The J-Complex

By Peter Batchelor

Could she, a professor of mathematics, follow the simple arithmetic of suicide, or would her courage fail her?A calculated terrorist attack on Australian soil raises alarm for the local police. Greater horrors lie behind the catastrophe of an imminent second action. The history of the early twenty-first century rests with three main characters: Josh, an ex-navy clearance diver; Jack, his Sydney Water Police Officer partner; and Inaya, a woman with a past.
In making their judgements to balance duty and faith, they are each faced with man's most basic instinct: the will to survive. They cast their lots. Decisions are made that draw all three to a climax that will change them forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781998454310

Peter Batchelor

The tale began as a short story during a most difficult time. The challenges continued, and so the story grew. Since retiring, Peter Batchelor thought to finish the work and polish it. For him, it became a healthy solution to an unhealthy time in his life.Peter Batchelor's first novel, The Bluff of Virtue, is a similar therapeutic exercise where the work of writing became medicine. 'Things may die, but imagination is eternal' is an elixir he finds worth drinking.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Epilogue

Glossary

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank my sister Marion for the hours dedicated to refining this book. She has been more generous than I deserve.

Thanks also to my mate Eddy, whose initial encouragement and ideas motivated me to write on.

Any shortcomings are entirely my own.

Prologue

Lieutenant Percy Strickland Archibald Jamieson solved the problem of troublesome people by lining them up against a wall and shooting them. This morning, he lined up his two sons against the brick wall of the garage. They had disobeyed him yesterday. They had ignored the call to stop the backyard cricket and to come to dinner. He was certain that his method would have solved the Hitler and Hirohito mess in WW11. It was a pity that guns and bullets were frowned upon in the suburbs of 1970’s Sydney. Today, his son’s breakfasts would consist of an hour of calisthenics and shouted orders along the brick wall instead.

Percy brought the Navy home with him. He was a hard man. It was fortunate that his wife was soft. Not so fortunate, this hardness and softness, for his sons. Much was expected of them, especially the elder son, Winston. In Percy’s eyes this son’s career options were sailor, seaman or salt. The second son, Joshua, was less noticed, so the mother compensated. Percy’s only daughter, Marion, was the family mascot. She could do no wrong by her father’s law; the Lieutenant was outranked by the commission of daughter. She was a moat for the gentleness of her mother. Despite Lieutenant Jamieson’s walls of justice, the family worked.

Percy had seen war and faced death. It made sense to him, that as his sons had not seen war, nor faced death, it was prudent; a father’s responsibility; to harden them. They were given no quarter, even if they asked for it.

The elder son became his father in another setting. He was a hard man in the iron ore mines of West Australia. He raised his own family in a disciplined way. The younger son thought that he had not chosen the profession chosen for him by his father. He became a Navy Clearance Diver. He worked beneath the water his father had sailed on. He had defied his father by submerging his intense desire to gain the approval of the man who had overlooked him.

The daughter became the glue that bonded the family. The glue lost its stickiness when the mother died. The children of the marriage had already gone on separate paths that did not often intersect, and now, different purpose drew them further apart. The elder son and the daughter had come to terms with their inability to live up to their father’s expectations. The younger son hadn’t completed the task, he continued to toil on his mediocrity.

The Lieutenant died surrounded by his children and what was left of those who thought him still relevant. He had done his best with what was left of the man after the sights and terrors of war. He died peacefully, unaware of the disappointment he had been. Winston and Marion were thankful for and at peace with, the man who had fathered them. Joshua had work to do.

* * *

Chapter 1

Saturday December 18th, 2010; 5.37am.

Professor Inaya Armanjani pressed the pause button on her DVD just as the recorded vision showed the second plane fly into the World Trade Centre tower. The first tower was ablaze. Smoke belched into the New York air. Small specks that were people who had made a choice as to their method of death, fell to the ground.

