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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Illegal shipment
>> Waters off Kona
Paul had just pulled the body of his friend Bryson from the water half a stroke ahead of a large and urgent tiger shark closing fast on the spreading trail of fresh blood. The sea sloshing up through the stainless steel mesh diver's platform at the back of the boat, the fin circling closer in the halogen moonlight, he bent over his motionless friend, saw the spear embedded deep in his chest, found no pulse. "You killed him," he said, the reality of death speeding through him like a bad drug.
Only a mooncast shadow moving on the water alerted him to the immediate danger to himself. He reflexively ducked and threw up an arm and blocked most of a kick aimed at his head. The force of the kick toppled him toward the water and the agitated fin. A leg went in, and part of an arm. Face down, he saw the monstrous head part the sea, the jaws open wide as a manhole to take him.
He flung himself away -- just missing the bite that clanked down and jerked away a jagged chunk of steel mesh where he had lay -- but directly into another kick. It hit square in his gut and drove up under his rib cage and forced the wind out of his lungs. Hunched over, he gasped desperately for air and was helpless when his attacker -- who they had attacked moments ago -- picked him up, dragged him onto the deck and threw him down.
The little air left in his lungs was knocked out when he landed on the tank still strapped to his back. He winced from the pain to his shoulder and made loud sucking sounds as the other one grabbed both spear guns. The one with the most to lose was winning.
>> International waters
Sushi Leclaire knew the captain, Seiji-sama, from his restaurant days when he'd cultivated the business of visiting merchant sailors and fishermen. When Sushi had first proposed taking on an illegal shipment, Seiji-san was reluctant. But in addition to cash, Sushi offered the use of the girls to the captain and his officers. That sealed the deal, and by now he was on friendly terms with all of them. The best cruise ever, they said.
Sushi climbed the spiral stairs up to the bridge, greeted the captain and navigator in Japanese. It was Sushi's native language, but after being in the U.S. for so long, it no longer came naturally.
"How far?" Sushi said.
Seiji-sama pointed to a computer screen that displayed an electronic map of the central Pacific.
"Another day perhaps," the captain said, tapping an amebic red line that surrounded the Hawaiian Islands. "That's their 200-mile territorial boundary."
Sushi smiled. Just that much further until he was a rich man.
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com