The Second Race

Prologue.

Shanghai thirty years ago.

Foo Sec Tong was on his way to the home of his good friend Yu Ding Xuain. He had grown up with Xuain on the dirty streets of District 17 in Shanghai. They had gambled, chased girls, married and looked for their fortunes like all the other twenty something men in the neighbourhood. Xuain had become hooked on the gambling to such an extent that he was deep in debt. Up to his head in fact. He had even put his one bedroom apartment, which was the sanctuary for his young bride and their obligatory single child, down as a marker. And that marker had now been called in.

Tong knocked on the front door of the dwelling. There was no response, but as he was expecting his friend to be in, Tong knocked once more. This time he heard a muffled response ‘come back later’ from within the apartment. Tong hesitated. Normally he would have turned away and did as his friend requested but something in the tone of Xuain’s voice, a little panic, made him try the handle of the door. The door was unlocked.

Tong stepped into the small lobby, and shut the door behind him. To the left was the bathroom. He turned to the right and walked into the living room.

He was astounded by what he saw. Xuain was kneeling on the tiled floor. Between his legs was someone that Tong couldn’t see properly because Xuain’s extremely broad and powerfully built body was obscuring his view. Tong stepped further into the room without saying a word. Xuain’s large hands were around the fleshy neck of a man Tong didn’t recognise. Xuain was strangling him, starving the lungs of the air they needed to function. The man’s chest heaved as he tried to draw in breath but his windpipe was sealed. The thin canvas shoes of the man beat almost silently on the floor of the apartment.

Xuain looked up, suddenly aware of the intrusion by his friend. He met the gaze of Tong but then turned once more to his task. After a short while the man lay still beneath Xuain. The head had rolled towards Tong, and the eyes which were wide-open seemed to be pleading for help.

Later, Xuain expressed his gratitude to Foo Sec Tong, who while not offering physical assistance in disposing of the body, had given Xuain two things. He had made the suggestion where the body should be taken, and he had told Xuain that his secret was safe with him.

Tong had gained two things in return. Xuain now owed him a debt of honour, and Tong had identified a man who would not hesitate to kill. Tong did not know when or where the debt would be repaid, or whether his intimate knowledge of the workings of another man’s mind might be useful in the future either.

* * * *

One month later Tong was playing Mah Jong with a Sea Captain in a waterfront bar.

The Captain was losing badly, and in a desperate final gamble he had put up his ship which lay alongside a nearby wharf, as a win-or-loose all stake.

Tong agreed as long as they played a different game.

The Captain was delighted when Tong informed him that they would gamble on the rain drops running down the window of the tavern. An age old form of quick gambling. Each man would at the same instant chose a rain-drop above an agreed line that he believed would run down and reach the bottom of the pane before the drop selected by his opponent. The match would be the best of three. Tong won the first race by selecting a good sized drop close to the frame. On the second race Tong selected a smaller drop a little further away from the frame, and took feigned interest as the Captain’s selected rain drop wormed its way ahead and won the second race. Tong had obviously made a badly judged choice and the Captain was emboldened. One race each.

Tong made the Captain an irresistible offer. Double or quits. Tong would return all his winnings if the Captain agreed to throw in the ship’s crew and the cargo of rice and tea she was loading. The Captain eagerly acquiesced. Tong selected his final rain drop. A modest sized one this time, but its location was of greater importance than its stature. The Captain selected a pendulously large drop. Both drops crossed the start line and the race was on. The Captains drop had crossed first, mopping up smaller drops as it went and gaining momentum as it did so. By contrast, Tong’s drop crossed the line in a more sedate and cautious manner, as if it wanted no part in the impending race. But then, just as the Captain’s drop was halfway down the pane, the drop that Tong had selected reached the section of window pane where Tong had applied a thin veneer of bees wax before he’d entered the tavern.

The drop streaked to the bottom and won the race.

Before the Captain could say a word, Tong said to him ‘I will of course pay you and your crew well at the end of the voyage.’

And so Foo Sec Tong acquired his first ship. It was to be the first of many. Over the next few years, Tong bought and sold a few general cargo ships, with their hatch-boards, complex derricks, and the large crews required to operate and maintain them. He made a good profit while he owned them of course, but he could see that the future of transporting goods lay in containerisation. He converted a few old ships to carry the boxes, but he soon took a chance with purpose built vessels. They were expensive to build, but fast (nearly twice the speed of the converted tramp ships) and crew numbers were halved.

