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WIRS #11: The Mariposa-4 Part_1

JJ's Wednesday TXT read, 'FRIDAY CRESSINGTON STN L19 0PE 1800 QQ'. I had to look twice as this was remarkably close to home, replied, 'OK'.

Did my shopping after college on the Thursday, included lots of 'contingency' bread rolls, plus some picnic stuff for the Sunday night.

Friday, the weather was cold but dry. After college, rather than wait for a bus, I shouldered my over-night bag and walked the two stops to the local train station. A South-bound service soon arrived. I rode it beyond the city-centre to the rather retro Cressington Station, set in a deep cutting. I'd not used this part of the route before, looked around with a certain bemusement. Beyond modern signage, the trad brick building seemed unchanged since mid-century, if not decades earlier.

I climbed the stairs to street level, and there was the WIRS van, tucked into deep shadow, facing the exit. I expected Geoff to materialise from the gloom, but no. There was just Mike, who flashed the van's lights to be sure I'd seen him. I heaved my over-night bag onto the empty crew bench, climbed aboard.

"Evening, Tim !"

"Evening, Mike ! Sitrep ?"

"Ship search. Garston Old Dock."

"Oh ?"

"Word is there's a half-tonne of 'Nose Candy' aboard. Usual searches found nothing. If tonight draws a blank, they'll have to let it go."

"Just us ?"

"No, it's an 'All Hands' hunt. Four other teams."

"A 'Usually Reliable Source' ?"

Mike grinned at my wary usage of that classic WW2 terminology, but nodded as he drove the van from the station. A few minutes took us to the docks' entrance, now little used due further expansion of the massive Seaforth Terminal down-stream. The guys on the gate peered at my WIRS' HMRC ID with professional suspicion, logged us in.

The ship in question was easy to spot as it was the only sea-going vessel. Isolated, elderly, begrimed, rust-streaked, the freighter was smaller than I expected, with the foot of its gangway guarded by a pair of armed police. Set back from that, a big 'Mobile Control Centre' semi-trailer had its jacks down, slide-outs extended. Mike parked facing the exit at the end of the nearby clutter of cars and crew buses, carefully tucked into a wedge of shadow from the site's floodlights.

The 'Control Room' was surprisingly crowded. Mostly men, but I spotted Ms. Jones talking to the two other women. She glanced across, nodded to me and Mike. I passed on the offered coffee. As a diuretic, it would be a problem. Besides, even at arm's length, I could tell it was utterly vile. The maritime equivalent of 'Builders Tea', perhaps, but without the charm.

"May I have your attention, please ?" The speaker was stocky, bald, weathered, had bushy eye-brows, a slight limp and a voice which I reckoned could carry across a full gale. He wore sorta-BDUs, with a black beret tucked into a shoulder loop. We shuffled back to leave him in the open.

"I'm Commander Pritchard, attached to 'Border Force' for this operation." He tilted a thumb. "That is the 'MV Mariposa-4'. Wasn't her name last year. In fact, seems to change names and 'Flag of Convenience' every eighteen months or so.

"Owners uncertain due more eye-watering layers of shell-companies than a big onion. Spent the last twenty-five years doing oft-dubious contract and coastal work around the Gulf and Caribbean. South to Manaus on the Amazon. North to Miami and New Orleans. East to the Islands, West to Mexico.

"And, always, trouble. If the crew are not smuggling contraband beyond 'Personal Use', they've probably trans-shipped off-shore. We're fairly sure this ship was involved with towing 'narco-pods'. Thanks to the four unusually large derricks, almost certainly the ferry for two drugs-laden speed-boats intercepted by our US equivalents. At least two more got away...

"Then the 'Sea-worthiness' aspects. If the 'Mariposa-4', under whatever registration, shows up at your small port, your first thought will be, 'Thank the Lord she didn't founder in the channel !' Your second will be, 'Please don't sink or capsize quay-side ?' And your third, 'How will they afford their harbour dues and essential repairs ?'

"Yet, year after year, that ship keeps going. Just about.

"And now, here...

"First time this side of the Azores. Cargo of rusty old agricultural machinery. Really old...