Tears welled once again into the professor’s eyes, as they always did, when that second plane crossed the threshold from machine to bomb. She picked up her prayer mat from the coffee table, placed it on the carpeted floor, carefully aligned it in the direction of Mecca and began to pray. She did not see the rising sun, as the window in the room faced east.

* * *

The skipper of the sloop ‘High Society’ watched as the same sunrise broke overhead. It was 5.38am. He lay on his back at the bow of his boat as it approached the heads off Sydney Harbour. Animated voices, which came from below, were lost to the vast silence of a rare Tasman calm.

The last week of his journey south ran quickly, so quickly, through his mind; the outrageous sum of $50,000 paid to him to transport several sealed boxes to Sydney with the three foreign lads who escorted the cargo; one who drew juvenile pictures and wrote riddles for his brother to solve; the third more serious even prayerful. He knew the cargo was contraband, probably drugs, but fifty grand meant another two years at sea and more women. But it was all a mistake. The screams of the girl Friday he had taken on board in Port Moresby were only just audible…his eyes lost focus now; the last gush of blood pumped from the severed artery in his neck.

* * *

Below decks an argument had broken out over the killing of the girl. The leader had ordered a quick dispatch, however the elder of the brothers had raped and abused her while his young brother watched, then had hacked at her throat with his knife.

‘Why concern ourselves with the whore blood of the infidel, Leader?’ said Hamal the elder brother, still aroused by his entitlement over the non-believer. He was twenty-four years old, bearded, and sweat wet his forehead.

‘It is the believer’s heart which interests me, Hamal,’ he said, ‘our mission here is sacred. We are the servants of Allah, not beasts.’

‘There is no shame in removing dogs from the presence of Allah,’ said Hamal confident of his virtue.

‘Enough! We have stayed here long enough,’ snapped the leader, troubled by the excesses of zeal of his charges. He turned to Nisar; a nineteen-year-old.

‘Finish loading the cargo into the launch and cover it well, then check the boat and remove everything we brought on board. Waterproof your identity documents.’

‘Leader,’ said the fresher faced Nisar, ‘why trouble with our papers now, this afternoon we enter paradise, we will need no papers, for by our faces and our deed will we be welcomed.’

‘Perhaps Nisar, however between now and eternity we may encounter authorities who ask us for identification…do as I instruct!’

The two brothers obeyed without further challenge. They liked their mentor and would do anything he commanded. The leader busied himself at the stern of the sloop while the others completed the transfer of the cargo.

‘A Welcome from the brothers for sinful Sydney’, whispered the leader as he worked.

The bellow of a ship’s siren jolted the three men.

‘Good’, said the leader to his charges, ‘I would have preferred another five minutes, but now the brothers ashore who watch us perform our holy jihad will monitor the response of the Australian authorities and learn…soon this loose-living country will twice taste the anger of the One True God.’

Chapter 2

The ‘Ocean Wanderer’, a fully loaded container ship, had cleared the heads and increased speed before the starboard turn for the southerly run to Port Kembla. The master gave another long blast of the ship’s siren to alert the sloop that drifted towards the shipping channel from his port side to change tack. There was no response from the sloop. He raised his binoculars. The captain could see a man asleep on the fore deck and three men who left the stern of the yacht to board a launch tied alongside. The launch cast off and sped away in a north westerly direction.

‘That’s bloody helpful’ thought the captain, ‘a bathtub under sail forcing its right of way over fifty thousand tons’. He turned to the helmsman,

‘If she holds her heading for the shipping lane, we should be running over the top of her in about five minutes.’

‘Aye, Skipper,’ said the helmsman, ‘the guy snoozing on the foredeck must be their lookout.’

The captain gave a third blast of the ship’s horn. It had no effect on the heading of the sloop.

‘Turn to starboard, Jerry,’ said the captain, ‘we’re far enough eastwards of the heads and have the draught to allow the manoeuvre without danger of grounding.’

