Blake sat at the loading computer in the Cargo Control Room, cursing.
Milam turned from the window. “The magic box giving you trouble, Cap?” he asked.
Blake sighed. “No, but it’s anybody’s guess how much water we’ll have on the way in. I go in too deep and we ground before we get there. Go in light and risk getting sucked into the lock before we can get her down.”
“We need to get her down fast, all right,” Milam agreed.
“But how?” Blake asked. “We’ll need water in the cargo tanks, and the emergency storm ballast crossover’s way too slow.”
Milam looked thoughtful. “How ‘bout some new connections.”
“Breach the bulkheads?”
Milam nodded. “I got two cutting rigs. We can drop the water level in the ballast tanks enough to get into the top of the tanks, and the cargo tanks aren’t inert yet, so that’s no problem. The First and I can cut holes between each ballast tank and the adjacent cargo tank, then drop into the cargo tanks and open holes between them. We’ll make her one great big cargo tank. Open the sea valves and throw on the all ballast pumps, and you’re done.”
Blake frowned at the notion of intentionally destroying the watertight integrity of his brand-new ship. “But I won’t be able to control draft and trim en route,” he said.
“Yeah, you will,” Milam said. “We’ll cut the ballast-tank bulkheads up high. The ballast tanks won’t spill into the cargo tanks until they’re almost full. Trim her any way you want, then overflow the ballast tanks into the cargo tanks when we’re in position.”
Blake sighed. “Do it,” he said.
Milam moved for the door but stopped as he glanced out the window.
“We got company,” he said to Blake.
Blake moved to the window. “God damn it,” he said. “What are they doing back? Anyone the hospital released was supposed to go to a hotel.”
Second Mate Lynda Arnett was walking up the deck, trailed by three crewmen and a sheepish looking Pedro Calderon. Arnett’s right hand was in a cast, and the three men following her sported a variety of bandages. She entered the Cargo Control Room moments later with Calderon as the three sailors waited in the passageway, out of sight but within earshot.
“Arnett,” Blake said, “you OK? How’re the others?”
“I’m OK. A broken wrist is all. Chief Mate’s got a concussion, and the bosun’s leg is broken. Alvarez, Green, and Thornton are with me — minor injuries.”
Blake’s face hardened. “Why are you here?”
“It’s all over the news. We came to help.”
Blake looked a question at Calderon.
“Panic was rising,” Calderon said. “We released the plan to calm things a bit.”
Blake turned back to Arnett. “But I told that goddamned agent—”
Calderon interrupted. “Señorita Arnett can be quite… persuasive. She threatened to remove certain anatomical features to which the agent is very attached should he fail to provide transport. She was very convincing. I authorized the boat, hoping you might reason with her.”
Blake and Milam smiled as Arnett reddened.
“I appreciate this, Lynda,” Blake said, “but we got it covered.”
“The chief mate’s down and the third mate’s green. I’m staying.”
“God damn it, woman,” Blake said, “you got a busted arm, for Christ’s sake.”
“Wrist,” she corrected, “and what’s this ‘god damn it, woman’ shit? Pissant chivalry? Or discrimination? Put me off and I’ll sue your freakin’ socks off.”
Chief Steward Dave Jergens spoke from the doorway, breaking the tension.
“Lynda,” he said, “Cookie put supper back. Y’all come on in, and I’ll warm it up.” He inclined his head to include the three sailors in the passageway.
Blake shot Jergens a grateful look.
“Thanks, Dave,” he said. “Go on, Lynda. Go eat. I’ll think about it, OK?”
She left with a stiff-necked nod. Jergens stood aside to let her pass but hung back.
“Something else, Dave?” Blake asked.
“Cap,” Jergens said, “my guys want to help, too. We’ll handle lines or… something.”
“Christ on a crutch—” Blake caught himself.
“Look, Dave,” Blake said, “I appreciate it, I really do, but you can’t stay.”
“Ain’t right, Cap’n,” Jergens said. “We got as much right as anybody to help.”
Blake stalled. “OK. OK. I’ll get back to you. All right?”
Jergens nodded and left. When he was out of earshot, Blake turned to Milam.
“Did I just hear the chief steward volunteer to work on deck?”
“Same with the engine gang,” Milam said, “right down to the wiper. They’re all ready to whip my ass if I even suggest puttin’ them off.”
“Christ, what’s goin’ on?” Blake asked.
“Maybe it’s understandable,” Milam said. “Remember how you felt on 9/11?”
Blake grew quiet.
“Stunned, outraged, but mostly helpless,” he said finally.
“I figure everyone did,” Milam said. “Now we can do something. Nobody wants to be left out. We should let them help.”
“I can’t risk their lives unnecessarily,” Blake said.
“Just let ‘em contribute. They can haul gas cylinders, pull hoses, rig lights, whatever, then ride until just before the lock.”
“Might work, and it’s better than a mutiny,” Blake said, turning to Calderon.
“Can you arrange a launch to remove nonessential crew before the lock?” he asked.
“Por supuesto, Capitán,” Calderon said, “it would be my honor.”
“Thank you, señor,” Blake said, turning back to grin at Milam.
“What the hell you waiting for?” he said. “You got holes to cut. And I have to convince Arnett to disembark with the rest.”
“Glad I got the easy part,” Milam said, heading for the door.
Dugan kept moving so he didn’t stiffen up. The old doctor had been thorough and seemed competent, though his English was limited.
“Is OK. I see much worse,” he’d said, leaving as Perez arrived with rice, beans, and strong, sweet coffee. Despite the beating, Dugan was starved. He’d wolfed down the food, slowed only by swollen lips. The empty plate sat on the table as he limped around it.
He looked up as the door opened and read Ward’s face.
“Christ, Jesse,” Dugan said, “I can’t look that bad.”
“You OK?” Ward asked.
“Well, a guy who might be a doctor told me I was just peachy.”
Ward nodded as Dugan glanced at Carlucci, who stuck out his hand.
“Frank Carlucci,” he said. “We almost met at the airport. You look better than I expected. Reyes is tough.”
“I cleverly lapsed into unconsciousness,” Dugan said. “Even a psycho doesn’t get off beating an inert body. What’s up with that asshole?”
“A dead wife and injured kids, thanks to Asian Trader,” Ward said. “Figure it out.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dugan said softly. “I didn’t know.”
He listened, subdued, as Carlucci summarized the attack.
“There’s more,” Ward added when Carlucci finished. “You were set up — fake e-mails, a Cayman account, your authorization on a priority transit slot, all very elaborate.”
Dugan nodded and looked thoughtful.