Chapter Twenty-Five.

The Dutch Nederland Line freighter, "Schijnt Meisje" was making good time on her voyage east. She had rounded Cape Comorin... the southernmost tip of the Indian Peninsula, and was steaming towards Dondra Head at the southernmost tip of Ceylon. The sea was calm, and she was making eighteen knots across the southern reaches of the Gulf of Mannar before steaming out into The Bay of Bengal towards Singapore.

In his cabin, Yik King Wong sat on his bunk admiring the Garnet. He had made an unprecedented decision. To hell with the Dragon Lord of his Kwun Tong Tung Triad. He would jump ship in Hong Kong and make his way north to Shanghai. There, he could sell the gem to one of the notorious Triads operating in the city. The Kar-wai Circle Triad was the strongest. They would pay well for such a Gem. He smiled smugly to himself as he slipped the stone back into the little velvet pouch. It was the last thing he ever did.

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash, a huge bang, a searing, screaming pain... and nothing. The Oerlikon twenty-millimetre cannon shell that had punched without warning, straight through the freighter's hull slammed into Yik King Wong's chest and exploded; splattering him across the opposite wall of his cabin. The little velvet pouch... still clasped in the grip of his torn-off arm fell to the deck with a soft, wet thud.

The pirate vessel that had suddenly appeared from out of nowhere stood off to her port quarter and fired another burst into the port beam ends of the "Schijnt Meisje." As the exploding shells ricocheted around the cargo holds; in the pilothouse, the Master slammed the engine order telegraph pointer handle round to "STOP." These bastards were Malagasy pirates and would not hesitate to sink him if he defied their "Warning" shots to heave-to. There was no way he could out-run her. Even in her dilapidated state, he could see that she was an old wartime ex-British Royal Navy, seventy-one-foot motor gunboat. She was still armed with a twin, twenty-millimetre Oerlikon amidships, and two, twin 0.303in Lewis machine guns on pedestals, aft. He knew from his wartime experiences that when ship-shape, she would have made forty knots, and even now, in the hands of these bastards, she would probably manage at least thirty. She was powered by three Packard-Merlin marine engines, for Christ's sake!

The only way he could beat her would be to ram her... her hull was made of mahogany... but it would be almost as tough as the plate steel of his freighter's bow. It was just pure luck that her forward two-pounder Pom-Pom had been removed. The Oerlikon was bad enough; but the bloody Pom-pom would have ripped the "Schijnt Meisje" to shreds and left her, and most of his crew dead in the water.

The pirate vessel was standing off, some five-hundred-yards to port as the "Schijnt Meisje" slowly lost headway and wallowed to a standstill. With a deep rumble from her engines, the gunboat turned in and came alongside. Master Jürgen Dammekers watched their approach apprehensively. One man on the Oerlikon, aiming directly at the bridge; both machine guns manned, ranging the decks. This was no time to be a fucking hero. He strode out onto the flying bridge and yelled down to the deckhands who were standing with their hands meekly raised in surrender...

'Don't just stand there! Throw a cargo net over the gunwale for the bastards!'

As the cargo net rattled down the freighter's battered flanks, the gunboat steersman bumped her alongside, and five mean-looking Malagasy, armed to the teeth, scrambled up onto the deck. Waving evil-looking machetes they proceeded to rob the crew of any and all valuables they possessed. Jürgen Dammekers watched impassively from the pilothouse. He knew he'd be next; but these pirates might not be interested in his cargo. They looked and acted as though they were the sort that boarded a ship to hold up the crew long enough to break open the Master's safe, which would usually contain the tens of thousands of dollars in petty cash that many ships carried for payroll and port fees. He might be wrong; but they didn't act as though they were sophisticated pirates belonging to any of the organized gangs who commandeered ships and held crews for ransom, or even forced the crew off a ship and sailed it to a port where the cargo would be sold, and the ship would be repainted and given a new identity through false papers.