The sluggish carrier began to answer the helm. The captain was now confident he would avoid collision, however, if the yacht continued its present course, it would come ashore somewhere between Watson’s Bay Gap and the Macquarie Lighthouse at Vaucluse.

‘Contact Sydney Harbour Water Police… inform them of the danger to yacht in shipping channel…five hundred metres off North Head and drifting.’

Captain Vickers looked over the yacht once more. Apart from the prone man there was no other life visible. He focused on the launch.

‘Radio… tell Water Police…yacht abandoned at great haste by launch heading North.’

5.48am.

Sergeant Joshua Jamieson was the on-duty officer to whom the distress message was handed. The tall, pre-occupied forty-five-year-old was disinterested.

‘Pass it down the line, Bob’, he said to the radio ‘ops’ man, ‘I’m busy as a mozzie at a barbeque working on the Yanks visit down-under to go chasing weekend boaties.’

Coarse strands of silver had begun their invasion of his dark hair. Tanned and still fit, his blue eyes scanned the paperwork strewn across his desk.

‘The boss said you, Josh, this ain’t that simple’, the radio man was insistent.

‘Bloody hell…it’ll be two hours before I get back to some real work. The American fleet arrives in less than three weeks, and I have five weeks work to do.’

Josh Jamieson had joined the water police five years ago, in a failed effort to save his marriage from the perverse demands of a fifteen-year career as a Navy clearance diver. He had been driven, throughout his early years, by his need to prove himself to a demanding father who was also a career naval officer. Now single, the soft option to hide himself in The Sydney Water Police had not worked the way he had intended. His experience and skills made him useful, and his inability to say ‘no’, kept him in overworked leadership roles.

‘Who are you trying to impress, sarge?’ said Bob as he walked away, used to the sergeant’s ‘do-it-yourself’ wall. ‘We have every confidence that the American’s security will be up to scratch.’

‘Who am I trying to impress? Who am I trying to impress?’ thought Josh. The answer was obvious. ‘My old man of course…I’m still doing it…still trying to impress Lieutenant Jamieson’.

The war and his rank had made Josh’s father; Lieutenant Percy Strickland Archibald Jamieson; heavy handed with men but considerate with women, demanding of his sons and a lamb with his daughter. Joshua, the youngest of the Jamieson offspring wanted to give his father every reason to be proud. On the day of his birth, he was his 43-year-old father’s final effort at producing a worthy future salt. After he cheated death in World War II, along with life, the Lieutenant had passed on to his son the technique of survival, and its cost.

Josh read the note he had been given by the duty officer. He expected a routine call to assist a ‘boatie’ who had run out of fuel or had broken down; but Josh was absorbed by what he read. His gut instinct, which came from years of clearance diving and work in the presence of danger, formed a string of possibilities in his thoughts. His decision about what action to take was measured, for he now gave the issue his full attention. He went to the radio room and picked up the two-way.

‘Jack,’ he said, ‘ready the ‘Nemesis’ for immediate departure, break out a tow rope and unlock the weapons cabinet.’

Senior Constable Jack MacFarlane was competent, courageous and the only man Josh had ever confided in. Fair-skinned, good humoured, and like man’s best friend, loyal. He, more than any other male in Josh’s narrow circle of friends, understood much of the emotional chicanery of his partner.

Josh was less defensive around his partner; they made a good team. Josh’s ugly scar, which would fester from time to time, was not easily noticed as it was on the inside. It was put there by someone who should have known better. It would rub against his worth from time to time; but he had control. Those closest to him thought him moody, Josh Jamieson’s effort to remain together, prevented interrogation.

In less than five minutes the police launch, at full power, and blue strobe lights flashing, passed under the Harbour Bridge. Sergeant Jamieson thought the situation over once more. The facts as reported did not fit with normal maritime practice. ‘Abandoning a drifting vessel in a busy shipping lane near the entrance to a major port was more than just poor seamanship or panic; it was an effective way of attracting attention’. He speculated as he went, they were suspicions that would soon save his life.

