The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (18 page)

A
s
Kuro stood on a production line in Japan, wearing primrose overalls, a
protective hairnet and antistatic boots, sailing was far from his mind. In
fact, he had never been on a yacht in his life.

The working day started as normal. Rise at 5:00 a.m.,
shower, fresh shirt and the same sickly yellow tie, eat a breakfast of steamed
rice, miso soup and rolled omelet with his parents, and then take the
high-speed rail link from their home in Hasuda to the factory in Oyama.

A shift at Hitachi always began with a motivational speech
delivered by Minakuchi-san, the plant manager. Somewhat lacking as an orator, Minakuchi-san
simply regurgitated white-collar rhetoric, which proved a constant source of
amusement for the younger employees, who would drop such jargon as “product
focused” and “target driven” into their lunchtime conversations, along with
furtive giggles. Then came the morning warm-up routine, exercises deemed to
create
wa
,
“harmony,” in the working environment.

Graceful, confident and in time with the clonking piano
waltz piped over the public address system, the beautiful Aiko had yet to
realize Kuro stood near her whenever a space was available. The thoughts and
feelings the young man experienced were confusing and somewhat shameful,
certainly not ones to air over family dinner when asked how his day went.

Kuro would happily have spent the entire shift bending and
twisting to the manager’s stilted instruction if it resulted in further peeks
at Aiko’s pert figure and proximity to her magical aura, but the music ended
abruptly, and the employees turned in file and scurried to their workstations.

Kuro’s role in the manufacturing process was plugging
diodes, capacitors and microchips into circuit boards, ready for soldering and
fitting into the company’s latest widescreen television, the Hitachi 42-ES-1080.
Complete with HD, surround sound and VGA connector, the set was taking the
market by storm, particularly in the US, where shipments couldn’t reach the
distributors fast enough. If he proved his worth on this section of the conveyor
belt, in the next two to three years he could see promotion to quality control
– test-inspecting the motherboards’ complex architecture to prevent
imperfections entering the build phase.

Who knew: the year after he could be looking at a supervisor’s
position. And boy, with the big bucks rolling in he could save up the deposit
for an apartment and make his move on Aiko.

W
hen
Hans relieved Penny for the 4:00 a.m. watch, he could see she was exhausted,
the events of the previous week having caught up with her. Penny’s mind had
been working overtime, and sleeping was a problem, so Hans fetched a double-strength
Valium from the first aid kit.

Sitting in the darkness, Cape Verde sixty miles ahead, he
reflected on the trip so far and what an education it had been for Jessica. He
also thought about their dear friend’s untimely demise, something he decided to
keep from his daughter.

The low but distinct rumbling of a diesel engine interrupted
his muse. Instinctively, he scanned around, expecting to see another boat
passing in close proximity, a regular occurrence when sailing near to land. All
he saw were far-distant cargo carriers and tankers spread out across the
horizon like a string of fairy lights.

This ship was much closer, and the fact it was under way
with no running lights put Hans instantly on guard. He switched off
Future
’s
navigation beacons and listened. Sure enough, the dull throbbing grew louder as
the unknown vessel approached.

Changing course to run with the breeze, Hans hoped it was a maverick
fishing trawler whose captain held scant regard for sea safety. Yet after forty-five
minutes it became obvious the mystery craft was tracking
Future
on
radar.

In the emerging half-light, Hans made out an ugly black hulk
less than a quarter of a mile to starboard. Through the binoculars he could see
activity on deck as the crew lowered a skiff onto the water. He felt certain he
knew what was on the cards and considered waking Penny but then dismissed the
idea, figuring in her sedated state she could serve no purpose. He also thought
about radioing for help, but this far offshore it was not as if the Cape Verde coastguard
would miraculously appear on the scene. Besides, if the other vessel was
listening in it would warn them, and the uninvited guests might arrive with
guns blazing.

Instead, Hans lowered his shoulders and took a few deep
breaths, visualizing the tension flowing from his body. Then he went into the
cabin and fetched a bucket from the cleaning store, the emergency flare gun and
a two-gallon can of gas. As an afterthought, he grabbed the bulk pack of
firecrackers bought in the hypermarket in France. Back in the cockpit, he
filled the bucket with fuel, fitted a cartridge to the gun and shoved the
opened packet of bangers in the waistband of his shorts. Then he did what Navy
SEALs do best – he watched and waited.

