Target Lock

Banda Sea, North of the Tayandu Group 1106 Hours, Zone Time: August 22, 2008

Amanda Garrett writhed through a protracted nightmare, reaching out for consciousness but never getting a solid grasp upon it. Pain… fragments of voices speaking in tongues she didn’t know… a stranger’s hands stripping away her clothing… a wetness being poured on her head… a protracted time with nothing but a vibration and a roar hammering at her dully aching mind… at last the deeper, safer darkness of true sleep.

Her eyes opened, and after a vague moment more she forced them to focus. She was in a small room — no, a cabin — on a boat or small ship. Her surroundings were moving and with wave rhythm and not just vertigo.

The cabin was maybe eight by eight, white-painted but grimy, with rice matting on the deck. She was lying on the cracked plastic cover of a foam rubber mattress in the lower of a double-decker bunk. There were no other furnishings or accouterments except for a cracked mirror and a number of heavy nails driven into the bulkhead to serve as clothing hooks.

And speaking of clothing, her own was gone. Her uniform replaced by a wraparound sarung of bright cheap cotton print, the almost universal garment of the archipelago. Her feet were bare, but a pair of woman’s size rubber sandals had been thrown on the deck.

Amanda sat up too quickly and had to fight an explosive surge of nausea. The side of her head throbbed, a result of the… she groped for memory… a result of the car wreck. There was also a less readily identifiable stinging on the inside of her left elbow.

Glancing down, she noticed the two needle punctures in her skin. Drugged on top of being knocked out. No wonder she felt like the wreck of the Hesperus. What else had been damaged? She pulled herself to her feet, using the bunk frame, and promptly lost the sarung, the securing tuck at its top having come undone. To hell with it: The cooler touch of air on her skin helped to clear her head. Lurching across to the mirror on the bulkhead, she peered at herself.

Someone else looked back.

The effect was momentarily startling. Her hair had been dyed jet black. After a moment, Amanda smiled grimly at the stranger. She’d always wondered what she might look like as a brunette.

There was nothing left in the room to examine, save a single porthole and the door. The porthole was open and latched back for air, but a heavy wooden bar had been screwed across it on the outside. Only open water, sunlight, and sky were visible beyond it.

The ship was wooden-hulled; Amanda strongly suspected it to be a Bugis pinisi, but the deck was vibrating to the drive of a propeller, and she could hear the rumble of a powerful marine diesel. They were underway under power with none of the steadying lean of a schooner under sail.

And that left the door.

She reclaimed the sarung, spent a few moments securing it, and slipped her feet into sandals. Crossing to the doorway, she carefully tried its tarnished brass handle.

Locked from the outside. That confirmed it. She was in enemy hands.

She returned to the mirror. A small wooden box had been bolted underneath it, and Amanda recalled seeing half of a broken comb lying in it. Taking it up, she sat down on the bunk once more and, after carefully examining the comb for possible passengers, began to smooth and order her hair.

Amanda’s motivation was simple: Do something to improve your situation now! Even if only combing your hair, it was a refusal to surrender to apathy and helplessness, a statement of control over one’s destiny. It was never too early to start fighting that battle. As she worked on her snarled mop, she did the only other viable thing possible. She thought.

She was clearly a prisoner, taken in an action possibly tasked for that specific purpose. But she was also a “soft” prisoner. She was neither bound nor blindfolded, she was being permitted clothing and she was being held in fairly comfortable surroundings. This all pointed to a single specific conclusion as to who was responsible.

A positive factor, the potential for at least a slight degree of leverage. Amanda didn’t fool herself into thinking it would be much, but even the poorest card can be built into a fighting hand.

She tore a strip from the inner hem of the sarung and used it to bind her hair back. Crossing to the mirror once more, she checked the result of her grooming. Deliberately she slapped herself twice across the face, pulling up a little color into her cheeks. Without a make-up kit, it was the best she could do.

Going to the cabin door, she pounded insistently on it with her palm, stepping back as she heard a bolt draw back on the far side.

Amanda found herself confronted with a Bugis seaman, an older man, gaunt, scarred, and lean, his naturally bronzed skin darkened from the salt baked into it by decades of tropical sun. He, too, wore a sarung around his waist and a bandanna binding his graying hair.

He also cradled a well-maintained L2 Sterling machine pistol under his arm. Cancel seaman and substitute pirate. He stared levelly at Amanda.

