'Lost, three-nil.'
'Bastards.' Ross sighed and looked away in disgust. 'Jock, this is Mister Dulanotov. One of our supernumos. He's got a problem with his VHF.'
Dave answered a few rudimentary questions about the VHF system aboard the Juarista while at the same time he considered what would be the best way of taking out the ship's radio. The sailor in him recoiled from the idea of simply putting a bullet in the radio and leaving a hundred people stranded on the ocean with no means of communication. But he could see no obvious alternative. At least that was how it seemed until, backing out of Ross's way, he caught and tore the pocket of his chinos on the heavy steel door.
'Sorry about that,' said Ross.
But Dave was more interested in the discovery that there was a key in the door than in any apology. All he would have to do was steal the key and then hide it somewhere.
Jock leaned forward in his chair, frowning with puzzlement as through the loudspeaker came a sound like a fax machine in transmission. He said, 'Odd. There it is again.'
'What is?' asked Ross.
'That sound. One of the supernumos must be broadcasting a signal using a digital scrambler.'
'So?'
'So, it's a little unusual, that's all.'
'What channel?' asked Dave, curious.
Jock hit the squelch button on the transceiver to try and filter out the background atmospheric noise. He shook his head and said, 'It seems to be between frequencies.'
Ross shrugged and said, 'Whoever it is is probably trying to have a private business conversation, that's all. There are a lot of nosey bastards around these days. You never know who's listening to your blower. I was reading about it in the paper. Industrial espionage is on the increase.'
'That's true,' said Jock in an accent as thick as porridge. 'But digital's sophisticated.' He looked accusingly at Dave. 'Even for some mega-rich supernumo. Normally it's only the military and the intelligence community who get to play with these kinds of toys.'
'Are you sure it's coming from the Duke?' asked Dave.
'Positive. Look at that signal strength. We're right on top of it. And what's more, VHF has a very short range. Fifty miles max. If someone's broadcasting then it's to someone else who's quite close.'
'Can you get a fix on it?' asked Dave.
'Not with this kit.' Jock picked up a half-smoked cigarette and puffed it back into life. 'There is another possibility, if the signal's not actually coming from the ship.' He took a drag, stubbed out the cigarette in a saucer, and started to roll another.
Ross said, 'Well, don't make us change our underwear for it.'
Jock licked his cigarette paper and said, 'It's possible. Just possible, mind, that we're over a submarine.' He put the cigarette in his mouth and scraped a match alight. 'Those bastards play all sorts of stupid games. If it is a sub, he's probably using us as the subject of an exercise. Right now he could be going through the motions of firing a torpedo at us.'
Dave said, 'That's a comforting thought as we prepare to go to bed.'
Ross said, 'Yeah. And to think that it's to help us all sleep soundly in our beds that they do these bloody stupid things.'
Aboard the Carrera, Kate finished her conversation with the first officer of the USS Galveston, the 688-Class attack submarine that was, she had just been informed, 200 feet below the twin hulls of the Duke. She felt a lot better knowing they had company, even though it would only last as far as the Sargasso Sea. After that there would be several hundred miles across the Cape Verde Basin before they picked up their French nuclear sub escort at another underwater landmark, Great Meteor Tablemount.
She and Sam Brockman were seated behind the drawn shades and closed doors of the wheelhouse skylounge. Brockman was keeping one eye on the electronic chart, more out of habit than of necessity. A tall man -- too tall to be really comfortable on the yacht: at six feet five his steel-gray hair was forever brushing along the Carrera's suede-covered ceilings -- Brockman had the air of someone who'd seen it all before. Kate liked him, finding confidence in his steady demeanor, admiring his attention to duty, but most of all enjoying the fact that he shared her own low opinion of Kent Bowen.
Kate said, 'Where is His Excellency?'
'Asleep. In his stateroom. He and the beer got well acquainted during the game on TV. And then there was the wine he had at dinner. I guess he's drunk as much as he's breathed today. Looks like he intends to play the part of lazy fat cat to the whiskers, Kate. Not so much under cover as under the influence. It amazes me that he's managed to keep such a tight rein on his mouth. So far.'
'I should never have suggested it,' Kate said. 'You're right, Sam. He's acting like he's Donald Trump. This owner thing really has gone to his head.'
'It's not just his head. Did you see the way he was coming onto the captain of the Jade?'
Sam grinned. 'I wonder why?'
'Oh come on, Sam. Not you too. Those are tits in her polo shirt. Not golden apples.'
'Can't say as I noticed her tits. But I love that woman's ass.'
'Sam.'
'Sea air does strange things to people,' he explained. 'There'll be all kinds of shit before this voyage is out. You just see if I'm wrong.'
'I hope so. I could use some action. Miami Bureau's been a little dull of late. Bo wen sees to that. Dullest AS AC I ever worked for.'
'Don't you worry about a thing. You did right. Believe me, he's playing the dumb schmuck owner to perfection. I should know, I worked for plenty. During college vacations I used to crew yachts. One particular asshole I worked for, heir to a sanitary napkin fortune, he owned this classic three-masted schooner. Two hundred feet long, built in 1927, a real beauty. His private plane flew him down to meet the yacht at Tierra del Fuego, in Argentina. This was after us radioing him to say that the weather was real quiet. We picked him up and he spent forty-eight hours on board going round Cape Horn just so that he could boast to his yacht club pals back in Manhattan that he'd actually done it. Two days later, we dropped him off the coast of Chile and he flew home. Asshole. As soon as he got back to Wall Street he put the yacht up for sale.' Sam shook his head with disgust. 'Yes, I think he and Kent Bowen would have gotten along real well.'
'It's kind of you to say so, Sam.'
He stretched his long arms and yawned. 'Bowen's right about one thing, though. That early night. I'm bushed. Mind if I turn in?'
'You go ahead. I'm going to stay up a while and enjoy the night air. It's not every day you set sail on a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.'
Sam smiled politely and rose to his feet. He had no great love for the ocean. Fort Lauderdale was one of the busiest stations in the service. They'd performed over a thousand boardings the previous year and Sam never worked less than a seventy-hour week. The Coast Guard motto was Semper Paratus -- Always Ready -- and boy, did they mean it. Sam had never married. He'd never found the time, let alone the right girl. The kind of girl who would put up with a rival like the sea. Kate, he liked. But already he knew her for what she was. Someone like himself. Someone prepared to put her job ahead of any relationship. And there was no future in that for either of them. So he said goodnight and went down to his stateroom.
Kate went to the back of the bridge and stared out to sea. The ship was making good speed at almost seventeen knots, although she would hardly have noticed but for the low noise and dull vibration of the engines. The sea itself looked as calm as if they'd been sailing in one of Lauderdale's intercoastal waterways. The moon was full, as big as a soccer ball, and there was only a light warm breeze as they cruised through the night. Kate lit a Doral and meandered barefoot around the deck. In the moonlight you might have believed all of the boats on the ship were made of cocaine, they were so white. A poet at least might have appreciated Kent Bowen's half-baked theory. And it was easy to think of all their passengers as supernatural voyagers from some Greek myth, or maybe flying Dutchmen set to sail the seas forever.
Someone cleared his throat, and, turning towards the Carrera's starboard side, she found herself facing the moonlit captain of the Juarista. He said, 'Lovely evening.'
