“Belay that, Tommy,” Sara said. “PO Barnette, you have the helm.”
Tommy’s face stiffened. “PO Barnette has the helm, aye aye, XO,” she said, and there was a chorus of ayes.
“Aye aye, XO.” Barnette took Razo’s place at the small brace wheel.
“Tommy, you have the conn.”
“BM2 Penn has the conn,” Barnette said. He had a deep voice and it seemed to boom off the Plexiglas.
Tommy looked at him, swallowed, and pulled her way around the console to stand in an imitation of Barnette’s brace. “I have the conn, XO.”
“Doc, canvass the ship for any casualties. I want a report ASAP. Chief?” This to Chief Lindsey Moran, the head of damage control on board, who stood waiting, power driver at the ready. “Report.”
“They only hit the bridge, XO. There has been no other damage reported.”
“Make sure of that yourself, Chief, and then report back to me.”
“Aye aye, XO.”
“Mr. Rincon, follow me. Chief Edelen, pipe all the officers to the wardroom, and then join us.”
THEY STOOD INSTEAD OF sitting, mostly because Sara refused to take the captain’s chair and no one else would sit down while she was still standing. “Talk to me, Lieutenant.”
“I was watching the roll indicator before we got hit,” Sams said. “It’s showing at least seven degrees, and sometimes more.”
“Which means?”
“We can do it, if we pick our moment.” Sams looked at Laird. “Maybe you should stay behind.”
“What!”
Sams looked at Sara. “Maybe you’ll need a spare pilot, if we don’t make it.”
“It’s a moot point, since we only have one helo,” Sara said. She looked at Ryan. “Put together a team. I want them armed. Anything you can find on this ship that will shoot, stab, or explode on contact, you make sure every member of your team has two of each.”
“Aye aye, XO.”
She looked at Sams. “How many can you take?”
“Well, maybe a few less than before you loaded them down with an armory,” Sams said.
Several of them smiled, but Sara was too focused on the task at hand and too close to what had happened on the bridge for anything remotely resembling humor. “How many?”
Sams’s shoulders straightened at the snap in her voice. “Six boarding team members total, XO.”
Sara looked at Ryan. “Can you get the job done with six?”
He started to go with bravado, saw her expression, and ratcheted it down. “Depends on how many people they’ve got on board and how well armed they are.”
She looked at Hugh.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I know about the two brothers. Noortman told me that the brothers told Fang he couldn’t bring all of his usual crew, that they were hiring some help of their own. Could be ten. Could be twenty, could be fifty. I just don’t know.”
She nodded and looked at Ryan. “Who is your best man on the can-non?
“Sullivan,” he said without hesitation.
“Have him report to me immediately. And then start putting your team together. Remember, the goal is to commandeer the ship, disable the launcher, and get her into the nearest port.”
“Aye aye, XO.” Ryan vanished.
“But if we have to, we sink the son of a bitch, and I’m not saying that’s a bad second-best.” She looked at Ostlund. “Ensign, start prepping for helo launch. I imagine you’ll have to do another traverse.”
Ostlund shrugged. “Not like we haven’t had a lot of practice lately, XO. I think we’ve got it down.”
“Good. Go.” She looked at Sams. “Anything?”
He thought, and shook his head.
“We won’t be able to bring you back on board the Sojourner Truth, not in this soup,” she said.
“I know, XO.”
“So once the boarding team is on board, you haul ass for Cape Navarin.”
He gave a curt nod.
“Good. Go.”
The aviators left.
“Chief,” Sara said to Edelen, “I want you on the conn.”
“All due respect, XO, I want you on the conn.”
She gave a half laugh. “Go on up to the bridge. I’m right behind you.”
“Where’s Cape Navarin?” Hugh said.
“About a hundred miles northwest of where we are now. It’s the nearest land.”
He thought about it. “In Russia.”
“Yes.”
“That going to be a problem?”
“The fact that they’ll be out of fuel before they get there is a bigger one.”
BACK OH THE BRIDGE she looked at the radar screen. The Agafia was still there, still not making enough speed to pull out of range, but enough to keep her tantalizingly out of reach. It was almost as if she were playing tag with them, which made no sense to Sara. Perhaps all terrorists were by definition mad.
The Sunrise Warrior was lagging about midway between the other two ships. Sara looked up and out the new Plexiglas windows. She thought she could make out lights off their port bow. She noticed something else, too. “Are we making ice?” she said.
“We are, XO.”
Sara swore, a round and mighty oath. “Assemble a crew to chip ice, Chief,” she said, snapping out the words.
“Aye aye, XO,” Chief Edelen said, moving with alacrity.
Sara told Tommy, “I need to be able to talk to the Sunrise Warrior.”
“The VHF is down, XO, like almost everything else. Whatever they hit us with took out all our communications, except for handhelds.”
“I know. How’s your Morse, Tommy?”
“My Morse?” The bosun’s mate looked dubious. “It’s okay, XO. It’s not great, but I can make myself understood.”
“Good.” To the chief, finishing up his pipe for the ice-chipping team, Sara said, “Get me in close enough for them to see our signal.” He hung up the mike. “Aye aye, XO.”
“IS THAT MORSE CODE?” Vivienne said.
“It is, Vivienne, now hush up so I can read it.”
They all waited with varying degrees of impatience. No one had been very happy with pursuing the processor into the storm. For one thing, it made for horrible photography, and Greenpeace was all about film at eleven.
Doyle lowered the binoculars.
“Well?” Vivienne said. “What’d they say?”
“They said those explosions we heard was the Agafia firing on them,” Doyle said.
There were exclamations of disbelief all around.
“Come on, Doyle,” Vivienne said. “A fishing vessel fired on a Coast Guard cutter?”
“That’s what they’re saying,” Doyle said. “And that’s not all they’re saying, Vivienne. They want a favor.”
Vivienne stared at him. “The U.S. Coast Guard wants a favor from Greenpeace?”
“Not exactly,” Doyle said. “They want a favor from you.”
THE FLIGHT CREW HAD finished their second heavy weather traverse in three days on the hangar deck, although this one had been a lot dicier due to the steadily increasing layer of ice that was forming on every surface above water. A crew had already been detailed to the bow with clubs, where the ice was accumulating faster than they could beat it off.
Sams called the bridge. “We’re good to go, XO.”
Sara was standing next to Seaman Royce Lee Cornell, North Carolina-born, a year out of boot camp and barely qualified on the helm.
She could hardly see his black face in the dim light of the bridge. “Hold her steady, Seaman.”
“Holding her steady, aye, XO.” Just turned twenty, Seaman Cornell had the maturity of a petty officer with twenty years in. Mark Edelen had recommended he replace Razo, and it spoke well for Cornell that he was on the bridge before he’d been called to duty.
Sara looked at the indicators hanging from the overhead. Bubbles of air in twin curving plastic tubes full of water, the bubbles rolled back and forth and pitched backward and forward with the motion of the ship, indicating degrees of pitch and roll with a gauge printed beneath. As Sara watched, the roll went to seven, and the pitch went to nine. She swore under her breath. “Let her fall off the wind a little, Seaman.”