Chapter 6

The Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat skimmed across the waves as the last rays of light drifted from the sky. Rob checked his gear, then glanced back to where Dan and Tim sat. In the sea behind them was another RHIB and, beyond that, the low profile of Christmas Island. Ahead of them, just a dot on the horizon now, the MV Fajar Baru, a tramp steamer with possibly hundreds of Unauthorised Boat Arrivals on board. In the low clouds above it, lightning bloomed.

Tim leant over to him, yelling above the roar of the engine and the solid thump-thump-thump of the RHIB hitting the waves. ‘We’re gonna have to be quick.’

Rob shrugged. It’ll take as long as it takes.

There was an election looming; the government had taken a stand on people-smuggling. The PM didn’t want any more UBAs washing up on the Australian territory of Christmas Island, demanding asylum. Their mission was to turn the ship back into international waters, and the new Border Protection Bill gave the government (and, by extension, them) the power to use whatever means necessary to do that. They’d all studied the maps during the briefing. It’s okay for the Fajar Baru to be here but not there. On one level it was bullshit, but it wasn’t Rob’s job to question the politics of it. They had a job to do.

Rob was hoping they’d be able to do it the easy way. The Fajar Baru had picked up the UBAs after their small wooden fishing boat foundered off the coast of Indonesia. They’d done the right thing. If not for the crew of the tramp steamer, the UBAs would be dead. Initial radio contact advised the Fajar Baru to turn back into Indonesian waters. They acknowledged the message, but maintained their course for Christmas Island. Further calls had gone unanswered. It could have been that the radio failed. It could have been that the UBAs had disabled the radio. Or it could have been that they had taken over the whole vessel. Rob and his team were prepared for all eventualities.

Yeah, they were armed to the teeth. But Rob hoped it wouldn’t come to that. In the RHIB behind them, there was an army medic with as much gear as he could carry. The fishing boat had been at sea for at least three days, and the UBAs aboard the steamer for two days after that. God knew what sort of conditions they’d been living in before they set sail. They’d most likely be filthy, hungry and thirsty.

Ahead of them, the Fajar Baru grew bigger. A rust-streaked bridge rose up at the stern, overlooking the cargo decks below. From here, there was no sign of trouble. The ship was still making good headway, probably hoping to get to Christmas Island before the storm hit. Which wasn’t going to happen.

‘Get on the radio, Tim, let them know we’re coming,’ Rob said.

Tim set up his radio. He yelled into the microphone in English, then Bahasa. He screwed his face up. Shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

A low crack tore through the air.

‘What the hell was that?’ Rob said.

But he knew. The dickheads were trying to sabotage the ship. There were people running about on the deck. White splashes as bodies hit the water. Screams.

Fuck. This isn’t going to be pretty.

A secondary explosion tore through the ship. Light bloomed amidships. More white splashes as people jumped for their lives when flames erupted from below deck. On the bridge, a flash of frantic movement.

Tim got on his radio again, calling for backup. The HMAS Manoora was in the area. But by the time it got here, it would be too late to do much.

The steamer listed to one side, showing its deck. There was a rupture down the centre, billowing thick black smoke. Occasionally, flames would flare. Charred bodies slid towards the water.

‘She’s going down fast,’ Tim said.

Rob looked behind to check the other RHIB was still with them. The sea was getting choppier. Between the white-capped waves, faces appeared. Crying, screaming. A woman, trying to hold her baby above water. The charred back of a man, floating face-down. The closer they got, the more they comprehended the scope of the tragedy. Hundreds of people in the water.

The ship groaned. An ear-splitting shriek as the deck tore apart. Two splashes of orange, life rafts already overwhelmed by the tens of people struggling to get on board.

The RHIB slowed. Rob turned around. Dan stared back at him.

‘If we go in there, we’re gone,’ he said.

The other RHIB pulled level. Rob had to yell to be heard over the engines and the wind from the approaching storm. John looked over from the other boat, seeking guidance.

‘Get in there. We’ll do what we can,’ Rob said.

Dan cursed, shook his head, but sped up again. They skirted the edges. When the people saw the boats, a dreadful cacophony arose.

‘Keep to the edges,’ Rob said.

They pulled a woman on board. She coughed and spluttered. Started babbling in Farsi.

‘Tim?’

‘She wants to know where her son is.’

Tim talked to her, trying to calm her. Dan was right: this had the potential to go pear-shaped quickly.

They yanked a boy from the sea. Thick shock of black hair. Burns on one of his arms.

‘A couple more.’

‘And then what, Rob?’ Dan said.

‘Then we get the fuck out of here. Come back.’

Rob watched, horrified, as faces dropped under the waves and didn’t come up again. A woman with burns to her face, her hair gone. A man with a thick grey beard. A mob of people, mostly men, were swimming towards the boat. Closer to them, another man dropped below the surface. Rob grabbed his arm.

‘Hurry up, Rob,’ Dan said.

The hand slipped. Rob reached over the edge, almost sending himself over the side.

‘Rob?’

‘Throw them some life jackets. Something, for Christ’s sake.’

The other RHIB had arrived at the same conclusion, throwing their spare life jackets overboard. Flashes of orange against the grey sea.

Rob grabbed the man’s hand again, pulled back. This time the man came up. At first Rob thought his skin was burned black. Then he realised he was looking at tattoos. Squiggles, lines, dots. On the other side of the boat, Tim helped someone else aboard.

Rob grabbed the man’s pants and heaved him over. His shirt was gone. His back was covered in tattoos. Nothing Rob could make sense of.

‘Go!’ Rob said.

‘Got it.’

The RHIB’s engine throbbed. Dan brought it around in a tight circle, heading back towards Christmas Island. The front edge of the storm hit, peppering them with raindrops. The voices of those left behind rose, terror and anger and fear. A wounded animal, crying out in anguish.

Rob shook his head. The man rolled over, stared up at him.

‘Tashakkur! Tashakkur! Tashakkur!’

Tim translated: ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

The tattooed man spoke some more.

Tim shrugged. ‘He’s Ahmed. He says he owes you his life.’