She met his gaze head on, with no attempt at obsequiousness. This was Asia. Prisoner or not, she must set “face,” establishing herself as a person of position, mandating respect. “I don’t know if you can speak English or not,” she said, “but you know who Harconan is. I want to see him, now!”

The Bugis schooner was a big one, a hundred-and-fifty-footer that had undergone a conversion into a motor coaster. A large combination deck and wheelhouse had been constructed atop the aft half of the hull, and the foremast had been shortened to serve as a kingpost for cargo handling.

The inside of the wheelhouse was spartan in the extreme, the wheel itself the control pedestal for the engine and a binnacle. No electronics were apparent, nor was there even a chart. For a Bugis skipper, such affairs Would be irrelevant.

Harconan was there in the wheelhouse, sharing the watch with the Bugis helmsman. It was a very different Harconan than the one Amanda had so far known. He wore faded jeans and a disreputable dungaree shirt, half unbuttoned and with the sleeves rolled. Comfortable sandals were on his feet, and a broad sun-cracked leather belt was cinched in at his waist. He hadn’t bothered with shaving. At the receptions and on Palau Piri be had looked suave, polished, and ineffably debonair. Here, leaning in the open wheelhouse window, with the trade winds ruffling his dark hair, he was merely magnificent.

Amanda sensed it was because her captor was truly himself now, at ease in what he must feel was his own environment. In spite of everything that had happened, Amanda felt her body stir in response.

He looked back at her and smiled. It seemed a genuine smile of greeting and pleasure at seeing her. “Good morning. I hope you’re feeling well.”

“A little hung over but good enough,” she replied coolly. Ignoring the guard who had trailed her to the bridge, she moved forward to peer ahead off the bow. “Where are we?”

He issued a good-humored challenge: “You tell me.”

She glanced around the half circle of horizon visible from the wheel house. There was nothing to be seen but a slow, rolling sea reflecting a piercing sun. The sky was sun-washed pale azure, with only a single mound of cloud off to the south. No other sea or air traffic was visible nor a solitary point of land.

“The Banda Sea,” she said after a minute. “Given the lack of other shipping, it’s the eastern Banda.”

She pointed to the cloud mass to the south. “Off to starboard there is the Tayandu group. As we’re standing on east-northeast, I’d say we’re bound either for the Kai Island group or the western coast of New Guinea.”

“Indeed, and why couldn’t we be in the Arafura, standing on for Torres Strait, with Jervis Island to starboard?”

Amanda shrugged. “The wave action is wrong. The Arafura is open westward to the Indian Ocean and you get the longer, slower deepwater rollers there. We’re still inside the archipelago. Besides, you wouldn’t risk running the Torres Strait with me aboard. No doubt you know about the Australian navy corvette usually on station there.”

Harconan threw his head back and laughed. “Ha! I knew you had to be a real sailor and not just a button-pusher. I’d give you one of my schooners to command any day.”

“There’s only one problem with that, Makara. I’m on the other side.”

“I see.” He grimaced slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I suppose it is time we drop the sophistry. Our game of mutually pretended ignorance has worn a little thin. I trust, Amanda, you’ll agree that a little honesty between us might be pleasant.”

“I don’t find any of this pleasant. Why am I being held prisoner?”

“Amanda, don’t talk foolishness. Of course you know why you are here. You’re a prisoner of war, taken honorably in combat. And while I confess that Makara Limited is not a signatory of the Geneva Convention, I can promise that you will be well treated. There is no reason for you to be afraid. No harm will come to you if you act reasonably.”

“And what’s the definition of ‘reasonably’?”

Harconan nodded toward the guard, who stood at the rear of the wheelhouse. “Ask him.”

Amanda noted that the old Bugis raider always stayed back a step or two, keeping himself more than a grab away and unobtrusively positioning so Harconan was out of his line of fire but she was not. The inference was plain.

“I see,” she said.

“I’m glad you do, Amanda.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I know that your instinct will be to attempt something heroic. Please don’t. It won’t succeed and I genuinely don’t want you hurt or killed.”

She jerked away angrily. “That doesn’t ring particularly true, Makara. If I’m a prisoner of war, then we are at war and you’re the one aiming the gun at my back, even if one of your hired hands pulls the trigger!”

