There was no immediate pursuit.
"I still say this is too easy," said Remo, looking back from the stern.
"Try to think of Canadians as Brits without the balls, and it'll go down easier," advised Sandy. "They just aren't used to violence."
"So how come they seized your boat?"
"Screw with their fish and they'll cut your throat with the edge of a Canadian dollar bill."
After a while a Royal Canadian Mounted Police de Havilland Otter flew overhead. From a loudspeaker, a cold voice shouted down a warning.
"Can you make out what he's saying?" Sandy asked Remo.
"Sounds like `Deaf boast fins fun.'"
"I don't think he's saying that."
"Maybe," Remo said with a grin. "But it sounds like it to me."
"Me, too," she said. "And if they can't communicate their intentions, we don't have to obey them."
The RCMP Otter circled and buzzed them angrily but attempted no interception.
Under cover of darkness they headed out and steered a course south.
"If we can reach U.S. waters, we should be okay," Sandy said.
But somewhere off Nova Scotia, they saw lights on the water. Many lights.
"Oh-oh. Looks like the fleet is moving to intercept us," Sandy said tensely.
"Whose fleet?" asked Remo.
"Whose else would it be?" returned Sandy.
But Remo's supersharp eyes were picking out details. "I see a flag, and it isn't theirs or ours."
"Whose would it be?" asked Sandy.
"I'm not good with flags," Remo said to Chiun. "Help me out, Little Father."
Chiun shaded his eyes with a palm. "I see the flag of Rome."
Sandy Heckman frowned. "Rome?"
"He means Italy. You do mean Italy?"
"And the flag of Portugal," added Chiun.
"What kind of fleet is that?" Remo asked.
"A fishing fleet. And I think it's ours," said Sandy.
"If they've come to rescue you, they're a day late and a line short."
"We'd better head them off before this thing gets any bigger and badder than it is."
"Canada is threatening us all over the place. How could it get any bigger?" Remo asked.
Lieutenant Sandy Heckman made no answer to that.
The Cayuga fell in on a straight intercept heading.
As it approached the oncoming fleet, the enormity of the vessels beating their way became apparent.
Sandy Heckman knew sailcraft. She saw Maine draggers, Chesapeake Bay skipjacks, assorted trawlers, shrimpers and scallop boats. It was a veritable armada of fishing craft, and all were pointed northward, maintaining an equal distance from one another like a pod of surface-feeding baleen whales.
"Helmsman, steer a careful course," Sandy warned tightly.
"Aye, sir."
The radioman was signaling their identity and intentions. He quickly received an answer.
"This is Captain Sirio Testaverde of the Sicilian Vengeance," a gravelly voice growled. "Get the hell out of our fucking way."
"Sicilian Vengeance, you are in Canadian waters. U.S. vessels are definitely not welcome at this time."
"We do not care. We come to avenge my Tomasso and take what is rightfully ours."
"What is rightfully yours?"
"The fish. The cod. Even the turbot, nasty as it is."
Sandy and Remo swapped glances, then Remo picked up her microphone to ask another question when suddenly they were riding into the teeth of the fleet.
Boats broke left and right to let the Cayuga pass.
Sandy rushed to the starboard rail and called out, "Are you people crazy? Don't you know tensions are running high? Canadian Coast Guard cutters are in hot pursuit of this vessel with the intention of recapturing it."
"Remember the Jeannie I!" a man shouted.
"Avenge Tomasso Testaverde!"
"Retake Louisbourg!"
"What's Louisbourg?" asked Remo.
Sandy bit her lower lip. "Damned if I know."
Then the fleet passed them, rank upon rank of boats, making a path for them that closed up like a wound once it had passed the Cayuga by.
Finally they were out of the thickest part of the fleet.
Looking back at the scores of sterns with their colorful names and home ports from as far south as Virginia, Remo made a helpful comment. "Well, you could chase them."
"Fat lot of good that will do me. First I get captured. Then I run smack into this. It's back to the Alaska halibut patrol for me for sure."
"Before you pack, fetch me a cell phone. I'm going to check in."
"Maybe you can warn someone."
"First I gotta find out where Louisbourg is."
"Probably in Quebec."
"That's what I'm afraid of," muttered Remo, leaning on the one button, which set in motion automated relays that would connect him directly with Folcroft.
Chapter 26
Dr. Harold W. Smith knew it could get worse. He just didn't know how much worse.
In the Pacific a Canadian submarine had breached in the middle of a U.S. salmon fleet. It was an unprovoked attack. Six boats had gone down. All crew had been pulled aboard alive and were in Canadian custody.
Smith had been about to reach for the red telephone when he heard a familiar ringing.
He experienced a momentary hesitation. It was the blue contact phone, not the dedicated line to the White House.
Smith lifted the blue handset and said, "Yes."
"Smitty, we're on the Cayuga."
"Good. The rescue came off successfully?"
"We're in Canadian waters and had to sink a couple of Canadian cutters."
"It was unavoidable. Good work."
"There's just one problem."
"What is that?"
"We just passed the biggest concentration of boats since they assembled the Spanish Armada."
Smith's voice tightened like a violin string. "I am listening," he said.
"They're ours."
"Navy or Coast Guard?"
"Neither. Commercial fishing. And they're heading north with blood in their eyes."
"What is their intent?"
"To take what's theirs and sack Louisbourg, from what they're saying."
"Louisbourg?"
"Yeah. Ever heard of it?"
"Hold, please." Smith punched in the name and up came a short description, with maps.
Smith expanded the search, and what he read dried the saliva in his slack mouth.
"Remo, Louisbourg was the site of a preRevolutionary engagement between the Colonies and what was then New France. It was a fortress on Cape Breton Island in pre-Confederation Canada."
"So?"
"It was in part a battle over cod. Because no colonial navy existed, New England fishermen were convinced by the British politicians of that time to sail north and take the fortress from French hands. They battled the defending French fishermen."
"Looks like history is about to repeat itself."
"Remo, this is serious."
"You're telling me? Those fishermen are out to kick Canadian butt, and nobody's going to be able to stop them."
"Agreed. But there has also been an incident in the Pacific. A Canadian sub breached in the middle of a U.S. salmon fishing fleet. It is unclear if either strayed into the other's fisheries, but there are boats under the water and the Canadians took several prisoners."
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Remo asked.
"If you are thinking that Quebec is unlikely to be operating in the Pacific, you are correct."
"Then it isn't the French Canadians."
"Not exclusively."
"There's another thing, Smitty. I think the brogue or burr I heard is Newfoundland talk."
"Can you be certain?"
"No. But I got a good whiff of some half-potted fisherman's breath, and it smelled just as bad as the other guy."
"Breath?"
"Liquor."
"Screech," said Smith.
"Say again?"
"Screech. It is a kind of rotgut moonshine popular in that area. This ties the crew of the Proud to be Frogs to Newfoundland or Nova Scotia."