Blood Roots: Are the roots strong enough to save the pandemic survivors? (6 page)

As they passed Rakino Island, Fergus and Jessica said goodnight and took the small children below with them. Mark, at
AWOL
’s helm, settled into the weather quarter and played the wind shifts. When he had sailed to England with Steven he had known he would come back to New Zealand. This time he knew there would be no return voyage. He felt guilty that he hadn’t visited his wife Helen’s grave before they left and sensed that Jane, Nicole and Zach sitting beside him in the darkness might be experiencing similar thoughts about Bruce’s grave. With so much to be done in preparation for the voyage, they had not had time.

‘When we get to England,’ he said softly, ‘we’ll build a memorial to those we’ve left behind in New Zealand, somewhere to go and sit and remember them.’

His words caused a flood of tears. An hour later his family kissed him goodnight and disappeared below.

Alone on deck as
AWOL
sailed east, Mark picked out the dim outline of Waiheke Island to the south. It brought back thoughts about his yacht
Raconteur,
which had been wrecked at Oneroa during the tsunami, and the deaths there of his nieces Sarah and Katie.

At dawn a bleary-eyed Fergus stuck his head through the companionway. ‘Why didn’t you call me for my watch at midnight?’

‘Judging by the look of you, you needed the sleep.’

Fergus rubbed his eyes again and scanned the horizon. ‘Where are we?’

‘Off Cape Colville. We’ll change course after breakfast and head southeast.’

‘So you intend making straight for the Horn?’

Mark shook his head. ‘No. We’ll head southeast till we pick up westerlies, run with them for a while and then hook north to pass to the east of Tahiti and Hawaii before turning northeast towards San Francisco.’

‘I still think America’s a waste of time.’

‘Me too,’ Jessica agreed, as she climbed up the companionway ladder to join them.

‘We have to try to find survivors. It’s all a question …’

‘We know, we know, it’s all a question of the genes,’ Jessica interrupted. There was a hint of ridicule in her voice.

‘Do you intend searching islands along the way for other possible survivors?’ Fergus asked.

His uncle shook his head again. ‘The engine’s dicky. We’ve hardly any fuel. Making unnecessary landfalls is just asking for trouble.’

AWOL continued southeast to the thirty-eighth parallel before heading due east. Mark had found the westerly winds he wanted. He also found bitterly cold weather. With no fuel for the stove, and the seas too lumpy to light the wood-fired barbecue, all food and drink was served cold. Despite non-stop complaints from the crew he resisted the temptation to hook north until he had crossed the one hundred and fifty degree meridian.

As they headed north the weather quickly improved, and Jessica
and Fergus were secretly relieved they were not heading even further south in order to round the Horn. Their relief proved short-lived. Headwinds dogged them. Day after day
AWOL
butted into the waves. The continual pounding got on everyone’s nerves. An easterly gale developed three hundred miles to the southeast of the Society Islands.

Desperate to preserve the eastward progress they had made, Mark hove to. For three miserable days, the crew cowered below as
AWOL
clung onto Commander Ball’s parachute drogue and wave after crashing wave swept across the decks. Inevitably water found its way into the cabin. By the end of the ordeal the crew were miserable, damp, exhausted and close to mutiny.

Mark announced they would make for Tahiti and rest up for a few days.

‘Perhaps Captain Bligh’s human after all,’ Jessica whispered in Fergus’s ear. Fergus didn’t destroy her illusion by mentioning the damaged rigging he and his uncle had found during their post-gale inspection.

Mark had hoped to make Papeete, but the fickle winds forced him west and
AWOL
finally anchored off the former Club Med resort on the island of Moorea. While Fergus and Mark set about repairing the rigging, Jane and Jessica rowed the children ashore. With the brood playing happily on the beach, Jane and Jessica searched the resort’s kitchens for any canned or preserved food. As they feared, there was not a scrap to be had. In bungalows they found skeletons locked together where honeymooners’ lives had been cut tragically short. As Jane and Jessica, helped by the children, gathered coconuts they kept an eye open for plumes of smoke. There were none. No one on Moorea had survived the pandemic.

The skeletons preyed on Jane and Jessica’s minds and they did not complain when Mark announced, as soon as the repairs were complete, that it was time to move on.

They picked their way nervously through the Society Islands and held to the west of the Tuamotu group and to the east of the Hawaiian
Islands before finally swinging northeast towards California.

It was more than three months since they had left Gulf Harbour. As they headed towards the west coast of America everyone was bored. The breeze had at last swung to the west, but had dropped to a mere whisper. The yacht wallowed in the slop, the boom jerking against the preventer, the sails slamming from side to side. At the helm Zach did his best to keep the sails full, but despite his efforts
AWOL
made less than one knot.

