But staring at the oncoming vessel, Franco knew it was too late. “Turn away, for God’s sake, turn away!” he cried under his breath.
Few on the bridge paid attention to him, as a flurry of distress calls and emergency procedures occupied the panicked crew. The captain stood immobile, fixated on the approaching freighter as if he could stare it down.
His gaze was diverted by a small red speedboat that bounded over the waves toward the stern quarter of the freighter. A tall, lean man with black hair stood at the wheel beside a woman dressed in an oversized wet suit. They were on their own high-speed collision course with the Tasmanian Star in what only could be viewed as an attempt at suicide.
“Insanity,” Franco said, shaking his head. “Pure insanity.”
PITT PULLED BACK THE THROTTLE for an instant, causing the boat to falter, then turned to Loren. “Jump!”
Loren squeezed his arm, stepped off the seat, and leaped over the side. She was still in midair when Pitt slammed the throttle forward and the speedboat burst away. Bobbing to the surface after a hard splash, Loren watched the boat roar off, praying her husband wouldn’t kill himself trying to save others.
Pitt knew he’d have only one chance to pull off a miracle. The freighter was just a quarter of a mile from the Sea Splendour—no room for error. Taking aim for the freighter’s stern, he braced for impact.
The Tasmanian Star’s aft deck hung over the water, its stern hull curving inward to the waterline. That was where Pitt aimed the speedboat. Closing quickly, he spotted the rudder’s upper spindle mounting—exposed at the surface. He tweaked the steering wheel to adjust his aim. Inboard of the spindle was the ship’s churning propeller. It could easily devour both him and the speedboat.
Had the carrier been fully loaded, his ploy could never have worked. But the ship rode high at the stern, so he had a chance. Aiming a few feet left of the spindle, he braced himself and drove the boat in at top speed.
With a hammering bash, the speedboat’s red hull smacked the freighter’s rudder, smashing into the steering plate’s outer edge. The small boat’s momentum propelled its stern up and out of the water until it was nearly on end. Pitt flew up out of the cockpit but kept his grip on the wheel as the boat fell back. Again the craft slammed into the rudder, this time from above, mangling the spindle and slightly bending the top plate.
Its hull shattered, the little red speedboat slid off the rudder, and its inboard motor gurgled to a halt. The freighter’s churning wake swept the boat aside—and the big ship sailed on.
Pitt grabbed a shin that had split open on the windshield, but otherwise he found himself uninjured. A moment later, Loren swam up and pulled herself aboard the slowly sinking boat.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “That was some collision.”
“I’m fine.” He tore off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his bloodied leg. “I’m just not sure if it did any good.”
He watched the imposing shape of the freighter as it churned closer to the cruise ship. At first, there was no apparent change in its heading. But then, almost imperceptibly, the bow of the Tasmanian Star began to inch to port.
When Pitt had rammed her rudder, mashing it twenty degrees over, the ship’s automatic pilot had attempted to correct course. But the secondary impact from the speedboat arrived first, mashing the spindle and wedging the rudder in place. Try as they might, the automated bridge controls could not override the damage. Pitt had knocked the freighter off its course. But would it be enough?
On board the Sea Splendour, Captain Franco detected the change. “She’s turning!” Franco’s eyes focused on the narrowing gap. “She’s turning.”
Inch by inch, foot by foot, then yard by yard, the freighter’s bow began to ease toward shore. Hopeful eyes aboard the Sea Splendour prayed that the freighter would pass clear. But the amount of separation between the ships was just too small. There would be no avoiding contact.
A ship’s horn bellowed as the crew and passengers braced for impact. The Tasmanian Star sped closer, seemingly intent on ramming the liner’s starboard quarter. Yet at the last instant, the freighter’s high prow swung clear of a crushing blow, easing just beyond the Sea Splendour’s stern post. Twenty feet of the cargo ship’s bow slipped past before the first grinding squeal of scraping metal.