"Big food charity got fed up sending nice new toys to Third World, only for spares and tools to be sold or stolen, equipment left idle.

"Then some-one saw tourist pictures of an old sugar-cane factory. Classic Victorian castings. Adjust with a mallet and scaffolding podger. Repair at village black-smith's forge...

"Researchers traced the maker. Company's still going though, during WW2, they'd switched to 'Light Engineering', and those 'heavies' became a side-line. Their family archive held original catalogues, brochures and manuals, plus a few blueprints from when they did some working props for a 60's movie. Only a sub-set, mind. Still, they reckoned if they could compare those plans to their original 'Big Iron', do metallurgy, they could re-create the lot.

"Game on ! Charity struck a deal for 'Intellectual Property', lined up our local Unis, industrial archaeologists and a documentary team. Put out a tender for the shipping, which the 'Mariposa-4' won 'hands-down'. In fact, there seemed no way to make money at that bid.

"Okay, a job's a job, 'cash-flow is king' and all that, but seemed odd. To their credit, they did ask. Reply came back via those nested shell-companies. Seems the owners' family had got rich from sugar cane, owed those abused plantation workers a huge debt. This was 'At Cost'...

"Still, it really should have raised warning flags. First we heard of it was a 'heads up' and info-pack from our US equivalents. Short on 'actionables', long on 'circumstantials'.

"Then the encro-chatter went into over-drive. Remember how, late last year, two big busts broke open our region's drugs network ? 'Herbal' and covert distribution from the 'Ghostie' Mill ? 'Speed' and paramilitaries from Standish ?

"Trading was up-ended. Turf-wars broke out at every level. Chancers ran into established gangs, they ran into each other. GCHQ's encro-chat intel let the National Crime Agency and local forces bust perps left, right and centre.

"That intel also confirmed long-held suspicions of 'High Level' leaks. We're into 'James Bond' and 'Smiley' country here, but I'm told some were plugged, some fed garbage to discredit them, some 'turned'. I'm sure HMRC does not have a covert '00' department, that Standish really, really was just an industrial accident, but seems the few perps offered a deal took scant convincing to co-operate...

"Back to the 'Mariposa-4'...

"Encro-chatter claimed a really big consignment of cocaine was due. The way the regional distributors were hastily organising fitted 'here and now'. Word on the street fitted 'here and now'. Seaforth Terminal found a 100 kilo consignment, but the encro-chatter said that was just a side-order, not the main event. Yes, it could all be a ploy, and the Real McCoy was coming in a different way. Yet there were so many local and regional deals being struck, promises made, funny handshakes exchanged. Everything pointed to 'here and now'...

"The Royal Navy did a sub-hunt exercise off-shore, found no evidence of of a narco-pod. Irish Navy tailed the ship from international waters to our jurisdiction. They even fished up and checked the garbage bags the cook dumped.

"We escorted the ship here, transferred the cargo to a secure warehouse, gave it the full WMD treatment. Weights and measures, modelling of voids, even gamma-scans used to check nuclear subs' mega-welds. Team found only torpid spiders, umpteen beetles, one 'New to Science', two dead snakes and three types of angry ant.

"We deployed divers, ROVs, drones and rummage teams. More rummage teams. Yet more rummage teams. If anything, the ship was almost too clean. There were indications the Captain had ordered a clear-out of 'personal' contraband...

"Now, we're out of time. Tomorrow, unless we find something, the 'Mariposa-4' sails on the noon tide. Heads up the coast to a small ship-yard for essential repairs. Seems some hasty work done before crossing the Atlantic falls short of UK standards...

"Tonight's search: None of you have seen the 'Mariposa-4' before, so 'fresh eyes'. As previous teams have drawn blank, I do not expect you to find anything. But, and it is a very big 'But', we'll have given it our very best shot. If that half-tonne of 'High Grade' is still aboard and subsequently shows up 'On the Street', we can tell our furious pay-masters that it is their fault for pulling the plug on our search...

"Okay, Group One, the Engine room and associated spaces. Group Two, you're 'Confined Space' specialists, so holds, tankage, double-hulls. Group Three, the Foc'sle, chain-locker and main deck. Group Four, the Bridge, ship's offices and 'Monkey Island'. Group Five, our colleagues from HMRC, the 'Accommodation' block...