Jessica and Fergus tried to rest in their bunks. Jane stood in the galley attempting to maintain her balance as she prepared lunch. Mark and Nicole read in the cockpit. The three youngest children, Audrey, Gina and Tommy, endeavoured to amuse themselves.

Misty watched out of the corner of his eye as Tommy started twiddling the knobs on the radio set. The boy had seen Mark test the equipment before the voyage and had been intrigued by the strange hissing and whining sounds. The radio suddenly spluttered to life.

‘… Look Hank, you’ll have to do better than that …’ The younger children were taken aback by the strange accent. They had never heard an American drawl before.

The cabin momentarily darkened as Mark scrambled down the companionway.

‘What would you accept then, Brad?’ asked another voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tommy said as he reached for the dials. ‘Don’t touch the knobs!’ Mark yelled. But it was too late. The little boy, frightened he was in trouble for playing with the equipment, moved several dials in a frantic attempt to turn the radio off.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again as he stepped back.

‘It’s all right,’ Mark assured him. ‘You’ve done well, very well.’

The tiny area that housed
AWOL
’s communication and navigation centre was quickly crammed with bodies. Jessica, Fergus and Jane squeezed in beside Mark as Zach and Nicole peered down from the cockpit. Everyone was talking at once.

‘Keep quiet!’ Mark shouted as he feverishly turned the dials. He could get nothing. ‘Which ones did you touch?’ he asked Tommy gently.

‘That one and that one,’ Tommy said, pointing out the dials.

‘And that one,’ Gina added, pointing to a third.

Again Mark tuned the dials. There was a squawk, then a crackle and finally a very faint voice. With infinite care Mark worked the knob clockwise and anti-clockwise as the conversation drifted in and out.

‘… So all you’re offering us is one of the Chat girls for three days?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Which one, Brad?’

‘Which one d’yer want?’

‘The one with the big tits of course.’

‘Could be difficult, Julie’s our most popular …’

The voices faded and Mark carefully tuned the set again.

‘… last time you loaned us a Chat she ran away.’

‘They’ve been tagged now.’

‘We’d expect five days for the amount of heroin we’re offering. I’ll have to run it past the other guys. We’ll let you know tomorrow.’

‘Talk to you tomorrow then.’

Mark could barely contain his excitement. He lifted the microphone and pressed the transmit button, but before he could speak Fergus reached over and switched off the radio.

‘What the hell?’ Mark said angrily, reaching for the switch.

Fergus grabbed Mark’s arm and then manoeuvred himself between the radio and the older man. ‘They said Chats.’

‘So what?’

‘My nickname at school was Chats.’

‘I don’t see the problem. My brother was called Chats too. Half the Chatfield family were nicknamed Chats at one time or another. You should hardly be surprised Chatfields are alive. That’s what we expected, after all. Now, let me make contact.’

Fergus stood his ground. ‘The guy said he wanted one of the Chat girls. That suggests he wasn’t a Chatfield himself.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘The point,’ Jessica said, ‘is that the Chat girl was being traded for heroin.’

‘She’s right,’ Jane agreed, ‘and Hank also said the Chats had run away. Why? What were they running away from? It sounds to me as if something nasty’s going on.’

‘Exactly,’ Fergus said as he released Mark’s arm. ‘And the best thing we can do is listen in and learn exactly what’s happening.’

‘We should make contact while we can,’ Mark insisted. ‘We don’t know what time they’ll transmit or what frequency they’ll use.’

‘They said they’d talk tomorrow. They didn’t arrange a frequency so my guess is they use the same frequency at the same time each day. Let’s listen in again then.’

Excitement and speculation aboard
AWOL
grew. She was still over a thousand miles from San Francisco. The breeze was light but steady and the self-steering system had been engaged. Everyone clustered around the navigation station the next day to listen in. Half an hour before Tommy had picked up the transmission the day before, the radio hissed to life.

‘You there, Brad?’

The signal was weak. The man called Hank called anxiously several times before Brad answered, and despite Mark’s endeavours the signal drifted in and out and only snatches of the conversation were heard.

‘… we’ve discussed it and agreed in principle to have Julie for three nights in return for two hundred grams of heroin…’

‘She’s worth …’ The signal faded again. ‘… and I’ve got to be careful … I can’t afford the boss finding …’

‘… your problem … Three nights or no deal …’

The signal died altogether.

Everyone was quiet as Mark tweaked the dials. They could not hear another word. In desperation he reached for the microphone. Jane’s hand stretched over and rested gently on his arm. ‘Dad, I think that girl Julie’s in real trouble.’