The freighter shuddered as it ground against an overhanging section of the Sea Splendour’s fantail. The massive ship never slowed, bulling forward as it was sprayed with shredded steel. As suddenly as it struck, the carrier pulled clear, angling off toward shore. Still steaming at better than twelve knots, the cargo ship now carried a twenty-foot section of the Sea Splendour’s afterdeck wedged atop its forward hold.
The cruise ship had keeled hard to port at impact but slowly righted itself. Her captain stood in disbelief. The reports being radioed to the bridge cited only minor structural damage. The fantail had been cleared of passengers, and not a single injury was reported. By the barest of margins, they’d avoided disaster.
At the realization his ship had survived and no lives were lost, the captain let relief turn to anger. “Prepare to lower the officer’s launch,” he told a nearby crewman. “After I survey the damage, I’m going to go deck that clown—the second he steps ashore.”
He had failed to track the Tasmanian Star, assuming it would eventually slow and turn toward Valparaiso’s commercial port. But the freighter didn’t alter course; it sailed on toward a thin sandy beach along the town’s waterfront.
A middle-aged Canadian couple, who had consumed a bit too much local Chardonnay at lunch, was dozing on the sand when the Tasmanian Star touched bottom a few yards off the surf line. A deep chafing sound, like an enormous coffee grinder, filled the air as its hull scoured the bottom. The prow cut easily through the soft sand before its momentum began to slow. The ship burrowed through the beach, leveling a small ice cream stand whose owner wisely fled.
As the ghost ship groaned to a halt, nearby onlookers stared in disbelief. Only the moan of its engines and still-churning propeller gave sign of any life aboard the stricken vessel.
Hearing the noise and detecting a shadow cross his body, the dosing Canadian, his eyes still closed, nudged his wife. “Honey, what was that?”
She opened a sleepy eye, then sat upright. Ten feet away rose the towering slab side of the freighter’s hull. They had come that close to being crushed.
“Harold—” She blinked and looked again. “I think our ship has come in.”
7
CAPTAIN FRANCO’S FACE WAS BEET RED AS HE SURVEYED the Sea Splendour’s damaged stern from an enclosed launch. Yet the destruction was much less than he feared; the shredded fantail showed primarily cosmetic damage. Divers would examine below the waterline, but by all accounts, the crew could handle the damage. They would barricade the aft deck, and the ship could continue its voyage with only minimal delay. Franco well knew the wrath he’d receive from the corporate offices if the passengers had to be put ashore and their fares refunded. Thankfully, that was one lesser tragedy averted. But to him the ship was like a family member, and he burned with fury at the disfigurement.
“Take us to the freighter,” he told the launch’s young pilot.
A deck officer motioned for the captain’s attention.
“Sir, a small boat appears to be in distress off our starboard beam.”
Captain Franco leaned out the open entryway. There was the red speedboat, drifting half submerged. The couple was not only still alive but sitting on the bow and waving at him.
“That’s the nut who rammed his boat into the carrier.” He shook his head. “Go ahead, go pick them up.”
The launch pulled alongside the sinking boat. Pitt helped Loren onto the launch, then jumped aboard. He turned and watched the battered speedboat a moment before it slipped under the surface.
He turned to face the frowning captain. “I guess I’m going to have to buy someone a new boat.”
Franco took a long look at Pitt; he wasn’t a yo
ung fool—or a drunk. He was tall, with a lean, muscular body. Despite the bloody gash to his shin, he stood upright with an easy confidence. His face was rugged, showing years spent outdoors, and he grinned in easy bemusement. Then there were the eyes, a beguiling green that burned with intelligence.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Pitt said, “you saved us a healthy swim to shore.”
“I watched you destroy your own boat running into the freighter,” Franco said. “Why did you nearly kill yourself?”
“To knock the rudder over.” Pitt gazed toward the cruise ship’s damaged stern. “Guess I didn’t get there quite in time.”
The captain’s face turned white. “My heavens, of course. It was you who changed the freighter’s course at the last second.”
He grasped Pitt’s hand and shook it until Pitt’s arm almost fell off. “You saved my ship and hundreds of lives. We had no time to maneuver—we would have been mauled by that idiot.”
“He ran over a sailboat, and nearly got us as well.”
