“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