The skiff approached at speed.

Hans continued his reconnaissance, observing three ragtag Africans
on board, one of them operating the powerful outboard motor. On further inspection
he made out another man lying under the thwarts.

The American worked through the scenario in his head: a
mother ship pursuing them with no lights while maintaining radio silence, a souped-up
launch ideally matched to the speed of a yacht and an “injured” crew member
providing a convenient reason for requiring assistance.

As the skiff covered the last few yards, its occupants made
a play of waving and calling for help in broken English, but the nervousness in
their eyes spoke for them. Noting each man had a hessian sack at his feet, Hans
had seen enough and put on a show of his own, gesturing he was heaving to and steering
Future
into the wind.

With the engine cut, the skiff glided to within a few feet
of the yacht, and the bowman prepared to throw a mooring line. In one fluid
movement Hans climbed up on the cockpit cushions, placed a foot on the coaming and
emptied the bucket of gas over the visitors. Then he stood there motionless,
staring into the eyes of the obvious leader while aiming the flare gun at his head.

For a moment the pirates were utterly bewildered, mouthing
words as they looked alternatively at Hans and each other before the bowman screamed,
“Gazolin!” and dived over the side. The injured man made a remarkable recovery
and scrambled after him, as did the helmsman, but the leader held fast, whipping
an AK-47 out from under his sack and swinging the barrel toward Hans.

Whoomph!

A streaking white rocket smashed into the man’s chest,
knocking him overboard as an orange-and-yellow fireball engulfed the wooden
craft. In the same instant Hans lobbed the firecrackers and ducked back into
the cockpit, his hair singeing in the intense heat. He reached for the engine
starter button, and as fire tore across the water, creeping up
Future
’s hull,
her two-liter diesel spurred into life. Hans shoved the throttle forward, and
the yacht roared away from the danger zone, a cacophony of bangs, thumps and
whizzes resulting from the firecrackers and ammunition lying in the pool of
burning fuel in the skiff.

Hans wrenched a fire extinguisher from its bracket and turned
to survey the blaze, just as the pirate leader attempted to drag himself over
the guardrail, bloody melted skin dripping from his face, arms and torso. The
American swung the hefty red canister in a high arc and brought it down with a
crunch on the man’s head, sending him reeling into
Future
’s wake. To the
sound of ever-more-distant confusion, he set about dousing the remaining
flames.

Later that morning Penny emerged from the cabin, the effects
of the extra-strong sleeping pill obvious, to find Hans and Jessica barbequing
the leftover tuna, along with thick strips of bacon and fat pork-and-apple butcher’s
sausages.

“Morning, sleeping beauty. You look as though you still have
ninety-nine years left to snooze.”

“Aw, you can say that again. I had the most bizarre dream .
. .”

She caught sight of the scorch marks on the cockpit
cushions.

“Hans,
what
happened?”

“Oh, I got a bit overzealous with the lighter fluid. Had a bit
of a flameout.”

“Had a bit of a flameout.” Jessica concentrated on flipping
a tuna steak.

I
n
Alfonso’s birthplace long outrigged canoes with mighty engines took preference
over yachts, but as the Filipino sat in his crane forty meters above the dock
in Yokohama, both pleasure craft and homeland were far from his mind. Instead, Alfonso
concentrated on swinging a twelve-ton container toward the already packed deck
of the
Tokyo Pride
.

Longer than the
Titanic
,
almost twice as wide
and two hundred and thirty thousand tons fully loaded, the cargo ship lived up
to her name, but with the depth of her keel restricted to allow passage through
some of the world’s shallower waterways, safety concerns had been raised.

Alfonso did not need to know the contents of the
forty-foot-long metal boxes, only how heavy each one was, information radioed
through by the chief rigger on the dockside to allow for weight considerations
and counter balancing. He wasn’t keen on stacking the containers six high – not
out of concern the additional stress on the lashings could see cargo spill
overboard in heavy seas, but because getting them lined up so their lugs
interlocked involved painstaking effort.

Alfonso was determined to get away on time to play in a card
game on the other side of town. Poker was his only real vice – at times too
much of a vice, the surplus of his hard-earned salary not always finding its
way back to his wife and children in the village of Jimenez on the island of Mindanao.
However, when loading and off-loading thousands of television sets and other
high-value goods onto ships every day, and with contacts in customs and dockyard
security, there were other ways for the crane operator to supplement his minimal
wage.

