“About ten seconds,” Sam said. It was difficult to keep his voice steady.
“That should do. Let’s raise the anchor.”
Turner handed the binoculars to Markowitz and hurried out to the deck to bring up the anchor.
“All right, Johnson,” the sergeant said, “ease her out.”
As Johnson pushed the throttle forward, Sam felt his body quivering beyond the vibrations of the engine. He tried to take deep breaths without making noise. It wasn’t fear as much as excitement, he thought. Then again, maybe it was fear. Whatever it was, he was not alone with it. Next to him, Turner was rising and dropping on his toes, pumping himself up like a flat tire.
“Stay to the west,” the sergeant told Johnson. “Circle wide. Give them plenty of room.”
They headed northwest. Elliott Bay seemed to have become smaller. The city to the east was like a million flashlights, all pointing at them. They tried to shrink from view by staying close to the shore.
“Gloria Rose to Olivia Rose. You still awake, Mick?” the sergeant asked, imitating the easy style used on the marine radio.
“Roger,” came the static reply. “Wide awake.”
“We’re heading out to meet the Nippon Blue. She should be ready for escort in twenty minutes or so.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
“Roger, my ass,” Turner said, and a low gut laugh rumbled out of him. “Did you hear that? That son of a bitch has been wanting to talk like that his whole life.”
“She’s showing up good,” the sergeant said. He continued to study the perpetually changing radar screen. “Let’s hope we don’t show up like that. Keep close to shore, Johnson. We don’t want to look like we’re following her.”
“We’re going to lose sight of her soon if we don’t change course,” Johnson said.
“I know that. We have to take that chance. You guys agree?”
The sergeant looked from Markowitz to Katherine to Sam.
“It’s your boat,” Sam told the sergeant. “Just get us there when the time comes.”
The lights of the Nippon Blue faded into the dark as the distance between the two boats increased. After a few minutes it was pointless to look for it through the windshield.
“She knows where she’s going,” the sergeant said. “Steady, west northwest. Center of the Sound. Just like the advertisement.”
They followed the shoreline along West Seattle. Under normal conditions, the water would be as flat as Lake Washington, but the storm was making quite a show as the swells broke into waves as they rolled on shore. When they reached the Duwamish Head on the west side of Elliott Bay, the sergeant pointed to another moving dot on the radar screen.
“What do you think, Johnson?” the sergeant asked.
“Hard to say. Moving in the right direction.”
“Damn right it is. Give me the charts, Turner.”
Turner spread the chart atlas across the instrument panel. The sergeant flicked on the light from an adjustable-arm lamp. He found the right page and then traced a route with his finger as he glanced repeatedly toward the radar screen. The two dots were converging.
“Here,” he said. His thick forefinger marked a spot on the chart page. “What’s the reading here?”
“Forty-seven-52 north, 122-48 west,” Turner said, finding the numbers at the edge of the page.
“Write them down.”
Turner wrote the numbers in his pocket notebook and handed it to the sergeant. The sergeant looked at the numbers for a moment as though they might convince him on their own.
“I’ll bet next week’s pay that’s the meeting place,” he said. “Anybody got a different idea?”
Sam watched the dots another moment and then leaned forward toward the chart book. Turner gave him more room, and he traced the horizontal and vertical lines himself.
“A mile west of the grain terminals,” Sam said. “Just out of the shipping lanes.” He looked at Katherine, who stood transfixed watching the green radar screen. She cocked her head in response but offered no opinion. After one last glance at the radar screen, he accepted the location for all of them. “Looks good.”
The sergeant handed the notebook back to Turner. “Change them to letters,” he said.
Turner began to scribble onto the pad and mumbled letters aloud as he wrote.
“Look here,” the sergeant said as he pointed to a large dot on the radar screen. “We got a big ship coming down about three miles north. We’ll use her as our target. Take us north, Johnson. Stay on the west side like we planned. Ten knots ought to get us in the area about the same time. How close you want to get, Wright, before we dump you off?” the sergeant asked.