“Amanda, you’re talking foolishness again. You know I don’t want to harm you and why.”

She lifted her head defiantly. “Because of what happened on your island? That was just a mutual reconnaissance mission and you know it.”

“No!” His hand slashed the air saberlike in a gesture of denial. “Because of who we are and what we are, we have lied to each other since the first moment we met. I suspect we will continue to lie to each other for a long time to come. But we have had one moment of truth together, there on my beach at Palau Piri. You cannot deny that anymore than I can. Let’s at least acknowledge that. Maybe we can use it to find other truths.”

He turned to stare back out to sea, a silence following as might have existed between two lovers in a quarrel — which, Amanda mused, was exactly what they were.

She looked forward over the tarped ranks of oil drums that constituted the coaster’s deck cargo and on past the upcurved bow to where the flying fish skittered and gleamed as they fled the cutwater.

“Why did you have my hair dyed black?” she asked eventually.

“Oh, that? Call it protective coloration. I’m fully cognizant of the capabilities of your reconnaissance satellites and remotely piloted vehicles. There are few redheads riding about on Bugis pinisi. It was either make you look like one of us or keep you confined belowdecks until we reached our destination. That would have made it more… unpleasant for you.”

“I see. Thank you. Where are we heading, anyway?”

“You’ll see soon enough.” He turned back to her with a tentative smile. “Our dress suits you well. You look lovely in it.”

Now, lower the eyes, Amanda, and smile, just a little. “Thank you, it’s very comfortable…. Makara, may I ask you something? And please, could we find some of that truth we were talking about?”

“Possibly.”

“How badly did you hurt us last night? How many of my people were killed? Please tell me.”

He sighed and paused before answering. “You cut us to pieces. You were waiting for us and I can see now it was madness even to try. But I took you as a prize and so I consider it a victory.”

And so the task force was still in the fight. “I see. I appreciate you telling me, Makara. Now, may I go back to my cabin for a while? I’d like to lie down again.”

Amanda stared at the plank overhead of the tiny cabin, but not seeing it, just as she did not hear the rumble of the diesel or the creak and give of its hull, or feel the perspiration prickle at her skin.

She was focused totally inward, assessing and reviewing her situation and seeking to develop a valid plan of action. Recriminations for allowing herself to be trapped like this were dismissed instantly as a critical waste of time and energy, What was done was done and only what came next mattered.

Amanda had always recognized that the risk of becoming a prisoner of war was inherent in her chosen profession. As such, she had prepared for it by taking part in a number of interservice POW and escape-and-evasion training courses, including the grueling and frighteningly realistic Mustang E&E program run by the U.S. Army’s Special Forces.

The first rule all of these programs had taught was “Do something immediately.” The sooner one could escape, the better.

But did she necessarily want to escape?

Abstractly assessing her situation as she might any other tactical problem, Amanda began to recognize potential. Gradually it occurred to her that at the moment she was perhaps at the best place she could possibly be, at the heart of the piracy cartel and in a position to collect intelligence on the organization. Also possibly to influence and affect its leader.

By no means did she consider herself indispensable to the Sea Fighter Task Force. There was any number of capable officers, from Admiral MacIntyre on down, who could take her place there. There was no one who could take her place here.

With that realization, Amanda ceased thinking of herself as a prisoner, jettisoning the last of the emotional shackles that went with the title. Likewise abandoned was any thought of escape. Replacing it was the concept of attack.

To win in any kind of military conflict, one had to attack. It was irrelevant if one was mistress of a multibillion-dollar ultratech warship or if one commanded nothing but a loaned cotton sarung; you used the assets available to do the maximum damage possible to your enemy.

How best to do so?

That part was simple: Let the task force know where Harconan was and where he was headed.

As she had projected in the wheelhouse, it either had to be for south western New Guinea or maybe the Kai Island group.

Chris had mentioned both areas as prime possible hide sites for the INDASAT. Logic would indicate Harconan was en route to that hide now. Excellent. Now, how to let the task force in on the fact?

Amanda rolled onto her side, exposure to the air generating a transitory burst of coolness down her spine. Given that the task force was operational, logic would indicate that they would be looking for her and Harconan with all resources available. Those resources would be extensive, from recon satellites on down. Camouflaging her as a Bugis woman had been a wise precaution, as Harconan couldn’t be sure what might be looking over his shoulder. How best to deliberately draw the attention of one of those assets?

