“Oh, the last time he was here he took the watch schedule with him,” Sozansky said. “I thought you might want to know.”
“I gave him a copy this afternoon.”
Sozansky shrugged. “Maybe he’s going to change it. Captain’s prerogative.”
“Yeah,” Vasquez said. He left the bridge and went down one deck to officers’ territory. Just at his cabin door, he hesitated for a moment. If their new captain was prowling the ship, maybe he was looking for something; maybe the man’s instincts were telling him that something was wrong.
No one was out and about at this hour of the morning. The bridge was manned and the engine room would have someone on duty to watch over the machinery, and he supposed the cook and his assistant might be stirring by now, prepping for breakfast. But most of the crew and officers were in bed, asleep, as he should be.
He let himself into his cabin, careful to make as little noise as possible, so as not to wake up his girlfriend, Alicia Mora. She was one of the stewards, and she’d have to get up in a couple of hours to help set up the officers’ wardroom for breakfast.
None of them had gotten much sleep in the past few days, trying to make the ship as presentable as possible for their new master. Last night when she’d come to him, she’d been tired and a little cranky. After they’d had a couple of glasses of wine and made love, she’d fallen asleep and had not awoken when Vasquez got out of bed, got dressed, and went up to the bridge.
“Jaime,” she called softly.
“Go back to sleep,” Vasquez said. He got undressed, hanging his clothes over his desk chair.
“What time is it?” Alicia asked sleepily. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he told her. “Now, go back to sleep, you’ve got a couple hours.”
The bedside light came on. Alicia was sitting up in bed, her short dark hair standing on end in spikes. The covers had fallen away exposing her tiny, milk-white breasts. “British girls don’t get tans,” she’d explained to him. “We just burn and peel.”
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “I can see it on your face.”
He kissed her, and got into bed beside her, propping up his pillow so that he could lie back against the bulkhead. She came into his arms, and he held her against his chest. When they were first getting to know each other, they had sat up in bed talking like this sometimes the entire night. He was taking her with him aboard his new ship, and after their first cruise he was going to ask her to marry him. They were lovers, but even more important they were friends. She had become his sounding board.
“It’s our new captain,” he said.
“What about him?”
“I don’t trust him,” Vasquez said. “I don’t know what it is, but something’s not quite right with the man.” He looked down into Alicia’s large brown eyes. “He’s been turning up all over the place at all hours of the day. Like he’s looking for something.”
“It’s a new ship for him,” Alicia suggested. “Maybe he’s trying to get the feel for her, and for his crew.”
“The son of a bitch is waiting for us to fuck up,” Vasquez told her, all of a sudden understanding what had been bothering him. “He’s waiting for me to fuck up so he can take away my new command even before I get it. He had me take the ship out. He said he wanted to see how I did.” Vasquez shook his head. “He wanted me to fuck up.”
“So don’t screw up,” Alicia said. “You’re a good officer, otherwise the company wouldn’t have promoted you.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I.”
Something cold stabbed at Vasquez’s heart. “Has he tried to hit on you?” he demanded.
Alicia shook her head. “I almost wish he had,” she said. “When he looks at me, there’s nothing in his eyes. It’s like he was dead. Nobody’s home.” She laughed a little at herself. “Gives me the creeps.”
Graham held up in the starboard stairwell at the officers’ deck. Vasquez had returned to his quarters from the bridge five minutes ago, and it was likely that he was settling in for the rest of the night. It was also likely that the steward who’d come to his cabin around ten would be staying.
He listened to the sounds of his ship; the oddly pitched engine vibrations of the gas turbines, the air coming from the ventilators, perhaps a radio or stereo playing what sounded like American country and western, but from a long ways off, below, perhaps in the crew’s galley. The cook’s assistant was from Chicago, or someplace like that, and he’d been playing hillbilly music when Graham had passed the galley after dinner last night. He’d be up now, prepping for breakfast.
Timing would be everything. If his actions were to be discovered too soon, and an alarm raised, his mission could disintegrate.
Around midnight, less than twelve hours from now, conditions throughout the ship would be essentially the same as they were this morning. It would be the third officer and two ABs on the bridge. He would kill them first, and then send his message.
When he’d received confirmation that the rendezvous was set, he would immediately go to the engine room where he would kill the two or three men on duty.
If he could clear those two spaces without detection, he would return to the officers’ deck where he would kill the chief engineer, and the two remaining deck officers — Vasquez and Sozansky — and the first officer’s woman if she were with him.
He would reload then, and descend one deck to the crews’ quarters where he would work his way down the main alleyway, starboard to port, opening doors and killing everyone in their beds.
He had made up a new crew schedule, so that he would know where every single soul aboard would be located. But it was important that he maintain a running tally of the body count. He did not want to miss anyone who could reach the bridge and radio a Mayday.
It came down to timing and accuracy.
He was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with his name and the name of the ship stenciled on the left breast. In his left pocket was a stopwatch, and in his right a spare flashlight battery, which represented the eighteen-round spare magazine he would carry.
Stuffed in his belt beneath his jacket was a long, three-battery flashlight, which represented the 9mm Steyr GB pistol and silencer he would be using.
Graham turned and went back up to the bridge deck, his non-skid, rubber-soled sneakers whisper silent. He moved like a ghost, an avenging angel, but he felt no emotion other than a sharp desire to do the job right so that he could survive to strike the next blow. And the next.
Sozansky looked up in surprise as Graham came through the hatch. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Graham managed a tight smile. “First night out aboard a new ship.”
Sozansky nodded. “I understand,” he said. He glanced at the integrated display, which showed the ship’s course and speed. “We just finished our first turn to northwest, round Point Gallinas.”
“Right on schedule, are we?”
“Yes, sir.”
Graham went over to the port-wing lookout, put his hand in his left pocket, and started the stopwatch. He turned back to Sozansky and hesitated a moment to simulate pulling the pistol from his belt.
Bang. The officer was down. The two ABs would be startled. They would start to turn. Bang, one of them would go down. Bang, the second would fall.
“Sir, is everything okay?” Sozansky asked.
“Just fine,” Graham said. He would move to the short-range VHF radio, careful not to step in any of the blood that would be pooling on the deck, and send the message.
“Yes, sir,” Sozansky said uncertainly.