Hunting the Dragon Page 3

  The captain believed that men obey for two reasons: fear and respect for their leaders. He used both to ensure his orders were carried out swiftly and without question. He needed Santos’s loyalty and brutality to rule the crew. With the mate as an extension of his will, he could distance himself from the uneducated men he both detested and relied on.

  Billy sat on the Suva Harbor seawall sketching a small, 32-foot-long Westsail sloop. For Billy, Suva Harbor, where the Bombora Surf Camp launch had left him a week ago, was a jumping-off spot to other islands where waves broke big and clean over remote tropic reefs.

  Since he had first spotted the Westsail, he was drawn to portray her in bold, bright watercolors. The sloop’s seaworthy hull, simple rigging, and cozy cabin cried out adventure. Knowing that the boat was for sale, and he couldn’t buy her, was maddening.

  Billy had a bigger problem. The price of passage to the out islands was more than what remained in his wallet. All the cash he had left, after a week in a boardinghouse plus meals, was 255 Fijian, about 140 U.S. dollars, enough to survive another week—if he gave up lunch. For the past five days Billy had been prowling the docks looking for work as a deckhand on an interisland freighter bound anywhere there might be waves. He had no other resources. He had no mother and father in the States to wire him money for a ticket home. His parents had split some years back, and then when he was ten his father died. A good-hearted aunt took him in when his mother remarried and moved away with her new husband. He wasn’t sure where to find Mom now. His aunt had helped him so much over the years, his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask for more.

  Right now, on the Suva dock, Billy was as much an orphan as the sick little sea lion pups that sometimes washed up in front of his Venice Beach, Southern California, lifeguard tower. In his memory he could still see a gang of vicious beach kids poking sticks at one of the emaciated creatures. When they refused to stop tormenting the pup his anger overcame his better judgment and he hurled the whole group into the surf. A parent had complained to the chief lifeguard and Billy almost lost his first real job.

  Billy’s attention returned to his brush and watercolor pad. He wondered if he should add the for sale sign in the cabin window. He had met the sloop’s owner and his pregnant wife. She wanted to fly home and have the baby in a hospital. He was for sailing on, delivering the child himself. She won, and her mom had sent the money for the couple to return to the States. Like Billy, they were broke, and the stubby little sailboat of their dreams, and his, would someday find a new owner.

  He dabbed the tip of his brush in a water jar and worked on. Billy liked the way the quick-drying pigments forced him to paint swiftly. He also liked the sturdy, almost pea-pod shape of the sloop’s deep-keeled hull. As he applied an aqua blue wash over the lower edge of the paper, Billy saw himself at the tiller of the Westsail. His surfboard was lashed to the cabin top. He was sailing downwind through a narrow channel, flanked by peeling waves and leaping dolphins, that led into a wide tropical lagoon. On the beach were island girls strumming ukuleles and dancing the tamarae….

  “That’s fantastic. Do you sell your paintings?” asked a woman’s voice with a Southern California accent.

  Billy snapped out of his daydreams and looked up at a young couple he judged to be well-financed honeymooners. They were wearing shorts, expensive reverse-print Hawaiian aloha shirts, and slaps. The man had his attention on the surfboard. Her eyes were fixed on the watercolor.

  Fighting to keep his cool, Billy smiled and said, “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “Would you sell that one of the little boat?”

  He held the grin and lied, “I usually send them back to the gallery in New York.”

  He could see she was impressed, but her husband looked skeptical.

  “If you were to sell that one, how much would you charge?” she asked.

  “Since I won’t have to wrap and ship it—air freight’s expensive down here—two hundred and fifty U.S. dollars, if I knew it would have a good home.”

  The husband switched his gaze from the surfboard and said impatiently, “We’ve got white walls and a view of the ocean. Is that good enough? How about a hundred in cash, right now?”

  “Make it hundred and fifty and you’re the owners of a Billy Crawford original.”

  She looked pleadingly at her guy. He pulled out a fat wallet and began peeling off bills. As Billy opened his Swiss Army knife and sliced the painting off the watercolor block, the husband said, “Nice board. Want to sell it?”