The fledgling shipping company grew rapidly in the 1980’s and 90’s as Western companies contracted. The Communist Party of China took a parental interest in the venture. China was on the verge of a period of development that would amaze even the most optimistic and bullish economic analysts.

The Party liked what they saw. The foundations were being laid for a huge surge in China’s manufacturing base. The finished products would need to reach their markets in the hungry west.

The growth of the company was linked to the rapid economic expansion of China to its present day position of rivalling the mighty USA as the economic powerhouse of the world. The principal and ethos of the shipping company was simple; Chinese owned and operated ships would export Chinese goods to the West. The ships would return to China only with empty containers to bring the next consignment of car parts, garden furniture, electrical goods and whatever else the West could not manufacture economically. A concession was granted by the Government of China that ‘goods of economic and strategic value’ should be imported on CSG’s growing fleet. These were principally and ironically the tools, lathes, and computers that the fast growing economy needed to drive itself ever forward.

Mount Kent. The Falkland Islands 12 June 1982.

Trooper Vincent Baxter was on his first Op. with the Special Boat Squadron. He was cold and wet, as he had been for most of the last four weeks since he had been put ashore from HMS Onyx, one of the Royal Navy’s last conventional diesel powered submarines. The smaller diesel boats were much better suited than their larger nuclear powered cousins for covert operations. The submarine had closed to less than two miles off the inhospitable coast of East Falkland. Baxter and the other three members of Echo 3 Quebec patrol had then paddled ashore in collapsible kayaks. After dismantling the kayaks and hiding them under soft peat and gravel, they had tabbed 20 miles over hills and through bogs, in atrocious weather, to their current position. It was not unlike Dartmoor where they’d all trained with the Royal Marines.

He was part of a patrol that had been tasked with setting up an Observation Post overlooking the capital of Stanley where the bulk of the occupying Argentinean army was located. They had set up the OP and had provided a constant stream of information about aircraft activity, ships in Port Stanley and troop movements. In addition, they had provided spotting information for Naval Gunfire as HMS Plymouth, Glamorgan and Arrow had pounded targets with their 4.5-inch guns, from the gun line 5 miles offshore. They had remained undetected for 4 weeks, surviving on hard routine. Until now. End-game for the Falklands Islands was in sight. It looked as if they were going to be detected by the Argentinians as they were in full retreat after the battle of Tumbledown Mountain. A much smaller force of Scots Guards had overrun two companies of Argentinian Marines who were some of the best troops the occupying force possessed.

A group of the enemy Marines had already fled the mountain and were heading right for the OP. As the SBS patrol was still providing valuable intelligence, the approaching men had to be dealt with swiftly and silently.

Sergeant Gareth Morgan was in command. He held up six fingers and pointed south-west towards Tumbledown Mountain. Baxter turned towards Trooper Cooper who was to his right, out of sight of Morgan. Cooper was manning the GPMG in a sanger with Sergeant McNeil further to his right again.

The message was passed silently from man to man. Baxter realised that Cooper would be unable to train the Gimpy onto the approaching targets in time without moving and revealing his position. McNeil was out of sight, watching the rear in case they had been seen and the Argies tried a flanking manoeuvre. It was going to be Morgan and Baxter’s fight initially if they wanted to maintain surprise. Morgan signalled Baxter to confirm this, but then put his finger to his lips and drew his silenced Sig-Sauer P228. A silent attack. He confirmed it by tapping the heavy knife strapped to his calf. Morgan then signalled again. He’d seen more Argentinians in the distance.

Baxter tried to control his breathing. He could feel his heart pounding. Then suddenly he could see the enemy. He glanced to Morgan. Morgan was now unsighted. He flashed a signal to Morgan ‘on me, on me.’ Morgan would now wait for Baxter to move.

The Argentinians looked in poor condition, even worse than the SBS troop who hadn’t had the benefit of hot food. They were stumbling and although heavily armed with US made M16 carbines, didn’t look like they were ready for, or expecting CQ (close quarters) combat. However, they had the advantage in numbers, and it looked like that when contact was made between the opposing forces, it would be six to two.

