The Call of the Abyss - Nguyễn Đình Phùng

 
 

 
 
The Call of the Abyss
 
Nguyễn Đình Phùng

Chapter 1
 
The sea was blazing under a scorching sun, utterly devoid of wind. The sky above was a crystal-clear blue, without a single cloud in sight. The small boat bobbed gently with each lapping wave, making no forward progress. It appeared as a mere speck amidst the vast, boundless ocean—motionless and silent as the grave. Lữ stood tall, sweeping his gaze across the entire horizon, yet he saw no sign of any vessel appearing.

It had been two days since the small boat’s engine had failed, leaving it stranded in one spot. The sole hope of the group of refugees aboard—risking everything to flee in search of freedom—was to be spotted and rescued by a passing foreign merchant ship. They clung to the stories recounted in letters sent from America by earlier refugees—tales of being miraculously picked up by U.S. vessels and granted immediate entry into the United States. These stories, often embellished with a touch of fantasy, were accompanied by photographs sent home: gleaming automobiles, magnificent houses, and images of a glorious land of freedom. Dreams that had, for those lucky few, become reality.

Huddled miserably within their fragile craft, the group aboard shared that very same wish: they prayed for a U.S. ship to pass by. Or, failing that, any foreign merchant vessel would do. Just please, let it not be a ship belonging to the Thai pirates.

Lữ felt the weight of responsibility for the nearly thirty souls crammed onto this flimsy refugee boat. He and Sơn had organized this escape attempt, and now Lữ blamed himself for placing too much trust in the mechanic—the man who had guaranteed that their outboard motor was more than capable of making the ocean crossing. Now, however, the boat lay dead in the water, and their meager supply of food and drink was fast running out. Sơn approached Lữ and, likewise, scanned the horizon. He clicked his tongue in frustration:

"Not a single ship in sight! I’m terrified! Two of the children have come down with fevers again. We’re nearly out of drinking water, too. I have no idea how we’re going to get ourselves out of this mess!"

Lữ looked at his friend with deep pity. In just a few short days, Sơn seemed to have aged several years. Lữ offered reassurance:

"It’s alright! I’m sure we’ll eventually come across a passing ship."

"But what about the Thai pirates? Lying here motionless like this just makes us easy prey for them. What happens if we run into them, Lữ?"

Lữ gave a grim smile:

"I’m fully prepared! Don’t worry."

He was confident that he had made ample preparations. Lữ had heard many stories about the pirates—tales of ill-fated escape voyages, of men being murdered and women being raped. His and Sơn’s fellow travelers on this journey were also well aware of the risks and had taken precautions; the women had even begun taking contraceptives a month before their departure. Lữ, too, had taken measures to protect himself. He was determined not to let any tragedy befall them, should they be unfortunate enough to encounter the Thai pirates.

Sơn scanned the horizon once more. A black speck seemed to have just appeared in the southeast. He spoke softly to Lữ:

"Look there, Lữ!"

Lữ nodded; he had just spotted it as well. He raised his binoculars and squinted through them, though the black speck was still too small for him to distinguish whether it was a ship, another fishing boat, or something else entirely. The speck grew larger. Lữ kept his eyes glued to the binoculars, never looking away. Sơn asked impatiently:

"Is it a merchant ship?"

Lữ did not answer. He remained motionless, his hands unmoving from the binoculars. Finally, he replied—his voice as cold as ice:

"No! It’s not a merchant ship!"

Sơn snatched the binoculars from Lữ’s hands and raised them to his own eyes. He let out a curse. Neither man spoke for a moment. After a while, Lữ turned to Sơn and said:

"You know what we have to do, right?"

Sơn nodded. They had discussed their plan before setting out—mapping out every step, every specific action to take in the event of any contingency. How would events unfold, and—should they take a turn for the worse—how were they to react? Lữ did not want matters to spiral beyond his calculations. Yet no one could foresee everything—such as the engine failure that had left them stranded here for two days. And now, the Thai pirates.

For that growing black speck on the southeastern horizon was another boat—one larger than their own. It was no battered, listing, and harmless refugee craft; rather, it was a sleek, jet-black vessel with white stripes along its flanks, looking as menacing as a demon. Peering through his binoculars, Lữ could already make out the figures of several men milling about on deck, guns in hand.
 
The pirate boat was bearing down on the refugees at full throttle, charging with the ferocity of a predator closing in on its prey. The Thai marauders were laughing, shouting, and pointing; they were certain of a haul of gold and jewelry, and eager to sate their lust upon Vietnamese women who were too exhausted to resist—and who, even if they had the strength, would not dare fight back if they wished to survive.

Sơn issued instructions to each person: Everyone was to lie flat on the deck and remain absolutely silent. No sitting up; no scrambling about in panic. Lữ and Sơn would handle everything. Everyone was to find whatever cover they could—the more thorough, the better—for he and Lữ intended to fight back against these pirates.

He retrieved his M16 rifle and handed a second one to Lữ. He also passed Lữ a hand grenade. These weapons were items he and Lữ had acquired at an exorbitant price from a corrupt government official. How the man had managed to procure such strictly forbidden and heavily controlled contraband remained a mystery; yet Lữ had the right connections and had successfully located someone willing to sell. Sơn would never have organized this escape attempt had he not first secured at least these two firearms. And the grenade—he hoped it hadn't rusted yet.