  “No way. Where I go, so does my board.”

  “Searching for the perfect wave, right?”

  He didn’t like the man’s probing and turned his back to pick up a pencil. He signed and dated the watercolor. When they walked off Billy stuffed the money in his wallet and let out a breath. My first sale. How about that? I’m really an artist now. And thank you, Miss Graham.

  He thought about Miss Graham, his high school art instructor. Without her help and encouragement he probably would have dropped out of high school. You really made art fun. Hey, I’d better paint another.

  He looked for inspiration and his gaze held on the black-hulled tuna clipper’s graceful lines. “She’s too industrial for a watercolor, but maybe some crewman would buy a sketch.”

  He carefully packed the tubes of pigments, his expensive sable brushes that were a gift from his aunt, and a liter bottle of distilled water in his “getaway” bag. Since the near disaster off Bombora, Billy had bought a small waterproof duffel with shoulder straps. He filled it with survival gear and his artist’s tools, sketch pad, and watercolor paper. His eyes made a quick inventory of the contents—compass; Swiss Army knife; signal mirror; sunscreen; Mini Maglite with extra batteries; ten granola bars in silver foil wrap; fishing line, lures, and hooks; swim fins; mask and snorkel; and a pair of surfing booties in case he had to walk over a coral reef to reach shore. His prudent organization gave Billy a sense of security. After a long look at the ship he pulled out a number-two pencil and sketch pad to begin drawing the tuna clipper.

  The ship’s tall knife-edged bow reminded him of a navy destroyer. His sense of form was offended by the wasplike helicopter sitting atop the bridge. He’d leave it out of the sketch, along with the black panel truck parked near the gangplank. The huge mountain of red nylon net on the aft deck seemed appropriate, as did the tall crane that drew in the net. At the very stern perched a broad-beamed, battleship-gray, twenty-four-foot-long skiff used to pull out the net that would encircle the tuna. He would include the skiff as well.

  He decided to pencil in as much detail as possible without sacrificing the clipper’s graceful lines. Any fisherman interested in buying a drawing would want to recognize the ship he sailed on. “Later,” he murmured, “I’ll color it with a wash to make it look like a painting, even though that’s kind of cheating.”

  After finishing a draftsmanlike outline he added some shading. He felt stiff from sitting so long. Billy stood, packed his gear, and walked closer to pick up some more details.

  He slipped the bag’s straps over his shoulders and ambled for the clipper until he found himself in Lucky Dragon’s shadow. He paused to look at the truck parked by the clipper’s gangplank and saw it was actually a hearse. The boxy truck was a gleaming black Australian Holden, given a touch of color by a pair of silver flower vases attached to the doors, which spouted bouquets of pale red roses.

  Billy paused beside the Holden and thought that someone must have died on the ship, and about how near death he and the surfers had been on the paddle back to Bombora. His eyes shifted between the huge clipper and the two sweating Fijian attendants in dark suits waiting beside the open rear doors of the van. He wondered if anyone would have found their bodies if the dolphins hadn’t led Druku to them. Billy’s musing was interrupted by the large man hovering over him.

  “You a boatman?”

  Billy turned to look up at the first mate’s hairless, blunt head and the scars that crisscrossed his shining skull. He was i
mpressed by the man’s larded, muscled body, which would have cause middle-aged wrestling fans in the States to scream with joy.

  “Something bothering you, niño?” the mate demanded.

  Billy composed his response, not wanting to anger the huge tough guy.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been around boats a lot. My aunt and uncle—they raised me—owned a boatyard so I grew up with boats. I crewed on a sport fisher and dive boat, ran a surfers’ taxi, and worked as deckhand on a lifeguard rescue launch. Yeah, I know boats and outboards, and I can keep ’em running. Why you asking?”

  The mate glanced at the clipper and said evenly, “We’re short a boatman. Want a job?”

  “How long do I have to sign on for?”

  “Six months, or until we unload and pay off. Whichever comes first.”

  “What’s the pay?”

  “Fifteen hundred a month and a small share of the profits. With our skipper, you’ll walk away with three, four thousand extra…if you work hard and keep your mouth shut.”