“No more than a couple hundred yards. Can you get us that close about the time they meet?”
“We can try, provided they don’t change their minds. They’re not going to be able to lash together very long in these swells.”
“We’re not going to have an easy time getting to them either.”
“We’ll make it three hundred yards,” the sergeant said, “and hope like hell we don’t spook them.”
The sergeant picked up the marine radio microphone and called the Olivia Rose. Again he settled into the easy lingo of a tugboat captain. Sam appreciated his ability to make that voice. His own sounded like someone had grabbed him by the throat.
Turner handed the sergeant the notebook. Before releasing it he reminded him, “Make sure you use the marine alphabet. Don’t say Adam and Boy. If we have cops listening, they might pick up something.”
“Good point,” the sergeant said.
“Alpha and Bravo,” Turner reminded him.
“Gloria Rose to Olivia Rose,“ the sergeant said as he held Turner’s notebook in front of him. “We have two cargoes on line today. David, George, dash, Edward, Bravo and Alpha, Bravo, Bravo, dash, David, Henry. How did you read that?”
“Five by five,” came the reply over their radio.
“We’re underway now. Should have the Nippon Blue in sight in another ten minutes.”
“Roger. See you there.”
The boat struggled through the swells as it followed the Nippon Blue at an oblique angle. All lights, except those on the instrument panel, were again shut off. The six cops braced themselves around the wheel and constantly watched the radar screen. There were many blips on the screen, despite the foul weather. They watched only two with interest. Then the sergeant directed them to a third.
“There’s Harbor 2,“ he said and pointed to a dot on the right of the screen.
“How far away is it?” Markowitz asked.
“We have the screen set at twelve miles,” the sergeant replied. “We’re about two miles apart now. I hope those fellas don’t start feeling the squeeze.”
Focused again on the radar screen, Sam watched the four dots closing. Only two were headed directly toward each other, but the distance separating the four was constantly shrinking. It seemed that their common interest would appear obvious to anyone watching the screen, but he reminded himself that those in the Nippon Blue and its approaching accomplice had something else on their minds.
Harbor 2 stopped when it reached the main sea-lanes. There was another boat waiting in the lane about a half-mile north of it. Farther north still, southbound, was the slow-moving blip of the much larger ship headed toward Elliott Bay.
“By god,” the sergeant said, “this might actually work.”
Sam searched through the windows for sight of the Nippon Blue. A new wave of rain passed over them, and the wind was increasing again. The lights on the Seattle shore became indistinct, and there were none visible on the west side of the Sound. In front of them, there was only blackness. He picked up a light that flickered on and off like a dying light bulb.
“That must be them,” he said, pointing ahead and to the right. “Do you see their lights?”
It took a moment for the others’ eyes to adjust after leaving the radar screen, but one by one they confirmed the image.
“How far away are we?” Sam asked.
“Less than five hundred yards,” the sergeant said.
“I think the other boat has stopped,” Johnson said. “They both stopped.”
“Probably sniffing each other like a couple of dogs,” Markowitz said. “I see the lights now from the other boat.”
“Slow it down easy,” the sergeant said. “We don’t want to blow by them if they decide to go somewhere else.”
“We can’t change direction now,” Sam said. “They’d make us for sure.”
“I know that. But they’re just sitting there.”
“Look,” Johnson said, “they just shut down their lights. Now they’re on again.”
“Must be a signal,” Markowitz said. “Let’s hope it’s the right one.”
“We’re going in now,” Sam said. “Keep us moving until we’re ready to drop and then pick it up easy when we’re free. Don’t change direction. Stop when you’re north of them a mile or so. Line up with the others.”
“You’re still pretty far away,” the sergeant said.
“I know. You ready, Turner?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Kat?”
“I’m ready.”