"Let's get to work."

WIRS #11: The Mariposa-4 Part_2

I was issued overalls and a hard-hat then, with tool-belt snugged and me brandishing my big screw-driver left-handed, I followed Ms. Jones and the Guys to the gangway's foot. The two armed guards didn't nod us through, they scrutinised and logged our IDs.

There followed one of the most fascinating yet frustrating evenings I'd had in a long, long time. Ms. Jones had plans of our search zone. Mike opened locks. Geoff 'bossed' anything stuck or over-painted. I 'sounded' floors, walls and ceilings , uh, 'decks, bulkheads and overheads', with wary taps from my big screw-driver.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. A great-uncle who'd worked on the railways before the 'Beeching' down-size vividly remembered many tedious hours as a young teen spent checking the wheels of rolling stock in the marshalling yard. Being a 'Wheel-Tapper' took a keen ear and total patience...

As a 'Sparky', I also undid clipped or bolted panels, switch and conduit boxes etc, though more from curiosity than in hope. A couple of years back, having missed too much of a college term due 'complications' after yet-another op, I took the chance to do some 'quickie' courses. One was intended for students / cadets at my college's twinned 'Port Academy'. It covered the basics of 'Marine Grade' electrics: Fixtures and fittings, 'Ingress Protection', 'Good Practice', the voltages, cabling and such. As such tech was two or three levels 'tougher' than the 'Domestic / Light Industrial' covered by my regular course, it was useful to know.

In my opinion, the 'Mariposa-4' failed on more counts than I'd care to log. But, however unlikely much contraband could be stuffed into those fittings, we could say we'd checked.

The crew cabins were so sad. They'd been sorta-sanitised by previous searches, had a week or more to 'air', yet stank of misery and squalor. Even the Captain's reeked of stale booze. Though empty bottles had been cleared, perhaps over-board, I could see ample hints and stains. The elderly Chief Engineer, apparently a bona-fide miracle worker, preferred vodka, so his cabin was the least foul. His walls, uh, 'bulkheads', were covered in 'exploded' diagrams of complex machinery, tasteful pics of oil rigs, semi-submersible heavy-lift ships and such. We took those down respectfully, found nothing concealed.

The Chief's cabin reeked of lube oil, sweat and engine grease, the young 1st Lieutenant's of male hair salon. An entire shelf was crowded by the South American equivalents of Brylcreem, styling oil and pungent after-shaves. We checked, but there was no secret latch or hatch. Still, it made me wonder about the guy. What had he done to get a 'punishment' posting ? Annoyed some-one too related to order him beaten or shot ? Courted the wrong girl ? Or, worse, two ? Got onto the 'Social Pages' for unseemly reasons ?

An unsettling possibility held that his '1st Lt' was a courtesy title, that he was 'Supercargo' for the elusive contraband. Of course, one 'Null Hypothesis' supposed he was but a calculated distraction, the eye-catching equivalent of a magician's bespangled assistant. Given the ship's checkered history and many 'circumstantials', mere innocence seemed improbable...

The Cook's cabin stank of chilli con carne, sweat and burned pans. Credit where due, he actually had a small shelf with several well-thumbed cook-books. Hopefully they were his, not just abandoned by a predecessor. The minion, uh, 'other ranks' berthing oozed a ghastly admixture of 'Male Locker Room', sweaty sea-dogs and, even after a week, stale musk. Ick...

The 'Mariposa-4' had arrived with a skeleton crew. For whatever reason, a row of bunk-rooms had been left empty. Perhaps the remaining crew preferred the ambiance of each other's company ? Whatever, Mike found a crevice which, when delved, divulged two small baggies of stale green herbs. Not recent produce, perhaps not this decade, but noteworthy given they'd been missed by prior searches.

