Maritime Patrol

The long range electronic maritime patrol aircraft is on a strategic patrol in the Timor Sea, one of the “hot spot” areas of the Australian Exclusive Economic Zone. The aircraft is crewed by four men; Pilot, Co-pilot, Radar operator and Communications operator. They are hunting for Illegal fishermen, Drug smugglers, People smugglers and Pirates. The aircraft is in close contact with and supported by a naval vessel.
General intercom chatter is interrupted with the formal protocol of a radar contact.
‘Pilot, this is Radar.’
‘Pilot, Go ahead.’
‘We have a contact bearing three two zero at seventy five miles, it’s inside the zone and painting up like an Indon type two.’

Mirga Budadamawan, the master of the nine metre perahu layer, surveys the hazy clouds on his western horizon.
‘Perhaps we can see the green clouds’ he says in the suggestive way that Indonesians use when seeking assistance.
Mirga, like his forebears, is a seafarer from way back and has fished for shark in the Timor Sea since he was fourteen. His traditional vessel, powered by its triangular lateen sail, has no navigation equipment other than a simple hand held compass, a time piece and its master’s knowledge.
Mirga knows that the green appearance of high clouds, created by the reflection of shallow sea around Ashmore islands, is critical to fixing his position. If it is too far north on his horizon then he may accidentally stray into Australian waters. He is concerned about the haze that’s been obscuring his vital navigation reference for most of the day. He is all too aware of the consequence of being found in the wrong place.

‘How far inside the zone is he’ enquires Ian Roy, the pilot of the aircraft.
‘Three miles’ replies Mark Lavis, the radar operator who is also a warranted customs officer on board.
Ian is a civilian contractor to Australian customs. He loves the flying experience of the contract, however, as a New Zealander he is also acutely aware of issues surrounding marine ecology and subsistence fishing. Like his Australian Co-pilot, he is an aviator at heart, rather than an enforcer of the law.
While he is the aircrafts commander and has a fair sense of justice, he does not hold a customs warrant. He fears that the outcome of this flight will see traditional Timorese fishermen lose their livelihood over an easy navigation error.
‘A three mile error isn’t too bad after sailing 400 miles in a wooden boat’ he cheerfully comments, attempting to soften Lavis’s well known inflexible manner.
‘Doesn’t matter, he’s over the line and I want to take a low level look at him.’
Lavis is a lifer at customs. He loves his job and enjoys flying. He is a law enforcer, not an aviator.

‘Pesawat tidak bagus’ (Aeroplane no good) mutters Mirga as he hears the sound of aircraft engines. His five man Rote based crew also hear the aircraft approaching and now appear sombre with the possibility of being found in the wrong place.
Timorese people have been fishing here since time began and now these Orang Australia draw a line over the sea, call us thieves and sink our boats.
The red and white aircraft rapidly approaches from the south at a low altitude, they pray to Allah for it to be just a routine inspection.

Dropping down to 100 feet above the sea at a speed of 200 knots, Ian steers the aircraft toward the dainty teal coloured vessel. He approaches it from behind and positions to pass it down the aircraft’s left side. From his panoramic cockpit view, he can see Indonesian crewmembers squatting around a small cooking fire aft of the cabin. One of the fishermen is standing, grey with age and dressed in a traditional sarong, he steers the boat while observing the flyby. An insignificant amount of fish is drying on the deck and nets are hanging in the rigging. Ian has the utmost admiration for these men. Men who with great skill and endurance, risk their lives to earn a meagre living in the only way they know how. Fishing in the Timor Sea.
These are Fishermen, not pirates! He fumes.

Lavis is now imaging the vessel using a high tech infrared camera that is tracking and recording every detail. He also runs a clinical and recorded voice commentary of the inspection.
“Indon type two, underway, six crew, non Caucasian, fish product on deck, nets drying in rig.”

More use of formal protocol spells trouble.
‘Pilot this is Radar’
‘Pilot, go ahead’
‘They’re Illegal; I’m going to arrest them and want to hold over them while we wait for the Navy.’
‘Yup will do’ replies Ian, his fears sadly realized.
Lavis instructs the comms operator to contact the Navy, to advise them of the vessels position and that he is initiating an arrest.

Mirga follows the flying machine’s approach. He can see the large infra red eye mounted in a swiveling turret below the aircraft’s nose. It unerringly stares at him as it records every move. Technology that he has never even heard of is gathering evidence to be used against him. The aircraft runs down the starboard side of his boat, climbs to the North and returns to circle overhead.
The circling aircraft confirms his navigation error. There have been no green clouds today. He now realizes that he and his crew will be in an Australian jail tonight. He will be tried for illegal fishing. His beloved boat, his family’s boat, will be used for target practice and sent to the bottom. His life is over.

Circling overhead at 1000 feet in his air conditioned cockpit, Ian Roy quietly observes the arrest. He sees the grey one being handled, with little dignity, into the boarding craft. He finally speaks his mind over the intercom.
‘Wall of death pair trawlers are legally raping the sea because they are in international waters, barely 10 miles from here.’
‘And yet here we are, nailing these poor guys to the wall over a handful of sharks.’
‘Who are the real bad guys out here?’