None of the pirates except for the leader seemed to understand or speak English... let alone Dutch. Dammekers saw that any crew members who failed to understand the pirates' instructions to hand over any valuables were singled out and beaten. Although they threatened with their weapons, none of the pirates seemed inclined to use them on the crew... but that might so easily change. He decided to play it cool.

The safe in the pilothouse contained only a couple of thousand Dollars. The Nederland Line agents in each port of call picked up the port fees.

The cargo of the "Schijnt Meisje" comprised some five thousand long tons of Delftware pottery bound for Macao, and four thousand long tons of newsprint... not a particularly tempting haul for the average pirate. They would probably strip the crew of any and all valuables and monies, and leave in search of richer pickings. With this in mind, Jürgen Dammekers removed the heavy, 18Kt Gold Chronograph Deck Pocket watch from his waistcoat; wrapped it in his handkerchief, lifted the hinged cover that kept out rain and spray; and slipped it into the voicepipe that ran down from the pilothouse to his cabin. He knew it would become stuck in the curve in the pipe, a few inches above the funnel-shaped horn over his desk. It wouldn't be a difficult task to eventually retrieve it, and he was damned if he was about to let it fall into the pirates' clutches... it had been given to him by his wife to celebrate his first Master's command.

There was little he could do as two of the evil-looking Malagasy thugs started up the stairway towards the flying bridge. They faced him, and, threateningly waving their machetes, snarled:

'Vola... Dolara... Dolara'... 'Money... Dollars... Dollars.'

Dammekers backed into the pilothouse, and pointed to the small safe set into the aft bulkhead. The bigger of the two growled,

'Mamoha!'... Which Dammekers guessed meant, "Open it"... or something similar. He unlocked the safe and opened the door. The bigger Malagasy shoved him aside and delved into the safe's interior, scattering papers and documents... bills of lading and the like. Grabbing the bundle of Dollars, he shoved them into his shirt with an indignant, disappointed scowl on his face. The small safe contained less than a hundred Dollars... the bulk of the petty cash was locked away down in Dammekers cabin. The Malagasy turned on the Master, who shrugged his shoulders apologetically, and was pushed roughly aside. Cursing to themselves, the two thugs rejoined their fellow freebooters on deck, who had finished robbing the crew of the "Schijnt Meisje" of any valuables they could lay their hands on.

A harsh shout came from the deck. One of the Malagasy pirates was waving his arms and gesticulating wildly in the direction of the west. Dammekers stared out across the featureless ocean. There! A smudge on the horizon, about five miles distant. Cautiously, he backed into the bridge and grabbed a pair of powerful binoculars. Training them in the general direction of the smudge, he swept his gaze around in an arc. Suddenly, a sleek grey shape sprang into his field of view. Carefully, he increased the magnification... focussing on the distant warship. He recognised her as a British Royal Navy A-class Destroyer turning in their direction; obviously to investigate the sound of gunfire. With her White Ensign streaming in the wind as she increased speed, he watched her bow wave deepen as she cut through the water on her interception heading.

The pirates were panicking. Unarmed seamen were one thing; but a British Royal Navy Destroyer was quite a different proposition to them. As they scrambled down the cargo net to their vessel, the thug manning the Oerlikon fired another burst into the flanks of the "Schijnt Meisje" to reinforce the point that the crew should keep their heads down and not interfere with the pirates' escape. Unfortunately, one of the shells ricocheted up from the port gunwale; punched through the deck plate of the flying bridge, and exploded at Dammekers' feet, killing him instantly. The "Schijnt Meisje" began taking on water. The last wild burst of twenty-millimetre cannon shells had holed her below the waterline.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Anders Van der Plotte, the Chief Officer, felt the freighter list slightly as her bilges began to flood. Yelling to the crew to secure quarters, he sent the damage party down to start the pumps. As they rushed down the companionways to the lower decks, one of the stokers, Seong Kim Hyong happened to glance into Yik King Wong's cabin. He saw a hand resting on the deck. Had something happened to Yik King Wong? He pushed the door open...