“Madmen! They ignored our radio calls and just kept on coming. Look, they’ve run aground.”
“The bridge crew must be incapacitated,” Pitt said.
“They will be when I’m through with them.”
The launch picked up speed and raced toward the grounded ship, steering well clear of its still-spinning prop. A crowd had gathered on the beach to gawk, while distant sirens signaled the approach of the Valparaiso police.
The ship sat upright, with just a slight list to starboard. Her decks showed no sign of life. A long metal conveyor ramp dangled over the side like a damaged limb, nearly reaching the water. Used to fill and unload the freighter’s holds, the conveyor had been knocked ajar during the collision with the Sea Splendour. Franco saw it offered a way aboard, and he ordered the launch alongside.
The ramp just about matched the launch’s deck height. A seaman was ordered to walk on it to test if it would hold. The man took a few tentative steps, then turned and gave the captain the thumbs-up. He scampered up the heavy conveyor belt, which tilted across the ship’s rail, and hopped onto the deck. Captain Franco came next, nervously climbing on the dust-covered belt and making his way up. Too absorbed in keeping his footing, he failed to notice Pitt following a few paces behind.
Franco reached the ship’s rail and was helped down by the waiting seaman. He was startled when Pitt jumped off the belt and landed beside him. Franco turned to admonish him for coming aboard, but Pitt beat him to the punch.
“We better get those engines shut down.” Pitt nudged past Franco and headed toward the bridge.
Franco vented at the seaman. “Search the deck and crew’s quarters, then meet me on the bridge.” He turned and hurried to catch up with Pitt.
The bridge sat atop a multistory superstructure near the stern. Stepping aft, Pitt gazed at the large hatches that covered the ship’s five main holds. The last one was partially open. Each hatch had two hinged covers that opened to the side hydraulically. As Pitt approached the hatch just ahead of the superstructure, he peered through the gap. The cavernous hold was empty except for a tiny bulldozer sitting under a layer of silver-colored dust. Pitt guessed the forward holds still contained their cargo, which would account for the high-riding stern. Noticing fragments of silver rock on the deck, he pocketed a large piece in his swim trunks and continued toward the bridge.
“Is there no one aboard this vessel?” Franco reached Pitt as he started up a companionway.
“I haven’t seen a welcome committee yet.”
They climbed several flights, then entered the bridge through an open wing door. Like the rest of the ship, the expansive control room was empty of life. The ghostly sense was broken by the ship’s radio, which squawked with the voice of a Chilean Coast Guard operator hailing the vessel. Franco shut off the radio, then stepped to a center console and powered down the engines.
Pitt examined the helm. “The autopilot was set on a course of one hundred and forty-two degrees.”
“Makes no sense that they would abandon a moving ship.”
“Piracy is a more likely answer,” Pitt said. “The number five hold looks like it was emptied after she left port.”
“Taking the crew for ransom, I could see,” Franco said, rubbing his chin. “But robbing a bulk carrier of its cargo at sea? That’s unheard of.”
The captain noticed a dark splotch on the wall and similar stains on the floor—and his face turned pale. “Look at this.”
One glance at the stains told Pitt they were dried blood. When he rubbed a finger across the wall, the dry residue flaked off.
“Doesn’t look recent. Can we backtrack the ship’s navigation system to see where they came from?”
Franco stepped to the helm, glad to distance himself from the gore. He located a navigation monitor, which showed a tiny representation of the Tasmanian Star overlaid on a digital map of Valparaiso Harbor. He tapped on an embedded keyboard and reduced the scale. A yellow line traced the ship’s path off the top of the screen as Valparaiso receded into the coastline of Chile, which gradually receded into the continent of South America. The slightly angular line continued north before cutting sharply left off the west coast of Central America. Franco tracked the line across the Pacific, locating its origin in Australia.
“She came from Perth.” Then he zeroed back in on the point where the ship changed heading. He looked up at Pitt and nodded.
“Your assumption of piracy makes sense. She wouldn’t be crossing the Pacific with one of her holds empty.”
“Let’s see where that course change occurred,” Pitt said.