* * *

Meanwhile, the launch that had quit the sloop had reached Broken Bay and passed behind Lion Island. The boat slowed to a speed that made it less noticeable to other boats or eyes on shore. It continued towards the Rip, and the entrance to Brisbane Water. The leader at the helm, sustained by his fervour, steered his long desired final course. He noticed an end of the tarpaulin flap open to expose some of the small crates.

‘Fools!’ he barked, ‘Retie the canvas! We have come too far to let small things undo us!’

His black eyes flared and revealed, in that moment, a mind of strength and purpose. At once, his face regained its composure; a tarpaulin of skin pulled taut over his corrosive hate. He was a man intent on the taking of human life.

* * *

The ‘Nemesis’ cleared the heads at 6.15 am.

‘Ocean Wanderer’ at 2 o’clock, Posh,’ shouted Jack over the noise of the engines.

The sergeant was called ‘Posh Josh’ by his partner because of his baritone voice, correct speech, and his like of the ballet. More than enough reason for the moniker Jack had given him. On lonely coastal patrol runs, Josh would stand in the rear deck well of the Nemesis and sing Wagner or Puccini in full voice to the boat’s wake. Jack was the only human to witness this behaviour; but it was while he drove the launch, with his back turned to his mate, and pretending not to hear.

‘Police launch Nemesis to Ocean Wanderer, copy?’ said Josh over the marine band radio.

Three seconds passed.

‘Copy, Nemesis…This is Captain Harry Vickers, go ahead.’

‘Sloop…half-k off port side…you have altered your course to avoid…what’s the story?’

‘Vessel under sail not responding to siren warnings, or emergency channel squawk…One occupant on fore deck drunk, unconscious or dead…Sloop abandoned by three men in high-speed launch…stand by…last seen heading nor’ nor’ west, over.’

‘Copy, Captain Vickers…Proceeding to sloop to investigate…Will get base to update you on outcome…Safe sailing…Nemesis, out.’

Josh returned the two-way microphone to its cradle and scanned the sloop through his binoculars.

‘Alter course for the sloop, Jack,’ he said, ‘I can’t tell for sure from here, but I don’t think the sleeping sailor will be waking.’

‘It’s a sloppy way to commit a crime, Posh. Broad daylight, under the noses of ships and harbour authorities…evidence left lying about. Must be amateurs,’ said Jack.

‘Mmm…It’s as if they wanted to be noticed.’

‘Perhaps its ‘homeland security’ or whatever they are calling themselves these days testing us,’ said Jack.

‘Bring her alongside, Jack…I’ll attach the tow line to the bow…Standoff in the Nemesis…keep the line taut…just make way until I have a look around…head due east to keep clear of the shipping lane.’

‘Aye, Skip,’ said Jack as he eased the throttle.

The police launch approached the sloop from its starboard side and when ten metres shy of the drifting boat turned hard to starboard till both boats were parallel, the Nemesis stern in line with the foredeck of the sloop. Jack reversed the motors so that the Nemesis was stationary relative to the High Society. The sloop drifted gently onto the hull of the police boat and Josh climbed aboard, tow rope in hand.

Josh moved forward and stepped over the prone sailor and attached the line to the foremost deck cleat. He signaled Jack to take up the slack. He went back to the body to check for a pulse and the cause for the man’s condition. There was no pulse, just a massive amount of blood, over and underneath the body, that came from a savage throat slash. Josh could feel that the body still retained warmth, indicating that the man was not long departed. A stream of blood had trickled over the side. Dark shadows of sharks circled beneath the boat.

