"Great view," Admiral Barkley said from Cal 's other side. "Ever seen one of these before?"

"No, sir, I haven't."

"Me, either." Barkley's teeth showed in a smile. "I was in Admiral Mat-son's office when he invited himself along, and I figured it'd be my only chance, so I invited myself along with him."

The CNN reporter, her impeccably coiffed hair beginning to frizz under the influence of so much salt air, was on the main deck below, working her way toward the bow, doing man-on-the-deck interviews, all of it framed by the digital video camera perched on the shoulder of her cameraman. Cal had gone below to introduce himself and welcome them to the ship, introduced them to the XO, suffered through his own interview, and handed them off gladly to Ensign Schrader, the lowest-ranking officer on board and therefore the de facto last stop for all the jobs no one else on Munro wanted.

"It's great being the captain," the XO had said in a low voice as they watched Schrader herd his charges safely past the Darwin sorter. "Although you might have missed an opportunity there with Ms. Teeth."

Cal controlled a quivering lip. "Ms. Trenwith, I believe she said her name was, XO."

"Well, sir, I just wanted you to know you had an in there." The XO's teeth flashed in the dark. "You know, when the astronaut begins to pall."

"Stuff it, XO."

"Certainly, sir," Taffy said, and snapped off a salute.

Munro was idling directly abeam of the shuttle. In spite of it being July and no winds, it was night and cool on the water, and the crew was bundled into fleece jackets. He looked at them crowded up against the railing and the safety lines along the 378 feet of the ship and wondered who was driving.

"Captain?"

It was BMC Gilmartin, who had relieved Lieutenant Barbieri for the watch at 2000 hours. "The Falcon is reporting a freighter in the closed area."

"What?" Cal followed Gilmartin into the bridge. "Have we got it on the radar?"

They went to look at the surface radar, a monitor mounted in a freestanding console with a constant sweep revealing surface contacts in their area, radiating from Munro's position in the center. "What's the range?"

"Three miles, sir."

"So five miles from shore."

"Yes, sir."

"That's three miles inside the security zone."

"Yes, sir."

"Why the hell'd it take so long for the Falcon to notice them?"

"They didn't say, sir."

They both watched the tiny blip move slowly and unmistakably inshore.

Tramp freighters were as common as seagulls in this area, some full of legitimate cargo like bananas or coffee or molasses headed north to waiting wholesalers, some full of stolen bicycles or cars, headed south to a less legitimate market in the Caribbean or South America. Some, as he well knew, were full of migrants looking for a quick and dirty way into America.

This ship could be any one of those and probably was.

Still, they were in the middle of a countdown for the launch of a U.S. space shuttle. A shuttle, moreover, that Kenai was on. Something that might later be termed overreaction did not necessarily seem uncalled for at this moment. "BMC, what's her speed?" Cal said.

"About ten knots, Captain. I'm thinking two or three of that is the Gulf Stream."

"And our nearest assets?"

Gilmartin raised Combat, and OS2 Riley's thin voice blared out of the speaker. "We're spread out pretty thin on the coast, Captain. Because of the threatened protest, the four small boats are all working close in, making sure nobody gets ashore. One of the MLBs is responding to a SAR south of here-nothing to worry about, they lost their engine and they need someone to make sure they don't run aground while they're waiting for the tow boat to show-and the other MLB is too far north. It's us, I guess, Captain."

Cal nodded. "Here's hoping the crew doesn't mutiny when I tell them they have to interrupt their launch viewing opportunity to do some actual work. Set starboard side boat launch detail, BMC."

"Aye aye, Captain. Set starboard side boat launch detail, BM2."

"Combat, captain."

Riley's voice came back at him, the speaker distorting it to make it sound tinny and almost afraid. "Captain?"

"Why'd it take so long for the Falcon to spot the freighter?"

"Uh, I don't know, Captain. I passed on the message as soon as I got it."

"All right, Combat, captain out."

"Combat out."

Myers's voice echoed over the ship. "Set starboard side boat launch detail, set starboard side boat launch detail."

There was a wave of protest from the deck. "What?" "What'd they say?" "Are they kidding?" "Is this a joke?"

The XO had followed Cal inside. "I've got this, Captain."

"Nonsense, XO, I'll take it. You go keep our guests happy."

Good thing it was dark on the bridge so Cal couldn't see Taffy's expression.

Not that Boat Deck Captain Smith needed any help from Cal to get Mun 1 launched. He did not turn on the spotlight mounted on the edge of the starboard wing because it would have ruined everyone's night vision. Smith and Seaman Orozco had the davit engaged and the orange, rigid-hulled inflatable out of the cradle and snugged up against the boat deck a couple of minutes later. They were manned and ready to go in five minutes. Cal 's radio crackled into life. "Captain, boat deck."

"Boat deck, captain, go ahead."

"Permission to launch the starboard side boat, Captain?"

"Stand by one. Coxswain, captain."

"Captain, coxswain."

Two decks below the coxswain looked up but in the dark Cal couldn't see who it was. "Who's talking?"

"BM2 Hendricks, sir."

"Did you run a GAR?" This was an assessment by which crew readiness was calculated, run prior to an operation, especially one this unexpected.

"We're in the green, sir, total fourteen. High in crew fitness because we're all in tourist mode instead of being focused on the job, and another high in environment because we're fumbling around in the dark. The rest are all twos and threes. We know how to do this. We're ready."

"Who's on the crew?"

"Myself, Garon, Velasquez, Garza, and Clark."

Velasquez was one of their Spanish-speaking interpreters, breaking in Garza on the job. Good move, there was a strong chance that whatever this boat was, it would have no English speakers on board. "Thanks, Coxswain. Boat deck, Captain."

"Captain, boat deck."

"Permission to load, lower, and launch the starboard side boat, aye."

"Aye aye. Load, lower, and launch!" Smith's bellow was audible to everyone on the starboard bridge wing. "Boat moving!"

"Where are they going?"

Cal looked around to see the Munros leaning over the rail next to him to peer interestedly into the dark. "We have a contact on the radar where it shouldn't be, inside the area closed during launch."

"My goodness," Doreen said. They heard the smack of the small boat's hull on the water. "Who is it?"

"We don't know yet. Probably the usual idiot joyrider." He bent his head back. "Lookout?"

A head poked over the side of the deck over the bridge. "Yes, Captain?"

"Do you have a pair of those night-vision binoculars?"

"Sure thing, Captain." The head vanished and Cal went over the ladder up to the lookout. A moment later Seaman Critchfield handed the binoculars down to him.

"Thanks, Seaman."

"You're welcome, Captain. Uh, what's going on?"

"There's a contact bearing 090 relative, and heading west."

"That would be into the area closed during launch, sir?"

"It would. Keep an eye out."

"Keeping an eye out, aye sir."