Radio? She had seen no sign of a ship-to-shore in the schooner’s wheelhouse. Harconan no doubt had brought a very extensive portable communications suite with him. Also, no doubt, it was well secured, with no chance of her getting near any of it.

What about making a simple spark gap with a couple of wires? Something to produce enough coded static to register on a direction-finder array?

Amanda’s eyes sought for the cabin light fixture. She found it, and smiled derisively. There was a lamp bracket on the wall, with a patch of kerosene soot on the overhead above it.

So much for electronics. What about visual scan?

It was highly doubtful that anyone was going to let her stand on deck heliographing to a Global Hawk with the cabin mirror.

Amanda was confronted with the conundrum of drawing attention to herself unobtrusively. She recalled a scene from one of Captain Edward Beach’s excellent submarine warfare novels in which the hero marked his presence as a prisoner aboard an enemy vessel by reaching out of a port hole to paint the name of his own ship on the hostile craft’s side. The flare of the hull prevented the paint from being seen on deck.

Unfortunately, most of the searchers seeking for her would be overhead, and she didn’t have access to a can of paint anyway.

She called up the mental catalog of the possible assets she had seen aboard the Bugis coaster, its outfitting and its cargo both. Using them like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, she tried to fit them together into a coherent pattern.

Wood… canvas… flags… semaphore… stupid! Metal… radar… radar beacon… too big, too passive… Some way to modulate it?… Signal… signal flares… fire… too obvious. Heat… infrared… a thermal pulse of some kind… heat… heat… flame… oil… diesel… oil… oil… oil. What was it about oil?

Amanda’s head lifted abruptly off the pillow.

Oil.

There was one asset that hadn’t been taken from her. Possibly… probably… as an act of kindness by Harconan she still possessed her Naval Academy class ring. Sitting up in the bunk, she tore it from her finger. In a matter of moments she was facing astern in the inner aft corner of the cabin, as close to the keel line of the ship as she could get.

Using her ring as a pendulum, she assembled a crude inclinometer. With a thread unraveled from the hem of her sarung she suspended the ring from one of the clothing-hook nails driven into the bulkhead. Intently she studied the sway of the pendulum to port and starboard, gauging the arc of each sweep as the pinisi gently rolled and pitched in the low swells.

No cargo ship, not even a large, modern freighter with gyro-stablization and computerized ballast tanks could be trimmed to ride perfectly. There would inevitably be at least a slight list to port or starboard. This particular schooner seemed to favor her port side, by a couple of degrees. Not enough to affect her handling or to even be noticeable when one stood on the deck. But the list was definitely there.

Amanda needed to know that. Now she needed something else. The clothing hooks were too obvious. There was too much chance someone would notice one of the nails missing. Instead she began to scour the interior of the cabin, checking out every plank end and joining.

Once, the Bugis pinisi had been built entirely without metal, master shipwrights fitting the sleek craft together with wooden pegs that swelled with exposure to sea water, bonding the rakish schooner together almost into a composite whole. But with the passage of time and the coming of the engine age, the Bugis had yielded to the ease of screws, spikes, and nails.

Amanda found the lifted head of one such nail beneath a deck mat, slightly loosened by the working of the schooner’s hull. Again she used her precious ring as a prying tool, backing the nail out of its hole in the deck, cursing silently at its stubbornness, swearing wordlessly at the tears and gouges in her fingers, dreading the sound of the cabin’s door bolt snapping back.

After a minor eternity she succeeded. It was better than she could have hoped for. The nail was almost ten-penny size. It would work well.

Carefully, Amanda sheathed it in the hem of her garment. Re-donning her scarred ring, she lay down on the bunk once more. Now, to wait for nightfall and to pray that her captor would be amenable to just a little manipulation.

The slant and fade of the light through the wooden-barred port told of the passing of time, as did the odor of cooking within the deckhouse. Harconan himself came with a quiet invitation to the evening meal.

Amanda had been hoping for this, but she strove for a proper balance of hesitation and resignation in her acceptance.

Served in the main cabin, the food was simple: rice, grilled fish, and tea. The only conversational ploy aimed in Amanda’s direction came from Harconan. The other members of the schooner’s taciturn crew, English-speaking or not, either kept their peace or spoke only to their companions in a low murmur, a decided difference from the curious, casual, and friendly extroversion that was the Indonesian norm.

