Free Hunting the Dragon by Peter Dixon Page B

the mess line grabbed Billy and said, “When I get ’em out of the net, you throw them porpoises overboard. They’re a little heavy for me, but I can still manage the tuna.”
    To prove his strength, the old man untangled a young dolphin from the web. It flopped on the deck and her fluke beat against the steel until it abraded and blood flowed.
    “Come on, kid. Get it over the side!” he ordered.
    Billy hunkered beside the dolphin, wondering if it might survive. There was nothing else he could do but scoop the animal up in his arms and carry it to the railing. He held it over the water and looked down. Sharks were massacring the wounded, half-dead discarded dolphins. Those not visibly injured were so shocked by the trauma of their capture that they couldn’t or wouldn’t swim to safety. And then there were the babies. Would they survive without their mothers?
    “Damn it, drop that sucker and get back here!” the old fisherman bellowed.
    Billy looked at the young dolphin he held in his arms and felt her life force course from its dying body through his fingertips and into his consciousness. He murmured, “I’m sorry,” and let the creature fall into the sea. At that moment the breakfast of spicy Portuguese sausage and scrambled eggs came gushing out of his stomach and he vomited on the dolphins and sharks below.
    He wiped his mouth on his forearm and turned back to the deck to see the captain standing beside the ship’s cook. The man in the stained apron held a butcher knife and watched Gandara move among the dolphins littering the deck. The captain paused over a young female that reminded Billy of the one he’d saved and placed the toe of a white tennis shoe on the dolphin. The cook bent over the carcass, slit the throat, and began filleting long strips of flesh from its body.
    Billy could only stare and fight down the convulsions that racked him. At that moment, the captain looked away from the dolphin and his eyes held on Billy. He couldn’t face Gandara’s stare and turned for the railing to throw up again.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    T hat night, as Billy stood in the mess serving line, he sensed the crew’s mood was one of tried, cheerful satisfaction. What little he could understand of their talk suggested this was the last set in this part of the Pacific, and the next port of call was Samoa to unload. He turned to Rocha and asked, “How long will we be in Samoa?”
    “Maybe three days. Then it’s the long haul to Puntarenas, Costa Rica…that’s home port. We’ll fish out of there until we’re full and get paid off.”
    “Then what?”
    “We ship out again.”
    Billy slid his tray along the serving line and waved away some sort of stew the cook’s helper offered. He feared what the dark chunks of meat might be and followed Rocha to a table. He noticed that the fishermen on either side lowered their eyes when he looked at them. He had no appetite and could only nibble at a roll. Rocha said quietly, “Not like surfin’ out there, is it, bro?”
    “You weren’t looking too happy either, dude.”
    Rocha turned away to stare at his plate.
    The old fisherman from the net sat beside Billy and refused to look at him. He broke bread into his stew and spooned in the mixture. Billy turned to him and asked, “Is it always that way…in the net and on deck?”
    The man didn’t answer, but continued eating with obvious pleasure. Billy tried again. “Can’t some of them be saved?”
    The fisherman clanged down his spoon. With a look of annoyance he said loudly, “They’re dumb creatures, don’t you know that? And didn’t God put them porpoises in the sea to catch? And look at us, we’re eating the captain’s Portuguese stew tonight. You should try it. Good for the stomach.”
    With an amused, self-satisfied chortle, he lifted the soup plate with both hands and sucked down the remaining sauce.
    Billy’s stomach tightened. He needed fresh air. As he stood to leave the table he was conscious that everyone was