Lữ and Sơn each squatted down in a corner—one at the stern, the other at the bow. Lữ held his rifle at the ready, allowing only the top half of his head to peek out as he kept watch on the pirates' boat. He raised his binoculars to look. The boat appeared...

The boat came clearly into view, and he could make out every single pirate. They all stood upon the deck, their heads wrapped in bandanas. Their swarthy, sun-scorched faces gradually emerged from the haze. Each man carried a gun. Lữ counted them. There were six in all. These pirates—men who had once made an honest living fishing in the Gulf of Thailand—had transformed into sea bandits following the surge of people fleeing their homeland by boat.

The Vietnamese refugees, abandoning their country, carried with them whatever precious remnants of their former lives they had managed to convert into gold. The pirates soon realized that intercepting the flimsy boats of these wretched Vietnamese refugees was an effortless task. The loot from a single raid often equaled an entire year’s earnings from fishing.
 
Why, then, would they let such an opportunity slip away? And then there were the women—to be used for their amusement. Any husband who dared to resist was shot dead and his body tossed into the sea. The pirates had acquired a taste for blood; each man had participated in dozens of such raids, reaping heavy hauls of gold and silver every time, all without fear of punishment. Why bother fishing anymore when piracy offered them such a lavish life?

° ° °

Thomchan watched as the boat carrying the Vietnamese refugees gradually came into focus, and he sensed that something was amiss. The vessel was far too small to venture out into the open sea. He simply could not fathom how these Vietnamese people could be reckless enough to risk their lives to such an extent. He himself would never dare set foot on a boat like that—not even to hug the shoreline—let alone attempt to cross the vast ocean packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a crowd of people.

The boat sat motionless in the water. Had the engine failed, or was there some other reason? Usually, whenever he spotted prey, he had to give chase. He typically steered clear of the larger refugee ships; they were too densely packed with people—he wasn't sure he could keep such a crowd under control—and he feared that some of them might be armed.
 
But as time went on, the vessels used for these escape attempts had grown smaller and smaller. The large  freighters had likely all passed through by now—at least, that was Thomchan’s guess. As for the smaller fishing boats, carrying twenty or thirty people apiece, he and his crew could easily chase them down and overtake them. His vessel was equipped with the most advanced and powerful engine available; how could those patched-up, rickety old fishing boats—with their ancient, feeble motors—possibly hope to escape?
 
On almost every boat he had ever raided, not a single person carried a weapon. Thomchan surmised that these refugees had simply entrusted their lives to the heavens, accepting that their survival or death was a matter of pure fate; it never occurred to any of them to carry weapons for self-defense or protection.

All the easier for him! To him, the refugees were mere lambs to the slaughter—creatures he could butcher at will, strip of everything they owned, and grant the gift of life only if he so chose. If he decided someone should die, they died. Any woman who caught his eye, he raped on the spot. Any young maiden, he abducted. The brothels in Chiang Mai paid handsomely for these Vietnamese girls. Thomchan felt like a petty god, a deity in his own right. He held the power of life and death over every boat he intercepted, satisfying every whim and desire—what more could a man ask for?

Thomchan assumed the boat ahead of him had suffered engine failure, leaving it dead in the water. But why was it so eerily silent? During previous raids, he could always spot the refugees milling about from a distance—a huddled, restless mass of humanity. Their faces would turn vacant with terror, as if rooted to the spot, the moment his vessel drew near. The clamor he could hear when still several boat-lengths away would suddenly fall dead silent the instant he closed in. Thomchan could sniff out fear from afar, and he reveled in the twisted pleasure of knowing he had plunged those wretched souls into utter despair, casting the very shadow of death upon them.
 
But this time was different. There was something unusual about this particular boat. Not a single human figure was visible on deck. Not a sound could be heard. There was only the throbbing roar of Thomchan’s own engine as he bore down upon it. For a fleeting moment, Thomchan considered turning back. He sensed that something was amiss. There were countless other boats drifting across the open sea for him to plunder—so many other opportunities. This particular boat likely wouldn't yield much of a haul anyway. And Thomchan had no fondness for the strange or the unexpected.
 
Yet, despite these thoughts, he allowed his vessel to press onward. He had been sailing all day—now nearing dusk—without encountering a single target. He had suffered a crushing gambling loss just the night before and urgently needed to acquire some gold to recoup his losses. And then there was Saphang! That fellow seemed intent on striking out on his own, refusing to submit to Thomchan’s authority as he once had. If Thomchan were to turn back now, Saphang would surely laugh in his face. Worse yet, he might even persuade the other men to defect and join him. To lose these henchmen would mean the ruin of Thomchan’s enterprise. He had to save face; he had to push forward.

Thomchan ordered his boat to slow down. He tucked his Beretta pistol into his waistband. He left the automatic weapons to his subordinates; he wanted to project the image of a true leader. Thomchan turned to the henchman standing nearest him and ordered him to prepare to cast a grappling hook onto the hull of the refugee boat, thereby drawing the two vessels side-by-side.
 
The pirate boat gradually lost momentum; Thomchan’s henchman straightened his stance, whirling the rope rapidly overhead, ready to cast. The instant the hook snagged against the hull of the refugee boat—just as the Thai pirate was bracing himself to haul it in—a sharp burst of gunfire erupted. Thomchan’s henchman recoiled backward, blood spurting in crimson jets from his chest. He crashed heavily onto the deck, and Thomchan stared in wide-eyed horror.