JANUARY

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE LET me sleep so long, Ops,” Sara said.

“No, ma’am,” Ops said, not looking at Hugh.

Truth was, Sara felt immeasurably more alert after four unbroken hours of sleep. She’d been wakened by the pipe telling the crew that dinner was being served in the galley and had been made very aware that it was well past time to pee. She staggered down the hall to the head, and when she got up again, she looked down and saw that blood had dried all down the front of her uniform. Captain Lowe’s blood.

The deck lurched beneath her feet and she thought she was going to throw up. Instead she went back to her room for clean clothes and returned to the head, where she took a long, hot shower, bracing herself against the rolling of the ship so she could stay beneath the showerhead. At least the terrorists hadn’t taken out the hot-water heater.

Half an hour later, wearing clean clothes, she felt like a new woman. “Did I miss dinner?” she said, surveying the empty serving dishes on the wardroom dining table, the half-empty dining plates before each officer. Looked like country-fried steak. Her mouth watered.

“Wooster!”

Wooster’s pale face peered out of the wardroom pantry. “Yes, sir?”

“The XO needs food,” Ops said. “Go down to the crew’s mess and go through the serving line for her, will you? A little of everything.”

“Coming right up, sir.” Wooster vanished.

“Ops,” she said, “you’re sitting in my chair.”

He met her eyes and said evenly, “No, ma’am. I’m not.”

The only empty chair was the captain’s chair at the head of the table. Her eyes traveled around the table and she saw nothing on any face but expectation, acceptance, and approval.

She swallowed hard and sat down, and was instantly aware of the feeling of relief emanating from the other officers. The U.S. Coast Guard was the closest thing the U.S. military had to an egalitarian service, but when all was said and done, Hugh was right. They wanted to be led. With that expectation came the added burden of the appearance of leadership.

“You would have woke me up if communications had come back on line,” she said to Ops, “so I’m guessing it hasn’t.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. We finally got Sparks up the mast to the communications array. The sat dish is literally in pieces, it’s going to have to be replaced. The antennas-you’d think they’d been aiming straight for them, because they’re wrecked, too. We managed to raise a fishing vessel south of St. George on the VHF, but we lost ‘em again before we could yell for help. And,” he said, looking at Hugh, “someone made the suggestion that it might not be wise to broadcast our location over a channel everyone in the Bering Sea stands by on.”

Which would very probably include the Star of Bali. “Good point. How are the wounded?”

“Maintaining. Doc’s shot them full of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories and I forget what else, and he says they should hold until we get to port. Well.” He looked at her. “Depending.”

“Depending,” she said, nodding. She didn’t ask about the helo because there was no way they could have received word. She wondered if the aviators had been able to raise anyone on their radios before they reached Cape Navarin. If they had reached Cape Navarin. “What about damage to the ship other than the fatal injuries to communications?”

“The portside small boat got torn up. We’re patching it up.”

“EO?”

Nate McDonald pushed his glasses up his nose and blinked owlishly at Sara. “The generators and the engines are good for another thousand miles, if we need them, ma’am. Nothing came anywhere near them.”

Lucky for the pirates, Sara thought, because if anything had happened to the engines or the EO’s best beloved Caterpillar generators, the EO would have swum to the Agafia under his own steam and slit all their throats. Which reminded her. “How is Ryan holding up?”

“He said fine, until the Agafia dropped out of range of the handhelds.”

“No working radios on board the Agafia, I suppose.”

“They were all destroyed when she was taken.”

“Pretty thorough, our pirates.” Yes, ma am.

She turned back to McDonald. “How are we on fuel?”

“We’ve got enough to get us to Melbourne and back, Captain.”

“Just get us to Seward, EO.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wooster came through the door with a plate so overloaded it was dripping sausage gravy all around the edge. He set it down hastily in front of her, and produced flatware and a handful of napkins. “Be careful, ma’am, it’s hot.”

“Thanks, Wooster.”

He beamed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Wooster,” Ops said. “Dismissed, and close the door behind you, please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Wooster left the room, the door closing gently behind him.

“Where are we?” Sara said, tucking in.

“Thirty miles west of Unimak,” Ops said.

“We made good time, and against the wind, too,” Sara said. “Well done, EO. Given even a little luck, we just might catch them.”

“We’re about due for some luck,” Ops said.

“Hear, hear.”

“What do we do if we do catch them, ma’am?” This from Ensign Ostlund, a serious young man who would go on to flight school in June, if they all survived. A dedicated planner, Ostlund never made a move without knowing what was going to happen next.

“I don’t know,” Sara said. “Let’s discuss that, shall we?” She gestured with her fork. “To recap. Mr. Rincon seems to think they’re carrying a mobile missile launcher on board, armed with a chemical warhead. How certain are we that this is the case, Mr. Rincon?”

Hugh, seated at the foot of the table, said, “I’d give my right hand if I could show you statements from witnesses to the bomb being built and loaded on board. It’s a gut thing, Captain, based on circumstantial evidence and eyewitness accounts.” Before the chief could say anything he added, “Which are not always reliable, I admit, but taken all together, plus the attack by the Agafia, I find pretty convincing. That attack was a deliberate feint, designed to draw attention away from the Star of Bali and their real mission.”

Sara looked around the table and didn’t see a lot of skepticism, which surprised her. After the boarding of the Agafia and the big zero they had found there, she had expected to have to lean on her officers to listen to Hugh ever again. So far as she could tell, they weren’t even thinking about how Hugh Rincon and Sara Lange were husband and wife, and that in and of itself was a minor miracle. It was amazing how being shot at cleared your head of extraneous detail.

“Since our gunnery officer is on detached duty at present, Mr. Rincon, tell us about Scud missiles in general, and anything you know about this one in particular.”

He stood up, swayed a little with the motion of the ship, and went to the dry board. “The original Scud, the R-17, was based on the V-2 rocket built by German scientists and captured by the Russian army at the end of World War II. It’s simple, reliable, and easily mass-produced. They call it the AK-47 of the missile world. Even the Russians don’t know how many they built, and nobody knows how many were built by others ripping off the original design. The original Scud and subsequent models are known to have been exported to Afghanistan, Hungary, Romania, Vietnam, Egypt, Iran, Iraq-” He stopped. “Actually, it’d probably take less time to list the countries the Russians haven’t sold Scuds to.

“Specifically, a Scud’s purpose is to bombard enemy positions, staging areas, and cities, anywhere the enemy is grouped together into a big enough target. The Scud isn’t exactly a precision instrument, but then, with a maximum seventy-kiloton nuclear warhead, it doesn’t have to be.”