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...