The Wrecking Crew

CHAPTER 5

Dr. Nassiri hung from the back deck of the Conqueror on an improvised climber’s harness, swaying as the ship cut through the tranquil blue waters of the eastern Mediterranean. He leaned back, bracing his feet against the stern, closing his eyes as he allowed his face to soak up the sunlight. A bundle of steel wool swung from a string, attached to his belt loop. Combined with a carefully applied series of caustic chemicals, he’d found the wool more than adequate in removing the namesake Conqueror from the stern of the yacht. The next task was infinitely more pleasing, painting a new name with a set of artist’s oils.

Despite the rocking of the yacht, he found his surgeon’s hand well equipped for the task. Shirtless, he moved with the waves as he held the rope with one hand and painted with the other, using the inside of his free forearm to dab off drips from the brush. He hadn’t painted anything in years, despite the deeply loved pastime. Appropriate for a surgeon, he preferred nudes from life, his brush deliberately reproducing the human beauty of anatomical musculature.

Jonah and Youssef were in another section of the ship, disguising it further for the eventual passage through the Suez Canal. The labor required whiting out an entire row of glass windows with thick marine paint, removing distinctive superstructure indicators and disabling the marine transponder. Between the disguise and false paperwork, Jonah believed they’d have the cover necessary to pass through the Suez Canal and into the Indian Ocean.

When Dr. Nassiri expressed his concerns, Jonah said it would have worked a couple of years ago. He couldn’t say for certain now.

“The worst they can do is throw us in prison,” Jonah had said, laughing. “Status quo for me.”

It was then that Dr. Nassiri decided he’d rename the megayacht Fool’s Errand. Maddeningly, Jonah’s alpha-male swagger actually worked on Youssef. The soldier started following the disagreeable American around like a lost puppy. Youssef delighted in the fact that Jonah actually called him “Buzz,” a nickname first given to his cousin by an American training officer.

Dr. Nassiri found the nickname deeply shameful to his family, an affront to both his culture and his cousin’s dignity. The nickname had not been ordained with affection. Youssef earned it during a morning engagement drill when, returning from a piss, he’d managed to entangle a rat’s nest of pubic hair into the zipper of his combat trousers. The resulting yelp had alerted opponents to his team’s position, losing the exercise and earning him a vicious beating by his own team. Both ailments sent him to the infirmary, whereupon the American training officer took one look and dryly told him to “buzz that shit,” to prevent a reoccurrence.

A series of ringing shotgun blasts rattled Dr. Nassiri’s thoughts, shaking him out of his gloomy reflection. He froze.

Several more shots from the bow. Then, another sound entirely — could it be laughter?

Dr. Nassiri pulled himself away from the incomplete project and scaled the ladder up to the rear deck. He smelled the thick, acrid scent of expensive cigars. Walking up the exterior passage past the bridge, his eyes first fell onto a blanket laid out on the bow deck, covered corner to corner with a wide assortment of antique weaponry and ammunition. A pearl-handled Colt 1911 lay next to several Remington shotguns, 38 snub noses and two fully-automatic Thompson machine guns straight out of a 1930s Chicago gangster movie.

Youssef and Jonah ignored him. Jonah balanced a drum-magazine Thompson machine gun in his hands, practicing shouldering and lowering it while Youssef rooted through a crate of expensive wines and liquors, looking for an appropriate vintage.

“Pull, motherfucker!” shouted Jonah to Youssef.

Youssef laughed and grabbed a bottle of Bollinger Blac de Noisrs Vieilles 1997. He leaned back and hurled it like a Molotov cocktail. It spun through the air beautifully as Jonah opened fire, sending up arcing lines of bullets after the spinning bottle. Dr. Nassiri plugged his ears, and on the third burst of bullets, Jonah finally caught a bottom corner of the bottle, exploding the $10,000 champagne in a shower of white foam and green glass.

Dr. Nassiri glanced over the spread. In case the hooligans ran out of bottles before bullets, Youssef had helpfully gathered a large pile of silver serving dishes.

Dr. Nassiri loudly cleared his throat, and then again. Nothing. Neither of the shooters wore any kind of ear protection, they simply hadn’t heard him. In frustration, Dr. Nassiri kicked the pile of silver, and it clattered to the deck. Jonah and Youssef whipped around to face the doctor.

“I do hope you are not intoxicated,” said Dr. Nassiri in the most openly patronizing tone he could muster.

