Flying Blind

wasp waist; his wrists were small but his hands were big, blunt, and powerful—he extended one to Miller and they shook.

“Skipper,” Miller said, “good to see you again. This is your passenger.”

“We don’t normally take on passengers, Mr. Heller,” he said, without having to be told my name; his voice was a New England drawl. The boyish smile was still alive as he held his hand out.

“This is Captain Irving Johnson,” Miller said, as Johnson and I shook. His grip was firm but not obnoxious. “Pull up a chair, Skipper. Can I get you something to drink?”

Easing into a wicker settee, he said, “Maybe a lemonade.” I must have reacted to that, because Johnson said, “I run a dry ship, Mr. Heller. No drinking, no smoking, either…hope that won’t be a problem.”

“Not at all, Captain. I understand your crew pays you. That’s a neat trick.”

Miller had stepped away to summon a steward to get Johnson his lemonade.

Johnson’s shy smile settled on the left side of his face, as he said, “My bride and I’ve come up with an interesting way of living…. We go out for a year and a half, sail around the world having the time of our life, with a crew of young people who pay us for the privilege.”

“If I’m not out of line asking, what do you charge these amateur adventurers to play Barnacle Bill?”

“Three thousand dollars per.”

I let out a slow whistle. “You turn rich boys into slightly less rich men.”

He shrugged. “We make sailors out of them. Standing watch day and night, steering, handling sail, rigging, even sailmaking. Everybody works, which is why you’ll be an exception.”

“Hey, I’m just thumbin’ a ride—and I appreciate the favor, though it seems like an awful risk for you.”

Miller was back, joining Johnson on the settee. “The skipper here is generally regarded as the best all-around schooner master on the seas.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “But sailing into Japanese waters…”

Johnson leaned back, a knee locked in his palms. “We’ll drop anchor outside Saipan, beyond the three-mile territorial zone.”

“Who’s going to take me in?”

“I will. And Hayden, my first mate…he’s no rich kid, he’s a real sailor.”

I glanced at Miller. “Who am I on this ship?”

“You’re Nate Heller,” Miller said. “The skipper has told his boys that, should anyone ask, you were along for the full four-week cruise of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands.”

“Captain,” I asked, “is your crew aware this is a government mission?”

“They are,” Johnson said, nodding. “They know none of the particulars, just that we’re doing the red-white- and-blue a favor. They’re good kids, obviously from good backgrounds, and can be trusted.”

I looked at Miller again. “This sounds a little freewheeling to me.”

Miller’s shrug was barely perceptible. “We’ll have a talk with the boys at the first available moment.”

A native steward brought Johnson his lemonade. The skipper nodded his thanks to the man, and sipped at the tall cool glass. “You can have them briefed at Nauru,” Johnson said to Miller.

“Frankly, Captain,” I said, “I’m surprised you’re out in these waters with your boatload of silver spoons, considering what’s going on in this world.”

Geckos were chasing flies; catching and eating them, too, in those spilled circles of light.

“I was worried the war might dog our tracks out on the high seas,” he admitted. “And I have my wife and two young sons with me, after all…. Maybe the time has passed for carefree sailing into the world’s faraway places.”

Or maybe, like Amy, he was a well-known civilian with a handy, credible cover for reconnaissance.

I tossed a nod back toward the tin-hut hotel behind us. “It certainly hasn’t stopped millionaires from taking pleasure cruises.”

“My schooner is not the China Clipper, Mr. Heller,” Johnson said, the smile turning wry. “You’re stepping into the past when you set foot on my deck. The Yankee was sailing the North Sea before any of us were born.”

And in the Guam harbor the next morning, anchored among the warships and freighters, the Yankee indeed looked as if she had sailed out of the past into a harsher, less pleasing present, this majestic white-hulled schooner, nearly a hundred feet long, like a pirate ship of good guys, as the American flag painted on her bow attested.

My travel bag in one hand, with the other I shook hands with Miller, dockside, and he asked, “Any final questions?”

“Yeah. What do you mean, ‘final’?”

And he actually laughed. “Good luck, Nate.”

“Thank you, Bill,” I said, and meant it. He had worked hard, preparing me for this mission. He was one cold son of a bitch, but then I was a smartass bastard, so who was I to talk?

Captain Johnson, at the wheel, invited me to stand beside him as we cast off and glided out. Brown-as-a-berry rich kids scurried around his deck in shorts and no shirts and no shoes, as he called out to them, “Foresail!… Mainsail!…Forestaysail!…Jib!…Maintopsail!…Fisherman staysail!” One by one they were set, then finally a massive square sail dropped from the yardarm, and a triangular one rose above it, thousands of square feet of sail, a