The Fifth Season (54 page)

‘What's wrong with her?'
she asked Budi.

‘
Sea sick, that's all,'
he replied, uncertainly. Mary Jo placed her hand against Hani's forehead for several moments, then patted her hand reassuringly.

‘Are you a doctor?'
Hani asked. All she could really make out was the foreign woman's silhouette against the brilliant sun. Her eyes hurt, so she kept them shut.

‘No, I'm like a reporter,'
Mary Jo answered,
‘and when you're feeling better,
I'll take your photo.'
Hani smiled again, her hand unconsciously moving across her untidy hair.

Mary Jo rose to her feet, stretched, then scanned the horizon ahead between the thirty or so fishing-boats which had moved into position ahead of her group in the overall convoy.

On either side, the fleet was spread out over half a mile or more, whilst behind she could no longer see the end of those which brought up the rear.

She had been told that there were more than eight hundred fishing boats in the fleet. No one seemed to know for sure just how many passengers had been taken on board but Budi's father had suggested that the floating population would be in excess of fifty, and possibly as many as seventy-five thousand.

Mary Jo was staggered by these figures and, as she looked out across the amazing spectacle, wished she had brought more equipment to capture this incredible drama in which she now played a part. Mary Jo recalled that her prestigious alumni from the Rochester Institute of Technology now boasted seven Pulitzer prize winners in photojournalism. Her own work had always met the highest standards and, considering the imagery she had captured already and the photo-opportunity which continued to unfold, Mary Jo was confident that her coverage of this epic would be well received and highly regarded by her peers.

During late afternoon on the third day they witnessed the most incredible display when a swordfish appeared and danced across the top of the waves.

‘Isn't it beautiful!'
Hani had exclaimed. She was now feeling considerably better, delighted with the visitor as the huge fish leapt into the air, its long sword dangerously close to the ships as they advanced. Children raced to the sides of ships to watch in awe as the magnificent exhibition continued, the beast not disappointing any as it danced across the huge swells, thrashing its tail-fins for elevation, the choreographic display part of the ritual mating game.

‘Can you eat them?'
Budi asked, imagining large, tasty slices cooked over charcoal for dinner.

‘Yes, of course,'
his father replied, Mary Jo noticing traces of mirth around the man's mouth for the first time.
‘But you'd have to catch it first.'

‘Miss Jo, Miss Jo,'
Hani called, with childish exuberance,
‘would you
photo that for me, please?'
and Mary Jo did so, catching the swordfish in all of its natural splendor.

Later that day, Mary Jo noticed a significant change in the sea's conditions, the waves much larger than before and the wind stronger than they had experienced since leaving port. Towards evening and at the time most would be tending to meal preparations, the weather deteriorated dramatically, casting a cloud of fear over them all. Waves taller than any they had yet seen slapped at the fishing-boats, white foamed peaks standing well above the wheel-house where their captain fought to maintain any semblance of speed through the turbulent sea. Lightning flashed, followed by rolls of deep, terrifying thunder, bringing drenching rain. The refugees huddled together, lashed by rain one moment, and salt spray the next, their ships tossed around like oversized cork toys as they endured the tropical storm. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the threatening weather was gone, leaving the refugees with a taste of things to come.

A suffocating stench of death pervaded the narrow, coastal strip running from Pelabuhan Ratu, through to Samudera Beach. Bodies lay where they fell, their grotesque features evidence of the horror cast upon the refugee community, as wave upon wave of screaming, blood-thirsty soldiers invaded their camp, spraying the panic driven crowds indiscriminately with lead.

The elderly, the young, women and children, none were spared in the slaughter. Fierce
golok
-wielding raiders sliced through everything in their path, decapitating those caught short-footed in the melee.

Shrill, bloodcurdling cries of
‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!'
filled the air, as flashing swords slashed through the multitude, the massacre continuing until none were left standing.

A group of terrified orphans discovered hiding under an upturned outrigger were hacked to death, their bodies left to rot under the midday sun, the blood stained sand immediately attracting plagues of flies. Mothers gathered their children, only to be cut down in their tracks as they attempted to flee. Without any real resistance, the carnage continued the slaughter accounting for thousands as the
Mufti Muharam
ran amok, sweeping all before them as they made their way along the narrow beach corridor towards the hotel.

When evening finally descended upon these fields of horror, there remained no sign of life. Their objective achieved, the soldiers had retreated back into the hills as ordered, where they regrouped, waiting for confirmation of their next target.

‘The coastal areas of the Northern Territory, Western Australia and Queensland have always been subjected to tropical cyclones. It is for this reason that three Tropical Cyclone Warning Centers were located in Darwin, Perth, and Brisbane. Each of these centers is staffed by experienced specialist scientists and technical support staff. They have access to radar, satellite and computer systems, as well as the Bureau's network of automatic weather stations, some of which are located on offshore islands and reefs.' The resident specialist paused, looked at the school children, then continued.

‘Now, you will ask, why is a cyclone dangerous?' He looked down at one of the young faces and smiled. ‘Well, cyclones produce extreme wind conditions. Some of these exceed two hundred kilometers per hour.' One of the children towards the back whispered something about drivers in the Darwin to Alice Springs Cannonball road race reaching speeds in excess of that, and the specialist waited for the sniggering to die out before continuing.

‘These winds can cause extensive damage. In fact, we know that people can be killed during such conditions.' He looked towards the inattentive child at the back and asked, ‘Can you tell me the name of the cyclone which wiped out Darwin in 1974?' But before the child could answer, there was a response from the others. Almost in unison, they yelled, ‘Tracy! Tracy!'

