From a wing of the bridge the Captain looked down to where men had gathered on deck abreast of the motorboat which hung from turned-out davits. ‘Standby to lower,’ he called, before going back to the compass platform. To the dark bulk of a man standing there, he said, ‘We’re three miles off Maji Island now, Number One. Pick us up here at 0500, unless we send up a flare before then.’ With a dry laugh he added, ‘Which I sincerely hope we won’t.’ He searched the darkness round the ship with binoculars. ‘Right. She’s all yours. Take care.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. I will.’ The First Lieutenant followed Barratt to the top of the bridge ladder. ‘Good luck, sir. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Thank you, Number One.’ The Captain tugged at the webbing belt which held a holstered revolver. ‘This Wild West gear is bloody uncomfortable,’ he complained as he started down the ladder. ‘Almost as bad as having to look like a ruddy boot-black.’
The strangely assorted tow of small craft moved in towards Maji Island, which was not yet visible in the darkness. Coxed by Leading Seaman Hind the motorboat led the way with the catamaran and skimmer on a short tow astern. Corrigan was in the skimmer steering with a paddle, the outboard engine still tipped clear of the water. The landing party’s approach was silent but for the low rumble of the motorboat’s engine and the gentle swish and slap of the sea against the hull. No one spoke but for whispered exchanges between Morrow and Katu.
Piloted by the African, the trio of small craft headed in towards the southern side of the island. Katu had explained that the coastline was rocky but for three small beaches; the one for which they were heading — already named Recce Beach by the Captain — another in the north, and a third on the western side of the island.
They had gone some distance when Katu pointed ahead. He made a whispered report to Morrow. ‘It’s the island, Bwana.’
The Sub-Lieutenant spoke to Barratt, told him what Katu had said, adding, ‘I can see it now. He says we must steer more to port.’
Barratt checked with binoculars, picked up the dark blob on the port bow and ordered the change of course. Soon afterwards Katu spoke again. Morrow did an almost simultaneous translation. ‘He says we’re not far off now, sir.’
‘Right. Stop engines, Hind. We’ll haul the tow alongside and make the transfers.’
Katu was first into the catamaran; Morrow went next, then Barratt followed by Angus McLean. Darkness concealed a weird-looking crew, their faces and other exposed flesh blackened, their dark clothing a strange assortment of blue shorts, cut down bell-bottoms, rugger jerseys and other non-uniform items. All were bareheaded and the two blonds, Corrigan and Morrow, had blackened their hair. Tucked away somewhere or hung about them were revolvers, fighting knives, torches, binoculars, Very pistols and flares.
The outrigger kept the catamaran on an even keel in spite of the uncertain movements of a crew who’d never manned one before, though they’d had a dummy run earlier that night, climbing in and out of the primitive craft stowed on Restless's upper deck. Long and narrow, scooped from a single log, the hull required its four occupants to sit in line: Katu in the stern, ahead of him the others in the order in which they’d boarded. All had paddles. Before leaving the motorboat Barratt had a last word with Corrigan, who was alone in the skimmer. ‘Remember the drill. Don’t use the outboard. Paddle in behind us. Remain close. It’s dark and won’t change unless the moon gets through the clouds. When we’ve beached the catamaran you stay afloat nearby. Within sight of the catamaran if possible. We’ll aim to be back on the beach by 0430. Sunrise is at 0525. You okay on the pre-arranged signals or do you want to go through them again?’
‘I guess I’m okay, Captain,’ said the American.
‘Remember, a red Very light means trouble. And that means a high-speed getaway. I hope we won’t need that. Paddling’s a lot quieter. And better for the body.’ Barratt cleared his throat. ‘Even if it is a bit of a bind.’
‘Okay, Captain. It’s a deal.’ The note of confidence in the American’s voice reminded Barratt that for both of them this was more than an exciting, perhaps daunting adventure. They had personal scores to settle. Behind all they were doing lay a primitive but fundamental urge. The desire for revenge.
Cloud banks shut out the last of the stars as the catamaran moved over the sea in a silence broken by the splash of paddles and the occasional murmur of voices. Long before the others, Angus McLean sighted Recce Beach, a pale smudge at the base of the black hump ahead. Soon after its sighting, a plaintive cry came to them across the water. Barratt was saying, ‘For God’s sake. What’s that…’ when Katu cupped his hands and answered with an equally weird cry.
‘For Christ’s sake stop him, Morrow,’ snapped Barratt. ‘This isn’t the Swiss Alps.’
Having spoken to the African, Morrow said, ‘It’s a catamaran fisherman, sir. Katu says the man heard our paddles and is asking who it is and where from. In reply Katu gave his name and village. They do this exchange of greetings on the fishing grounds.’
With binoculars trained on where the sound had come from, Barratt said, ‘I don’t see anything there.’ His words were almost overtaken by McLean’s. ‘About thirty degrees to starboard, sir. A hundred yards or so, I reckon there’s something on the water.’
Having said, ‘You’re a bloody marvel, McLean,’ Barratt ordered, ‘Stop paddling. Give Corrigan two blue flashes. We’ll transfer to the skimmer. Morrow — tell Katu that once we’ve left the catamaran he must take it across to his chum and stop the yodelling. The other man may be a Maji fisherman. What he tells Katu might save us a lot of trouble. The important thing is we can’t afford to hang about too long. Tell Katu we’ll wait here until he returns. But he’s got to get back in double quick time. Got that?’
‘Aye, aye, sir. I’ll fix that.’
‘And,’ went on Barratt, ‘tell Katu not to say a word about us, or what we’re after. He’s out fishing on his own. Normal drill. Right?’ As he spoke the skimmer came up from astern. Barratt told Corrigan what had happened, and the shore party transferred to it while Katu, now alone in the catamaran, paddled off in the distance.
Barratt checked the minutes as they ticked by: five, six, seven, eight, nine. At the tenth minute, tense and impatient, he growled. ‘I wish he’d bloody well hurry up. It’s already 0132. We’re ten minutes behind schedule.’
‘Africans observe a polite routine when they meet in the bush,’ explained Morrow. ‘I imagine it’s the same at sea. They ask where you’re from, what tribe, who’s your chief, how many wives have you, how many children, how many are daughters? How are your cattle, your crops, have you had rain, etcetera? It’s really quite a rigmarole. I expect that…’
‘It’s nae so different in the wild parts of the Heelands,’ interrupted McLean. ‘When strangers meet they…’
‘This is no time for lectures on African and Scottish culture,’ interrupted Barratt. ‘We’ve a job to do.’
A few minutes later paddling could be heard. It was soon followed by the catamaran’s arrival alongside. Katu spoke to Morrow at some length, whereafter the Sub-Lieutenant said, ‘All’s well, sir. He says the other guy, Obudo, is not from Maji. He’s from the coast. A fishing village about six miles from here. Katu asked him if he’d seen any strange ships, something like a big whale. But Obudo hadn’t. Nor had he seen any Maji fishermen recently. He told Katu there were usually a number of Maji catamarans on these fishing grounds, but none over the last few days which puzzles him. He thinks it may be an outbreak of malaria in the village. Or something like that.’