On this occasion Alfonso was too eager to shut down his
crane, for he had not informed the deck crew of several containers high up in
the stack far exceeding their declared weight. Unbeknown to him, four of them
housed industrial-sized diesel engines on pallets that were not properly
secured. Two other containers suffered from structural fatigue, and due to an
error in communication a number of missing twistlocks had gone unnoticed.

One of the last containers Alfonso lowered into place,
SIDU307007-9, carried high-definition Hitachi television sets destined for the
United States via the Suez Canal and Europe.

“
T
hat’s
it . . . Back this way . . . A bit more . . . Good job, funny face!”

Under Hans’ patient tuition, Jessica reversed
Future
into
a berth in Cape Verde’s Porto Grande Marina on the island of São Vicente.

“I have
not
gotta funny face, Papa!”

“Oh yes you have! And you’ve got spaghetti legs and a
mushroom nose!”

“Naughty Papa!”

Summoning all her strength she smacked his backside, Hans
dropping to the cockpit floor as if hit by a linebacker from the Chicago Bears.

As far as bonding with his daughter was concerned and coming
to terms with the loss of Mom and JJ, Hans felt the trip had beaten all his expectations.
He knew he would support this delightful and intelligent creature until the end
of his days. Although she was too young to understand the events in full, Hans
was proud of her remarkable maturity and handling of the situation. Obviously she
was confused and threw the occasional tantrum, but unlike most kids her age, yet
to develop empathy and self-reflection, Jessica was always forthcoming with an
apology, giving Hans the opportunity to talk things through and come to an
understanding. What Jessica didn’t know was that ten months earlier, when Hans had
pulled his Beretta out of the drawer, having downed a bottle of bourbon, she
had been his reason for living then.

“Come on, shipmate. Let’s tie this baby up and go exploring.”

“Aye aye, naughty Papa!”

While Penny went to check her email and use the laundry, Hans
and Jessica took a boat tour around a collection of vintage sailing ships
sitting at anchor in the harbor. Immaculately restored, the tall riggers were
the oceangoing greyhounds of their day, capable of crossing the Atlantic full
to brimming with trade goods in record time. With their monstrous size, miles
of rigging and striking black-and-white-painted timbers, the century-old
schooners and brigantines were the stuff of literary and movie legend.

“See the spars right at the top, honey?”

“Uh-huh.” Jessica stared upwards, dwarfed by the towering
mast carved, unbeknown to them, from native Maine spruce.

“In the olden days the sailors would have to climb up there,
even in real bad storms, to unfurl the topsails.”

“What if they fell off, Papa?”

“Oh . . . if they fell off . . .” Hans paused, catching the
vacant look in his daughter’s eyes.

The slightest suggestion of death sent Jessica into a trancelike
state, her traumatized mind attempting to make sense of something most adults struggle
to understand. He wondered how to explain to a damaged seven-year-old the
consequences of falling onto the deck from such a height or, equally as bad,
into the sea. Back then the majority of sailors couldn’t swim, and it was not as
if these gargantuan sailboats could turn on a dime to pick them up if they did
stay afloat.

“I guess they made sure not to fall, sweet pea.”

Penny joined them back aboard, smiling with a sparkle in her
eyes.

“Hans, are you and Jessie still looking for a crew member to
help you cross the Atlantic?”

“Pretty sure we still are.” Hans gave a sideways look.

“Then I’d like to offer my services. The Parisian
millionaire’s stock just took a downturn, and he’s put the French Guiana crossing
on hold.”

Hans could hardly contain his joy. “What do you think, Jess?
Would you like it if Penny sails back to Portland with us?”

“Yay!”

“Yeeeeeee-hah-hah-hah!”

Hans hopped up onto the cockpit cushions and, hanging one
hand over his head and scratching his chest with the other, began to sing. “
Oh,
ooh-be-doo,
I wanna be like you-ooh-ooh
!”

“
I wanna walk like you, talk like you toooo
!”
the
girls chorused.

As the three of them goofed around the cockpit doing the
monkey dance
from Jessica’s
Jungle Book
DVD, Hans wondered if the
trip could get any better.