“I’m so sorry, Captain,” she said blandly, ignoring the spray of spittle, “I’m afraid I don’t speak Russian.”
“But I do,” Katelnikof said to Protopopov, or so he translated for Sara when they were back on board the Sojourner Truth. “Don’t let this broad’s lack of balls fool you, Captain. Given half a chance she’ll order our ship to run right over the top of this paddle wheeler of yours.”
Aghast and agape, Protopopov stared at Katelnikof, whose grin was wide and not at all friendly. The Russian captain rounded on Sara again. “Your captain crazy! What you do, ram us, sink us! Russian government will not stand for this! I lodge complaint!”
The combination of speed and the show of weapons, in addition, Sara believed, to the display of extremely able seamanship, was enough to cause the other vessels to veer off and make best speed for the horizon.
Besides, they all had catch quotas, which if not met might relieve the skippers of their commands.
And it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be another opportunity to yank the Coast Guard’s tail on the Maritime Boundary Line. Job security, she thought, for all of us, and turned to Protopopov, whose face had yet to regain any semblance of normal color.
“Captain Protopopov, I relieve you of command of the Pheodora. Chief,” she said to Katelnikof, “have Captain Protopopov identify the rest of his crew and place them under guard. Ensign,” she said to Ryan, “go below and tell the working folks that they’ve got an all-expenses-paid trip to beautiful downtown Dutch Harbor.”
An hour later they were under way, following the wake of the Sojourner Truth as she headed south-southwest in pursuit of the Agafia.
The Pheodora’s bridge was in a little better shape than the rest of her, but not much. A large spoked wooden wheel reinforced with tarnished brass stood at the center, ranged about with a fathometer and radar and radios and a GPS. The GPS had been trashed, but that was to be expected, the crew covering their asses. All Sara really cared about was that at an ambient temperature right around fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, it was warmer than the bridge of the last foreign vessel she’d had to board.
Ryan entered the bridge through the port wing hatch. “Ship’s crew all secure in the galley, XO, and the workers are getting out their party clothes. I put Katelnikof on watch in the engine room. Not that the Russian engineers want to miss out on a shopping trip in Dutch Harbor, either.”
Everyone laughed, a little giddy at the success of their mission. Their mood was hardly dampened when they saw the helo return and land on the Truth, which meant that the Agafia had slipped back over the line before they could arrive on the scene. Bagging the Pheodora was enough of a prize, and besides, they were headed back for Dutch Harbor riding on a white horse, in distinct contrast to their recent exit.
Sara couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth. Looking around, she saw that same suspicion of a smile on the faces of the rest of the other two boarding teams.
It was hard sometimes for her to believe her luck, that she got to whup bad guy ass on her nation’s territorial frontier. “Just another day at the office,” she told Ryan, a big fat lie if there ever was one.
“We are the defenders of the homeland,” Ryan said, dropping his voice to his best basso profundo.
“We are the shield of freedom!” Sara said, and the bridge exploded into laughter, in part triumphant because they were the prize crew of a seized vessel and because at heart every Coastie was part pirate, and in part relieved because no shots had been fired and everyone was going home alive.
JANUARY
HUGH COULD BARELY WALK when the Federal Express DC-10 rolled to a stop at Stevens International in Anchorage. It had taken eight hours and change en route from Tokyo, crammed into the cargo net seat the crew had hung from the fuselage. The ambience of the airplane, one enormous cavern crammed with pallets and igloos lashed down with a spaghetti-like construction of webbing and belts, was not enhanced by what seemed a preponderance of crates of chickens. Every time the airplane hit an air pocket the chickens clucked and shrieked and little feathers floated out through the cracks of the crates. Hugh would inhale one of the feathers and wake up in the middle of a sneezing fit. Why the hell anyone would air-freight chickens to America was beyond him. He would have thought there were already plenty in residence.
He was cold, too, having only the lightweight jacket he started out with in Washington three days before. Four days? Or was it five, with the delay in finding a plane going in the right direction? He’d lost track, and besides he was going back over the date line again. Even if he was right about how long he’d been on the road, he was going to be wrong about what day it was when he got there.
This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He’d signed up for a silver Aston Martin, a Walther PPK and a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Not to mention Halle Berry in a bikini. Not barely endurable trips in flying warehouses. Not making end runs around a boss too motivated by politics and patronage to be effective. And most especially not duct-taping people to chairs and beating on them with claw hammers.
He stumbled down the stairs the ground crew brought to the forward door and almost ran into Frank Clifton, captain of the aircraft.
“Whoa there,” Frank said, steadying him.
“Sorry, Frank,” Hugh said. Frank looked cheerful and well rested. Hugh hated him. He mustered up what shreds of civility he had left and managed a smile. “I appreciate the ride.”
Frank shrugged. “My pleasure. Lucky I was on my way back from Manila when you called the office.”
“I know.”
Hugh had inherited Frank from the previous holder of his job. Frank Clifton had flown cargo for Flying Tigers and now flew DC-10s for FedEx. Agents and case managers became very adept at finding pilots who would turn a blind eye at an extra body riding in the back of their jets. It was a useful option in intelligence gathering in that cargo jets went everywhere, including places passenger jets would never dream of landing, and it was very cost effective, usually entailing a bottle of Glen-morangie, paid for out of petty cash. Management probably knew all about it but turned a blind eye, because you never knew when helping out your government was going to translate into another federal subsidy, which couldn’t hurt the golden parachute waiting for the CEO to don and bail.
The pilot regarded him quizzically. “So, what’s the big emergency, buddy boy?” He reflected. “Well, not that a ride in last class on a commercial liner is much better these days.”
“I can’t say,” Hugh said. “Not yet, anyway. It’s important though, Frank. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He managed another smile. “I gotta go.”
“Need a ride?”
Hugh blinked at him, and then around at the spread-out, much-added -to package-sorting warehouse, the huge hangar built to annual DC-10s, the seven-he counted-other DC-10s lined up in a proud row on the tarmac outside. It was dark, with stars and a hint of pale green aurora on the northern horizon. The cold seared the insides of his nostrils and he hunched his shoulders inside his sport jacket and tried not to let his teeth chatter. January in Alaska. He’d forgotten. “What time is it, anyway?”
Frank consulted an enormous silver watch the size of a horse’s hoof, bristling with accessory rings and function knobs. It looked like it could jam the Internet all by itself. “Five thirty-seven.”
“What day is it here?”
Frank looked at him with a sapient eye. “January ninth. Do you need a ride or not? I’ve got my truck in the lot.”
Hugh forced his tired mind to think. “Let me make a phone call first, okay?” He fumbled for his cell phone.