"Something wrong, sir?"
"Fuze is missing."
"Do we need it?"
"Yes. We certainly do."
Another marine came in carrying a Tredegar muzzle-down. He looked exhausted and his blackened face was smeared. "All them Yankees quit fightin' up front," he said in a North Florida accent.
"SIR?" A booming voice, amplified, startling them all. "THIS IS SARNT CAULFIELD PROM THE, UH, THE TOP PART OF THIS SHIP, HERE. NEED SOME DIRECTION UP HERE RIGHT AWAY. SIR."
"I'II go," said Mitchell. "Caulfield's wondering which way to aim the pointy end."
"Just a minute, Captain. The fuze. Where can it be?"
The marine hesitated. "Well, sir — if it's important, maybe the commanding officer wanted to keep it."
"I'm coming up with you. You men" — Quidley pointed at the others — "guard it. Try to find out how to get those doors in the ceiling open."
The President McClellan's bridge was brightly lighted now. A dark fluid covered part of the floor, glistening wetly; he smelled blood and burnt powder. "One of the ship's officers — big blond guy," said Caulfield.
"Where is he?"
"Over the side. He was the only one resisted, sir."
"You, what's your name?" Quidley asked the only Yankee officer he saw, a dark-mustached young man wearing a single stripe.
"Me? Montesano. Ensign Montesano."
"Are we on course, Mr. Montesano?"
"For where?"
"Fort Monroe, you idiot. Where you were going."
"This is the same course we've been on since midnight," said the man sullenly.
Quidley felt sweat spring under his uniform. He had no idea where they were on this dark sea, or where they were headed. The mustached officer seemed to take courage from his expression. "Look here," he said, "this is an act of war. This is piracy. And murder. Mr. Larsson was—"
"The one who was killed? He was resisting us, sir. I advise you not to repeat his mistake, and cooperate with us."
"Why should I?"
Quidley waved grandly at the black behind the windows. "Do you know where we are?"
"No. I was asleep below when I heard—"
"Then I advise you to find out, Mr. Montesano. For the safety of the ship and all aboard her." Not bad, he thought. He wished Norris could see him now.
The Yankee stared at him a moment longer, scowl fading into uncertainty; then, suddenly, moved to the chart table. "Wilson, mark your head," he said harshly.
"One-seven-zero, sir," said the sailor at the wheel, a bit too quickly.
"Has that been our course since the — the incident?"
"Except for a minute or two, when I got scared, yes sir."
"Stay on course for Fort Monroe," said Quidley.
"Monroe! They'll — " He fell silent, glancing meaningfully at the helmsman. "All right. I'll get you there."
"Where's the ship's captain, Mr. Montesano?"
"Wilson, wasn't Captain Higgins up here last watch?"
"Yes, sir — he went back aft just before these people came."
Quidley remembered the man he'd met in the dark. "I know where he is. Ensign, detail a man to show us to his cabin."
"Detail him yourself," said the Yankee, glaring down at the chart.
Quidley picked out the most craven-looking man on the bridge, a short pasty-faced fellow trying to squeeze himself out of sight in a corner. "Let's go, you."
On the way he stopped to search Higgins's body. The jingle of keys rewarded a few seconds' work. He looked down at the now-cold body. So that had been the captain. Lucky he'd got him first, but… he remembered the crunch of the heavy saber into bone and shuddered.
"Now take me to his cabin," he said.
It was tiny, painted metal walls, no decoration at all. He quickly found the safe, at the head of the narrow bunk. The fifth key fit it. Three code books, which he flipped through and then stuffed under his sword belt, a worn Colt pistol, and, far back in the safe, a long, cylindrical metal case. He drew it out carefully and unscrewed the cap. A metallic gleam inside… pins, to interlock inside the shell casing. This was it. He tossed the gun back in the safe, locked it, and motioned the quivering seaman out ahead of him. On the way back up to the bridge he dropped the keys over the side.
The next hour was fairly busy. With the help of the marines, and the gunpoint advice of some of the crew, he got the shell uncrated and moved under the hold doors overhead with a bomb dolly. He forced the crew to rig the freighter's boom, watching them carefully for any attempt at sabotage. It was after four when he gave the order to open the hold doors.
By 4:10 the shell dangled halfway up, swaying slightly, but with the effect of great mass, as the ship rolled. Looking up at it, he felt the first drops of rain from the black square of the open doors. "Hold it there," he shouted, and to the marines on deck, "Keep a sharp eye on them."
"These bluebellies won't try anything, Major," said the Floridian.
"Don't get overconfident." He wiped his brow. It was hot in the hold and in all the activity he'd left his helmet somewhere. Now he faced the trickiest part of the operation. He headed for the bridge again.
"See anything?" he asked Mitchell, who stood by the wheel, watching the Yankees.
"Not yet."
They stared out into the dark line of the sea. During his work in the hold the ship had changed course and now he recognized the low headland of Virginia Beach to the left. It was still very dark and would be for some time yet.
"We should see it soon," said Mitchell.
The Yankee officer pointed ahead. "Is that what you're looking for?"
Quidley reached for a pair of binoculars. Low in the water, a mile or so ahead, rode two lights: red over red. Below them he could just make out the motionless black-against-black of the hull of a small boat.
"That's it," he said, exhaling.
Everything was going according to plan.
THIRTEEN
She lay crumpled in one of the fishing chairs, eyes closed, trying not to vomit. The fumes made her head spin, and the boat was rolling hard in the open waters of the Roads. And she was scared.
Lying in the dark, Vyry wondered if they'd all be dead by morning.
Up forward, in the stolen tuna boat's little wheelhouse, the men were talking. A white-sounding voice she identified as Leo's was explaining how he intended to approach the Navy boat that waited somewhere ahead. "She'll be standing still, maybe even anchored, waiting for the other boat to arrive. They won't be expecting us. We'll come right up to them—"
"That won't work." Turner's voice.
"Why not?"
"They got guns too. We run up on 'em and they shoot us out the water before we ever get a chance to use these."
"What do you want to do?"
"Let me go."
She sat up. What was he saying? She got up quietly and went forward and crouched to hear better.
"Bo, you got the wheel. Which way'd you say the tide's runnin'?"
Finnick: "I'd say she startin' to ebb, Johnny."
"Then here's what we do. Willie, you boys, listen here."
"Go on, Johnny, we listening."
"We got maybe eight more miles to go. So we get there about three. That's early for a fishing boat going out but not too early. If we goes right on by out the channel they think we a fishing boat. Specially if they get a good look at us."
"I see that," said Leo. "But if we go by, how—"
"Shut up and listen. Put me over the side on the way by. Upstream. Tide going out. I'll swim, come right down on 'em. You say they'll be lit up?"