16 The Standoff

 

Hecate Strait. Jul 15. 2030

54°03'25.1"N 131°21'43.3"W

 

“How you doin’, Táan?” Ooligan shouted over to the other tlúu as they worked their way up a swell.

“I’m… thinking that… a motorboat… might be the… way to travel.” He responded between heavy breaths. Paddling was tougher than Táan had expected and after four hours of effort, his lower back and arms burned. “How far have we gone?” He called back to Adili.

Without breaking his stride, the tribesman said, “About 34 kilometers from Haida Gwaii now.”

Thirty-four? I’ll die before we reach the mainland! Táan winced and dug in harder with his paddle. He would not let the fetchers down—nor would he allow Dot to see him give up. Where is Dot? She blew away from us hours ago. Táan suddenly envied the sailboat’s roomy cockpit and envisioned himself stretched out napping on the floorboards.

“Hey—Haida boy!” Ooligan yelled. “We’ve got almost 60 kilometers left of the Síigaay. You’re looking pretty beat over there—are you sure you’re gonna make it?”

“Yeah Oolie, I’ll pull through.”

“It’s not like you’ve got three strong men over there in your boat or anything!” She laughed and drove her paddle deeper into the waves, pulling in front of Táan’s boat.

Kai looked up as their tlúu gained momentum. “Aaaaye—Oolie, what are you doing? We can’t keep this pace—quit showing off.”

Táan shut his eyes and ignored the burning pain in his muscles. He focused instead on the sounds all around him and the rhythm of paddles. The ocean waves and his teammates’ breathing consumed his consciousness. Eventually, a numbness radiated through his arms and the strokes didn’t bother him nearly as much. He kept his eyes forward and stared at the center of Pasha’s back. Soon enough, they neared the middle of Hecate Strait.

Táan’s Zen state was cut short when Kai shouted, “Can anyone make out what’s heading our way?”

The fetchers looked down the strait, the six-foot swells that rose and fell every few seconds made it difficult to focus on anything in the distance. Táan squinted and called over, “It’s moving pretty fast, I think it’s a tracker!”

Táan overheard Pasha mutter, “Piiiiz'dets, blyaaaa.”

“All OK, Pasha?” he asked.

“Nyet. Not so good.” Pasha’s strokes sped up and he panted as he spoke.”

Adili called forward to the Russian. “Don’t panic. We cannot do anything about it right now. Just keep paddling, Pasha.”

Just then, Táan realized he was bookended by two un-chipped foreigners. Not only were they illegal, but because of their striking skin-colors, both could be easily spotted from some distance. Táan had never paid much attention to profiling before—the First Nation people didn’t consider a person’s skin color to be much of an indication of personal worth. It began to occur to him how the trackers used appearances to pigeonhole people—allowing them to make snap decisions that could change an individual’s entire future—or end it. Táan looked over at the other canoe. Oolie was a Haida as well, so she likely wouldn’t be harassed. Kai being Maori, possessed the complexion and facial features to pass as a Native—at least to any Wáasdan Ýaat'áay tracker.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Kai looked over at the threesome in the other canoe as he paddled. “Oolie and I will head south and meet up with them first… Distract ‘em somehow. You guys just jangle your dags and get across that ditch.” He paused to catch his breath, “Got it?”

“Understood. And if that tactic fails?” Adili shouted.

“Then Táan’s gonna have to do some real fast talking, cuz.”

Kai held his paddle steady on the starboard side of the boat. He kept the broad side face-out while Ooligan took long-reaching strokes with her paddle on the opposite side. The tlúu turned smoothly away from the others. “Well, here goes—see you on the other shore, boys!” Oolie yelled back at them.

“Good luck!” Táan shouted.

 

“Ensign McKay, what do you make of those watercraft ahead… Natives?” Lieutenant Roeder pointed at the two small craft making their way across Hecate Strait.

The Ensign placed her binoculars at eye level and zoomed in. Both wooden boats bore the unmistakable markings of Coastal Salish canoes. “Affirmative, sir. They appear to be Salish-manned vessels transiting the strait. Shall we intercept?”

Lieutenant Roeder scowled, he preferred to give the Natives a quick looksee and go on his way. He disliked interacting with the unregistered vessels and the eclectic, often unpredictable personalities of the local tribespeople—individuals who did not conform with society’s regulations. The encounters were particularly frustrating north of the border—where Canada’s government allowed their natives more autonomy than the tribes back in the states. Nevertheless, HighTower Command had recently sent an order for “eyes on everything,” and Roeder wasn’t one to leave anything to chance. He let out a sigh of exasperation, “Best to head over and see what they’re up to, Ensign McKay. Crossing Hecate Strait in open canoes—Jesus Christ, don’t they own any outboard engines?” He set the binoculars on the dash and made an entry into the ship’s log. “Give me a new intercept heading.”