These children had been raised to understand cyclones. When Cyclone Tracy devastated the city during Christmas in 1974, many lives were lost, the damage to property - the worst in Australia's history. Had it not been for the U.S. submarine which mysteriously appeared from the trenches off East Timor, and tying alongside Darwin Harbor the following day, there would not have been any power for weeks.

‘That's right,' he responded. ‘Does anyone know why we give these powerful forces, names?' He looked around the group, not really expecting an answer. Receiving students from different forms was one of the duties he enjoyed. ‘No? Well, I'll tell you. We call them tropical cyclones and give them names when the winds reach gale force. Now that's pretty powerful, in anyone's book.' He continued to smile at the small sea of faces. ‘We only get really worried about these when they threaten coastal or island communities. That's when we start a cyclone watch.' He could see that they were quickly losing interest.

‘Then, when the winds build, and we think there is a chance that any of our communities might be affected, we issue a cyclone warning. By then, the cyclone has a name, we know how powerful the winds are, and everyone should know which way it's going.' The child at the rear of the class had, by now, totally lost interest and was distracting some of the others.

He lifted his voice and moved towards the back of the room. Immediately he had their attention.

‘You kids all live in the most affected zone in Australia. That's why you're here today. Cyclones can bring heavy rainfall, flooding, and even incredibly high tides.' He carried on, finishing on a high note when promising that at least one of their names would be given to a cyclone in the coming year. He always did this, and never missed to impress.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the specialist checked with the other Met offices in Exmouth, Onslow, Port Hedland and Broome. Satisfied that the coming weekend would not see him called out again, he left his Casuarina offices after picking up another case of beer and headed home where he knew his wife would be preparing their customary Friday barbecue for neighbors and friends.

‘There's nothing further we can do, Hamish. I'm sorry.' The U.N. senior representative for Indonesia apologized. ‘Our hands are tied. Had she been a member of an United Nations' team we would not have had this difficulty.'

‘What did the Indonesians say?' Hamish asked.

The senior officer became even more serious. ‘To put it bluntly, they have much greater problems on their minds than to concern themselves with a missing American journalist.'

‘Any suggestions?' Hamish asked, addressing the group sitting around discussing Mary Jo in the U.N. Jakarta offices. They had been helpful, making calls to Indonesian officials and offering advice. As an independent, apolitical body, Hamish knew that there was little else they could do except make inquiries on her behalf.

‘Speak to someone at the American Embassy. She is, after all, a U.S. citizen.' He opened a directory and started searching for a number. ‘I'll make the call for you if you wish,' he offered. Hamish nodded affirmatively, thanked the official and waited while arrangements were made. He then left the U.N. offices and drove to the U.S. Embassy where, having been cleared through security by well-armed Marines, he was escorted upstairs and introduced to a State Department liaison officer.

‘We can't do much either, I'm afraid,' Hamish was told. ‘In fact, I doubt if you could really claim that she is missing.' Hamish struggled to control his temper.

‘Would it help if I gave you my statement on UNHCR letterhead?'

This prompted a more favorable response. The career bureaucrat stopped tapping his fingers on the glass-topped table, and leaned forward as he spoke.

‘That's not necessary. Miss Hunter is an American citizen and we do care.'

‘Then why don't you do something!' Hamish snapped, the feeling of helplessness clouding his judgment.

‘Mr. McLoughlin, I am not unsympathetic but try and understand our position. The country is teetering on collapse as we speak. Our Embassy has instructed American citizens to leave Indonesia. There's an army of murderous cutthroats pouring down from the hills threatening Bogor, and that's less than an hour from here. Miss Hunter is God knows where, out on the Indian Ocean, on a fishing boat you yourself have stated she boarded willingly. Mr. McLoughlin, what would you suggest we do?'

There was an absence of sarcasm in the man's voice and Hamish knew that he had been unreasonable.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, rising to his feet slowly. Everything ached and he desperately needed some rest. Hamish extended his hand, thanked the official and returned to his hotel to gather up the remainder of his personal effects. Following the advice issued by most foreign missions in Indonesia, he too left for the Sukarno-Hatta Airport and boarded one of the many aircraft charters organized to repatriate foreign nationals from the capital as it came under siege.

When the cheer went up piercing the noonday torpor, Lily cupped her hands around her eyes and peered in the direction others were pointing.

There, on the horizon, she could see the advancing fleet, tears immediately filling her eyes with the sight.

‘There are so many ships!'
one on her boat cried in amazement.

‘Even more than we first started with,'
another said, the level of excitement continuing to rise as the first ships steamed to within several hundred meters.

They watched as a smaller but faster craft broke away from the main body of ships and headed towards Lily's fleet. Several men jumped from the speed-boat and boarded the fishing boat belonging to her group's leader where they remained in conference for some minutes before returning to their own fleet.

There was an air of apprehension as Lily and her fellow travelers watched these activities, praying that all was in order and hoping that they would now join with the larger fleet. Lily heard what she thought to be a horn blast emanating from somewhere amongst the other boats and her heart lifted when she recognized that this had been the signal for her own ships to merge with the others. Within minutes they were under way, sailing parallel with the larger fleet, waving happily to those they had joined.

They were now less than six hundred miles west of Broome and would be standing on Australian soil before the end of the week.

Mary Jo watched with interest as a much smaller group of ships assumed position along her own fleet's port side. This far south, those in charge of her flotilla had all agreed that they were now out of danger, reasonably confident that the Indonesian Navy had discontinued their pursuit.

‘East Java fishing boats,'
she heard someone mutter, loudly.