  “I’ll take it. When do I report aboard?”

  Before the mate could answer, two crewmen carrying a heavily loaded stretcher struggled down the steep gangplank cursing their heavy burden. Five steps from the bottom, the fisherman gripping the lower end lost his footing and slipped. The thawing body under the blue plastic tarp rolled off the gangplank and hit the dock with a sodden thump.

  Billy gasped as he saw the shredded, semifrozen remains of a Fijian. The dead man’s skin was lacerated as if raked by jagged meat hooks. One leg was missing at the knee, and the other had been sliced open to the bone. The cadaver looked shrunken and Billy guessed that the man had died from loss of blood, traumatic shock, massive internal hemorrhaging—the works. He shuddered, realizing what had caused the man’s death. He turned to the impassive mate and asked, “Shark?”

  The man shrugged. “It happens.”

  As the black-suited attendants hurried to pick up the body, the first mate said, “Collect your gear and report to Captain Gandara.” He scratched his bald head as if trying to remember what else needed to be said. “Oh, yeah, welcome aboard Lucky Dragon.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With his surfboard under one arm, Billy gripped the gangplank railing and bounded up the steep walkway. He was excited and apprehensive. When he reached the main deck he paused and looked about. Which way to the bridge? And what did the mate say the captain’s name was? Gandara. Yeah. Captain Gandara. Sounds Spanish, or Portuguese.

  At the top of the walkway he maneuvered his board so it wouldn’t hit the railing. The brittle fiberglass covering the foam core was as fragile as an eggshell. The nine-foot Becker, handcrafted by one of surfdom’s great shapers, had saved his life once, and Billy treated the board with respect.

  He walked along the hot steel deck toward the bow. It was time to meet the captain and ensure himself a berth aboard Lucky Dragon.

  He stuck his head in an open door and discovered the crew’s mess. Several weathered men sat on benches before varnished plywood-topped dining tables drinking beer, coffee, and soda pop. Some read paperbacks with lurid covers that Billy noted had Spanish titles. As he stepped inside and out of the searing heat, his eyes quickly adapted to the dimness. Crewmen gaped at him. A few made little mouth movements that suggested a smile. Most stared blankly. He forced a grin and said, “I’m supposed to report to the captain.”

  The fishermen sat uncomprehending until Billy asked in halting high school Spanish, “¿Dónde está el capitán?”

  A thin young man, about Billy’s age, stood and moved to face him. He had long, wavy dark hair tied in a ponytail, and wore tight black jeans and a startling white T-shirt with the Grateful Dead rock band logo silk-screened across the chest. He stopped a foot in front of Billy and looked him up and down. He answered with deliberate cool and a challenging grin, “He’s on the bridge. You a surfer, dude?”

  “I ride some waves.”

  “Awesome!” he said, mimicking surfer slang.

  As Billy turned to leave he gave the Latino kid a raised thumb-and-pinky surfer’s shaka salute. Continuing the game, he said, “Thanks, bro.”

  He climbed the exterior companionway to the wide bridge that projected forward of the enclosed wheelhouse. He saw a deckhand installing huge twenty-power spotting binoculars on a gimbaled mount. Billy walked up to him and said, “I’m to report to Captain Gandara.”

  The man pointed inside the wheelhouse. Billy carefully placed his surfboard on the deck, and carrying his gear, he entered. Beside the huge first mate stood a bearded man, obviously the captain. He was as tall as Santos but thinner. He had the lean, tense-muscled body of an Olympic fencer. Billy noticed his dark, carefully trimmed beard first. The man’s facial hairs were so tightly curled they reminded him of coarse steel wool. As an artist, Billy realized it was the blackness about his lips and chin that made his teeth appear so white. His eyes, in contrast, were light green, almost like a cat’s. He wore sharply creased chino trousers, a starched blue work shirt with epaulettes, and low-cut white leather tennis shoes. His nose was sharp and aristocratic. The captain’s hands held a parallel rule on a nautical chart. They were large and powerful. Billy imagined them gripping a saber.

  Gandara looked up from the map and stared at the new crewman. Then his attention returned to the chart. Billy knew he was facing a man who would take no disrespect from another. Here was a man who had earned, with knife, pistol, and cunning, the right to command Lucky Dragon.