Baxter held up a flat palm towards Morgan, and then towards Cooper; ‘wait.’

He watched carefully as they picked their way through the large boulders directly towards his position. Fifty metres away. Now forty. Then a sharp knock as one of the Argies carelessly let his carbine swing onto a boulder.

Distance now twenty metres. Baxter couldn’t see any rank badges on any of the marines; it looked as if they had been crudely torn off. However, one of them, in the middle of the file looked a little older and was moving more cautiously. Baxter’s first target; kill off any potential leaders first.

Baxter glanced quickly to his left and right. Good, although he was the junior, Morgan and Cooper were still holding their positions. Ten metres now. ‘Time to make a move’ he thought.

He rose up, pistol held with both hands in front of him, shouting ‘go go go’ and firing in one smooth movement as he did so. Two shots to the head. His target went down. He swivelled on the balls of his feet and fired another two shots. The ‘point’ or lead soldier also went down. Morgan was up on his feet firing as well. He got one tap on his target, tail-end Charlie who was turning and bringing his carbine up to bear. He crumpled. Three down. Close in now. The next two Argies were crouching and fumbling with their weapons. Safety’s were snicking off, barrels pointing up slowly when they should have been already, slings getting in the way. Too late for the first one. Two taps again and he slumped over a boulder in front of him. Four down.

The next man standing in the file had a snag on his weapon and had realised he couldn’t get a round off. He had drawn a bayonet. He dived towards Baxter who side-stepped but the Argies’ shoulder caught him, knocking him towards another boulder. His right hand instinctively went down to soften the fall. He dropped the Sig. ‘Shit’ he thought as he rolled away. Into the crouch, right hand down and his own knife was in his hand without even looking. Baxter straightened his legs and launched himself at the enemy. He thrust and thumped the knife home into the Argentinians stomach, twisting it upwards as he did so. A scream was cut short just as it started by Baxter’s left hand across his mouth. Five down.

Baxter looked around. Number six was on the ground about 15 metres away. But so was Morgan. Baxter got up, retrieved his pistol and walked towards Morgan.

‘Morgan’s had it.’ It was Cooper who spoke. ‘He had a jam. This one got him’ he said, pointing at the sixth Argentinian who Baxter could see was dead. ‘I slotted him.’ Matter of fact. To the point, move on. The way of the Service.

Three days later the Argentinians surrendered at Moody Brook. Baxter and the other two members of E3Q continued to report troop movements, ship activity and spot for gunfire right to the end of hostilities.

The SBS troop did not make the triumphant walk into Port Stanley with the remainder of the British Forces but melted away, just as they had arrived.

Two weeks later, a seasoned Vincent Baxter landed at RAF Lyneham via Montevideo and Ascension Island. One month later a seldom awarded medal was pinned to his chest, by his Commanding Officer during a quiet ceremony.

Split, Yugoslavia.

Damir Mrkonjic was been born in the ancient city of Split on the coast of the Adriatic. He had played as small boy on the beach that surrounded part of the beautiful natural harbour. Unlike his young friends whose main desire was to kick a football around and emulate the stars of the day, Damir’s interests were activities in the harbour itself. He gazed at the sailing yachts that bobbed gently on their moorings. He wished he could go on one of them when they raced around the marker buoys in the harbour at weekends.

Young Mrkonjic’s parents had little interest or control in the boy’s upbringing so he spent more and more time at the slip-way at the sailing club from where the small boats and tenders were launched to take the sailors out to the moored yachts.

When he was eleven, a patrician boat-owner, who had noticed the boy on several occasions, asked him if he wanted to come out to sail on his boat. Not a race, just a try-out cruise to check some new sails that the owner had purchased. The boy eagerly accepted.

Damir was given a chance to steer the boat. He seemed to instinctively know which way to turn the tiller to change the heading of the boat. He assisted trimming the sails using the winches and again seemed to know when they were correctly set and the yacht was sailing fastest.

After a cursory telephone call with his parents, Damir was allowed to come on the boat during the races. Although small, he was a valued member of the crew, adept at rigging and tidying the myriad of lines in the cockpit and re-packing the spinnaker. Damir didn’t miss a single race during that first season, nor in the following four. Mrkonjic absorbed every detail of the way the boat was built and constructed. And he took a keen interest in the tactics of sailing, and seemed able to read the wind shifts and currents with uncanny accuracy.