“Join us — have a stogie,” said Jonah, waving the acrid cigar in the doctor’s face.

“What if we are discovered?” said Dr. Nassiri.

“We won’t be,” stated Jonah. “They’ll think we’re getting it chopped in Sicily or Algeria. End of story. That’s where yachts go when they disappear in the Mediterranean.”

Dr. Nassiri frowned, turned and walked away in a huff. It wasn’t long before the gunfire resumed.

Solace wasn’t hard to come by on the Fool’s Errand. Dr. Nassiri found a fresh linen suit in one of the crew compartments. Alone on the bridge while enjoying a sparkling water, he amused himself by watching the tiny green blips travel on the radar screen. The gunshots subsided when Youssef and Jonah finally lost interest. Youssef snuck off to nap or loot and Jonah began pacing the entire length of the ship, as if the sheer openness of the vessel were the most pleasurable thing in the world.

The bridge door slid open behind him, but Dr. Nassiri didn’t bother to look up as Jonah slumped into one of the racing chairs beside him. The American had his index finger curled around a plastic ring of an inexpensive six-pack. By the look of things, he was on his second. Dr. Nassiri silently questioned the choice given the king’s ransom of top-shelf wine and liquors for the taking.

“Must you?” he asked.

“What?” said Jonah. “It’s just beer. I’m not getting fucked up.”

Dr. Nassiri grunted his continuing disapproval.

“You want one?”

“No.”

“You observant?” asked Jonah.

“Not especially.”

Both men allowed silence to linger between them.

“Why are we doing this, Doc?” asked Jonah. “I’ve got to say, I’ve worked a lot of recoveries. We know your mother is dead. That’s not a mystery. And I hate to say it, but body recoveries are ugly business. You’re probably not going to want to see what I pull up.”

“I’ve seen bodies before.”

“This is your mom we’re talking about.”

“You needn’t spare me.”

Jonah frowned.

“Why are we doing this, Doc?” the American repeated. “Islam considers burial at sea consecrated; we’re not putting her spirit at rest by disturbing her grave.”

“Mr. Blackwell, we are not here to put her spirit at rest. You mistake the priorities of my intentions.”

“So correct me,” said Jonah. He stifled a small belch.

“Some days previous to her disappearance, my mother contacted me. She said she’d found traces of something terrible in the Horn of Africa, something that changed her understanding of the region. It was a discovery that would be vital to oceanographic research for a generation, a discovery with global consequences. She would not tell me what it was.”

“And then she vanished.”

“That’s right. And then she went missing. I must complete her—”

Jonah waved him silent with a hand and leaned forward in the racing chair to scowl at an instrumentation panel.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hold that thought,” said Jonah.

The doctor realized the American wasn’t meaning to be rude, something was happening. Jonah flipped between a series of menus, continuing to scowl.

“We may have a problem,” Jonah said. “Somebody is messing with the fuel/air mixture of the engines.”

“Sabotage?” asked Dr. Nassiri.

“That’s the strange thing; I really don’t think so. They’re messing with the parameters, but if I’m reading this correctly, they’re improving engine efficiency at cruising speed. This is definitely not a latent script running under computer control. This is a person.”

“Could it be Youssef?”

“If it’s Buzz, I’m feeding him to the sharks. But does tuning the fuel/air mixture really sound like your moron cousin?”

“No,” admitted Dr. Nassiri. “No, it does not.”

Beers in one hand, pistol in the other, Jonah stood up. Dr. Nassiri chambered a round and prepared to follow him.

“Should we get Youssef?” asked Dr. Nassiri.

“Not enough time. Besides, I’d rather not have anyone get shot. I want to find out what’s going on first.”

Dr. Nassiri nodded and allowed Jonah to take the lead down to the engine room.

Jonah opened the heavy metal fire door to the engine compartment and locked it open. Pistols in hand, both men slowly made their way into the chamber. Jonah stopped at the first intersection of gangplanks and ducked his head around the corner towards a row of computer servers. He pulled back, frowned, and tucked his pistol behind his waistband.

“You’d better take a look at this,” whispered Jonah.

Dr. Nassiri peeked around the corner. With a laptop resting on long tan legs, a young blonde woman sat cross-legged on the steel-grate floor next to the computer servers, trendy headphones over her ears, bobbing her head to an unheard beat. She was totally oblivious to the two baffled men watching her. Dr. Nassiri fought back an urge to straighten his shirt, run a hand through his thick black hair, anything that might make a difference in her first impression of him.