“Adjusting course for intercept. Aye, Sir.”

The vessel HSA Styx, altered course north by northwest and made for the native vessels. Seaman Castle monitored traffic at the radar. He noticed a deviation on the screen from a medium-sized contact, now heading in their direction and called out to the ensign. “Sir, contact Hotel-Sierra-Two: Bearing, now 325 relative. Range, 1500 yards and closing.”

“Thank you, Seaman.” Ensign McKay walked over to the port window. She squinted as she gauged the distance, made her mental calculations and called to the senior officer, “Lieutenant, we have a port-side vessel approaching east-bound. Constant bearing, decreasing range.”

“Jesus. When it rains, it pours,” Roeder muttered. He finished his notes in the log and reached for the binocs. “I’ve got the visual. Reduce your speed to four knots, Seaman Castle. We’ll allow him to come to us.”

“Aye-aye, Lieutenant. Reducing speed to four knots.”

Roeder stepped to the port windows, Ensign McKay followed him. “Sir, we’ve pinged the vessel. It’s U.S. registered vessel, homeported in Clifton, Oregon.”

“Thank you, Ensign McKay… Clifton? Isn’t that a little town up the Columbia River? That seems a bit far from home for a rough-looking little crabber. Let’s take this one on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Ensign—send the gunner to unlimber the forward fifties. I want them ready to fire on my orders.’”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant.”

Roeder sighed and checked his sidearm. Shit, an out-of-state transponder on any boat this small and in that kind of condition means one of two things—drug runners or coyotes. The rickety boat motored straight toward the HSA Styx. Roeder observed one of the two men climbing onto the deckhouse. He watched the man clip a faded red shirt over a white rag onto their starboard outrigger. The tattered rags flapped about as the vessel approached. What the…? Roeder leaned closer to the window, “Does anyone know what these Bozos are trying to signal?”

McKay shook her head, “Negative. I ‘ve never seen that version of signal flags, Lieutenant.”

Roeder spoke to McKay, “Confirm with your gunner—weapon ready?”

Ensign McKay called forward and the gunner’s mate stationed at the heavy machine gun nodded back with a thumbs-up gesture.

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant. Gunner is standing by for your command”

Seaman Castle mumbled to himself, “Red over white, fishing at night…”

McKay overheard the pneumonic and asked, “Seaman Castle—what is that you’re saying?”

Castle cleared his throat, “Well, it may be nothing, Sir. But if they’re a fish boat—well, perhaps they don’t have a day shape to display?”

McKay nodded, “He’s right, that saying the civilians always use…what is it? ‘Red over white, means fishing at night.’” She pointed at the Ensign. “Good catch, Seaman Castle.”

Roeder held the binocs to his eyes. “And why would they present those flags in broad daylight?”

“Sir, if they are a native fishing vessel, they might not have the standard day shapes for fishing—we’ve seen variations of this dozens of times.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Roeder hung his binoculars on the wheelhouse door. “I’m getting fed up with this whole ‘going-Native’ shit.… It’s bound to get somebody killed sooner or later.” He pulled a life vest off the hanger and walked toward the companionway. “Seaman Castle, full stop engines. You have the bridge.”

“Full stop, aye, Sir.”

“Ensign, tell your gunner to stand easy for the moment.”

“Stand easy. Aye, Sir.” The ensign relayed the message to the gunner and reached for her life jacket.

As the boat drew closer, they could see more of its hull; several steel patches had been welded over rusted holes above the waterline and sheet of plywood covered an absent deckhouse window. The crudely painted name on the forward quarter bulwark read “Hlçu.” The two occupants of the boat stood inside its tiny deckhouse. Roeder nodded to Ensign McKay and she clicked the button on the loudspeaker. “Hailing the oncoming fishing vessel. This is the HSA Styx—Border Security. Prepare to be boarded. Heave-to and shut down your engines immediately. Approaching vessel, do you copy?”

McKay paused her transmission and eyed the vessel. There seemed to be no sign of reduction in their speed. She could see the older crewmember at the wheel staring straight at her, while the other man in the deckhouse continued to wave his arms over his head. She looked at her commanding officer and asked, “Sir, what are your orders?”

Roeder crossed his arms and inhaled. The boat was only 50 yards away at this point. He frowned and shook his head. “Have the gunner fire a warning shot over their bow—there’s less paperwork if we don’t sink it. Yet.”

Ensign McKay called up to the gunner. He raised the barrel of the heavy machine gun just a hair over Hlçu’s bow and fired off one round. McKay watched as the excitable crewmember jumped up and down, hitting the old man at the wheel. Suddenly, the boat veered sharply astern of the Styx and stopped its engines. An elderly man with snow-white hair appeared from the deckhouse waving his fist and shouting. “You slimy bastards are running over my nets, gawddammit!”