Ms. Jones photographed the revealing with her phone, evidence-bagged and logged the material. Then, to her obvious satisfaction, my persistent tap-tapping found an oddity. That plate-sized panel seemed a pop-rivetted repair to the bulkhead. Curiously, it was a lighter gauge, thinner metal than the surrounds, and less well attached than I'd expect. The six rivet heads were not slotted for a screw-driver, oval or contoured like an anti-tamper type. Still, they had a central hole, which gave me an idea. I dug into my tool-belt, fetched out the small roll with 'skinny' drivers I'd use on spectacle hinges and such. I inserted one, met resistance, pressed. There was a click, that rivet lost its grip. I went around the others.

The panel hinged forwards, down. Standing skew on an improvised shelf wedged against a pipe's joint were three illustrated magazines. They were 'Low Spanish', well thumbed, their corners battered and stained, their graphic covers eloquent. Ms. Jones lowered her phone, slid each into an evidence bag, logged the edition numbers.

"Porn, Ma'am ?" Mike enquired from a discreet distance.

"Yes. Title translates some-where between 'Gigolo' and 'Stud'." She glanced at the covers. "Notorious for both the detailed photography and the regular stars' improbable endowment.

"First time I saw this title, I was a Probationary PC on a big 'Trafficking' gang bust. Two of the detectives wanted 'samples', tried to make me change my evidence log." She tapped a finger on the non-sequential edition numbers. "I... I'd been warned of such, so insisted the 'Scene of Crime' team photographed them fanned with their serials showing.

"Trial nearly collapsed when a bunch went missing from the evidence store. Signed out by 'D. Duck' and 'M. Mouse', no less. Defence claimed this was proof our entire 'Chain of Custody' was insecure.

"That evidence store was well known for its fuzzy old CCTV system, the signatories could have been 'Laurel & Hardy' or 'Mutt & Jeff'. Then it turned out my pair had been under suspicion for a while. There'd been too many leaks about impending raids, too many 'procedural' errors, too much evidence lost or compromised. So, the store had been secretly retro-fitted with a high-resolution digital CCTV system. Which nailed them.

"They got the choice of confessing this gang had coerced them and retiring early, or having the 'kitchen sink' thrown at them, 'going down' for a substantial prison term, losing families and pensions.

"No guesses which option they took..."

"Ugh..." Mike shook his head. "Before I joined the 'Regiment', my base had a 'dirty' bloke in the armoury. Redcaps quizzed us up, down and side-ways about automatic weapons that had been documented as 'securely destroyed', but showed up 'on the street'. Turned out to be good training for 'Regiment' selection...

"The guns had been used by several gangs on several big jobs. Then one of the 'Blaggers', winged by an 'Armed Response' officer, dropped his during the get-away. A lucky raid turned up several more.

"Basic guns are easy to make, it's the good parts that are hard. These had MilSpec barrel, bolt and receiver, the rest was 'Home Workshop'. Seems the bloke was 'rolling his own' from mild steel, marking them passably, switching for the 'good stuff' then 'writing them off' as 'unserviceable'.

"Though his workshop had all the makings, he'd been careful, sold through 'Dead Drops' to a broker. Claimed all his 'additional income' was from back-room Poker games. No hard evidence, nothing that would stand up in court, be it military or criminal. So, the RSM arranged a 'Training Accident'. Bloke wasn't badly hurt, just enough to fail his 'Re-Up' medical, let go..."

"He was lucky," Geoff rumbled. "The 'Regiment' would have provided a 'Closed Coffin' funeral..."

"True," Mike agreed. "But the bloke didn't enjoy his retirement. Had a terrible run of bad luck, lots of vandalism, a nasty work-shop fire. Drank himself to death within two years..."

WIRS #11: The Mariposa-4 Part_3

That, however, was the highlight of our search. We spent several more hours rummaging the Accommodation block, found nothing else. Not a thing. Finally, bone tired, a bit disconsolate, we trooped onto the main deck.

From their long faces, the other teams had fared no better. They'd gathered by the gangway, just astern of where the Captain, Chief and smarmy-as-expected 1st stood beside glum Commander Pritchard. The Captain, in a battered hat and weary but ironed uniform, looked vaguely relieved. Despite the chill, the Chief sorta mopped his brow with a rag that, like his patched boiler suit, must have been washed thrice to come clean.

The 1st, dressed as sharply as a parade, looked smug. So, was he 'Maskirovka' ? Or 'Supercargo' ? I'd probably never know.