When he was fifteen years old, the owner promoted him to Bowman. This was a most coveted position in the crew. He could, with one poorly executed sail hoist or drop, or an incorrectly rigged spinnaker pole, cause the boat to loose a race. But Damir executed his duties faultlessly throughout the season; if the boat didn’t perform well, it was due to the failings of others. But, as his confidence grew, he cajoled the other crew members, and even advised the owner how to helm his own boat, so that these transgressions and errors were diminished. Damir Mrkonjic was a natural sailor. The owner won Best in Class and Overall First Prize for the season. The parents of the gifted sailor were invited to attend the awards ceremony.

Damir seemed on the verge of great things; there was talk of becoming a professional sailor. But tragedy struck one afternoon early in the new racing season the following year. Mrkonjic was assisting with the launch of one of the small tenders from the slip-way. As usual, there were a number of other boats jockeying for position to embark passengers, and transport them out to the moorings. One of the other boats had been left in the charge of a young and inexperienced boy. The boy was called by the skipper of the boat he sailed on, and instructed to close the slip-way. The boy opened the throttle on the 50 HP outboard-motor fully and it careered along the slip-way and crashed into the tender that Damir was stepping into. Damir was knocked overboard into the sea, and the other launch ploughed on right over the top of him.

The phosphor-bronze propeller of the outboard motor ripped into the flailing legs of Damir Mrkonjic. Both legs were chewed up by the propeller spinning at over 300 r.p.m.

The onlookers who witnessed this terrible accident all retold two facts at the subsequent hearing; the plume of red blood that stained the sea, and the boy’s screams that only stopped when he passed out.

Damir was lucky to retain partial use of his left leg. Nine hours of surgery were required to re-connect blood vessels, sew tendons together and insert two stainless steel pins. However, the lower part of the right leg was a useless mush of skin, bone and flesh. Amputation below the knee was deemed to be the only answer.

Damir Mrkonjic’s sailing days were over. His days of torment, drink and drug taking would begin soon.

* * * *

The Western Approaches to the English Channel.

The giant catamaran sliced through the waves with enormous power. The wind was 20 knots from the South West with a 3 metre swell from the West caused by a previous depression that had passed two days earlier. The 60 metre Mitsaw Challenge would encounter weather like this, and a lot worse, during the race she had been designed for.

The skipper Jim Johnson would have liked a month of sea-trials but, as usual there had been delays in getting the cat into the water for the first time at the boatyard in Devon, then some teething trails with the electronics that had to be rectified first, and so two weeks of trials would have to suffice. This was the second day. The delivery voyage down to the start line at the Azores was meant to be a final crew shake-down but if the sea-trials any significant problems they would have to cut the trials again.

Problems or gripes that occurred were logged into a computer database onboard and denoted as either an ‘up-gripe’ or a ‘down-gripe.’ An up-gripe was one that meant that the trial could still proceed. If such a gripe occurred during the race, no time would be lost and the gripe would be fixed as and when practicable. On the other hand, a down-gripe was just that; the trial would have to be halted, and in racing conditions, time would be lost. So far, no down-gripes had occurred but there an increasing list of up-gripes was being entered into the computer, which were regularly transmitted by Sat C to the shore base at Dartmouth on the south coast of Devon. Some problems were to be expected and the program of trials allowed for the catamaran to return to base so they could be fixed and then see if they re-occurred. Most of the gripes that would need shore assistance to fix were electrical. The most serious up-gripes were a fault with some of the cockpit instrument lights, which was irritating but needed fixing, and there was an intermittent fault with the radar. The skipper was considering what to do.

Johnson looked at the satellite derived VMG readout located in the cockpit in front of him. Boat speed was 26 knots. The aerodynamic foil shape of the mainsail generated massive forces that powered the boat along faster than the true wind speed. The boat was performing magnificently and exceeding all expectations. There was no doubt that Simon Westgate who had designed the catamaran, had done a fantastic job.

He turned to Matt Douglas who was sat beside him in the cockpit. ‘How far back to base from here?’

Matt was in charge of the navigation during the trails and would be Johnson’s second-in-command