“Excuse me,” said Jonah, then repeated himself a little louder.

Still nothing. Six-pack in hand, Jonah waved both arms until her peripheral vision caught the motion. Startled, she yanked off her headphones and looked up.

“Um, hey,” she said, with the slight twang of a Texan accent.

“Hey, yourself,” said Jonah.

She stared at the two men for a moment. The compartment was silent except for the low humming of the engines. Dr. Nassiri cleared his throat. He wanted to say something, but all he could think about was her freckles, blonde hair, those long legs disappearing into short shorts—

“You need something?” she finally asked. “Usually Frank does the tours. I’m kind of in the middle of something, but I’m almost done.”

“Who’s Frank?” asked Jonah.

“Frank, the chief engineer?” she answered. “I’m Assistant Engineer Andrews. Frank usually does the engine compartment tours. So how was the big shindig last night?”

“It was a nice distraction,” said Dr. Nassiri dryly. He found it difficult to imagine how she’d missed all the commotion of the previous night. And yet, here she was.

Jonah snorted, trying to fight down laughter at the doctor’s wry comment.

“I hear a lot of stories about those fancy parties,” said Andrews. “I’d love-love-love to attend one someday, but they’re not really for the crew.”

“What’s your name?” asked Jonah.

“Alexis,” she answered, more than a little taken aback.

“Listen Alexis. This is a little awkward, but where have you been over the last twelve hours?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me rephrase. How did you spend your last day or so?”

“Um…” began Alexis.

Dr. Nassiri could tell she would have preferred to know where the line of questioning was headed before answering. She glanced at Jonah and then the doctor, then back to Jonah, leaving Dr. Nassiri to wish she’d held his gaze for just a moment longer.

“I’ve mostly been working the big software patch,” she said.

“Updating the fuel/air mixers?” said Jonah.

“Yeah, that’s it. Frank told you about that project? I didn’t think he’d paid it much mind.”

“Sure,” said Jonah. “Let’s assume Frank told me.”

“So I was a little late turning in,” she continued. “Got up early, and I’ve been in here for the last… jeez, five hours or so. Kind of feel like I’m the only one working today, to be honest. Where is everybody?”

Jonah and Dr. Nassiri both joined her in the uncomfortable laughter.

“Here’s what I need you to do,” said Jonah. He pulled one of the beers off the plastic rings and tossed it to her. Alexis fumbled as she caught it, almost dropping it to the deck. “I’m going need you to wrap up what you’re doing, drink at least one of these, and come join us in the galley. No need to chug, just do it at your own pace.”

“But—”

“I already okayed it with Frank,” said Jonah. “See you in a few minutes.”

Dr. Nassiri followed Jonah up the main staircase, back towards the bridge. “Are you certain it’s a good idea to leave her down there by herself?” he asked. She hadn’t seemed to catch on to the hijacking, but all the same…

“I don’t think she can fuck with anything I can’t fix,” said the American.

“Are you certain about that?”

“No.”

“What if she doesn’t go along with the plan?”

“Then we’ll be the bad guys. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Jonah slumped into a comfortable chair while Dr. Nassiri leaned against the wall, both men waiting. Within a few moments, Alexis poked her head in the door.

“Seriously, where is everybody?” she asked, still holding the unopened beer in her hand.

“My name is Jonah,” he said. “This is Hassan. We have borrowed the Conqueror.”

“Borrowed…?” she asked.

“Let’s drop the euphemisms. We stole it. Don’t worry, everybody’s fine. We hustled the crew into the launch and they’re back in Malta. We’re currently on a course to Sicily, but that’s mostly to throw off the authorities.”

“Oh,” said Alexis, stunned. She popped the tab of the beer and took a very long drink.

“I wanted to hire a boat instead of hijacking one,” said Dr. Nassiri. “For whatever that’s worth.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” mumbled Alexis, more to herself than anyone else. “This is my first job out of grad school.”

“What a coincidence,” said Jonah. “This is my first job out of prison.”

Alexis’s eyes widened and she looked at Dr. Nassiri.

“We’re very sorry you’re here, Alexis,” he said. “We explicitly told the captain to muster everyone for evacuation. He must have missed you in the count. We’d had no intention of shanghaiing you.”