  As Billy waited, he gazed about the bridge. He was impressed with the vast array of modern electronic gear—GPS receivers, color side-scanning fish-finding sonars, depth sounders, single sideband radios, autopilot, the latest Furuno radar scope, and a weather satellite fax machine. There were more marvels, but Billy’s limited experience with large-ship marine electronics kept him from comprehending their purpose. His eyes held on an old magnetic compass in its teak box, mounted before the helmsman’s wheel; an archaic reminder that the forces of nature could still be depended on.

  The captain stuck a drafting pencil in an electric sharpener, ground a fine point, and drew a precise line along the rule plotting a course on the chart. He replaced the pencil in the sharpener, turned to the mate, and said, “We’ll head northeast out of Suva to here.”

  Again he honed the pencil point and added a dot on the chart. “About here, we’ll send Mr. Lessing aloft for a look-see. It’s unlikely he’ll spot dolphins this far to the west, but we’ve been lucky before.”

  The mate nodded his understanding. With an abrupt movement the captain turned to face Billy.

  “Let me have your passport, and then open your pack on the deck,” he commanded.

  Billy placed his gear on the floor, zipped open the getaway bag, and handed the captain his identification. As the tall man studied the passport, Billy pulled back the flap of his pack. He felt self-conscious about the dirty laundry. To distract the captain he said, “I’m not carrying drugs.”

  The captain ignored his comment and continued to study the blue passport. He closed the cover and remarked drily, “You have traveled far for one so young. What are you running from?”

  “I like to surf. I go where the waves are big.”

  “So, on your endless summer odyssey.”

  He touched the pack with the toe of a white tennis shoe, “Everything out.”

  “Hey, I told you I don’t carry drugs,” Billy insisted.

  Billy saw the mate’s scowl and hurried to empty his pack and getaway bag. The captain remarked, “He’s an eighteen-year-old innocent, Santos. Forgive him.”

  The captain scanned Billy’s belongings with the detached expression of a man performing a boring duty. Then Gandara’s foot moved to Billy’s sketch book. “Hand me that.”

  Billy picked up the book and offered it to the captain. He turned the pages slowly, inspecting each of the drawings. Billy held his breath, experiencing the same insecurity he had felt when Miss Graham,
his art teacher, had critiqued his first portfolio.

  “You’re a gifted primitive. You should acquire some training,” he said softly.

  Billy sensed a note of interest that suggested the man might be human after all. “I like to draw. I studied art in high school.”

  “He’s not only innocent, he’s educated,” the mate said drily.

  Gandara’s attention returned to the sketch pad. “You have a certain technical skill—keep working at it.”

  He handed the pad to Billy. “Now, put that small bag on the chart table.” He placed his getaway bag before the captain and unloaded the contents. Gandara’s long fingers tapped over the compass, granola bars, fishing lures, sunblock, swim fins and mask, signal mirror, and a tiny digital still camera.

  “And all this…?”

  “My survival gear. I had a boat sink on me once, and had to paddle awhile before I was rescued.”

  The captain look distressed and said quickly, “No more talk of sinking. It’s bad luck.”

  Gandara tapped the center of the chart with the pencil. “You’ll do no swimming or paddling out here. Where I fish, sharks gather.”

  The captain turned and opened a drawer below the chart table. He put Billy’s little camera inside and said evenly, “This will be returned to you when you leave the ship.”

  Billy knew it would be stupid to protest and only nodded. Gandara turned to the mate. “Santos, he’ll work the seine skiff with Rocha. Now, find Mr. Lessing and have him give our young artist a tour of the ship. And tell Mr. Lessing to explain the rules.”

  Billy repacked his gear and the captain turned away to open a door at the rear of the bridge. As Gandara stepped through, Billy glanced into the captain’s cabin and saw a small dining table set for one with gleaming silver, a crystal wine glass, and a vase of fresh flowers. Against the far wall stood a locked gun rack holding ten automatic assault rifles. On a shelf below the weapons lay dozens of cartridge magazines packed in cloth bandoliers.