Poseidon's Arrow

7

CAPTAIN FRANCO’S FACE WAS BEET RED AS HE SURVEYED the Sea Splendour’s damaged stern from an enclosed launch. Yet the destruction was much less than he feared; the shredded fantail showed primarily cosmetic damage. Divers would examine below the waterline, but by all accounts, the crew could handle the damage. They would barricade the aft deck, and the ship could continue its voyage with only minimal delay. Franco well knew the wrath he’d receive from the corporate offices if the passengers had to be put ashore and their fares refunded. Thankfully, that was one lesser tragedy averted. But to him the ship was like a family member, and he burned with fury at the disfigurement.

“Take us to the freighter,” he told the launch’s young pilot.

A deck officer motioned for the captain’s attention.

“Sir, a small boat appears to be in distress off our starboard beam.”

Captain Franco leaned out the open entryway. There was the red speedboat, drifting half submerged. The couple was not only still alive but sitting on the bow and waving at him.

“That’s the nut who rammed his boat into the carrier.” He shook his head. “Go ahead, go pick them up.”

The launch pulled alongside the sinking boat. Pitt helped Loren onto the launch, then jumped aboard. He turned and watched the battered speedboat a moment before it slipped under the surface.

He turned to face the frowning captain. “I guess I’m going to have to buy someone a new boat.”

Franco took a long look at Pitt; he wasn’t a young fool—or a drunk. He was tall, with a lean, muscular body. Despite the bloody gash to his shin, he stood upright with an easy confidence. His face was rugged, showing years spent outdoors, and he grinned in easy bemusement. Then there were the eyes, a beguiling green that burned with intelligence.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Pitt said, “you saved us a healthy swim to shore.”

“I watched you destroy your own boat running into the freighter,” Franco said. “Why did you nearly kill yourself?”

“To knock the rudder over.” Pitt gazed toward the cruise ship’s damaged stern. “Guess I didn’t get there quite in time.”

The captain’s face turned white. “My heavens, of course. It was you who changed the freighter’s course at the last second.”

He grasped Pitt’s hand and shook it until Pitt’s arm almost fell off. “You saved my ship and hundreds of lives. We had no time to maneuver—we would have been mauled by that idiot.”

“He ran over a sailboat, and nearly got us as well.”

“Madmen! They ignored our radio calls and just kept on coming. Look, they’ve run aground.”

“The bridge crew must be incapacitated,” Pitt said.

“They will be when I’m through with them.”

The launch picked up speed and raced toward the grounded ship, steering well clear of its still-spinning prop. A crowd had gathered on the beach to gawk, while distant sirens signaled the approach of the Valparaiso police.

The ship sat upright, with just a slight list to starboard. Her decks showed no sign of life. A long metal conveyor ramp dangled over the side like a damaged limb, nearly reaching the water. Used to fill and unload the freighter’s holds, the conveyor had been knocked ajar during the collision with the Sea Splendour. Franco saw it offered a way aboard, and he ordered the launch alongside.

The ramp just about matched the launch’s deck height. A seaman was ordered to walk on it to test if it would hold. The man took a few tentative steps, then turned and gave the captain the thumbs-up. He scampered up the heavy conveyor belt, which tilted across the ship’s rail, and hopped onto the deck. Captain Franco came next, nervously climbing on the dust-covered belt and making his way up. Too absorbed in keeping his footing, he failed to notice Pitt following a few paces behind.

Franco reached the ship’s rail and was helped down by the waiting seaman. He was startled when Pitt jumped off the belt and landed beside him. Franco turned to admonish him for coming aboard, but Pitt beat him to the punch.

“We better get those engines shut down.” Pitt nudged past Franco and headed toward the bridge.

Franco vented at the seaman. “Search the deck and crew’s quarters, then meet me on the bridge.” He turned and hurried to catch up with Pitt.

The bridge sat atop a multistory superstructure near the stern. Stepping aft, Pitt gazed at the large hatches that covered the ship’s five main holds. The last one was partially open. Each hatch had two hinged covers that opened to the side hydraulically. As Pitt approached the hatch just ahead of the superstructure, he peered through the gap. The cavernous hold was empty except for a tiny bulldozer sitting under a layer of silver-colored dust. Pitt guessed the forward holds still contained their cargo, which would account for the high-riding stern. Noticing fragments of silver rock on the deck, he pocketed a large piece in his swim trunks and continued toward the bridge.