“It’s not shanghaiing,” corrected Jonah. “That’s when you capture someone on land and force them onto a ship. If anything, she’s more of a hostage.”

“Hostage!?”

“But hostage taking necessitates intent,” argued Dr. Nassiri. “This was quite without.”

“Wait, are you guys pirates?”

“Technically yes, I suppose,” said Dr. Nassiri. “But what we can all agree on is the fact that you are not a prisoner.”

“But you are somewhat stuck with us for the time being,” added Jonah. “So, yeah, you basically are a prisoner.”

“I’m still a little concerned here,” said Alexis.

“Ten days ago, my mother went missing off Somalia during an airborne oceanographic research expedition,” said Dr. Nassiri. “I believe her plane crashed. All of her scientific data, her research — her life’s work, really — is aboard that plane. I recruited Mr. Blackwell—”

Jonah snorted, loud enough to interrupt. The American clearly found the word recruited quite amusing given the context at hand.

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” said Alexis. She shot Jonah a nasty look for his poorly-timed interjection.

“I recruited Mr. Blackwell as a recovery diver,” continued Dr. Nassiri. “We intend to first traverse the Suez Canal, then berth at Anconia Island for supplies.”

“You mean that libertarian oil platform city? The new nation, data haven, all that stuff?”

“I’ve made arrangements,” said Dr. Nassiri. “We will source all necessary diving equipment at that location and Mr. Bettencourt’s private security forces will provide us with protection as we excavate the underwater crash site. For a fee, of course.”

“And where do I figure in?”

“You are welcome to disembark at Anconia. Alternatively, you may see us through on our mission, allow us to make landfall, and disappear. Then you may take command of the Conqueror and do with her as you see fit.” “And how do I know you’re not just selling the Conqueror to the nearest shady shipyard?”

“Because if that were the case, you’d already be shark chum,” interrupted Jonah. “Besides, ninety percent of the Conqueror is custom, made to order. You can’t move custom parts that hot on the black market.”

“Quite,” said Dr. Nassiri. “And upon completion of our mission, the gentleman and I intend to part company.”

“As friends, of course,” added Jonah, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

The two men stopped trading further shots as Buzz hurtled down the main staircase towards them with such speed, he almost tumbled rather than sprinted. Buzz stopped dead in his tracks, dumbfounded as he stared at Alexis. She gave him an awkward little wave.

“Who the fuck is this?” the soldier demanded to his cousin. “Forget it — we have an incoming radar contact. Computer says it’s on an intercept course.”

Jonah leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair. He ran up the stairs three at a time towards the bridge with Dr. Nassiri, Alexis, and Buzz following.

The American slammed himself in the chair, eyes already glued to the radar screen. Without looking away, Jonah placed the radio headphones against one ear and turned the dial towards the upper frequencies.

“What is it?” Dr. Nassiri hissed.

He could see it now, too, a fast-moving green speck growing closer with each radar pass. The predictive route calculated an intercept course. Jonah moved the radio dial upwards, then stopped as he found the frequency.

“Jonah—” began Dr. Nassiri, but Jonah cut him off with the wave of a hand, still listening to a faint transmission.

Jonah slammed down the headphones. “I need a pencil. Or a pen,” he said. “And paper.”

“But—” said Dr. Nassiri.

“Now, goddamn it! Now!”

Alexis threw open one of the nearest drawers and slapped a pad of paper in Jonah’s lap. He began furiously scribbling equations with a fountain pen.

“Time to tell us what the fuck is going on,” yelled Buzz.

“That radar signature,” said Jonah, not looking up from his calculations, “is a Bell AB 212 helicopter, deployed by Malta’s Coast Guard. She carries a three-man fast-rope strike force and a door gunner. We’re about to be boarded.”

Jonah returned to his work, checking his numbers. Dr. Nassiri briefly wondered if the American was having some kind of nervous breakdown. But Jonah didn’t seem the type.

“Looks like it’ll be a proper gunfight,” said Buzz, a strange combination of grimace and smile on his face.

Alexis audibly gasped. “No way,” she blurted.

Buzz pushed himself past the other two and reached for the throttle to increase speed. Jonah slapped his hand away.

“We must increase to top speed!” said Buzz.

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Increase the speed.”

“Do not touch that throttle,” ordered Jonah. “We can’t maintain eighty knots. We won’t even make it to Suez if we start sucking down fuel like that.”