Momentarily taken aback by the old man’s outburst, Lieutenant Roeder grabbed the speaker from the Ensign’s hands. “This is HighTower Border Security. Stand by or we will fire upon you.” He motioned for Seaman Castle to bring the Styx alongside the Hlçu’s rail. “Who the hell does he think we are, Vessel Assist? We’re the fucking HSA!”

As the Styx came alongside, the old man started beating on their railings with his walking stick. “Kádlaa! You come up here—scare all of our chíin out to sea! I finally get my nets in place and then you turn up—running over them! Go on! Kádlaa! Get out of here! Shoo… off you go!”

The other man came on deck and pulled the old one away from Styx’ railings. “Ol’ Pa—stop it! Calm down, it’s just the trackers. Calm down. They aren’t here to steal anyone’s fish.”

“Bah! They bloody well are—come up here and sneak ‘em from the nets at night, they do! But not my nets—you’re not stealing my fish!”

Ensign McKay stood at the railing, eyebrows raised in surprise as the two carried on. She glanced at the Lieutenant, seeking guidance on how and when to proceed. Lieutenant Roeder held up his hand, shaking his head. He recognized this fisherman and had no desire to get drawn back into any more paranoid accusations about a government plot to steal salmon. He moved close enough to the rail to be heard clearly and addressed the men. “Homer Carville, this is Lieutenant Roeder. Can you hear me?”

“Yes I can, and I know who the hell you are. How do you like my fish, you doggone poacher?”

“Mr. Carville, who’s boat is this—it’s not yours, is it?”

“This is my boat, Mr., err… Officer. My name’s Billy—Billy Telford.”

“Sir, why does your vessel identifier come up as registered in the United States?”

Well it’s a long story, your lordship—see, I got this ID chip off a wrecked boat that washed up on shore ‘bout eleven year ago. I just stuck the chip up on my dash, y’see. It seemed like the best way to avoid getting shot down by one of those drones of yours.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Roeder muttered. “Ensign McKay, take your team across and confiscate that transponder. Give this boat a thorough going-over, then report back on deck.”

“Aye-aye, Sir.”

“And Ensign. Make it quick—if possible.”

“Aye, Lieutenant.”

As the Ensign and her team crawled around Billy Telford’s vessel, the two occupants stayed on deck where Roeder could keep an eye on them. Carville, the one they called “Ol’ Pa,” would occasionally hurl an epithet toward the Lieutenant, only to be shushed by his boat-mate. Roeder tapped his foot on the deck and checked the time. He hoped that his crew would find nothing out of the ordinary—other than the typical compliance violations with which the natives played fast and loose: Missing flares, expired fire extinguishers, running lights that hadn’t been operational since the millennium… It was a complete waste of time to cite the natives for infractions such as these, as they never bothered to pay the fines. As far as Roeder was concerned, there were bigger battles to be fought on the water, and if the natives wanted their damn boats to sink or catch fire, then that was perfectly fine with him.

Ensign McKay came around the deckhouse corner. She knew very well what her boss wanted to hear. “Nothing to report, Lieutenant. They’ll make it back to shore… At least, this time.”

”Very well.” Get your crew back on board and let’s get underway.”

Ol’ Pa waved his stick up at the Lieutenant. “Hey there, you better not be pestering my boys out there in those canoes. They’re working for me this morning. They’re up ahead looking for the chíin—don’t you distract ‘em, you hear me?”

Roeder sighed. “Those two canoes are with you then, Mr. Carville?”

“You better believe it, a bunch of Haida kids with little enough motivation as it is, so don’t you be distracting ‘em. I’ll lodge a complaint with your big boss, if you do. You don’t think I’m on to your stealing ways, but I’ve got your number. By god, I’ll report it. Just watch me—you puffed-up mama’s boy!”

“Keep an eye on those canoes of yours Mr. Carver—we don’t need to be wasting our time chasing down every native boat in the strait. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as a bell, you phony fish-poaching bastard.”

Roeder turned to Ensign McKay and whispered, “Get us out of Cochise-range before I sink that old gas-bag.” In a more official tone of voice, he ordered, “Full ahead, Seaman Castle. I want to be through Dixon Entrance by 1500.”

“Aye, Sir. Full ahead.”

 

The two men watched from Hlçu’s starboard rail as the HSA Styx pulled away and accelerated toward mid-strait. Billy started to chuckle and slapped Ol’ Pa on the shoulder. “Very nicely done, ‘Mr. Carville.’ One would think that they might get sick of hearing you cussin’ ‘em out after all these years and just blow a big hole right through your fat stomach.”

“It worked. That’s all that matters,” Ol’ Pa said. “Let’s get this rust-bucket home before it sinks out from under us.”