The Fifth Season (52 page)

When Mary Jo climbed aboard the first vessel, she was greeted with a stunned silence as more than fifty passengers stared at their visitor, her fair complexion so out of place, her height towering above them all. She had quickly put them at ease, sitting on the deck, speaking to the children as she recorded the historical event. Mary Jo continued to make her way from one vessel to another, climbing over ropes and under makeshift washing lines, around drums of stinking diesel fuel, dry stores and bedding, conscious that not all those aboard appeared to be happy.

When Mary Jo spotted a number of young couples sitting alone, staring forlornly towards the shore, she was reminded of the children who had been abandoned and wondered how parents could cope with the guilt of such actions. As she continued to take stock, Mary Jo realized just how young most of the refugees were, the absence of elderly amongst those she had seen, distressing. During the short time she had been in their midst, she had noticed the constant flow of smaller vessels carrying produce out to the flotilla and the ongoing process of transporting new arrivals to the already overcrowded vessels.

Towards nine o'clock, her attention was drawn to the increase in activity around the fleet, with orders being shouted in a dialect she could not understand, apparently instructing captains to maneuver their boats into new positions. She imagined that this was caused by changing tides or rising weather conditions. Mary Jo looked up at the clear sky then back towards the shoreline, the buildings in the distance barely visible to the naked eye.

She sensed a noticeable change of mood in the air, the fleet suddenly coming alive as people scurried back to their own boats. Alarmed when a number of diesel engines coughed, spluttered, then rattled noisily through the fleet, Mary Jo returned to where she had first landed, stunned as she witnessed her ferry depart.

‘Come back!'
she screamed, with her hands cupped around her mouth, almost losing balance as the deck moved under her feet.
‘Come back!'
she yelled again, as loudly as her lungs would permit, her panic rising when she realized that the fleet was moving and she had been deliberately left behind.

The rattle of automatic weapons from across the paddy fields punctuated, occasionally by the evidence of rocket-launched grenades, confirmed the refugees' worst fear. Pandemonium followed shock when the refugees lining the shore recognized the familiar sounds of approaching gunfire as the first wave of
Mufti Muharam
poured into the coastal town, firing indiscriminately to clear the congested road. Within minutes, a roar passed through the tens of thousands lining the beach, their faces covered with fear when word spread that the murderous rebels had arrived.

Anne was at a loss as to what to do. She bit her lip anxiously, calling out in anger as someone ran past carelessly, knocking her off balance. She had but two choices. Remain and wait for Mary Jo or run with the others, hoping her driver still would be where they had left him earlier. Another volley of shots echoed overhead, sending the panic driven mass fleeing in shocked confusion. An approaching helicopter caught their eye and they reeled back, turning to escape what they believed would be an aerial attack.

Possessions were lost, or discarded as the terrified population attempted to flee their attackers. Men, struggling to get free of the crowd, screamed abuse at each other. Women and children were knocked to the ground in the melee, while others ran into the sea in one last, desperate attempt to board fully laden ferry boats departing at that moment. As the swirling mass moved first in one direction, then another, Anne was knocked to the ground. She tried to get up and was cruelly kicked in the side.

‘Help me!'
she screamed, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

‘Please, someone, help me!'
Anne attempted to lift herself up and was kneed in the head, the impact sending her crashing to the sand. She cried out weakly, the crowd smothering her now muted voice as they pushed in her direction, their feet trampling her broken body into the sand. Within those few, brutal moments, the air was crushed from her lungs and as Anne surrendered to her last breath, the words ‘Mary Jo' formed on her silent lips and she died.

‘Over there!' the pilot indicated the fleet, surprise written across his face.

It took a few seconds for Hamish to realize that the ships were steaming further out to sea, his nervousness reaching climax when he identified the movement.

