Read Something Fishy for Free Online Page B

up the Yamahas.
    As the shark-cat began to move, Sutherland opened the throttle.

As it gathered momentum, the shark-cat rose on hydroplanes, skimming the water. It raced for the far side of the cove, a Formula One shoebox.
    The hooded diver ducked under the canopy, his shoulders hunched, no more than a black shape. Ponytail glanced back over his shoulder, his lugubrious weather-seamed face clearly visible. When the young DNR crewman emerged from the cabin with a video camera, he pulled down the bill of his hat and flipped us the bird.
    We gave chase, heading to intercept. The shark-cat hugged the shore, taking advantage of its shallow draft. Sutherland swung the launch into deeper water, steering a curved course. As we chopped at the swell, the launch tilted and rocked. So did my stomach.
    Whoah, I thought. Pass. Not today, thanks. Enough already. A surge of nausea lapped at my Plimsoll line, tasting of curdled mayonnaise and masticated crustacean. I wished I was anywhere else, as long as it wasn’t moving.
    Lunch wanted out. And it got what it wanted. A fountain of hot lava, it hurtled upwards. I lunged for the side and barfed into the briny. I retched again. Sour milk and corn flakes, this time.
    Then, without warning, a stream of berley erupted from Dudley Wilson’s mouth and hit Alan Bunting in the face. This was not how the Nats usually spoke to each other, except at woolshed dances. Aghast, Bunting staggered backwards, gagging. At that moment, the deck tilted as the launch banked, turning to intercept the shark-cat. Bunting, struggling to find his footing, skidded on Wilson’s mess and toppled overboard.
    He hit the water with a splash, then vanished in the churn of our wake. Wilson leaned over the side and finished parking the tiger. Bunting bobbed to the surface and raised an arm, as if attempting to hail a cab.
    Sutherland was already on the case. The launch slewed around, circling back. My head throbbed and a bilious taste filled my mouth. Wilson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, squared his jaw and resumed his Captain Queeg stance, as though nothing had happened. The deckie reached with a gaff and hooked Bunting as we came around. In short order, he was being manhandled up the stern ladder like a disconsolate dugong.
    Wilson tried to help, but Bunting wasn’t having it. ‘B-back off,’ he hyperventilated, snatching back his arm. His teeth were chattering and torrents streamed from his ruined suit and pooled around his sodden brogues. Unbuckling his life-vest with trembling fingers, he let the crewman lead him down into the cabin. ‘Th-thanks, m-mate,’ he said. ‘Wh-what’s your name?’
    â€˜Ian. Mind the step.’
    The shark-cat was rounding the point, running for open water. ‘That’s torn it,’ said Sutherland, his binoculars trained on the mocking V of its wake. ‘Never get near them now.’
    â€˜But can’t you radio…’ started Wilson.
    Sutherland lowered the field glasses. ‘No point, pace they’re travelling,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Didn’t even get a chance to hail them. So if your stomach is now settled, Mr Wilson, I suggest you wait below while we try to find out what our thieving friends were up to.’ He turned to me. ‘You too.’
    I followed Wilson down into the tiny cabin. Alan Bunting was already occupying most of the space. Stripped to his jocks, he towelled his pudgy, goose-pimpled flesh with ill-concealed irritation. The deckie, Ian, handed him a fluorescent orange wetsuit. ‘This’ll keep you warm until we get back.’
    Bunting squeezed into it, looking daggers at Wilson. ‘You might as well have pushed me,’ he said.
    â€˜You’ve had a nasty shock,’ said Wilson. ‘But I hope you’re not suggesting it was my fault.’
    â€˜You spewed in my face.’
    â€˜Not deliberately,’ said Wilson. ‘You’re just not