Ken Goddard - Chimera

“I, uh, would be honored, I think,” Bulatt replied uneasily.

“In that case, I’ll send someone to pick you up as soon as you’ve completed your work,” Preithat said. “Now, there’s one more thing.” He nodded to the chief petty officer who stepped forward and handed the waterproof case and the duffel bag to Bulatt.

“What’s all this?” Bulatt asked, juggling the case and the deceptively heavy bag in his hands.

“The case holds a camera and some basic investigative equipment. It belongs to this ship. The Commander is happy to loan it to you, but wants it back; ideally in good condition. The bag contains Colonel Kulawnit’s vest, his radio, and his pistol,” Preithat said.

“But I’m not — ” Bulatt started to say, but Preithat shook his head firmly.

“Your call-sign is CSI-One, and the radio is adjusted to the proper frequency. Use it to notify our dispatcher when you and the chief are ready to be picked up.”

“Ah, American CSI — very good!” The chief petty officer grinned widely, holding his thumb high up in the air, and then said something to Preithat in Thai.

“Chief Petty Officer Narusan says he enjoys watching your American CSI show on Thai television, and hopes you’ll show him how to do this work so he can be the ship’s CSI officer also,” Preithat translated.

“Not a problem.” Bulatt nodded agreeably, and returned the thumbs-up gesture, which caused the chief to grin even more widely.

“The chief also assures me,” Preithat went on, “that he is perfectly capable of protecting you from the unlikely approach of any shark that might appear in these waters during daylight hours. But he’s not so confident about dealing with all of the friends and relatives of the pirate Kai, or the mysterious men on the Avatar, should any of them show up unannounced; and I would not want to be the one to tell Colonel Kulawnit, when he regains consciousness, that the friend who saved his life had come to harm.”

“I think I understand, Khun Sat,” Bulatt replied seriously. “Please assure the Commander that I’ll take good care of his equipment, and that I’ll try very hard to avoid any conflicts.”

“Yes, it is best for everyone if you concentrate on your search for evidence, and leave the hunting of these criminals to the Royal Navy, Agent Bulatt,” the Commander of the Sawaeke Pinsinchai added in halting English. “But if, in the process, you find it necessary to protect yourself — against sharks or any other such creatures who might try to harm you or any of my sailors — please do so with my blessing, and my authority.”

In the cabin of a Grumman Seaplane — somewhere over the Malacca Strait

The Grumman pilot was maintaining a steady low altitude in spite of stormy wind gusts that intermittently toss the old plane around like a toy. Wallis sat in the copilot seat searching the water below with a powerful N/V scope.

“Should have spotted them by now,” the pilot muttered into his headset mike. “You sure about that heading?

“No, I’m not… but I’m certain they wouldn’t have sailed south into a naval blockade.”

“Speaking of which,” the Grumman pilot responded, “we’re rapidly approaching Thai waters.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Only if we pop up on their radar screens, or they triangulate our location when you make that call.”

Wallis stared down at the satellite phone in his hand.

“I’ll make it brief.”

South of Tanga Island, in the Malacca Strait — within two nautical miles of Malaysian territory

It had taken Gavin nearly fifteen minutes and two hacksaw blades to cut away the Avatar’s flying bridge, giving the stricken yacht a much lower silhouette. He was in the process of tossing the last of the tubular structure overboard when he spotted the first patrol boat, and then the second — in the far distance, their running lights flickering intermittently through the fog — with his night-vision-goggles.

“We’ve got a lot of company out there,” Gavin said as he scrambled down to the bridge. “Couple of patrol boats — maybe three, I couldn’t tell for sure — off the bow and the port beam; definitely between us and Langkawi Island, and probably running the territorial line.”

“What about off the starboard beam?” Lanyard asked.

“Couldn’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean much. They could be a hundred yards out in this bloody fog, and we wouldn’t see the bastards coming until they ran us down.”

“Okay, starboard beam it is,” Lanyard said as he slowly pushed the left throttle up to half-speed, causing the yacht to slowly turn to the right.

“How far to the territorial line if we stay on this course?” Gavin asked, looking amazingly focused for a man who had been fighting against nausea for last hour, and frequently losing the battle.

Lanyard checked the GPS screen. “Maybe another fifteen minutes.”

“Think the pump’ll hold out that long?”

“It might.”

Two minutes later, the fourth pump light on the control board began flashing, and Lanyard made the reluctant decision to abandon and scuttle the crippled yacht.

The rain had stopped and the dark surface of the Malacca Strait — or at least what little of it they could see through the fog — was relatively calm; which made the idea of taking a twelve-foot dinghy out on the open ocean in stormy weather, in the middle of the night, with a limited store of food and water, and an ocean full of patrol boats looking to blow them out of the water at the first opportunity, seem only foolish instead of suicidal.

Ten minutes later, Lanyard was braced against the wallowing dinghy’s steering wheel, watching the Avatar slowly settle into the water, while Gavin hung over the tubular bow and vomited what little food and drink he’d managed to keep down over the past hour. Then, as the yacht’s torn bridge structure finally disappeared beneath the waves, Lanyard checked his compass heading and accelerated the small boat into the face of the low swells.

Twenty long minutes later, Lanyard’s satellite cell phone finally rang.

“Gecko-two,” he said, and then listened for a few seconds, a smile growing on his grizzled face. “Right, we’re probably the lads the whole bloody Thai Navy and Air Force are out looking for; but, fortunately for us, they‘re searching west and south instead of east. They won’t find the Avatar in any case. She’s resting on the bottom a couple miles back. We’re in the dinghy, keeping our heads down. Jack’s a little worse for the wear, took a nick alongside the head, but he’s still game. My navigation’s a bit rough, but I think we’re in Malaysian territory right now. Hold one.”

Lanyard reached into his life jacket, pulled out a GPS unit, and read off the coordinates into the phone. “Aye, we’ll put an IR-flasher out. Water’s a bit of a chop down here; try not to run us over when you come in. Gecko-two, out.”

Chuckling in satisfaction, Lanyard re-secured the cell phone to his belt, reached for the emergency infrared flasher attached to the transom, turned it on, and then turned to the dark figure of Gavin, who was sprawled on his back in the bottom of the dinghy muttering to himself.

“See, what’d I tell you, laddie? Just because we sank the Avatar and let Hateley’s hundred-thousand-dollar trophy get blown to bits, that doesn’t mean Wallis would leave us out here to paddle all the way to Darwin.”

“That may be true, but he doesn’t know we did all that just yet, does he?” Gavin said morosely.

“No, he doesn’t,” Lanyard conceded. “Let’s just hope the plane ride put him in a good mood.”

On the Malacca Strait, Malaysia

Ten minutes later, the ex-RAF pilot of the completely blacked-out, fifty-year-old, high-winged, dual-engine seaplane came in low over the water, visually verified the dinghy’s position; and then came back around and touched down, landing into the face of the rolling swells with an ease that suggested a history of many such landings in far worse conditions.