Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“I need a phone,” Khalid croaked.

“You may get one,” Wilberforce gloated, “in about fifty years when you’re let out of the gaol. International terrorism is about the only crime this country takes seriously anymore and you’re going to get the full brunt of the law on this one, mate. Your friend shouldn’t have killed a teenager and a priest. Bad mistake.”

“I’m the target,” Khalid said lamely. He struggled to reach his passport and establish his credentials, but his stamina had finally deserted him. “They were after me.”

“Tell it to the bloody judge, you wog bastard.”

A police ambulance carried Khalid Khuddari away from Heathrow, its siren honking like a foghorn as it tore along the route back to London. He was sedated by the paramedics, two veterans of some of the most gruesome scenes in all of England. Neither of them could believe the struggle their newest patient had put up. To the last possible moment before the new round of drugs knocked him out, Khalid was demanding a telephone and trying vainly to explain who he was.

The sea was as dark as a slag heap belched out of a blast furnace, hard and relentless. The waves were undulating furrows arching westward, pushing aside everything that got in their way, including the fishing boat Suzy’s Pride , a bow-heavy purse seiner. The thirty-year-old boat was out well beyond her limit, chasing fish so far into the Pacific that her antiquated radar system could no longer see the jumbled coastline of the mainland.

It was the black hour, the lowest ebb of the night between one and five when everything except the desperate slept. For nearly seventy hours, Steve Hanscom had guided his boat behind a school of feeding sea bass in hopes of coming across a large shoal of Pacific sardines. Such was his luck, he’d had two possible catches scattered by a pod of orcas that had decided to shadow his tired boat.

While at first delighted to point out the killer whales to his young son, Hanscom now cursed the capricious mammals for their dogged loyalty to Suzy’s Pride . A fourth-generation fisherman who realized that there would not be a fifth, Hanscom still tried to make a living from the sea that had provided for his family since the middle part of the last century. With a mortgage on his boat and one on his house and a car that used more oil than gasoline, he knew all too well what a big catch meant to him and his family. Two, possibly three, more runs out into the open waters beyond Puget Sound and he would be bankrupt if he didn’t come up with a big haul.

That was why Steve had pulled his eleven-year-old son, Joshua, out of school for the month and put him to work on the boat. In the few weeks they would have together, Steve hoped to teach the boy what it meant to work for yourself and to in-still the pride that his own father had taught him. In a few months, surely by spring, Steve would be just another guy putting in his time for someone else, but right now, he was his own man, and by God his son would know what that felt like.

Though others would suffer by Steve losing his boat, particularly old George Boudette, the grizzled sea dog who’d forgotten more about fishing than most men would ever know, Steve Hanscom worried most about his own son. Josh had been raised by the lore and lure of the sea. It was simple economics — and the harsh reality that the Pacific Northwest was being over-fished — that was driving him out of business, yet Steve still blamed himself for not being able to pass on the legacy that had been passed to him. He saw it as his own personal failure.

The ship’s wheel moved effortlessly under Steve Hanscom’s gentle touch, the varnished oak made smooth by generations of constant contact. Standing alone in the wheelhouse as he had since Suzy’s Pride had left Seattle, Hanscom watched the depth finder, hoping to see the shoal of sardines pass under the boat again, signaling him to throw the big purse net back over the flat transom.

“I’ll spell ya.” The voice penetrated his personal world, startling Hanscom so that his fists tightened on the wheel.

He turned. “No thanks, Georgie. Get some sleep.”

“I’m eighty years old. I don’t need any more sleep. I’ve had my share until the big one comes.” George Boudette’s eyes were alight with the last spark of life, like a lightbulb burning brightest before it faded forever. George had crewed with Steve, Steve’s father, and, as a boy, Steve’s grandfather.

“How’s Josh?” Steve asked. His son was below.

“Asleep at the radio like Marconi’s assistant,” George said fondly. “You shouldn’t have sent him to bed and told him to listen to the set at the same time. He took your second order a lot more seriously than the first.”

“We aren’t going to catch any fish, so he might as well feel like he’s doing something on this trip. Listening to the chatter of the big container ships heading to Seattle is better than sitting on the deck and twiddling his thumbs.”

“We’ll hit fish before dawn,” George said with undeniable confidence.

One deck below, Josh Hanscom was coming awake again, gripped by the same excitement that had held him enthralled since his father had told him that he didn’t have to go to school this month. It was like Christmas morning in the quiet hours before his parents woke. Yet behind it was a stronger emotion. He had been given a job to do. His father had told him to keep listening to the radio and that was exactly what Josh intended. He didn’t realize that his task was more to keep him occupied than for any legitimate purpose.

Ashamed that he’d fallen asleep on duty, Josh rubbed at his eyes and yawned before concentrating on the transceiver. This was the third straight night that he’d been in the same clothes, and like his dad, he’d gotten into the habit of spraying frigid deodorant under his arms as soon as he woke. Josh even mimicked his father’s shocked expression when the aerosol hit his tender skin. After hosing himself with Right Guard, Josh scaled up through the frequencies listening for anything that might help his dad find fish. He worked the twin dials with delicate fingers, easing from one frequency to another so subtly that the transition was unnoticeable unless one really listened to the pitch of the static coming through the speaker.

He nearly missed it. In the lower band of the VHF there was a quick squawk of white noise, different from the background static but so much the same that Josh almost ignored it. Yet he dialed back, and suddenly there it was again. Someone was definitely transmitting, but the signal was too far away to get in clear. It was just garbled noise, a harsh squelch much like what the older kids at school called music. Not knowing the consequences of capturing a signal at 2182 MHz, Josh listened intently until a voice emerged from the static. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the VLCC Southern Cross posting an All Ships Signify.”

Startled by the hail, Josh rushed from the cabin, scrambling up to the bridge. “Dad, hey, Dad,” he shouted.

“Hold on there, Jakey,” Steve Hanscom said, using his son’s nickname. He stood hunched over the sonar scope, George Boudette at his shoulder, one scarred hand holding the wheel steady without having to actually look at the sea.

“Look at the size of that bastard,” George breathed in awe, despite his decades at sea. “I’ve never seen a shoal like it.”

“Goddamn it, Georgie, we struck gold.” Steve straightened and turned to his son. “Jake, go rouse the men. We’ve got some fishing to do.”

George Boudette idled the engines down to trolling speed, twisting the wheel so that the Suzy’s Pride started a wide arc around the huge mass of fish roiling just below the surface, driven mad by the predatory sea bass darting through their midst. Steve turned from the sonar, confident that Georgie would handle the bridge duties while he and the two deckhands prepared to cast the seine net around the school of sardines.