It was readily apparent to Amanda that the hand of the raja samudra hovered over her. She was not to be a matter of consideration by the schooner’s crew.

There was the one exception: the wiry, sun-darkened old sailor who guarded her. He took a seat on a bench diametrically across the cabin from her, his pristine Sterling machine pistol at his side. As he ate, his eyes never left her, monitoring every move she made, every gesture or shift of position, every morsel of food she lifted to her mouth. There was no lust in that gaze, just an intent and wary focus.

No doubt but that her watchdog had been personally selected by Harconan for his diligence and ability. His was the only firearm Amanda had seen overtly carried aboard the schooner.

Possibly Makara was still infatuated with her, but he was no fool. Amanda had no doubt as to what would happen if she made any threatening action against Harconan or the ship. There was also no doubt she would have to carry out her plan under her guard’s unwavering stare.

Amanda ate slowly, drawing out her meal until she, Harconan, and the guard were the only ones remaining at the cabin table and full darkness had settled beyond the ports.

“I’m glad to see you have an appetite tonight,” Harconan commented. “May I assume you are feeling better this evening?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Amanda replied, wiping her right hand — her eating hand — clean with a moistened cloth. “A little fresh air would be appreciated, though. Would it be possible for me to go out on deck for a while?”

“Of course you may. Amanda, please believe that I have no desire to make this situation any more unpleasant for you than absolutely necessary. In fact, I’d like to make you an offer.”

“What kind of offer?”

“One of parole, an ancient and respected military tradition,” Harconan replied. “Give me your word that you will not attempt to escape or to interfere with my operations and I can promise you an even greater degree of comfort and freedom than you might otherwise enjoy. You will be betraying nothing because there is no chance of escape where we are going. Likewise, any action against us or attempt to communicate with your navy will fail.”

He reached out and rested his hand on her wrist. “Also, under parole, I may be able to show more of what I am attempting to do, and why. I’m not just a pirate, Amanda. I’d like the chance to explain that to you.”

Steady, Mandy, don’t jump at it too fast. Softly, softly, catchee monkey.

“I’d have to think about it, Makara,” she replied stiffly. “That and a lot of other things.”

He nodded his acceptance. “That’s understandable. Take all the time you need.”

Amanda stood up from the table. “May I go on deck now, please?”

“Of course.” He tried a smile. “I don’t suppose you’d want some company.”

“No. Not just now. I’d rather be alone for a while.”

“As you wish.”

A glance at the Southern Cross revealed that the pinisi was still eastering steadily, the almost waveless sea boiling beneath the upraked bow. The only deck illumination issued from the red and green running lights amidships and the glow of the binnacle in the wheelhouse — that and the glitter of a million tropic stars overhead. There was more than enough for Amanda to find her way to the portside rail and for her soft-footed guard to keep her under observation.

As was his way, he held back, staying in the shadows at the base of the deckhouse as Amanda idled her way forward toward the bow, pretending to be a person deep in thought.

In reality, the thinking had already been done and the decisions made. With her back to the guard, she slipped the nail she’d stolen from the cabin deck out of her sarung. Fitting it carefully into her hand with her thumb folded over the head, she found about half an inch protruded from the bottom of her fist. Perfect.

She was on the narrow strip of deck between the rail and the deck cargo, the lashed drums of diesel. She was also portside, just where she wanted to be. There was nothing to be gained by waiting.

She sank down to the deck, sitting with her back to the oil drums. As she drew her knees up under her chin, her right hand whipped back, behind the cover of her body, driving the nail into the lower face of the oil drum beside her.

This was the most critical moment. Would her guard have noted that single odd tinny thump, and would he investigate? Amanda paused in her breathing.

There was no movement from the base of the deckhouse. Forty feet aft, her guard was sitting cross-legged on the deck as well, content with keeping her in visual range and content that the noise must have been a harmless transitory.

Amanda had felt the slick splash of oil on her hand when she had struck her blow. Glancing down now, she saw a pencil-thin jet of diesel spew across the deck, forming into a dark stream that trickled into the scuppers. As she looked on, the stream’s end disappeared over the side, drizzling into the sea.

Her homemade inclinometer had read true! There was a portside list! She was in business. Unobtrusively she flicked the nail away over the side. Silently she began to count, One… two… three… four…

Minutes crept by.