Franco adjusted the image. “Looks to be about seventeen hundred miles due west of Costa Rica.”
“A lonely spot in the ocean to stage a holdup.”
Franco shook his head. “If that’s where the crew left the ship, then the Tasmanian Star sailed herself over thirty-five hundred miles to Valparaiso.”
“Which means she was hijacked more than a week ago. That leaves a pretty cold trail to follow.”
Franco’s crewman suddenly burst through the bridge wing door. His face was flush, and he panted from sprinting up the companionway. Pitt noticed his hand trembled on the doorframe.
“The crew quarters are empty, sir. There doesn’t seem to be anyone aboard.” He hesitated. “I did find one man.”
“Dead?” the captain asked.
The sailor nodded. “I wouldn’t have found him but for the odor. He’s on the main deck, near the forward hatch.”
“Take me to him.”
Slowly the seaman turned and led Franco and Pitt down the companionway. They crossed the deck to the port side and marched past the rows of hatch covers. The seaman slowed as they approached the forward hatch, then stopped and pointed.
“He’s beneath one of the supporting braces,” the man said, not moving any closer. “He must have rolled or fallen there.”
Pitt and Franco stepped forward. Then they noticed a blue object wedged in the hatch cover’s hydraulics, next to a supporting brace. Inching closer, they could see it was the body of a man dressed in blue coveralls. The odor of decomposing flesh was overpowering, but the sight before them was even worse.
The clothes were unmarked and perfectly clean. Judging by the heavy work boots and a pair of gloves cinched to his waist, Pitt guessed he was an ordinary seaman. But that was the only thing he could determine.
The exposed skin had bloated to grotesque proportions and turned the color of French mustard. Small rivulets of dried blood had pooled around his ears and mouth. A swarm of flies buzzed around the seaman’s face and clustered on his open, bulging eyes. Yet it was the body’s extremities, marked beyond mere decomposition, that was most grisly. The seaman’s ears, nose, and fingertips were charred black, though the skin remained unbroken. Pitt recalled photos of polar explorers who had suffered extreme frostbite, marked by black blisters covering patches of dead skin. Yet the Tasmanian Star had sailed nowhere near any polar region.
Franco slowly backed away from the figure.
“Santa Maria!” he gasped. “He’s been taken by the devil himself.”
8
A SCRATCHED AND BATTERED CRASH HELMET SAT centered on Pitt’s desk when he returned to his office in Washington. A short, typewriten note taped on the visor welcomed him back:
Dad,
Really, you need to be more careful!
Pitt chuckled as he slid the helmet aside, wondering if it came from his son or his daughter. Both children worked for NUMA and had just left for a project off Madagascar involving subsea tectonics.
There was a rap at his office door and in walked a voluptuous woman with perfect hair and makeup. Although Zerri Pochinsky was north of forty, her looks gave no hint of it. Pitt’s trusted secretary for many years, she might have become something more in his life if he hadn’t met Loren first.
“Welcome back to the lion’s den.” She smiled and placed a cup of coffee on his desk. “I honestly don’t know how that helmet got here.”
Pitt returned her smile. “There’s just no sanctity to my inner sanctum.”
“I received a call from the Vice President’s secretary,” Pochinsky said, her hazel eyes turning serious. “You’ve been asked to attend a meeting in his office today at two-thirty.”
“Any mention of the topic?”
“No, they simply indicated it was a security matter.”
“What in Washington isn’t?” He shook his head with annoyance. “Okay, tell them I’ll be there.”
“Also, Hiram is outside. He said you wanted to see him.”
“Send him in.”
Pochinsky slipped out the door and was replaced by a bearded man with shoulder-length hair. Dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a black Allman Brothers Band T-shirt, Hiram Yaeger looked like he was headed to a biker bar. Only the intense blue eyes behind a pair of granny glasses revealed a deeper intellectual pursuit. Far from a roadhouse barfly, Yaeger was in fact a computer genius whose greatest love was writing software code. Managing NUMA’s state-of-the-art computer resource center, he had built a sophisticated network that collected detailed oceanographic data from a thousand points around the globe.
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