“Fuck this,” said Buzz. “I’m going to shoot that fucking chopper down.”

“No you’re not,” said Jonah. “I need you to throw anything that floats overboard — the life rafts, kayaks, life rings, pool toys, all of it.”

“Are you crazy?” demanded Buzz.

“Just do it. Alexis, I need a full security-lockout of all systems. Can you do that while still maintaining engine speed?”

“Yes, but—”

Angry, frightened, and feeling ignored, Buzz shoved Dr. Nassiri aside and drew a .38 revolver. He aimed the handgun at Jonah’s head and cocked back the hammer. Jonah didn’t wait, didn’t even flinch — with one smooth motion, he parried the gun and kicked, knocking Buzz’s legs out from underneath him. The former soldier crumpled to his knees, one hand on the console, and the gun tumbled away from his grip. Jonah slammed his fist against the side of the soldier’s face, knocking him flat on his back. Buzz issued a howling, mournful protest tinged with equal portions embarrassment and pain.

“Dr. Nassiri,” continued Jonah, returning to his seat as if nothing had happened. “I need you to throw everything that floats overboard. Alexis, I need a full security lockout of all vital systems without affecting our heading or speed. When you’re finished, which needs to be immediately, you meet me just outside the engine room. Understood?”

Shaking, Alexis furiously typed at the nearest console. Dr. Nassiri stood frozen, staring at his cousin’s bruised face.

“You going to pull a piece on me again?” Jonah shouted to Buzz. “Or are you going to start listening?”

“I will kill you,” growled Buzz through clenched teeth, holding his bruised face with one hand.

“Nobody dies today,” said Jonah.

Dr. Nassiri rushed out of the door and yanked the quick-release strap of the first life raft. It bounced off the side of the Fool’s Errand and tumbled into the ocean. As he struggled with the second, Jonah appeared beside him to help. In the distance, both men noticed a faint dot just above the horizon, and the distant whop-whop-whop of rotor wash.

“Doc, we’re out of time,” said Jonah as the second raft dropped. “Alexis!” he shouted. “Get below decks. Now.”

Dr. Nassiri and Alexis followed Jonah down to towards the engine compartment, past the heavy steel fire door. Buzz stood in the corner, bent over, still wincing as he held his hand to his face. Jonah opened the nearest supply locker and searched desperately. Dr. Nassiri watched his face light up when he came across three air bottles and a child’s Minnie Mouse snorkel. The bottles were each the size of a canteen, only with a built-in breathing regulator instead of a cap.

“I do not understand your plan,” protested Dr. Nassiri. Madness, all of this, letting the prisoner take charge with some strange course of action, a course of action he refused to fully explain.

“He’s fucking mental!” shouted Buzz. “He punched me!”

Jonah ignored both men, reached down and pried open a heavy floor hatch. Below it lay a massive cistern of filmy water holding drainage from the showers, kitchen sinks, dishwashing, and laundry, more than large enough to fit four persons. Dr. Nassiri suddenly realized the need for the pony bottles and the snorkel.

“That’s the greywater system,” said Alexis, still confused.

“Everybody in,” said Jonah.

Even over the engines, Dr. Nassiri could now hear the sound of the approaching helicopter. Looking at the water, the doctor saw Alexis transition from frightened to completely terrified.

Nobody moved.

Jonah cleared his throat with barely restrained fury at having to explain himself.

“Given our distance from Malta,” he began, each word dripping with anger, speaking as though to a small, disobedient child, “and the weight profile of a loaded Bell A212, the incoming helicopter — which will be over us in less than sixty seconds—has only fifteen minutes of hover time. That means that if the team onboard can’t fast-rope down, clear every room, and bring the ship to a halt within that time, they’ll be forced to re-board and clear out.”

“You want them to find a ghost ship,” said Dr. Nassiri, grasping Jonah’s plan. “No persons onboard, no life rafts, no way to change course, no way to escape, no way to stop the engines!”

“Exactly. And by the time they mobilize a second helicopter, we’ll be well out of range. Everybody in the tank — now.”

Dr. Nassiri took the first pony bottle from Jonah’s hands and bit onto the regulator. He breathed in, experimentally at first, and felt the cold hiss of pure air flow into his lungs. The oily water was actually a more pleasant temperature than he expected. Inside, the claustrophobic compartment was nearly completely dark save the light through the hatchway. There was nothing to hold on to as the tank rippled and jostled with the motion of the yacht.

