Once clear of Valletta Harbor, the MV Maria Dolores throttled up its Rolls-Royce Kamewa 80 SII engines and put out to sea. Powered by six water jets, the sixty-eight-meter catamaran could make thirty-six knots running at ninety percent capacity. The Australian-built vessel’s 4.6-meter clearance height (in combination with T-foil and interceptor ride control) enabled safe, year-round operation, regardless of unpredictable Mediterranean conditions. Accordingly, the experienced captain wasn’t concerned by a wall of thunderclouds looming on the eastern horizon. Over the intercom he advised his passengers that the stormy forecast was no cause for alarm. The Maria Dolores was designed and built for rough weather. Heavy seas might slow their voyage to Sicily, but there was no danger.
Paul led Ava through the posh club-class lounge to the observation deck. They leaned against a painted metal rail and watched the evening sun dip behind Mount Sciberras. As Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra warbled through the tinny loudspeaker, Paul thought how perfectly a white cotton dress complemented Ava’s tanned skin. Her long hair danced in the maritime breeze, defying her efforts to tame it. With a smile, he asked, “Where are we headed?”
“Pozzallo.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. I believe that was the birthplace of the immortal Homer.”
She giggled. “No, just a quaint Sicilian fishing town. It has an excellent harbor, which made it an important fourteenth-century outpost. Now it’s the main port for Ragusa Province.” She paused, brow knitted in concentration. “Actually, it might be the only port in Ragusa Province…”
Amused, Paul watched Ava search her memory. After a few seconds, he said, “It’s okay. We can look it up later.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she said, then grinned.
“What should we do while we’re there?”
She thought, “Hide out, stay safe, not get killed,” but she said, “We might tour the Cabrera Tower. It dates back to the 1400s.”
He made a sour face.
“Or there are pretty beaches.”
“Yes! I vote for the beach.” He knelt and opened his backpack, wondering if he’d remembered swim trunks. He nudged aside the priceless golden disks and dug through the odd laundry. He didn’t see his trunks, but, happily, he found Ava’s black bikini. He pulled out the bottoms and announced, “Look! We still have—”
“Put that away immediately,” Ava scolded. She grabbed the backpack, zipped it closed, and hefted it over her shoulder.
Convinced that durmdvl’s suspicions were valid, Gabe didn’t dare call Ava. His only hope was that their enemies hadn’t yet twigged the stratagem of inserting edited text messages into the satphone. In desperation, he typed: “Current escape plan likely compromised. Strongly recommend you cancel tickets. CHANGE PLANS and find another route! G”
Moments later, in Malta, the satphone blinked. Sheik Ahmed opened the text, read Gabe’s warning, and smiled. He pocketed Ava’s phone and watched the doomed catamaran vanish into the distance.
The aft engine rooms were quite cramped. In fact, the challenge of squeezing three enormous water jets into each slim hull had involved some complex engineering. To create room for the intakes and drivelines, the designers chose to mount powerful boosters above and between the tandem steering jets. It was a good design, but it necessitated running all six fuel lines through the transom. To generate its 2,465 kW (roughly 3,300 HP), each jet required a generous allowance of high-octane gas. Thus, at any given moment, a surprisingly large volume of refined petroleum pumped through the nexus.
Thunder clapped as the storm began rocking the ship. In response, the captain turned the bow into the wind and gently increased the rate at which fuel coursed through the engines. Meanwhile, inside an apparently misplaced crate labeled johnny walker scotch, a digital timer counted down the final seconds until 00:00.
A raindrop hit Paul’s ear. Ava was oblivious, watching waves grow into whitecaps.
“Hey,” Paul said, touching her forearm, “let’s get inside before all the chairs are taken.”
“That sounds good.”
She looked queasy. Maybe she was nervous about the weather. Or maybe she was getting seasick. They went into the lounge but couldn’t find two seats together. Frustrated, Ava looked to Paul for guidance.
“Here.” He directed her to an available place. “You sit. I’ll see if they have hot cocoa.”
Her expression implied that cocoa didn’t appeal.
“What about some proper grog?” He did his best impression of a bandy-legged pirate. Ava managed a weak smile.
“Maybe bottled water?”
“Aye, aye.”
He saluted, executed an about-face, and crossed the rolling deck to the bar. He spied the cocktail waitress, a slender Italian brunette in skimpy white shorts and a tube top. Paul thought she must be freezing. He estimated her age to be twenty. She watched him approach with undisguised interest. “Ciao, bella,” he said. “May I see your menu?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but instead the world turned upside down. Paul experienced a bizarre sensation of weightlessness until his head slammed into the unforgiving metal ceiling. Then the lights went out.
It seemed as though a long time elapsed before he regained consciousness. When Paul opened his eyes, the ship was aflame. The club lounge was a shattered waste of broken glass and twisted steel, and it was eerily silent. Through acrid smoke, he saw wrecked furniture and motionless bodies strewn about. Abruptly, his mind focused. A single, urgent need consumed him: Find Ava.
He tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t work. Plan B: He grabbed a dented stanchion, yanked himself upright, and found the young waitress. She was in shock, holding a paper napkin against her bloody scalp and staring into space.
“Hey!” Paul tried to yell. “Get up! Get to the lifeboats!” She didn’t move. It seemed his voice didn’t work, either. Then the girl snapped back to reality. Bursting into tears, she grabbed Paul’s hand and began mouthing words, but he heard nothing. At that point, Paul realized that he’d been deafened.
After gently extricating himself from her grasp, he climbed, hand over hand, back to where he’d left Ava. The seat no longer existed — it had been replaced by a tangle of smoldering debris. Somewhere, down in his gut, an inconceivable, poisonous, fatal query stirred: Is she dead? He weakened. Then, with fury, he banished the question from his mind. He had no time for it.
At this point, Paul began shouting — though he was unaware of any sound coming from his mouth. He might have screamed Ava’s name or cursed fate or even roared like a lion; it was a mystery to him. All he perceived was blood pounding in his temples. He dived through the shattered window and wriggled out onto the hull, seeking a high point from which to reconnoiter. He began climbing. Soon he could survey the catastrophe’s full extent.
The Maria Dolores was a total loss. Hundreds must be dead. Valiant crewmen were helping survivors escape, filling lifeboats and lowering them from enormous davits. An officer waved and probably shouted instructions. Paul ignored him. He prayed that Ava was safe aboard a lifeboat, but somehow he knew she wasn’t. He’d climbed rather high before he realized how slick the rain made the metal hull. Paul missed a handhold and began to slide. The instinctual terror of falling generated a blast of adrenaline, shocking his leg muscles into action. Kicking and groping, he arrested his descent by snagging a cable and pushing the toe of his boot through a broken porthole. The storm had grown, and Paul guessed this precarious perch was the best vantage point he’d attain. Using his free hand to shield his eyes from the rain, he scanned left and right. He saw several corpses, including the dismembered body of a young woman. His heart stopped. For a two-second eternity, he wasn’t sure. Finally, he exhaled. Not Ava.