Over the next four days the crew aboard
AWOL
carefully monitored Hank and Brad’s conversations. Some days the transmissions were clear, on others they were scratchy. Every word the two men spoke was recorded, however trivial, with Jane and Fergus recording Brad’s words and Mark and Jessica recording Hank’s. When the transmissions ended, the records were compared and discussed and an official version of what had been said agreed. The significance of voice, tone and laughter were also noted. Every scrap of information was analysed. Street names and references to buildings, hills and landmarks were extracted and listed.

Following the transmissions Mark pored over the travel guide for San Francisco. He matched the odd street name, but other related facts just didn’t add up.

‘Perhaps it’s not San Francisco at all,’ Fergus suggested, after the third transmission. ‘Why don’t we search some of the other travel guides?’

‘Pity we don’t have Google,’ Nicole remarked.

Everyone, including the older children, started to help study Commander Ball’s impressive collection of travel guides, looking at cities along the west coast.

‘It’s not San Francisco at all,’ Zach beamed triumphantly half an hour later. Everyone gathered behind him and peered over his shoulder at the street guide spread out on the saloon table. ‘Look, here and here, here and here,’ he said as he pointed alternately to the list of street names that had been collated and the street guide.

‘Well done,’ Mark said, slapping him on the back. He looked heavenwards. ‘Thank you, Aunt Margaret. Your memory wasn’t so bad after all. The name does start with San.’

‘So how far are we from San Diego?’ Zach asked.

Mark was already studying the chart. ‘About nine hundred and fifty nautical miles.’

Fergus was looking at the chart too. ‘How many days?’

‘Depends on the wind. At least four. Five, maybe six.’

‘I hope you’re not thinking of going within a hundred miles of San Diego, given what we’ve heard on the radio,’ Jessica said solemnly. She was sitting on the couch protectively cuddling the twins.

‘Exactly,’ Jane agreed.

‘It’s because of what we’ve heard that we
must
go to San Diego, and soon,’ Mark responded.

Jane shook her head.

‘We won’t go in unless we’re sure we can go in safely,’ Mark promised.

‘We won’t go in at all,’ Jane replied firmly.

‘If I was the girl those men were talking about, I’d want you to go in and help me.’

They all looked at twelve-year-old Nicole. Jane had hoped her daughter hadn’t fully understood the conversations they’d intercepted.

‘And if it was Nicole, Mum, I’d want to go in and help her too,’ Zach added.

Mark held up his hand. ‘We’ll keep heading towards the coast. We’ll monitor the transmissions as we go. But as I said, we won’t go in unless we can do so safely.’

Activity aboard
AWOL
intensified. In addition to monitoring the transmissions and analysing the intelligence gathered, they began to learn as much as they could about San Diego. Commander Ball’s chart of San Diego Harbour and the street guide were taped up on the bulkhead. The main saloon became the intelligence operations room. From scraps of information a picture was painted, brushstroke by brushstroke. There were many gaps on the canvas, but other sections were painted in great detail. Everyone helped.

On the Sunday evening, just over five hundred miles out from San Diego, they gathered in the saloon and consolidated all the
intelligence they had gathered.

It was clear Brad and Hank’s transmissions were clandestine. The group to which Brad belonged was located somewhere close to the waterfront of downtown San Diego. The group numbered perhaps as many as a hundred individuals. They had a military background, almost certainly navy. Brad mentioned the odd crew name, but no names mentioned were female.

Hank gave the impression his group lived a considerable distance away from where Brad’s group were. His group also seemed to have a military background but
AWOL
’s crew could not decide to which branch of the military they belonged. The group seemed to be much smaller, probably fewer than a dozen individuals. It comprised both males and females, although the males outnumbered the females, which appeared to be a significant factor in the negotiations.

The third and smallest group were known as the Chats. They lived a short distance from Brad’s group and were tagged to prevent them running away. There were at least three females. At one point Mark had the impression there might be a male member of the group too, but the single vague hint was not repeated. The derogatory manner in which Brad referred to the Chats indicated he regarded them as a sub-class whose only purpose was to serve the needs of members of his group — and Hank’s, providing the price was right.

One of the Chats — Julie — had become the subject of a complicated trade negotiation. Three members of Hank’s group, including Hank himself, were about to leave their settlement on a routine foraging expedition. Hank would travel to San Diego alone, to collect Julie and take her to Los Angeles, where she was to entertain the three men for three days in return for the four hundred grams of heroin finally agreed.