Sam led the way out to the deck. Johnson stayed at the wheel and eased the throttle back while Sam unleashed the kayak. Turner held the back of the kayak and Katherine the front. Sam pulled the waist skirt off the rim of the kayak and strapped it around him.
Using the ropes tied to front and rear grommets, Turner and Katherine carried the kayak around the cabin to the stern and lowered it over the rail. The sergeant and Markowitz replaced them on the rope lines. Each had a flashlight that they pointed straight down into the water so that the light would not reflect toward the Nippon Blue.
“Shut it down, Johnson!” the sergeant yelled.
As though an anchor had been thrown overboard, the police cruiser dragged down to a halt. Turner had already straddled the railing and was reaching his feet toward the rear hatch before the boat stopped. Katherine followed his example in the front. With the ropes, Markowitz and the sergeant held the kayak high in the water. As a swell brought the kayak up to meet him, Turner dropped into place. Sam climbed over the rail and held on to Katherine’s jumpsuit.
“Okay. Get in,” he said.
She lowered herself from the rail until her feet touched the sliced hatch cover. She let go. He thought she would tumble out, but she grabbed the edge of the compartment and wiggled into it. Sam dropped into the cockpit and stretched the elastic waist skirt over the rim. Markowitz released the rope supporting the back and the kayak swung around to face the stern of the police boat. Then the sergeant tossed his rope to Katherine, who stuffed the loose end between her legs. Sam felt the shotguns to make sure they were still in place, then waved for the police boat to go.
“Ease her forward, Johnson,” the sergeant yelled.
The engine picked up speed and the police boat left them behind.
“Let’s go,” Sam shouted.
Katherine and Turner thrust their paddles into the water at the same time. It was so dark that Sam could barely see them although they were only a few feet away. He could not see the swells at all. He would have to respond to them by feel. He was accustomed to the Sound at night but not on a night like this. Always before, he had been close enough to shore to navigate with reflected light. This far out with the rain obscuring what little light reached them, he knew it was possible they might not find their targets. It was possible they might not find anything. Simply staying upright was a chore as swells broke and poured over them, no matter how good his feel. Off and on, however, he could see the lights from the two boats, and he steered as well as he could for the dark passage between them.
Turner was a natural athlete. His rhythm was forceful and steady. Katherine’s stroke was less rhythmic but just as determined.
“They’re moving toward each other,” Sam shouted in Turner’s direction.
The wind carried away Turner’s reply, but Sam caught the gist of it. It had something to do with mothers and divine intervention.
Under his breath, although it would not have mattered if he had yelled it out, he began to urge Gloria forward. As though she were a living thing or more than a living thing, he sought her help.
As the two target boats came together, Sam estimated that Gloria was still about two hundred yards away. At first the lights moved separately like two fishing bobbers in rough water. Then there came a unity of movement, and he guessed that they had tied together. He thought he saw a shadow on deck, although the image disappeared so quickly he couldn’t be sure. Then the lights went out.
“Shit!” Turner’s response was unmistakable.
Sam looked frantically for bearings—a light somewhere that would act as a reference point. There was none. There was only the wind. The angle at which it struck him was behind, slightly to the left, and he could feel and hear the change as he moved his head. Katherine had stopped paddling as though there were nothing left to go for.
“Keep going,” Sam shouted to her. “Keep going,” he yelled back to Turner. “I know where they are. Let’s go.”
In fact he knew about where the boats were when the lights went out. Where they would drift in a few minutes with the wind and current was a different matter. He had to get close enough to see something before the boats moved too far. Their paddles grabbed the water in a desperate effort. He felt like a marathon runner sensing the finish line and pushed himself to sprint to the end.
He began counting his strokes. At fifty, he started over. At fifty again, he started over. Three times fifty, and he was struggling for air. The wind took it away. Three times fifty, and he had seen nothing. He should have seen something by then. Four times fifty would be too far.
A change of the darkness, a mere feeling of the change was what he noticed. It was sharply to the right—almost close enough to feel. He saw a dim light suspended in darkness. It couldn’t be more than thirty or forty feet away. He grabbed Katherine’s shoulder and pulled her back.
