“Turn off the Navtex,” Goncalves said.
“But Captain . . .” the radio operator began, before remembering that no one argued with the captain, especially on this ship. Even if turning the Navtex off meant they would be incommunicado with the world.
“And the AIS, too,” the captain said.
The radio operator complied. It was illegal to turn off the Automatic Identification System transponder, the device that let the authorities track every ship at sea, but the radio operator wasn’t surprised by the order. Captain Goncalves was a smuggler. He often ran dark, knowing the ocean was too big and the jurisdiction too dispersed for anyone to notice him.
“Good man,” the captain said sarcastically, as he left the compartment.
Capt. Emanuel Goncalves stood on the deck of his freighter and looked out at the Indian Ocean. The Eleutheria was an old bulker by today’s standards, with rust oozing from its every orifice, but Goncalves loved her like the child his long-dead wife had never been able to conceive. At three hundred feet, she was small enough to navigate almost any port, travel up rivers, and even drop cargo at shorelines, all very handy in his line of work.
It was their second day at sea, and so far the weather had been perfect. For a man like Goncalves, there was nothing better. He was fifty-eight but looked older, with deep wrinkles etched into his face, and he had been on the water since he was eight. Such was life in the Azores, the Portuguese Islands that lie a thousand miles from the nearest landmass. Everyone was a sailor, and sailors craved the open sea.
Freedom, Goncalves thought. Blue horizon in every direction.
Besides, the second day meant they were far enough away that nobody would see them. He had charted a course outside normal shipping lanes, past where the tankers and other ships were visible but not so far to attract unwanted attention. Not that there was anything untoward about this voyage or his ship, of course; they were just one more rust bucket steaming the Arabian Sea.
Goncalves worked his way aft.
“Morning, Captain,” said the first mate, a burly Macedonian smoking along the stern railing and watching the white foam of the wake below.
“No one must ever find the Dona Iluire,” the captain said. The alerts had been coming in all morning over the Navtex before he turned it off. Someone was searching for a cargo vessel, approximately 1,500 gross tons, sailing from Gwadar, Pakistan, heading west by southwest. Their size. Their route.
“We’re working on it,” the mate said.
“Work faster.” They had three days to their next port of call, and a lot of open ocean to cover.
“There’s something big going on,” the mate said, with a tinge of unease.
“I know,” the captain said. Forty years in the smuggling business and he’d never seen anything like this. A full-scale search across thousands of square miles of ocean for a cargo ship that had left port forty-eight hours earlier. Every coast guard cutter and naval frigate had a description on their bridge by now. But why? Who would go to such lengths to find a small freighter?
I’ve weathered worse storms, the captain thought. Heavy machinery filled his hold, nothing exotic. Inside the hidden compartments were crates of high-end electronic gear, or at least that was what it looked like to him. Nothing unusual, but surprisingly heavy. They took the contraband on in Gwadar and were well paid for their extra discretion, including taking on the name of a sister ship the smuggling company had secretly lost at sea four months ago. Goncalves made a habit of never being inquisitive, but he was worried now. What was he carrying?
A crew member trundled past, dragging a piece of cloth. He lowered the Panamanian flag and hoisted a Malaysian one.
“Just make sure we’re clean by sundown,” the captain said. The mate nodded and flicked his cigarette into the ocean. The burning butt twisted in the air, falling ten feet a second past two men dangling over the side of the boat on ropes, paint brushes in hand. Only the e of the old name, Dona Iluire, remained, soon to be obliterated by black paint; only the final a was missing from the new name, Eleutheria.
Dona Iluire meant “free woman” in Spanish. The new name meant “freedom” in Greek. It was more than a jab at those who wished to haul smugglers to the brig; it was a life’s creed for Capt. Emanuel Goncalves and all of those like him. If you couldn’t be free of the system in the middle of the open ocean, where could you be free?