I sighed, stopped, looked around the deck. It was the first time I'd been aboard such a cargo ship, was likely the last. The dock's flood-lights fell cruelly across this rusty deck, the rusty hatch-covers and such, the rust-streaked Accommodation block crowned by the Bridge. In fact, the only well-kept parts seemed to be the pair of stout 'King Posts' flanking each end of the deck, and their derricks' big, up-drawn tubular booms.

I blinked, looked around again. Yes, my odd vision, left and right eyes seeing subtly different spectra, were not playing tricks. The forward pair of booms and the aft starboard were a slightly different shade to their aft, port, dock-side sib.

Because it would have niggled, I back-tracked the few paces to the base of the starboard 'King Post' stool. I reached up with my big screwdriver, gave its boom a sharp rap.

'Bong !'

The group by the gangway jumped, turned. A few chuckles arose. I tried again. 'Bong ! Bong !'

I could see some search-team members shaking their heads. The Captain, though, was staring as if I'd transmogrified to a Giant Kraken, was climbing that derrick. The Chief froze mid brow-wipe. The 1st had the distinct air of a rat glimpsing 'The Minx' on patrol.

Still, I strolled to the port 'King Post', reached up and rapped the boom on that. 'Bunk...'

Again, 'Bunk... Bunk...'

I tried from several angles, failed to draw a clean ring. Some yards away, Ms. Jones and the Guys had turned to watch. She, with her musical Welsh genes, grokked it first. She spun, called to the bemused Commander, "What repairs were done before sailing ?"

His eyes flew wide. He mouthed something salty, hauled out his phone, made a brief call. Less than a minute later, it rang back. He listened, asked a few quiet questions, rang off. To Ms. Jones, he said, "Clumsy loading dented this aft port boom. Harbour refused to release the ship until repaired. Crew used the starboard derrick to dismount the boom, swing it ashore. Overnight, a local workshop cut out, patched and sprayed the damaged section. Boom was refitted and ready to sail the next day..."

He turned to the Captain, said, "Just a formality, but we must check this. Should only take an hour--"

The 1st screamed in foul Favela Spanish, charged across the deck towards me. He produced, opened a flick-knife, held it well.

I stepped clear of the 'King Post'. My left arm rose. My big screwdriver's long, strong shaft crossed, carried that blade wide. I turned like a toreador, half-fisted behind his left ear. He went down in a heap. His knife spun into the gutter.

By the gangway, the Captain snatched off his hat and flung it on the deck. The Chief, if I was not mistaken, was wiping tears. The search teams were staring between the clinically felled 1st, me and the four 'King Post' booms.

"Tim ?" Ms. Jones asked.

"I'm okay, Ma'am," I assured her, though I'd have the shakes later. "Would you make the arrest ? I'd prefer he didn't 'walk' on a technicality..."

She gestured. Mike and Geoff produced tie-wraps, secured the 1st, then hauled him upright like a rag doll. He was tough. His eyes un-crossed, focussed on me. He began ranting in truly foul Spanish. Upside, most was far beyond the scope of my limited 'holiday' lexicon. Happens I'd never used it due yet-more surgery. Down-side, the few words I could grok claimed I was the unholy spawn of a syphilitic Chupacabra. Nice !

He did not let up while Ms. Jones fetched out a little card, read him his rights. He didn't let up as four dock-security guys added cuffs, half-carried him down the gangway. He was still ranting when half-lifted into the rear cage of a Police van and driven away.

The Captain and Chief went without a fuss. The Captain just shook his head when some-one politely retrieved his hat, sadly waved across the deck towards us.

"We'll only need a few drill holes, some endoscopy," the Commander mentioned. "An hour to confirm."

"Well, if that young man was acting, he deserves an Oscar," Ms. Jones allowed, studying the boom. "Half a tonne ? Forty to forty-five million on the street ?"

"And, if proven, a new trick lost from their play-book. Our US and other colleagues will be toasting this find..."

"The ship ?" Ms. Jones enquired.

"Worth less than the fines. So, breaker's yard."

"Crew ?"

