Cold Choices

had the same thought, and reported, “No weapons. Those pods on each side are drop tanks.”

Finally, it came up on their port side, only a hundred feet up and not much farther away. The radio came to life. “Norwegian fishing vessel, this is a U.S. Navy helicopter. You are inside a maritime exclusion zone established during a rescue operation. Turn around immediately and head southwest.”

Jonson looked at Brewer who shook his head violently. “Do not answer. As long as we don’t answer, they can’t say we received their transmission. This is just like the other one. It’s unarmed.”

The helicopter repeated its message, and when it didn’t receive a reply, it changed position, dropping aft and closing. Brewer knew they were looking for the vessel’s name on the stern, but he’d had the captain cover it with a fender. He hadn’t been able to talk Jonson into taking down the Norwegian flag.

“Norwegian fishing vessel, you are violating international law. You are approaching an area where rescue operations are underway. If you do not come about, you will be arrested on your return and fined.”

Brewer quickly said, “INN will pay the fines and any other expenses.”

Johnson looked unconvinced. He scratched his blond beard thoughtfully. “What if I lose my license?”

Brewer answered lightly, “If they’re going to arrest us when we go back, let’s go back with the story. INN will be more interested in backing you up if you help us.”

The fisherman looked dubious, but Brewer said, “Look, you’re working for me. I’ll take the heat, and all they ever do to a journalist is kick us out. I’m trying to do my job.”

Jonson looked over at the first mate, who said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he gave a slight nod, and Jonson said, “All right. I will not pay any fines. Your bosses will pay them.”

They pressed on. The helicopter climbed and took station behind the fishing boat; steering large, slow figure eights to stay in position. Every ten minutes the aircraft would call them, but never received a response. Brewer wondered how long the aircraft’s fuel would last.

At sunset, the helicopter was still in position, its navigation lights marking its position long after its shape had blended with the night sky. Brewer knew the helicopter could track them with radar. They’d used radar to find Stavanger in the first place. There was no way to evade detection or slip in. He was just going to call their bluff.

They were having an early dinner when the lookout’s excited call brought Brewer and the captain up to the bridge. The third mate pointed to the radar, mounted in front of the ship’s wheel. “Twenty kilometers,” Jonson commented, “about eleven miles.”

The second mate was standing in the companionway, and Johnson barked orders in Norwegian. The second took the helm, while the third fastened his cold-weather gear and picked up a pair of binoculars.

Jonson studied the scope for a minute, then took a second range reading. “He’s coming fast,” the captain remarked. “About thirty knots.”

“Could it be a commercial ship?” Brewer asked.

Jonson snorted. “In these waters? At this time of year? At that speed? No, mister reporter, that is a warship.” Several emotions quickly played across the captain’s face — frustration, disappointment, then resignation.

Brewer went through a different set of emotions. He would have thought they had more important things to do than chase a harmless fishing boat, but he was ready for them.

The position of the lights didn’t change, but the shape they marked grew steadily larger. With only a quarter moon and a partly cloudy sky, it was virtually invisible, even with Brewer knowing where to look.

Then, at one mile’s distance, the ship suddenly flashed into visibility. They’d turned on their exterior lights. In the pitch darkness it almost floated somewhere between the dark sky and the darker sea.

“Norwegian fishing vessel, this is a U.S. Navy destroyer USS Churchill. Identify yourself.” The voice sounded like a Brit.

Confused, Brewer shook his head again, and half-reached out as Jonson walked toward the radio. The captain ignored him, and instead handed Brewer the glasses, pointing toward the ship as he picked up the microphone.

Brewer looked though the binoculars at the warship. He recognized it as an Aegis destroyer. He’d bought several books in the U.S. and studied them on the flight. It was a gray thing, all angles and shapes. It looked huge, even a mile away.

“This is motor vessel Stavanger, out of Alesund.”

Brewer studied the ship. It was exciting, seeing a warship like this, in its element. He wasn’t worried, even when he saw the gun on the bow pointed in their direction. This was an American ship.

“Stavanger; what is your business?”

“Tell them we have been chartered by Marine Salvage. We are bringing supplies to Halsfjord,”

Jonson gave Brewer a strange look, but shrugged and repeated the claim, in English.

Churchill rogered for the explanation, then said nothing more. She slowed and took position a mile off their port side. Above and behind Stavanger, the helicopter continued to fly lazy eights.

As the minutes passed, Brewer began to believe the explanation had worked. After all, the Russians had declared the exclusion zone. The U.S. hadn’t honored it earlier. Now, here they were headed northeast with an American destroyer alongside.

“Stavanger; this is Churchill. Marine Diving and Salvage and Halsfjord both deny any knowledge of your charter. Halsfjord expects no vessels. Heave to immediately and stand by to be boarded. If you do not cut your engines, we will fire.”

“They can’t mean it,” Brewer protested.

Jonson reached for the throttles. “They mean it. No bluff.”

Stavanger slowed quickly, the boat rolling unevenly as it drifted and turned to face the wind. Brewer watched Churchill slow as well, and take position upwind a hundred yards away. Her forward gun stayed trained on them, and Brewer could see sailors manning other weapons on her decks.

The destroyer lowered a boat on her lee side and it bounced through the waves to Stavanger’s side. Brewer could see men in the boat. Several of them were armed. At Jonson’s orders, a boarding ladder was waiting for them. The first man over the side was not armed, but the second and third were, and took covering positions on the deck while the rest of the group climbed aboard. Jonson and his first mate stood quietly until the leader introduced himself.

“I am Leftenant Keith Figg, Royal Navy. Who is master aboard?”

“I am. Captain Jonson.”

“Captain, what is your business in these waters?” Brewer noticed that as Figg asked his questions, another sailor was videotaping the proceedings— making a legal record.

“I am under charter by INN to carry a reporter and his men to the rescue location.”

“Were you aware that you entered an internationally recognized exclusion zone?”

Jonson didn’t answer immediately, and Figg said, “All mariners are required to know of any exclusion zones.” After a moment, he added, “And the Russians haven’t kept this one a secret.”

Finally Jonson nodded. He’d rather admit to a violation than ignorance. “Yes, I was aware of the exclusion zone.”

“Where are your charters?”

“Here,” Brewer replied. “Harry Brewer, INN.” Reflexively, he offered Figg a business card, then realized the absurdity of the act, standing on a heaving deck in the middle of the night to men with guns pointed at him. “May I ask why a British officer is on a U.S. warship?”

Figg ignored the question and took the card, but didn’t look at it. “Did Captain Jonson inform you of the exclusion zone?”

“Actually, I informed him. I didn’t want to deceive him about where we were going.”

“And you deliberately entered the exclusion zone.”

“As I said, I’m with INN. We’re here to cover the rescue of Severodvinsk’s crew. I’ve got equipment that will let us send the images worldwide, in real time.”