‘What in the…!' Startled by what he saw, Hamish looked back towards the coast hoping to identify smaller vessels heading back to shore. ‘They're already under way!' he shouted, observing the formation of ships strung out below. ‘She's most probably already on her way back. Can we run back towards the beach and check out any of those boats down there?' The pilot nodded, turning the helicopter towards the coastline. They flew low over a number of returning, smaller boats but she was nowhere to be seen. As they came closer to the sprawling camp, they were shocked by what they saw.

‘Get down lower!' he shouted, the pilot immediately shaking his head.

‘Too risky!'

‘We'll never be able to spot her if you don't,' he argued. They continued to hover for some minutes but it was impossible to see anything with any clarity amongst the teeming mass below. Hamish peered up the beach in the direction of the fish markets, recognizing immediately the cause for the panic below.

‘We're too late!' the pilot yelled, pulling away quickly as he spotted the soldiers aiming their rifles at the Jet Ranger.

‘Go back to the fleet,' Hamish ordered, and the pilot looked at him as if he were mad.

‘Five minutes, okay?' he offered, expecting those ashore to report their presence. They sped out to sea, Hamish praying that Mary Jo was, in fact, still aboard one of the fishing boats and had not been caught back there on the beach. They arrived within minutes, flying over the ships as these headed south, Hamish's spirits falling, faced with the formidable task of spotting one person amongst such an impossible number of ships.

‘That's about all I can give you, Mister Hamish, sorry,' the pilot said, tapping the fuel gauge with his fingernail.

‘Give it a few more minutes,' he pleaded, now uncertain that Mary Jo had not returned to shore. The thought that she might already be back in the hotel had occurred to him but Hamish was reluctant to leave, knowing there would not be another chance.

The helicopter drifted slowly across towards the centre of the fleet, when something caught his eye.

‘There!' he yelled, excitedly, ‘she's over there! Look, over there to the right!' he pointed and the pilot's feet touched the left pedal lightly, bringing the helicopter into line. Hamish nodded, raising one thumb and smiled, but Mary Jo could not see much of either of them at that distance.

‘I can see her,' the pilot nodded. Hamish took the note he had written on the way out, changed the instructions and placed this inside the empty Chivas bottle, screwing the damaged cap back on as tightly as he dared. Her earlier instructions were to return to shore. Not only was that now impossible due to the danger there, the handful of smaller craft attached to the fishing fleet were far from where Mary Jo's own vessel was positioned.

It was most unlikely that she would be able to convince any of the captains to surrender one of their tenders, now they were well under way.

He had told her to have her own ship's captain pull away from the other ships and, when clear, dive overboard. Hamish planned to stand out on the helicopter's skis and lift her from the sea.

‘See if you can get alongside that boat,' he asked, waving again in Mary Jo's direction. The pilot attempted to do so, pulling back at the last moment.

‘This is about as close as we get,' he shouted, pointing at a number of masts wobbling dangerously close and in line with his rotors. The pilot then positioned the Jet Ranger so that Hamish could have a better chance of lobbing the message as the fishing-boat approached. They both watched as Mary Jo raised her hand to shield her eyes, Hamish holding the bottle outside for her to see. She waved, acknowledging that she understood.

Hamish wrapped the bottle inside his swimmers, reached out and threw the bundle towards the boat below.

Mary Jo had pushed her way forward, warning those nearby to move back. She watched as the package fell, spinning towards her and she leaned forward, reaching out to catch the falling bundle as the ship rocked under her unsteady feet. The bottle struck with a distinctive thud, glancing off the ship's high, solid wooden bow before falling into the sea. For a moment Mary Jo stood there, a look of disbelief clouding her face. Then she looked up and saw Hamish as he too stared down into the sea, the helicopter hovering alongside her vessel.

‘Sorry, Mister,' the pilot said, ‘but now we have to go.'

‘No, wait!' Hamish yelled, unbuckling his belt.

‘What are you doing?' the pilot shouted, with one sweaty hand ready on the helicopter's collective controls.

‘We can't leave her!' he snapped back. ‘Take me up ahead, I'm getting off!'‘You can't!' the pilot shouted, again, ‘we should go back and tell Mister Peter.'