… two ninety-eight… two ninety-nine… three hundred.

Dropping her hand to her side, she pressed her finger into the hole in the oil drum, cutting off the flow.

Let’s see, the space between the components of one character is one unit. Between characters should be three units. Here we go again…. One… two… three…

The numbers crawled by. Her arm ached. The stars wheeled in their arc across the sky. It was all a matter of time. There would be a chance if Harconan would give her enough of it. Two hours would do it. Two hours.

She held herself immobile, her body and the shadows the only shields she had between her actions and her guard. Occasionally she dared a look toward the deckhouse. Was his gaze still fixed on her? Or was his chin resting on his chest, the warm night wind and the steady slow pitching of the ship having taken its toll?

Then, beyond the cramping of her muscles and the numbing trudge of the numbers in her mind, Amanda heard the slamming of a hatch and the sound of Harconan’s voice calling in Bahasa Indonesia up to the deckhouse.

She had almost finished the last unit. It would have to do. She stood up and moved forward hastily, stepping over the stain on the deck, moving away from it to the forepeak of the schooner’s bow. As she walked she tried to wipe the diesel from her right hand onto the tarpaulins tied down over the oil drums.

Footsteps sounded on the wooden deck behind her.

“Amanda?”

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I haven’t thrown myself over the side yet.”

She kept her eyes fixed forward into the velvet darkness, but she felt Harconan come up behind her. “I’m glad to hear it. And not just for the sake of your hostage value.”

“I’m having a hard time believing that.”

“Hmm, I agree, it is rather a bizarre situation, isn’t it? And in honesty, I will confess that your presence here will prove useful in certain negotiations I intend to conduct with your government.”

“So much for being a POW, then. I am a hostage in a terrorist scenario.”

“Yes and no.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the stacked oil drums. “In appearance you will be, with a variety of dire threats hanging over your head. The reality is that while I intend to hold you for a time, it is my truest wish, on the body and soul of my grandfather, not to harm you.”

“Why not, Makara?” She turned to face him. All right, Mandy. Offer him his first name. “Why not the real thing? Sending an amputated finger back with your demands is usually the first step, isn’t it?”

“Amanda, come now, I’m being honest here with you. Be just and return the favor.” He stood and rested his hands on her bare shoulders. “You know why I don’t wish to harm you. I can understand your anger, your bitterness at being trapped like this. I can understand it very well because we are so alike in so many ways. Even at war with one another, the soul recognizes its mate and the instinct reaches out. Call me a liar. Tell me that what happened between us at Palau Piri wasn’t real?”

She couldn’t. He was right. It had been true, the true and honest passion of two eager and hungry animals drawn to each other for their hour of mating. The politics and posturing were a matter beyond that moment.

“No, for that you aren’t lying.”

It wasn’t too difficult to let herself sink forward against Harconan’s chest. On one level there was much in what he had to say. She could acknowledge that, at least to herself. She could even accept the pleasure of having those powerful, muscular arms close around her.

“There,” he whispered into her hair. “This is a truth. Give me a chance, Amanda. Give me a chance to show you about other things, other plans. There is so much more to what is happening here. Maybe we can find some other truths between us presently.”

“Maybe,” Amanda whispered.

“Have you thought about my offer of parole?” he inquired.

Amanda hesitated a few moments more, as if fighting the internal battle he might expect. The simple reality was that she would readily give her parole. She would also cold-bloodedly break it at whatever opportune moment might present itself She had no problem with that at all within her personal code of morality. An oath and an allegiance could only he given once. Long ago she had given hers to her nation and her service. That was a truth as well.

“All right, Makara. I guess it doesn’t make any sense not to. You have my parole.”

His arms tightened around her. “A wise woman! No escape tries and no troublemaking? Agreed?”

“You have my word. No escape tries and no troublemaking.” She let a hint of humor creep into her voice. “Just at the moment, I don’t see too many openings for either one.”

Harconan laughed. “You have none at all, my beautiful captive, none at all. Relax and enjoy captivity. Savor the adventure of it. Tomorrow will be an interesting day.”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“You’ll see. I have a surprise for you. I think you’ll be impressed.”

Amanda thought of the thin stream of oil trailing in the schooner’s wake. And I, my magnificent bastard, may have a surprise for you.