“Is there no one aboard this vessel?” Franco reached Pitt as he started up a companionway.

“I haven’t seen a welcome committee yet.”

They climbed several flights, then entered the bridge through an open wing door. Like the rest of the ship, the expansive control room was empty of life. The ghostly sense was broken by the ship’s radio, which squawked with the voice of a Chilean Coast Guard operator hailing the vessel. Franco shut off the radio, then stepped to a center console and powered down the engines.

Pitt examined the helm. “The autopilot was set on a course of one hundred and forty-two degrees.”

“Makes no sense that they would abandon a moving ship.”

“Piracy is a more likely answer,” Pitt said. “The number five hold looks like it was emptied after she left port.”

“Taking the crew for ransom, I could see,” Franco said, rubbing his chin. “But robbing a bulk carrier of its cargo at sea? That’s unheard of.”

The captain noticed a dark splotch on the wall and similar stains on the floor—and his face turned pale. “Look at this.”

One glance at the stains told Pitt they were dried blood. When he rubbed a finger across the wall, the dry residue flaked off.

“Doesn’t look recent. Can we backtrack the ship’s navigation system to see where they came from?”

Franco stepped to the helm, glad to distance himself from the gore. He located a navigation monitor, which showed a tiny representation of the Tasmanian Star overlaid on a digital map of Valparaiso Harbor. He tapped on an embedded keyboard and reduced the scale. A yellow line traced the ship’s path off the top of the screen as Valparaiso receded into the coastline of Chile, which gradually receded into the continent of South America. The slightly angular line continued north before cutting sharply left off the west coast of Central America. Franco tracked the line across the Pacific, locating its origin in Australia.

“She came from Perth.” Then he zeroed back in on the point where the ship changed heading. He looked up at Pitt and nodded.

“Your assumption of piracy makes sense. She wouldn’t be crossing the Pacific with one of her holds empty.”

“Let’s see where that course change occurred,” Pitt said.

Franco adjusted the image. “Looks to be about seventeen hundred miles due west of Costa Rica.”

“A lonely spot in the ocean to stage a holdup.”

Franco shook his head. “If that’s where the crew left the ship, then the Tasmanian Star sailed herself over thirty-five hundred miles to Valparaiso.”

“Which means she was hijacked more than a week ago. That leaves a pretty cold trail to follow.”

Franco’s crewman suddenly burst through the bridge wing door. His face was flush, and he panted from sprinting up the companionway. Pitt noticed his hand trembled on the doorframe.

“The crew quarters are empty, sir. There doesn’t seem to be anyone aboard.” He hesitated. “I did find one man.”

“Dead?” the captain asked.

The sailor nodded. “I wouldn’t have found him but for the odor. He’s on the main deck, near the forward hatch.”

“Take me to him.”

Slowly the seaman turned and led Franco and Pitt down the companionway. They crossed the deck to the port side and marched past the rows of hatch covers. The seaman slowed as they approached the forward hatch, then stopped and pointed.

“He’s beneath one of the supporting braces,” the man said, not moving any closer. “He must have rolled or fallen there.”

Pitt and Franco stepped forward. Then they noticed a blue object wedged in the hatch cover’s hydraulics, next to a supporting brace. Inching closer, they could see it was the body of a man dressed in blue coveralls. The odor of decomposing flesh was overpowering, but the sight before them was even worse.

The clothes were unmarked and perfectly clean. Judging by the heavy work boots and a pair of gloves cinched to his waist, Pitt guessed he was an ordinary seaman. But that was the only thing he could determine.

The exposed skin had bloated to grotesque proportions and turned the color of French mustard. Small rivulets of dried blood had pooled around his ears and mouth. A swarm of flies buzzed around the seaman’s face and clustered on his open, bulging eyes. Yet it was the body’s extremities, marked beyond mere decomposition, that was most grisly. The seaman’s ears, nose, and fingertips were charred black, though the skin remained unbroken. Pitt recalled photos of polar explorers who had suffered extreme frostbite, marked by black blisters covering patches of dead skin. Yet the Tasmanian Star had sailed nowhere near any polar region.

Franco slowly backed away from the figure.

“Santa Maria!” he gasped. “He’s been taken by the devil himself.”