Josh looked about the deck. Except for a crumpled tarp alongside the helm, it was clear. He slid open the forward hatch and went below to the galley and sleeping quarters. On the dining table a rough sketch of a dog tearing at a woman and another of three swords, jabbed into an inaccurate depiction of the Australian flag were spread. The galley area was untidy and full of supplies. There were other ‘art’ works and sheets with Arabic writing, stuffed into an open drawer. Josh opened the door to the sleeping quarters and was confronted with the naked body of a young woman lying face up on the bed. Her throat had been cut. Blood ran from her nose and there was redness on her breasts and genital area. Josh was appalled, his eyes took in the fearful beating. He did not expect to find a pulse, he gently took the girl’s wrist. He wanted to cover her but knew he would have to leave her exposed so as not to corrupt the crime scene. He felt a weak pulse. He stripped a pillow for its case and firmly wrapped it around the girl’s throat to prevent any more blood loss. She was still alive. He covered her with a sheet and a blanket to conserve her body heat. He moved quickly to the deck.

‘Jack!’ he shouted across the water that separated the two boats, ‘Jack, radio for immediate Medi-vac of woman patient. Urgent! Woman is critical!’

‘Understood!’ Jack shouted back.

Josh scrambled back down below to do what he could for the woman and to make her retrieval by the Paramedics as easy as possible. The bleeding had been stabilised by the makeshift tourniquet. He was reluctant to move her. He knew that if he could have her on deck when the helicopter arrived vital minutes would be saved. He bound two blankets firmly around her entire body to further conserve her body heat and reduce the danger of lung puncture by broken ribs. He picked her up in his arms. As he did her face contorted, air squeezed from her lungs. He ached for the girl, he was nauseated by the cruelty, he shed a tear. With great care he took her topside and laid her on the deck.

‘Hang on, sweetheart,’ he whispered to her, ‘I can hear the chopper now…Can you hear it? Can you hear it, love? Another few minutes and you will be in the best hospital in the country. Hang on!’ Josh did not know if the girl could hear, he sought comfort too, he hated cruelty in any form, especially cruelty to women. He willed her to live.

Soon, the Westpac Rescue Helicopter was overhead, and a Paramedic and stretcher were winched to the deck of the High Society. Josh steadied the stretcher in the downwash from the rotors while the medic assessed the woman.

‘She’s not going to make it Sergeant, she’s only just alive now,’ he shouted.

‘Don’t let her hear you son,’ said Josh agitated, ‘she will do her job and hang on for as long as she can! Now you do your job! Get her to hospital!’

‘Ok…ok, sergeant, we are on our way.’

Josh bent low over the girl putting his lips to her ear. ‘I will hunt down the men who did this to you, child. I promise you…I promise.’

Josh watched the rescue helicopter follow the coastline south towards The Prince of Wales hospital at Randwick. The morning sky was now clear and blue, the sergeant’s eyes still red. ‘Hang on’, he said, ‘Hang on.’

Josh’s thoughts turned to the clean and quick dispatch of the sloop’s captain, who still lie where he died, and the inhumanity shown the young girl. It made no sense. His mind tried to find meaning in this lack of sense. ‘The savagery to the young woman was a statement… the captain’s death was an execution’. Josh crossed and uncrossed his extended arms to gain Jacks attention, then he pointed the first and second fingers of his right hand to his eyes to signal that he was to have a good look about the sloop. Jack gave the thumbs up then pointed to the tow rope and thrust an arm forward to indicate that he would continue to make way in an easterly direction.

At the bow of the boat Josh heard the violent splash of water. The dead man was still on the bow. ‘Couldn’t be someone trying to swim for it’, he thought, ‘there’s no exit hatch below deck…I would have seen anyone escaping from the forward hatch’. He hurried to the bow and looked overboard. The water boiled with dorsal fins and slashing jaws. The sharks, aroused for so long without appeasement, had turned on the smallest member of the pack and ripped it to shreds. ‘Seems like man is not the only animal who lusts for blood’, Josh said to himself.

* * *

6.19am.