Many other facts had been gleaned from the transmissions. Unlike those in England and New Zealand, the groups appeared to have plenty of ammunition. The mention of air conditioning, freezers and tool shops indicated Brad’s group also had a significant source of energy, yet they, like Hank’s group, had no automotive fuel and were relying on horses. The contradiction puzzled Mark.
The Gulf Harbour community had produced power using wind generators, solar power and banks of batteries and inverters, but nothing approaching the power supply the San Diego group were apparently generating. It just didn’t make sense.

The final piece of information in the intelligence dossier was the fact Hank would be heading towards San Diego the following day and would be collecting Julie at noon on Friday.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Fergus said as the review concluded, ‘we can’t let that bastard Hank get his hands on Julie.’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ Jane said softly. ‘I know it’s a noble cause. I know she might be a relative.’

‘She’s a human being, even if she’s not a relative,’ Mark said sharply. ‘Heaven knows what Hank and the remainder of his cahoots have in mind for her.’

‘Probably the same as they’d have in mind for Jane and me if things went wrong and we were captured,’ Jessica said quietly.

‘We won’t get caught,’ Zach boasted.

Fergus wasn’t so confident. ‘There’re a lot of them and it sounds as if they’re heavily armed.’

‘Only Brad and Hank will be involved in the handover,’ Mark pointed out. ‘We also know the handover isn’t taking place till noon on Friday. If this breeze holds we’ll be in and out and have rescued Julie and the other women before Hank arrives.’

‘We don’t even know where Julie and the others are holed up,’ Jane reminded him.

‘We know roughly where they are,’ Zach corrected. ‘They’re in an area called Little Italy.’

‘Roughly is not good enough. We can hardly go wandering around San Diego looking for them,’ his mother said sharply.

‘Surely we must try?’ Mark pleaded, looking towards Jessica and Jane.

Jane shook her head. ‘As Jessica says, we could end up in the same predicament as Julie. And what for? A few more Chatfield genes?’

‘They’re not all Chatfields, perhaps …’

‘You’re mad,’ Jessica interrupted angrily. ‘Now you want to
capture the sort of men who — who trade women. I thought Nigel and his sons were bad enough. This lot are even worse.’

The debate raged on. Jessica and Jane demanded
AWOL
alter course towards South America immediately. Fergus was wavering. Zach’s bravado was rapidly dissipating. Only Nicole remained gung-ho, and Mark suspected she didn’t understand the full implications of the situation.

‘I accept Jane and Jessica’s concerns,’ Mark said finally, ‘but I still want to give it a go.’ Jane opened her mouth to protest. ‘Just hear me out,’ he continued.

‘There’s no way we’re going in,’ Jessica said resolutely. Fergus nodded in agreement.

‘Just hear me out,’ Mark pleaded. ‘I want to take
AWOL
in.’

‘We’ll be seen.’

Mark walked over to the chart taped on the bulkhead. ‘We’ll go in at night. We’ll make our way up here,’ he said, pointing to a mooring area off Grape Street Pier.

‘Even if we go in after dark, we’ll be spotted at daybreak,’ Jane said.

‘We know Brad’s group is concentrated somewhere in this area here,’ Mark continued, pointing to the Downtown area. ‘We’ll just be one mast amongst hundreds of others in the distance.’

‘Assuming there are still boats in the mooring area.’

‘If there are no boats moored, we’ll head back out to sea immediately. We’ll be well clear by dawn.’

‘Even if there are other boats moored and we’re not observed getting in, we’ll still be at risk,’ Fergus cautioned. ‘We could easily be spotted while we’re ashore searching for the women.’

Mark prepared to play his trump card. ‘What I propose is that all of you remain on
AWOL,
out of sight below decks. I’ll head ashore and search by myself.’

‘No!’ Jane said firmly.

‘It makes sense. I’ll be the only one at risk and I’m expendable.’

‘You’re not expendable,’ Fergus retorted. ‘Apart from anything else we need you to get
AWOL
back to England.’

‘You’re more than capable of getting
AWOL
back yourself. You’ve all had a damned sight more experience than many who have completed circumnavigations.’

‘Not circumnavigations via the Horn and not circumnavigations without GPS and weather faxes!’

‘You’ve got enough experience. Believe me.’

‘It’s academic, we’re not going in. It’s too risky,’ Jane repeated.

‘It’s an acceptable risk. I stand the chance of finding Julie and the others and adding them to our gene pool. If I get captured, I’m an old man, I’m expendable.’

‘You’re not expendable,’ Jane shrieked. ‘You’re my father.’

The argument continued past midnight. In the end Mark, by sheer force of personality, got his own way. It was agreed they would attempt to sail into San Diego harbour at night on the strict understanding that they would turn tail immediately if there were no other yachts in the designated mooring area. Jane, exhausted, climbed into her bunk at one o’clock in the morning, closed her eyes and prayed for offshore winds.