It looked as though someone had thrown a bucket of offal into the cabin. Shreds of flesh and bone shards were sprayed around.... still sticking to the walls and cabin ceiling. The only portion of Yik King Wong that was still recognisable was his torn-off right arm... and in the hand, still attached by a few dangling sinews, was a little black velvet pouch. The stray twenty-millimetre Oerlikon shell had done its work well. Yik King Wong had simply ceased to exist.

Seong Kim Hyong glanced around, the bile rising in his throat. Yik King Wong had not been a friend, but he had been a shipmate. He reached down to the little pouch and tugged it from the grasp of the mangled fingers. It must have meant something to him to have it in his clutches at the moment of his death. Perhaps it was a Buddhist talisman or suchlike.

Seong Kim Hyong was about to open the pouch when the damage party came running back up from the bilges. She was taking on too much water... the pumps couldn't cope."Schijnt Meisje" was starting to founder by the stern!

Tumbling back up onto the deck, the damage party reported their findings to Anders Van der Plotte. He didn't hesitate. Grabbing a flare pistol from the pilothouse, he ran out onto the flying bridge and fired two red distress flares high into the clear blue sky, then shouted that the lifeboats should be swung out ready to abandon ship. Far out to port, he watched as the Destroyer began to come about in response to the flares. The pirate boat was making good its escape to the north-east in a flurry of spray.

On the bridge of His Majesty's Destroyer, Asterion; Captain John Fellows watched the burgeoning wake of the pirate vessel. She was fast... too fast even for Asterion that could make, at best, thirty-five knots. He could stop the pirate vessel by shelling her, but why bother wasting ammunition? There was always a next time with these bastards. His first priority was answering the Distress flares. Asterion was completing her tight turn to starboard. He ordered both ahead full and centre rudders amidships as she gathered speed and sliced towards the stationary freighter.

The crew of the "Schijnt Meisje" were in the lifeboats, and pulling away from the stricken freighter which was rapidly settling. John Fellows brought the Destroyer close in, and signalled "All Stop" on the engine order telegraph. As she hove to, his deck party were dropping scrambling nets over the side in readiness for the lifeboat occupants to scramble aboard. He counted thirty men. Now, he needed to make a Command decision. Should he return to port at Madras?... Or proceed with his patrol, and put them ashore in Singapore? The fuel bunkers were full... and there were plenty of supplies; his patrol was scheduled for three months at sea. Singapore was his eventual port of destination anyway. He decided to press on to the east, disembark the survivors, and put out to sea again to proceed with his patrol.

As the last crewman was hauled over the gunwales and the scrambling nets were brought inboard; he telegraphed "Full Ahead Both;" and, as Asterion got under way, the "Schijnt Meisje" slowly slipped beneath the waves; carrying with her, the mangled mortal remains of Yik King Wong; foot soldier of the notorious Hong Kong Kwun Tong Tung Triad.

Six-and-a half-hours into the six-hundred-and-thirty nautical miles leg across the Bay of Bengal; Peter Kincaid was carefully watching a brooding storm cloud out to the east. Thus far, the flight had been placid, and lacking in any sign of monsoon conditions. The gloomy wall of cloud seemed to be tracking to the north-west; towering over the recently-formed State of Pakistan towards the Afghanistan border. With luck they could get down into Karachi and disembark the passengers at the Napier Mole without too much discomfort. They must be getting bored with the view from the port side... the dun coloured Baluchistan coastline they were flying along was a bleak,and desolate vista of deep ravines and dried hills that seemed to go on forever.