"Captain and Chief were probably coerced. They'll lawyer-up, neither confirm nor deny. Clean enough for a couple of years 'inside', then deported...

"The 1st ? 'Assault with a Deadly Weapon'. But, 'Threats to Kill' ? Sadly, no, as his accent was too thick to be sure." He turned to me, "Nice take-down, by the way."

I shook my head, said, "That knife style's 'Street Fighter'. Vicious, but limited."

"Uh-huh..." The Commander turned to Ms. Jones, gestured at the bagged porn. "Where did you find those ?"

She glanced towards me, said, "Tim spotted a disguised hatch, figured how to work the trick fixings."

"Hmm." He turned to me. "Tim, I don't know your team, your face, but, unless this was crazy luck--"

"It wasn't," Ms. Jones murmured.

"Ah ?" He clicked his fingers. "Standish ? Slim guy with the tub ?"

"Essential Organic Evidence," Ms. Jones stated. "Remember that crazy Japanese sect set off nerve-gas in their underground rail system ? Could have been much worse, they'd mis-cooked a component...

"Tim managed to grab some of this group's bio-ware before it could be weaponised for deployment."

Commander Pritchard looked to me. I shrugged. He thought for a moment, asked, "And if it got loose ?"

"Stuff of nightmare. Widespread ergotism: Think 'Salem Witch Trials', or that early-'50s wheat scandal in France." Ms. Jones smiled. "Acute, endemic psychoses. Lovecraftian hallucinations. Fortean sightings...

"Containment and civil control would have been problematic.

"Funny the things you can turn up doing a 'Red Diesel' audit !"

"Yes..." He wasn't convinced.

Ms. Jones doubled down with, "There's indications of a test-run near Halsall. Weird reports and sightings."

From his eyes' flicker, he may have heard something of such. He looked to me. I shrugged again. Yes, it was a splendid 'Cocq & Boeuf' story, but probably as near their conflated truths as was admissible. He asked, "But you were okay ?"

"I'd goggles, improvised tools," I said. "Only saw a few tentacles."

I glimpsed the twinkle in Ms. Jones' eyes, saw the Guys' grins.

"Uh-huh..." He turned as a search-team member detoured from inspecting my boom to hand him the Captain's hat. He turned it over and over in his big, strong hands, offered it to me.

I'd already thought this through. I gestured to Ms. Jones, said, "Your team, Ma'am, your trophy."

Her eyes twinkled again. "Thank you, Tim ! It can shelve next to the 'Fan' and 'Tub'."

Commander Pritchard raised a quizzical bushy eyebrow, but made no comment.

Ashore, after we shed our hard-hats and overalls then queued for the wash-room, Ms. Jones shook her head, said, "I'll need all Saturday and Sunday to liaise and document this.

"Tim, you've done more than enough for this weekend. Mike, would you run him to the end of his road ? Geoff, cancel our Chester motel, find us some-where local for tonight and tomorrow. I reckon we've earned a break."

"Yes, Ma'am," we chorused.

WIRS #11: The Mariposa-4 Part_4 of 4

Back home, I trudged up the stairs to my small apartment. 'The Minx' was sat, disconsolate, outside Ashlee's door, from where stereo soprano moans of passion drifted. I opened my door, tapped fingers on the frame. 'The Minx' scampered in. I set out a sachet of cat-food, which she tackled as I unpacked. Mike had offered to detour for a take-away. I'd declined. I made a simple supper from contingency rolls, tangy cheese and lots of 'Builders Tea'.

Half-way through the second mug, my WIRS phone chimed. The text read, 'CONFIRMED 10/10 JJ'. I sighed with relief.

When 'The Minx' finished her supper, she strolled across and scratched at my door. I opened it, listened to her scooting down-stairs, then the flip-flop of the yard's cat-flap as she went on patrol. Along the corridor, Ashlee and friend were still enjoying themselves. After securing my door, I put the needful onto charge, staggered to bed.

The morning's local and national news both carried our huge drugs bust at Garston dock.
Sophisticated, multi-spectral scanning equipment had found a half-tonne of well-concealed 'High Grade' aboard the 'Mariposa-4', an old freighter.
Three arrests made...

I smiled.