Alexis slid in next to the doctor, her breathing short and choppy. Buzz splashed in next, grunting as he did so. He stuck the regulator to his pony bottle in his mouth and immediately ducked his head completely underwater. Dr. Nassiri saw Jonah save the Minnie Mouse snorkel for himself.

Jonah reached up and pulled the hatch shut, turning the interior of the compartment into a perfect inky-black as they heard footsteps on the deck above them. Dr. Nassiri’s under-stimulated brain played tricks, sending little imaginary flashes of light into his vision, the type of hallucination only seen in pure darkness. The doctor had to restrain himself from reaching up to test if the hatch could be re-opened from the inside to assure himself they would not be doomed to asphyxiate in a greywater cistern, clawing at the unyielding metal ceiling.

Dr. Nassiri felt motion swirling through the waters next to him, then Alexis’s hand as she grabbed his, intertwining their fingers. He tried to give her a little reassuring squeeze, but it was returned with a deathly tight grip. Her fright permeated the compartment, rapid breathing, short, twitchy movements, all the indicators of near panic.

A small splash and then a mumble.

“Oh, no,” whispered Alexis.

She’d dropped her pony bottle, leaving her to push her face into the air pocket at the ceiling of the tank.

Dr. Nassiri released her hand and touched the ceiling, pressing himself beneath the surface. He felt through the dirty water, pushing through food particles and grit until his fingers brushed against the smooth bottle. He slowly surfaced, and slipped the bottle into the engineer’s outstretched hand.

“I’m not so great with tight spaces. Or the dark,” Alexis whispered.

“It will be over soon,” said Dr. Nassiri. Bedside manner was never his forte. And why even comfort her, this strange female mechanic he’d known for mere moments?

“Thanks,” said Alexis. She took one deep breath, but it barely registered. She was still too tense. Her hand reached out, finding his again. Dr. Nassiri willed himself to be calm, to send a sense of peace flowing from his body through his fingertips and into hers.

Footsteps again, faster this time. The soldiers on deck were running out of time. Dr. Nassiri heard the fire door to the engine compartment open with a loud grinding noise. If they were able to stop the engines — if Dr. Nassiri and the other hidden passengers were discovered — he tried not to consider the possibilities.

Splashing noises came from the other side of the tank as Buzz surfaced and popped the regulator out of his mouth.

“I have to pee,” he announced to nobody in particular. Dr. Nassiri winced. Alexis giggled next to him, her teeth chattering with fear.

Jonah spoke next, his voice low and resonate with measured fury. “You all — everybody talking right now — you’re breathing my fucking oxygen. That’s what your air bottles are for. Stop talking.”

More footsteps, stomping. And the muffled echoes of men shouting at each other. Dr. Nassiri prayed for the hum of the engines to remain constant, just a little longer. The whop-whop-whop of the helicopter rotors returned for minutes but it felt like the sound lasted hours. And then, nothing. Nothing but the vibration of the engines, the faint splashing inside the tank, and the hiss of regulated air exiting the pony bottles.

“I goddamn hope you held it,” said Jonah, jabbing Buzz in the ribs with a finger.

He straightened himself up and cracked the grey-water tank hatch open a hair. Light sliced through the opening into the chamber, almost blinding Dr. Nassiri. In turning away, he caught a glimpse of Alexis, her blond hair dark and plastered to her face, her wide, beautiful eyes staring into his. Her gaze penetrated him more than the sudden blinding light, forcing him to look down and away. And then the moment was gone.

“All clear,” announced Jonah.

He flipped the hatch open and climbed out, followed by a wincing Buzz.

Dr. Nassiri held Alexis by the waist, helping her out of the tank, then climbed out himself. He smelled of a strange mixture of expensive soaps, laundry detergent, and fish. It was decidedly unpleasant, but dealing with it would have to wait. He followed Jonah to the bridge, passing Buzz as the former soldier cleaned his injured face in the galley sink.

Looking at the radar screen, Jonah nodded. The helicopter was heading back to Malta; they’d not succeeded in cutting off the engines despite their efforts.

“We’re receiving broadcast radio telemetry,” said Jonah, squinting at a computer screen. “They’re re-classifying the Conqueror as a hazard to navigation and recommending sea-based interception. We’re in the clear.”

Despite Jonah’s proclamation, Dr. Nassiri felt anything but safe.