Pescador's Wake Read Free Page B

on the radar, and on the seas in front of him. From the number of birds feasting in the Pescador ’s wake, it’s clear the illegals have discarded fish scraps – valuable evidence—from the processing. But he hasn’t got time to trawl for that now. Soon it will be dark for twelve hours. He uses the arm of his fleece to wipe a film of nervous sweat from his forehead and upper lip. Harry Perdman, his first mate, hands him a covered mug of coffee, and Dave takes a sip, burning his lips.
    â€˜Sorry, mate. Should’ve warned you,’ Harry apologises, behind a careworn smile.
    â€˜Least of my worries, Harry.’
    Dave’s thick, freckled fingers, tug at the red-grey beard forming on his chin. He thinks of Margie, his wife, teasing him every time he returns home from sea: ‘If you’d just shave off that atrocious beard, you’d look a decade younger.’ But he knows that if she were here now she wouldn’t be joking. She’d be spitting chips.
    He broke his promise to her the moment he embarked on this chase. The ‘hot pursuit’, as it’s legally known, is his first and, with any luck, will be his last. Since throwing in the towel on his own fishing career, he’s been skippering the Australis for six months each year on behalf of the Australian Maritime Safety Authority. His main job has been to ensure that vessels don’t pose a pollution threat to Australian waters, with the occasional search-and-rescue mission just to keep him on his toes. The last few weeks, however, had been a whole new ball game. The Australis had been chartered by Customs and the Australian Fisheries Management Authority to act as a deterrent to illegal fishers. He was to report sightings of suspected illegal fishing activities around Heard and McDonald Islands, three thousand nautical miles southwest of his home in Tasmania. The only contact with foreign boats, he’d been assured, would be a radio call, informing them of their crime. He’d promised Margie he’d stick to his brief. ‘Don’t go playing cowboys,’ she had said. ‘You’re not the bloody navy.’ But what was he supposed to do when theFisheries Minister moved the goalposts on him? The naval frigate that was on standby to help out had been called to Timor, leaving just him and the illegal boat and the water between them.
    Harry answers a call from the Maritime Operations branch of the Australian Customs Service and hands the phone to Dave.
    â€˜It’s Roger Wentworth,’ Harry says.
    Dave silently swears. ‘Dave Bates here, Roger.’
    â€˜G’day David. I take it our illegals haven’t responded.’
    â€˜Did you really expect they would?’ Dave asks, studying the radar and the illegal boat’s plotted course. He continues before Wentworth can answer. ‘It looks like they’re heading southwest. Further into the weather. We’ve just crossed a front into a low-pressure system and, to give you an idea, I reckon the seas are building to fifteen metres.’
    â€˜That’s big then?’
    Dave shakes his head in dismay. He imagines Wentworth phoning from a comfortable Canberra office, perhaps doodling a picture on an otherwise blank notepad. Busy work. ‘What level of that government office block are you on there, Roger?’
    â€˜The fifth…’
    â€˜Well imagine being on the street below and having a wave as high as your office hurtling towards you like there’s no tomorrow. And then throw in eighty-knot winds!’ A large wave strikes the boat side on. ‘Shit!’
    Dave drops the phone’s receiver and switches off the autopilot to use the wheel, the manual helm. He heads the boat directly into the weather.
    â€˜Jesus! Harry, take the wheel, mate.’ Dave hands over control of the boat and hauls the phone back up by its cord. ‘Okay, Roger. I’m back. Bit hard to chat and steer in these