Four brilliant floods turned the falling raindrops into silvery tracers that winked out as they disappeared into the open hold. Around the smooth massiveness of the suspended shell danced a mist of spattering water that glowed like a multicolored halo. It turned slowly, dangling at the end of a thread of steel from the after-cargo boom.
"It'll make it hard on the men in the pickup boat," said Mitchell, beside him on the bridge wing. "Wrestling all that weight around on their little deck—"
"They'll have to manage." Quidley cursed petulantly as a cold trickle found its way inside his collar. It was raining harder, fat heavy drops, surprisingly cold for July. "Where the devil did they get to?"
"Coming around back of us, sir." The marine pointed, and he turned. There they were. Two red lights, shimmering in the rain, and under them a dark shape against the darker sea. They were quite close. But he wanted them right alongside before he risked swinging the shell out. If that cable broke… he cupped his hands. What had been the name of that FPB fellow?
"Haile!"
An answer drifted back, barely audible above the sound of rain and engines. "Heah."
"Come alongside," he shouted down. Something inaudible, but apparently agreement.
He watched as it neared, neared… a grating sound came up as, below him, the two hulls kissed. He walked to the edge, careful of his footing on the wet steel, and looked down. The boat looked smaller from up here than it had alongside the pier at Little Creek. But it was the same craft, low, rakish, built for speed. He noted the chocks ready amidships. But something was wrong. There were only two men on deck.
"Hello there," he called down. "Ready for your cargo?"
A pale face turned up to him, pale in the glare of the floodlights. The other — the one at the wheel — had his hat pulled down against the rain and did not look up. "Send it down," he heard, faintly.
"Where's the rest of your men?"
"… rain," he heard faintly.
"Better get them on deck," he bawled. He turned to Mitchell. "Let's get things moving. We've only an hour till dawn."
"Sarnt Caulfield! Get that shell swung out. Watch those sailors—"
"Yessir. Swing that out, you. Any tricks, the lot of you get it." The sergeant waved his submachine gun meaningfully.
A motor whined. The shell rose a few more feet, then began to rotate outward as the boom swung. The deck leaned slightly under his feet. The shell passed low over the rail, brushing a lifeline; the wire vibrated like a plucked string. Quidley bit his lips. If it went in the water… he felt inside his tunic for the fuze. He felt vaguely that he should keep it dry, though he knew that was nonsense.
The winch motor whined again, in a different note, and the shell, rainwater streaming from its gray-green bulk, began to descend. He leaned out to watch.
Several more men were visible on the boat now, standing with heads bent against the rain. The shell moved downward, stopped, swung ponderously — "You there, pull on that rope," Caulfield shouted — righted itself, roughly parallel to the line of the chocks, and then resumed its downward creep. It was coming down too close to the boat's stern, but before he could say anything the man at the wheel tugged at his throttles, reversed his engines, and the craft edged a few feet backward. He relaxed. They knew what they were doing.
The motor changed pitch again, climbing the scale, and the men below, gathered around the shell, shoved in unison. The wire went slack.
"There," he breathed.
He watched as the handlers, bracing themselves on the slippery, rolling deck, tossed restraining straps over the shell and made them fast. "Good work," he shouted, leaning far out over the rail. "Damned nice work, boys."
And stopped. One had glanced up at his voice. He was black.
No, he corrected himself. Not black; just in blackface, like his own marines. He looked at Mitchell, beside him. The makeup was running in the rain, but at a distance, yes, he could be mistaken for colored.
The end of the cable, free now, whined upward. The engines of the craft below roared and he realized they didn't know about him, that he had to go with it. "Hey!" he shouted. "You in the boat. Hold up!"
The one without makeup looked upward. Quidley clattered down the ladder and ran across the main deck. He reached for the heavy steel hook as it came up on the cable. It was cold, rain-wet, greasy, but he could hold on for long enough to get down.
"Wait for me," he bawled down, into the boat riding below.
The man below hesitated, then nodded. He said something to the one at the wheel. Quidley called to Mitchell, "Captain, I'm accompanying it on, as per my orders. You're clear on what to do from here on?"
"Yes, sir. Take her back out. Destroyer'll pick us up off the Cape. Then" — he motioned at the knot of sailors who stood, wet and silent, ringed by the armed marines — "proceed as planned."
"Ah, right." He looked hastily away from the Yankees. An ugly business, shooting unarmed men. He was grateful he'd miss that part of it. He swallowed and looked over the side. The man below waved impatiently and he stepped up, gripped the hook, tight, and swung himself over the rail and free of the ship.
The cable, unwinding, spun him round, and he heard the winch whine again. The floods made bright red trails. Rain lashed at him with redoubled force. He felt its moisture creep under his locked fingers, and under his weight they began to slip apart on the uncaring smooth metal of the hook. He saw the hull, tilted over him, water running down the rusty flaking paint.
"Get him," said someone below, and he felt hands on him and a moment later the blessed firmness of the boat's deck under his boots.
Then things seemed to happen very quickly. The hook was torn from his hands and several more people laid hold of his arms and legs, pulling at his holster, at his clothes, at his sword. The engines roared, very loud, and he felt the boat tilt into a tight turn. The sheer rusty gray sides slanted away, melting into the mist, and they rolled on an empty sea. "I'm all right now," he said. "You can let go now—"
"Are you?"
Something in the voice made him blink and try to see in the sudden dark. Even the red lights at the patrol boat's masthead had gone out, and he couldn't see. Couldn't see —
"Who is this? Anybody knows him?"
He felt a chill. The voice was low and indistinct above the hammer of engines, yet there was something… he tried to shake off the hands. Instead they tightened their grip.
"Yeah. I know him."
Did he know that voice, that deep tone? No. But now he recognized where he was, what manner of men he was among. He shivered, unable to grasp or believe what he suspected. The boat — the shell —
"Search him," said the first voice.
"Then give him to me," said the second.
It was familiar, that deep voice, but not one that he could place, just yet. "Look," he said, "I'm Major Quidley. What's happening here? Who are you? Where are we—"
He didn't get to finish. A blow to his get doubled him over, gagging.
"Finnick, where you headin'?"
"In through Lynnhaven Inlet, I guess."
"Half an hour, or so. Let's get whitey below."
"What are you doing with him?"
"Shut up, Leo." The deep voice again. "This man my meat. This the man did me over."
No one spoke after that. Quidley stifled a moan. Hands were unbuttoning his tunic.
"He got something here."
"Gun?"
"No… here, feel it."
"Who got a light?"
A flashlight came on, showing the metallic cylinder of the fuze. By its light he saw the faces around him for the first time. His heart sank. They were all colored. Even the man he'd taken for the captain. Close up, the hair, the lips… octoroon. Not one white man.
He was in the hands of the Railroad.