The knocking on the door grew louder.
“Admiral Balloch, wake up! Wake up, sir.”
The admiral rolled over in his bunk and checked the time: 0012, just after midnight. He had slept less than three hours in the past twenty-four. “What is it?”
“The ship. We found her.”
Finally, he thought.
“Excellent. Get a helo in the air and plot a course to intercept. Make the closest point of approach four thousand yards. That should give us plenty of standoff room in case they have RPGs.”
“Already done, sir.”
“What’s our ETA?”
“Forty minutes in current conditions.”
The storm hadn’t abated. The admiral could feel it raging beneath him. “Meet me in the CIC,” he said.
“Yes sir.”
Balloch cleaned up, slipped on his duty uniform, and ate a stale samosa. It was never a good idea to go into action on an empty stomach. He walked to the Combat Information Center, swaying as the ship rolled in the high sea.
“Admiral on deck!” a sailor shouted, and the CIC crew snapped to attention.
“At ease. Status update. And someone, please fetch me a tea.”
The CIC buzzed with people under low light. Large color screens showed the positions of the fleet and the mystery freighter.
“Sir, we have confirmed it’s the Eleutheria,” the Executive Officer, or XO, said, pointing to a blip on the chart on a large screen. “She’s six miles off our starboard bow, making seven knots, heading north-northwest in sea state five. We have a helo on station, and the Eleutheria is refusing our hails.”
The admiral stared at the monitor with their helicopter’s live video feed. The helo was circling the ship in the gusting rain, the old ship struggling against the heavy weather. Except for the gale, all looked normal with the ship.
“Any signs of distress?”
“None sir,” the XO said.
“Is their transmitter broken?”
“Unknown, sir.”
“Are the assault teams on station?”
“We have two RHIB boats with VBSS teams ready to launch. Just give the word.”
The admiral sipped his tea. “Hail them again,” he said.
The helicopter buzzed the Eleutheria, spotlight locked on her decks as she heaved in the squall. The bridge crew was fearful but didn’t dare speak. The last man who challenged the captain was in sick bay with three stiches in his lip and half his wages withheld. All sailors knew the only law that mattered at sea was the captain’s. Mutiny was possible, but Captain Goncalves kept the one key to the ship’s armory around his neck, and punishment for attempting mutiny was death.
“Eleutheria,” the radio blared over channel 13, the bridge-to-bridge frequency. “This is frigate hull number F270, four thousand feet off your port beam. Switch to channel fifteen, over.”
“Ignore them!” Goncalves growled, holding on to a handrail as the ship rolled in ten-foot waves. For the past thirty minutes, the multinational naval task force ship had been trying to contact them. The radio operator looked down at the floor, thinking what every man onboard the Eleutheria was thinking: what has the captain done?
“Goddammit, eyes front!” the captain ordered. “Ignore them.”
The captain is insane. He will get us all killed.
Yet no man had the courage to instigate a mutiny. Finally, the first mate spoke up. “Captain . . . perhaps it will go easier if we answer them.”
Goncalves remained a statue. Wind beat the rain into the bridge’s windows.
“They committed an entire task force to find us,” the first mate said.
“What are you suggesting?”
The mate shuffled his feet nervously. “I’ve been smuggling for twenty-five years and I’ve never seen a navy task force being reassigned to chase down a lone freighter. It makes no sense.” He paused to choose his words carefully. “What did we pick up in Pakistan?”
Goncalves turned to face him. The mate instantly knew he had gone too far.
“That is none of your concern,” the captain said.
“Eleutheria . . .” the radio message again.
“No one touch that radio!” the captain bellowed, facing the bridge crew. “No one questions me! I am the captain of this vessel. Any man who takes issue with my command is free to leave my ship and swim to shore. Is that understood?”
Silence, save the whipping rain.
“Good. Then we have an understanding,” the captain said.
The mate saw the chain around the captain’s neck. He could take control of this vessel with that key.
“Captain,” the mate said. “We understand. Isn’t that right, men?”
They grunted, without enthusiasm.
Good, the mate thought. They will probably rally to my side.
“Then do as I say or there will be a flogging, so help me God.”
The mate had been measuring Goncalves for years. He knew he could take him down. The captain was half his build and twice his age.
“I’ll rig a noose from the yardarm and do it the old way,” Goncalves thundered.
If he could tackle him from behind, surprising him, it would be over in less than a minute. When the bridge crew saw him win decisively, they would rally. He could snatch the key to the armory and take control of the ship, with just a loyal few.
It will be more than a few, the mate thought.
“How far are we?” the admiral asked.
“Ten minutes,” the XO said. “The VBSS teams are asking for permission to deploy, the RHIBs ready to launch.”
The admiral sipped his tea again, rolling with the storm surge. The freighter was on several monitors now. It had not changed course or responded to their radio communications.
“Get closer,” the admiral said.
“Sir, this is highly irregular,” the XO said. “Our orders are clear.”
“My order is clear, Commander,” the admiral said. “We get closer, and we wait.”