EXTRACT: "qarînah", chapter 1.

Let's not waste any more time on the foreplay and instead just get right down to the real reason we're both here.

The following is the first chapter from a short (and unfinished) story, titled "qarînah", which is a term from Islamic superstition and refers to a spirit not unlike a succubus.  The story itself is incomplete, poorly edited and lacks direction, but I'm fond of this chapter nonetheless.

***

1    blockade

The yacht cruised toward the edge of the exclusion zone.  Belowdecks two men were seated at the small kitchenette table: together they tossed their heads back, swilling the last of their Turkish coffee and launching it down their throats.  One wore a blazing orange spray jacket that clashed horribly with his sandy chino shorts and mahogany-coloured boat shoes.  The other wore a neoprene wetsuit, with dive goggles hanging around his neck.  They shook hands and stood.  Neither man needed reminding of how dangerous the next half hour would be.  "Thanks again for doing this, Skipper," said the diver.
The mustachioed Turk smiled, the deep wrinkles in his olive skin seeming to swallow one another as his face crinkled.  "No problemo, my old friend.  Anything for you.  The dangers are far outweighed by my debt to you."
The diver laughed.  "But the money doesn't hurt, either."
"Not a bit," the Turk laughed.
He looked out through one of the portholes and sighed.  "It's time."
The diver nodded and began to climb into his gear.

At the helm, a much younger Turk spun the wheel to starboard as his father stepped out on deck.  He too wore chinos and boat shoes, but his jacket was a more conservative navy blue.  The magnificent yacht gleamed in the evening sun, her timbers coming up almost silvery-grey.  As the boat tacked into the wind, turning its portside flanks toward the nearest blockade ship, the diver dashed out onto the deck and heaved himself overboard on the starboard side with the low cabin hiding him from the patrol.  The change of direction had aroused the suspicion of the patrol boat, and she had altered course toward the yacht.  The Turk leaned over the rail and saw the diver clinging to the side.
"One last thing, Jack... this is a Wally B—please, please, please, try not to scratch her."
The diver laughed and promised he wouldn't, then popped his regulator into his mouth and dived below.

"Master of the vessel on my starboard beam, I am an Australian warship.  I request permission to board your vessel, to enforce international martial law.  Over."
The Turk kept his eyes on the sleek, grey killer as he reached for the radio.  "Australian warship, this is master of the Alexandretta.  You have my permission to board, over."
"Acknowledged, sir, thankyou.  I request your course zero-niner-zero, and that you heave to  and prepare to receive my boarding party.  Over."
"Understood, out."
The Turk clipped the radio back to its slot, and ran forward to the main mast.  "Mustafa," he called over his shoulder in Turkish, "hard to port, make your course due east and switch to the propeller."
"Aye," his son replied in English.