“To the right,” he shouted in a whisper.
For a moment he thought she would rise out of the kayak or strike him down, but she recovered from his unexpected hand. He reached back, but Turner was already nodding with such force that Sam felt his acknowledgment through the grip he had on Turner’s jumpsuit.
“Stop paddling. Get the shotguns.” That was all he could say for a moment as he corrected their course and kept them upright through a swell. He saw Katherine reach back for a shotgun and rip the plastic away. Turner chambered a shell. When he glanced back, he saw Turner holding the gun in front of him like the balancing pole of a tightrope walker.
Unsure from which side to approach, Sam groped toward the dim light. Although he had promised the kayak could turn on a dime, he was having trouble making it turn in any circle. The extra dead weight did not help.
Gradually he determined the outline of the boats. The Nippon Blue had turned 180 degrees from what he had expected. He turned Gloria back into the wind and pushed and pulled and urged her to the stern of the near-black boat. Katherine had her shotgun pointed toward their target. Sam half-expected a blast to come from one boat or the other at any moment.
When they were within a few feet of the Nippon‘s stern, Katherine put the shotgun between her legs and reached for the rear platform. The boat’s inboard motor was idling at low speed. Sam tried to control the final approach so that they wouldn’t slam into the other boat, and for agonizing seconds he saw the shadowy image of Katherine’s outstretched and empty arms.
Despite his efforts the kayak lurched the final few feet and practically threw Katherine into the Nippon Blue. He could only hope that no one onboard heard the crash. Katherine tied Gloria‘s rope to the stern plate, and Sam pushed Gloria around so that Turner could also reach the boat. Turner lashed his rope to a protruding handgrip. Sam shoved his paddle under a rubber strap and ripped away the skirt strap ar
ound his waist. While Turner scrambled onto the step, Sam pulled out the last shotgun, slipped away the plastic, and chambered a round.
Turner reached out a hand and pulled him onto the step. Sam grabbed Katherine’s arm and pulled her up with them. Water, either from the Sound or the rain, sprayed over them. He could taste salt, so at least some of it was from the Sound. They huddled for a moment on the step as they became used to the rolling motion of the boat, then they rose together to peek over the deck four feet above their platform.
There were ten or twelve feet of open deck between them and the cabin. Sam thought he saw movement close to the cabin on the port side next to the rail. He was sure of it when he saw a glow against the backdrop. The idiot was smoking a cigarette. How he could light it in such weather was hard to imagine, but Sam was grateful that he had persisted.
Turner pulled him down below the railing again.
“One guy,” he whispered to them. “The rest must be in the cabin. You cover me. I’ll put him out. Then we go into the cabin.”
“What about the other boat?” Sam asked.
“Did you see anybody there?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Here, take my shotgun,” Turner whispered. “Wrap your legs around the ladder. Safety’s on, one in the chamber.”
Sam handed Turner’s gun to Katherine. For support, he stuck his foot through the bottom rung of the ladder as Turner had suggested. Turner grabbed the ladder with both hands.
“Stay low,” Sam whispered.
Turner paused momentarily, signaled with his hand that he would follow Sam’s advice, and hoisted himself up. Sam clicked off the safety on the shotgun. With his finger outside the trigger guard, he pointed at the cigarette glow and hoped the cigarette would last a long time.
Turner circled away from the man, as far as the deck would permit, until he was against the cabin wall. Unless he had followed him from the beginning, Sam would not have seen Turner at all. Against the white cabin, however, his outline was more distinct. When Turner was within feet of his target, the man suddenly turned around. Sam’s finger moved to the trigger but held back when Turner lunged forward and struck the man in the solar plexus. The man doubled over, but was straightened again as Turner snapped his neck back into a chokehold. No air was going to come back in to replace that which was forced out, and the man’s arms flailed in a futile effort to resist.
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