check with me first. If there’s no operation planned I guess there’s no reason why you shouldn’t rip into them. But be careful. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. I guess if that bastard Shimojo Seiichi tries another crack in close it won’t hurt if you keep him on his toes.”

“Shimojo Seiichi?” The name came easily to Red’s lips, his accent near flawless. It had been so long ago yet still seemed like yesterday.

“He’s the skipper of the Aiko Maru, the longliner you frightened off.”

“Shimojo Seiichi,” Red repeated softly, committing the name of his enemy to memory. “When do I get the radio and binoculars?”

“Gloria?”

“Might take a while, sir. You’ve promised quite a few lately.”

“We’ll do our best.” Mickey stood. “Now how about that beer for your mate? I come off duty in five minutes.” He picked up the package on his desk and handed it back to Red. “Guess you’ll be lonely up there now.”

“Yeah,” said Red. “With any luck.”

Mickey Finn put Red and Archie on a tender that was taking officers’ wives across the harbor to the Admiralty Steps. Red carried two packages, the second one containing his jacket and tie, which Gloria had offered to wrap up in brown paper. She’d guessed correctly that Red would rather be cold than wear the dreadful jacket again. The flight back to Great Barrier wasn’t due to leave for another three hours, so Red decided to walk to Mechanics Bay, where the amphibian was based. He knew there was no point trying to find a taxi driver who was prepared to carry a dog. He tried to ignore the thunderous diesel trucks and their foul-smelling exhausts as they hauled cargoes on and off the wharves. He glanced up at the steel bows of the giant cargo ships. Everything was Something Maru. It hadn’t been so very long ago when every ship in port had boasted British registration. What had happened? How had everything gone so wrong? He turned his attention to Archie to calm him down. The dog was spooked by the trucks and forklifts whizzing around him, and pulled at the rope leash Red had made for the visit. They couldn’t get out of Auckland fast enough.

He thought about the lieutenant commander. He seemed a good man, the type that did well in Burma. It buoyed Red to know that others felt the same way about the Japanese fishing fleet as he did and wanted to do something about it. It gave him hope. The lieutenant commander’s young assistant troubled him, but he knew he’d get over it. Despite the fact that she had light brown hair and hazel eyes, she made him think of Yvonne, and he’d managed not to think of her for such a long time. She made him think of what he’d lost, what the Japanese had taken from him. He could never forgive. They were always one step ahead, always taking away, always destroying. His hands began to shake. Two Japanese sailors heading ashore walked out through the wharf gates ahead of him. He automatically checked his stride so that he wouldn’t walk in front of them and stopped.

“Konichi-wa,” he said, head bowed. “Good day.” Twenty-two years had passed but nothing had changed.

“Konichi-wa!” the sailors replied, surprised that someone spoke their tongue, and even more surprised that it was a quivering tramp with a dog. They laughed and walked on. Just past them a newspaper boy was selling an early edition of the Auckland Star. The headlines trumpeted the good news: Japanese wool buyers had pushed prices to a new high.

The flight back to Tryphena, at the southern end of Great Barrier, took thirty minutes, five minutes longer than scheduled, because Captain Ladd had spotted a whale and its calf and swooped low to show Red. They’d managed to get close enough to see the barnacles growing on the mother. There’d been a time when whales were a common sight, but the whaling station at Whangaparapara had put paid to that. The Japanese weren’t to blame for everything.

Red decided to call into Fitzroy on the way home to refill his tanks. He slipped through Man-of-War Passage on the south side of Selwyn Island with barely twenty meters of water either side. Both shores were fringed with giant pohutukawa trees, which had insinuated their way into every niche in the rocks and seemed to thrive in the barren ground. Once around Selwyn Island he found shelter from the prevailing winds, the southwesterlies, which were the bane of the island and the reason why Port Fitzroy was so popular with yachties. Up on the ridges, the surviving kauris and totaras shook their heads as if warning all sailors against taking to the sea. Red was glad he had his sweater, work trousers and parka. He was going to need them.

Col was waiting for him on the wharf and tied off his painter. Red handed back the borrowed jacket, trousers, tie and shoes and accepted two four-gallon tins of diesel in exchange, which Col had filled and ready.

“How’d it go?” asked Col.

“As Bernie wanted.”

“Think I’d rather be planted myself.”

“What difference does it make?”

“My way, the worms get a feed. Oh hell. I forgot. There’s a letter for you up at the shop. Help yourself. I’ll go fetch it.”

A letter. Red couldn’t remember when anybody had last sent him a letter. His spirits sank. There’d been a time when letters promised hope, life and an afterward. It hadn’t even mattered if the letter had been written to someone else. News from home had been proof that the rest of the world still existed, still cared. But letters had since come to mean something else, and he didn’t relish receiving them. Red had no reason to expect this letter to be any more welcome. Maybe some government department wanted to move him off his land. After all, there’d been talk of turning the north end of the island into a reserve. He sought diversion in work, but the fuel poured too slowly into his tank, and all that was required was patience. Why couldn’t the world leave him alone? Archie sensed his distress and nuzzled up close.

Col returned and handed him the letter. Red examined it cautiously and distastefully, as if it might explode. The envelope was white and his name and address typewritten. The name of a market research company was printed in orange on the back. He didn’t even know what a market research company was. It made no sense to him.

But it would soon enough.