The launch with the three men entered Brisbane Water. The tide had peaked an hour earlier and was now on the run out. The rip created by the huge volume of water that forced its way out to sea through the narrow entry to the waterway presented no difficulty for the launch. The rudimentary maps that guided the men did not warn of the dangers of the rocks opposite Ettalong at half-tide. However, as the tide was not long past full and the draught of their boat was shallow, they passed over the danger unaware.

The leader, clean shaven, with a tangle of black hair, lean and with hands not used to manual work, felt the inside pocket of the spray jacket he wore. His passport was still there. It was a forged Australian passport that bore the name, ‘Martin Moussa’. The data printed on its pages informed of a thirty-one-year-old Brisbane born male, now residing in Byron Bay. His occupation was recorded as student doctor. His real name was Majib. He had been born in a town in northwestern Pakistan and had lived all his life there; save for the last two years. His name meant glorious, illustrious, and was exactly what he felt he was now called to be. Since completion of his training in Afghanistan, his singular desire had been to lead a mission against the Infidel, obtain martyrdom and be reunited with his family. The feel of the plastic protected book reassured him that if asked for identification from an official, it would be enough to allow him passage.

Majib turned the launch right, into the channel separating St Hubert’s Island from the mainland and passed under the road bridge that was the only land access for the people who lived on the island. The subdued launch continued to follow the channel, past the inlets of the island where expensive mansions had been built. It did not escape Majib’s notice, that the pleasure boats moored in front of many houses would have cost almost as much as the houses themselves.

‘Such decadence of the few visits misery on the many’, he said to Hamal. A bitter memory of a child in need of bread but having only weeds was at large in his memory.

The boat was now headed for Riley’s Island, their destination. Majib continued to follow the channel markers and turned hard right at the cardinal point to avoid entering the very narrow channel that separated the two islands. His inexperience in navigation in enclosed waters gave him little understanding of the markers and what they meant. The change in colour of these markers from red to green and the direction of tidal flow in relation to the sea when changing direction of travel confused him; he had lived all his life in mountains. The navigation instructions given when he trained for this mission were basic and not well remembered. He had assumed that to get to his destinations around this waterway with the map supplied, to be the simple part of his responsibilities. He operated visually and on what he thought to be common sense.

He chose the Linton channel side of the island to go ashore. It was wide and not as close to houses as the eyes inside those along the narrows. They could do their work unnoticed.

Riley’s Island was uninhabited Crown Land, an ideal location to store their cargo. It was close to the major population centre, and according to their intelligence, the interior of the island was rarely visited. One of the local oyster farmers had a small depot on the island, but this was in the mangrove lined shore area and away from where the three men intended to go ashore.

‘Give me the mobile phone’, demanded Majib, ‘it is time…they should be there by now…authorities and police crawling over our early morning offering…Allah, be praised!’

The nineteen-year-old Nisar who sat in front of Majib was spontaneous, robot-like, he did as instructed. Majib ripped the waterproofing off the cardboard box that had an unused mobile inside. He opened the box, discarded it, and punched a memorized number into the phone. He then pressed ‘send’.

Chapter 3

Josh had searched his way to the rear hatch of the ‘High Society’. Apart from the body on the bow he found nothing to help piece together what had been an horrific crime. He did not want to go below until the forensic team had come aboard, so he continued his own investigation above deck. He noticed a crumpled piece of black waterproofing plastic alongside the wheel post; he raised it with care and uncovered a small wooden crate. The crate was empty. Josh looked closely for any clue as to what may have been in the container. A splinter at the top edge of the box had snagged a tiny piece of what looked like a green rubber-like substance. He pulled an edge of the tarpaulin away to expose more of the crate. Out of a fold in the tarp fell an empty Nokia cardboard box.

Josh jumped to his feet.

‘Cut the tow, Jack! Get away from the sloop, now!’

