In Hot Pursuit

(5 of 5)

In the tropical sky, night falls almost instantly, and the navigational instruments now cast a greenish glow around the skipper. A fixed-wing "Islander" heads back to base at Horn Island as a Coastwatch helicopter (or "helo") code-named Lima 51 flies in to assist in the search; a forward-looking infra-red (flir) detection system in the helo's nose checks out the hides that have been cut in the mangroves around the island. No luck. Returning to base, the helo calls in to report that it's clocked a vessel 10 nautical mi. away, at 108 degrees. There's restrained laughter on the bridge of Hervey Bay because the aircraft has actually picked up the ACV. The error breaks the tension and, despite three attempts to call the helo by a skipper trying to keep a straight face, Lima 51 briefly drops out of radio contact at 1845.

The armed foursome farewell Turnagain; the FFV, or another one, is likely to be back here within days - as will an ACV tender crew. In the warm night air, Radon and Normile can detect what they have come to know as the singular odor of an FFV; rancid on the nose, with a strong blood and slime character, offering hints of diesel and clove cigarettes. "They're still out here," Radon says to the others, as the tender rough-rides it back to the ACV. The crew express no animosity toward the elusive Indonesians. "They're not wearing gold chains and driving Cadillacs," says Fitzsimmons. "The arse is falling out of their pants and their own fishing grounds are an abyss." Later that evening, courtesy of Trish Wallam, dinner has an exotic smell; sitting down to an ample spread, the crew merrily scoff spicy crayfish and scallops. Although the silverside is splendid, compared with the cray tails Scotty's corn dog is just dead meat.

On the midnight-to-0200 watch, Radon, anchored off Gabba, monitors instruments and prepares a chart for the next journey. The Torres Strait is a difficult stretch to chart, sometimes requiring 60 wavepoints (or map references) on a single passage. On a radar screen, what appears to be a barge is on course to cross 900 m in front of the ACV's bow. That's too close for comfort, and a warning light begins to flash. On VHF channel 16, after several attempts, Radon makes contact with the chatty master of Barge Express VIII, who alters course. "Roger that! Roger that! Roger that!" replies Radon, eager to escape an inquisition. He needs to go below to wake Joe Homer for the next watch; before Radon can bunk down, he must fill out the log and finish the chart. By the time he wakes, Hervey Bay will be back where it was 24 hours ago, off Dalrymple, waiting for a Papuan drug trafficker. It's Sunday morning and Coastwatch planes are in the bright skies over the Strait, Fitzy's listening to Macca on the radio and the maritime gatekeepers are, as always, open for business.