He would soon reach the point at which he needed to turn south to fly down Sonmiani bay, tracking the down-leg between Charna Island and Cape Monze, and banking round Manora head using the lighthouse as a fixed reference point before the final turn to port onto the northern final approach to the Baba Channel alighting area. His thoughts were interrupted by Simon calling that they were at the turning point. Kincaid eased "Pembroke" into a gentle, fifteen-degree bank to starboard, and began his down-leg towards Karachi. This would be the third overnight stop; the 'boat would be fuelled and serviced by the maintenance boys based at Karachi. She would be re-provisioned overnight and made ready for the next leg across the Indian Sub-continent, the following morning. Kincaid settled into his seat. He was looking forward to putting his feet up for the evening. The old girl was placid in flight, but long stints like this one were tiring. He grinned... but it was better than working for a living!

Having spent the night in the curiously-named Killarney Hotel-Marder's Palace; a white, three-storey Colonial edifice on Club Street in the centre of the city; the passengers breakfasted and rejoined "Pembroke" moored in the Baba Channel alighting area. Two passenger tenders transferred them smoothly from the Napier Mole to the flying 'boat at 08.00 am. It was Friday, September 30th.

With his passengers settled in their cabins Kincaid pressed the inner engine starter buttons. The starter motors whined, and with a burst of oil and ethylene smoke, the inner engines fired one by one. He heard the clang of the mooring hatch being closed, with the slipping of the moorings being completed, and pressed the outer engines' starter buttons. He watched, as the pressures and temperatures settled, then nodded to Tim Walker to ease the inner throttle levers forward. The two inner engines picked up and "Pembroke" nosed out sedately into the middle of the Baba Channel as Tim went through his final system checks... airscrew pitch controls, fuel pumps, magneto drop and boost controls. There was no control tender to break up the mirror surface of the channel this time... Kincaid would have to coax her up with Tim assisting with keeping her straight and level.

Ahead was clear water right out to The Arabian Sea. The floats were clear and the bow spray was feathering nicely. Kincaid was gentling the control column. These 'boats could fail to unstick if the water was too smooth, and he already had one third flap out. He nodded to Tim... Outer engines, full power! Tim shoved the throttle levers all the way forwards and heaved back on the control column in unison with Kincaid. "Pembroke" responded and lifted up onto the step, but still remained stubbornly on the surface. OK; inner engines:full power. Tim shoved the levers all the way forward.

Peter Kincaid was sweating with the exertion. The airspeed indicator was reading one-hundred-and-five knots... the normal take-off speed, but she was steadfastly refusing to leave the water. He was running out of options. He could drop a few more degrees of flap but this could cause her to hop across the surface of the water like a demented kangaroo... which was not conclusive to having contented passengers. Then he remembered an old trick that the "C" class Empire flying boat skippers had used.

"Pembroke's" reluctance to unstick was caused by the hot and humid air. It interfered with the amount of given lift that her wings could generate. Turning to Simon, he shouted above the thunderous roar of the engines that he should round up the crew and get them back to the number three-freight and mail hold in the stern. The extra weight would get her tail down, and hopefully break the suction that was keeping her glued to the glassy waters of the Baba Channel.

Discreetly, Simon ushered the crew past the unsuspecting passengers into the cramped freight hold. It was very cosy... but needs must. Up on the flight deck, Kincaid felt the slight change of attitude and, he and Tim both heaved back in unison on their control columns. Begrudgingly "Pembroke" responded and lifted clear at last. Tim brought the throttles back quickly. The temperatures were getting high, but the Pratt and Whitney's were running smoothly, and everything else was reading within safe limits. Kincaid glanced out of the port window. They were almost level with Crescent bay! She had taken almost four miles to get airborne! As the 'boat gently climbed through eight-hundred feet indicated altitude, he sighed. Well, it certainly wasn't boring being a flying boat Captain!

Simon had returned, and was poring over his charts. In a few minutes he called out the new heading.

'Turn onto Eighty-five point six-nine East by North, skip.'

Kincaid nodded and eased his control column wheel to port. "Pembroke" gently dropped her port wing and came around; pointing her bow into the north-east and climbing away over the Indian Sub-Continent towards her next night stop, eight hours, and eight hundred-and-forty-three nautical miles away at Calcutta.