Jack reacted without question; he had confidence in his partner. Within fifteen seconds the tow rope had been severed and the Nemesis pulled away. Josh sprinted to the bow of the sloop and dived overboard. He wondered in midflight if being dismembered by a bomb, or by a shark, felt the same. He hit the water hard in a shallow dive. He surfaced, arms and legs stabbed at the water in a desperate effort to clear the sloop. The sharks, still hungry and aroused by their earlier frenzy, were attracted by the frantic activity on the surface of the water. Two of them left the savaged remains of the cannibalised shark and swam towards Josh. The lead shark tested its prey and nudged Josh’s thigh with its snout. The second, not wanting to be late for dinner, rammed Josh in the chest and lifted him clear of the water.

A massive explosion rent the air and splintered the rear half of the sloop. A deadly concussive blast was transmitted through the water and radiated outward from the site of the explosion. Josh re-entered the water as the front of the shock wave passed. The body of the blast-rip gripped him in a vice that forced all the air from his lungs and banged his brain against his skull. He was only half conscious and no longer master of his arms and legs. The sharks with blood that now seeped from gaping mouths sank slowly, their tails twitched and shuddered, their gills no longer oxygenated their blood; they were drowning.

Josh fought the sudden twilight; he did not know which way was up. He forced himself to stop all activity. He could see the direction of the last bubbles of air that left his lungs and in a final effort to live, struck out and followed them. He swallowed water as he broke the surface; like a savage he gulped at the air. His pain and hypoxia made him blind to the hull of the Nemesis that now drew alongside. Jack attached a line to his waist and dived overboard. He slapped Josh’s face. Concerned that his partner may have been deafened he barked into his ear. ‘Relax Posh! I’ll bloody well let you drown if you don’t settle down!’

Coughing, retching, and gasping for breath Josh managed; ‘Shit! Jack, I’m not deaf!’

Jack’s relief at his mate’s return to consciousness was so great that he wanted to kiss him, the feeling soon passed, he secured the rope to Josh’s waist.

‘Skipper! Dogpaddle while I go aboard. Try and cough up some more of the Pacific you swallowed, it’ll save me doing mouth to mouth.’

‘I’ll bloody well drown before your lips are anywhere near mine.’

Jack left his mate and climbed the transom ladder relieved. His mate’s verbal sparring meant he was lucid. Dead fish had surfaced, and several rubbed against the boat’s hull. Jack pulled on the line and dragged Josh to the ladder. After some swearing, some grabbing, and some more swearing, Josh lie on his back in the deck-well. For five minutes he coughed and convulsed before he was able to prop himself onto one arm. His ribs and chest ached, and a healthy bruise had formed over his sternum.

‘What’s left of the sloop, Jack?’ Josh rubbed the parts of his body that he could still feel.

‘Splinters…the front half of the boat went to Davey Jones while you were swimming.’

‘Get a skim net, Jack, we need to pick up anything that floats. The bastards knew what they were doing, they meant to kill.’

‘You need a check over, Posh,’ said Jack. He raised his head and looked seaward; he knew that it wasn’t going to happen.

‘Jack, a girl’s life hangs by a thread, a man is dead, a boat sunk and an attempt on the lives of police, all without warning…now a crime scene is swallowing evidence as we speak. I’ll bring her about; you can do the fishing.’

‘No point arguing with you now, Posh, but as soon as we finish, you’re off to the quack.’

‘You non-Navy types just don’t get it,’ said Josh, ‘a few sharks, some explosives and practice drowning exercises, all before ‘smoko’ is regular drill for Clearance Divers.’

‘Yes,’ said Jack, ‘and how many of you seal types make it to afternoon tea?’

‘Just call the backup, Senior, while I manoeuvre to take first pick of the flotsam,’ said Josh, doing his best not to show pain.

After ten minutes, they had scooped up a dozen pieces of timber, two pieces of paper with drawings, a seat squab and a hard bound A4 sized ledger.

A second water police launch had arrived at the scene, and at Josh’s direction hauled aboard some of the larger pieces of boat, sail scraps and a tarpaulin.

Jack spread the papers and the book they had retrieved on towelling to soak up some of the water and preserve the