‘I don't expect you'd understand this but Mary Jo has a much greater chance of having someone come to help her if I'm on board,' he tried to explain, the noise inside the cabin making this near impossible.

‘What will I tell Mister Peter?' the pilot worried, moving away from the fishing boat.

‘Just tell him what happened. He'll know what to do!' Hamish then pointed ahead, thrusting his hand forward, indicating he meant business.

Reluctantly, the pilot flew several hundred meters ahead and hovered dangerously close to the rising sea. Hamish removed his shoes, climbed out and hung onto the side of the helicopter with one hand, while waving for the approaching boat to stop. Twice he attempted to have the fisherman slow and was both times ignored. He climbed back inside, frustrated by what had happened, overcome by a feeling of helplessness.

On board, Mary Jo pleaded for the captain to stop but he refused. In desperation, she ran to the side but balked at the last moment, realizing that if she jumped, the following vessels would surely cross her path before she could swim out of harm's way.

‘If we don't return now, we won't have enough fuel to reach Jakarta,'

the pilot warned. ‘Sorry, mister, but now we must really go.' Hamish could see Mary Jo's distinctive shape moving around the vessel. He continued to stare, wishing there was something he could do. To jump now would be folly, he knew. The captain had made his intentions clear.

‘Then let's say goodbye,' he said, a knot forming inside his stomach.

The pilot flew alongside and Hamish leaned out and shouted to Mary Jo as they hovered above.

‘I love you!' he called and waved, his words lost to the surrounding noise.

Mary Jo stood, staring up at Hamish's face, unable to comprehend.

She shouted for him to hurry back, then blew him a kiss as the helicopter pulled away, and then they were gone, Mary Jo watching the Jet Ranger disappear out of sight behind cloud-touched peaks, leaving her alone to come to terms with her precarious situation.

General Winarko stormed into the Department of Defense offices, furious that Admiral Sudomo had failed to respond to his earlier calls. Unable to locate his most senior officer, the President thought he might have been betrayed by yet another close friend.

‘He's waiting, inside, General,'
an aide advised, opening the door into the large, operational office buried deep inside the ABRI complex. Sudomo did not bother rising when Winarko entered. This was not a sign of disrespect, the Admiral was physically exhausted.

‘Where have you been?'
Winarko demanded, his anger evident as he threw his peaked cap down carelessly.

‘Believe it or not, out at sea,'
he replied. Winarko raised an eyebrow questioningly. ‘It's true,' the Admiral continued, ‘and we have some major problems brewing amongst the junior officers.'

‘What's happening?'

‘Half of our captains have absconded with their ships. That's what's happening,'
Sudomo announced, not at all enjoying the look of concern which then spread across the Chief of Staff 's face.

‘Impossible!'
Winarko rejected the idea.

‘They've already sailed,'
the Admiral confirmed.

‘Where?'
General Winarko asked, shocked by this revelation.
‘Have they
gone over to Muis?'

‘No,'
the chubby Admiral answered,
‘nothing as simple as that. Had they
simply sailed across to join the others in Surabaya then the problem would not
be as serious.'

‘Where are they headed?'
Winarko wanted to know. If he lost the navy, the air force might follow.

‘From what I managed to glean from the remaining captains, those who left
have piracy on their minds.'

‘I don't understand. Piracy? Surely they're not considering attacking shipping in the Straits of Malacca?'
The possibility that Indonesian warships might attack international shipping sent a shudder through his spine.

That would be the end surely as the British and Americans would not hesitate to enter the fray.

‘No, no, nothing like that,'
Sudomo explained,
‘eight ships are steaming
through the Sunda Strait, their destination the refugee fleet which set sail from
Pelabuhan Ratu.'
Sudomo observed General Winarko frown and continued before the man could interrupt him again.
‘They'll most likely return to
formation once they discover that those involved in the mass exodus under way
down there, don't have hoards of gold with them. I don't know how it started
but rumor swept through the fleet that the large number of fishing boats are all
loaded to the gunnels with Chinese gold.'