Pescador's Wake Read Free Page A

stiff from the cold and the effort of concealing his fear.
    The radio starts up again. ‘ Pescador, Pescador, this is the Australis. You’re fishing in Australian territorial waters without authority and we order you to proceed to Fremantle, Western Australia. I repeat, your operations are illegal; proceed to Fremantle.’
    â€˜They know our vessel,’ Eduardo says, visibly surprised. ‘They’re too far away to see the name.’
    Carlos nods. ‘That fishing boat we saw yesterday must have told them we were here. ¡Maldito! ’
    â€˜We should have covered our name.’
    â€˜And admit guilt?’
    â€˜Guilt’s only a problem if we’re caught.’ Eduardo looks away, squinting in the direction of the patrol boat just visible off to port. ‘And they’d still have to prove it’s their fish we have on board.’ He pauses, his expression hardening. ‘How far will we take this?’
    Carlos lifts the binoculars to his face. There’s a line of unlit water only a nautical mile ahead—the front. Dark clouds are amassing above them. Soon the sea will be the same deep metallic colour as the skin of the oily fish being processed below. In minutes they’ll be caught between the upward thrust of angry waves and the downward force of a sky unleashing its frozen rain.
    â€˜We’ll run south until we’re free of the government boat,’ Carlos says, studying the chart and avoiding Eduardo’s eyes, trying to suppress the surge of panic rising in his chest and into his throat. His mouth is acid dry. After a decade of fishing, this is his first trip south and his first time breaking the law. Migiliaro had made it clear that if they were spotted fishing illegally, they must ignore all calls to stop. They must flee, into the ice if necessary. Under maritime law, any high-seas chase must be continuous for a vessel to be successfully prosecuted. Above all, the owner had said, he must not becontacted. If the Pescador escapes, Carlos was promised he would be handsomely rewarded. If not, he, alone, would sink – one way or another. ‘They won’t follow us in this weather and, once the chase is broken, we can’t be charged.’ He knows they have no choice. If they go to Australia as instructed, they’ll be made an example of. They’ll lose the catch and the boat, and be fined the value of every fish they have ever caught in their lives. ‘Julia’s having the baby in a few months,’ he continues quietly, almost to himself. ‘We have to go home.’ He grips the wheel hard, trying to keep his emotions from clouding his judgment as he reads an updated electronic weather chart. The isobars are piling up behind the front.
    The Australian master speaks again. ‘ Pescador, Pescador, Pescador, you have breached Australia’s Fisheries Act and the United Nation’s International Law of the Sea by fishing without permission in these waters. We will pursue you. Do you understand?’
    â€˜They won’t, Look at those clouds. They wouldn’t dare,’ Carlos says, finally looking his first mate and best friend in the eye. ‘ ¡Vete al infierno! ’ he shouts at the vessel on the horizon and hammers the Pescador towards the storm.

D AVE
The Australis
17 September 2002
    â€˜Stupid bloody selfish bastard.’ The Australian master spits more saliva than words. Dave Bates doesn’t usually wear his heart on his sleeve, but he is angry. The illegal vessel is forcing a chase and threatening his crew. Still, he observes his orders to follow the boat—for now.
    The Pescador, waving a Uruguayan flag from the stern, is ploughing through the large seas, heading due south. Every now and then, she disappears like a toy behind a wave.
    It’s September, the maximum extent of pack ice, and while most icebergs will be frozen into the pack, Dave knows he can’t rely on it. He keeps his eyes