First Victim

Danske,’’ Boldt quoted, cocking his notepad to catch some of the limited light in the windowless and blackened room. ‘‘They’re all in the system. The reason I’m here—’’

The military cut nodded. ‘‘Yes. The SS Hana is reporting equipment failure and has requested to leave the lanes and hold closer to shore.’’

‘‘Is that common?’’

‘‘It happens, sure.’’

‘‘But it’s not common,’’ Boldt pressed.

‘‘Listen, with you guys breathing down our necks, we take everything just a little more seriously, okay? Anything you can name, it has happened out there: fires, explosions, collisions, you name it. If an equipment failure threatens to slow down traffic or bottle us up, we’re only too happy to get that ship out of traffic.’’

‘‘The Hana stopped in Hong Kong,’’ Boldt verified.

‘‘All three: Hana, Zeffer and Danske, just as we reported to you.’’ He pointed to a small blip on the screen, below which was a six-digit number. ‘‘Hana was the first of the three into the system. She’s number six thousand, four hundred and twelve this year. She’s done everything by the book, and we’ve got no complaints against her. Some of these captains can be real assholes, believe me. Double-hulled egos, I’m telling you. She wants out of the lane, she’s got it.’’

‘‘She’s a container ship.’’

‘‘That’s correct.’’

‘‘And once she’s out, what then?’’ Boldt asked.

‘‘To be honest? Our concern is with the lanes: keep the traffic moving. On a typical night, we’d pay little or no attention to her once she’s down in speed and picked up by a tug and out of our way.’’

‘‘But she’s on your screen,’’ Boldt reminded.

‘‘Of course she’s on the screen! But all I’m saying is, out of sight out of mind. You know?’’

‘‘And if she made an unscheduled stop? Would you guys spot that?’’

‘‘Why the hell would she make an unscheduled stop?’’ the man asked.

‘‘I need an exact location. A GPS fix, if you’ve got it.’’

‘‘You learn quick,’’ the man said, clearly impressed. He grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled down a string of numbers. Like a bat, he was used to working in the dark. Boldt couldn’t see a thing.

When the dim but visible lights of SS Hana appeared off the chopper’s port side as a faint cluster of pale color in an otherwise blackened backdrop, the pilot banked the chopper left, rendering his passengers briefly weightless. ‘‘Contact,’’ he said with confidence. Channel Seven’s SkyCam, heard occasionally over the air-traffic control radio, became visible for the first time—a set of blinking lights pointed out by the pilot. He deftly brought the tail around to give him a better view and then sideslipped his craft through the rain, down and to the right, a kite lost to the wind, falling, falling, falling.

‘‘Will they see us?’’ she asked into her headset. ‘‘The freighter mustn’t see us! We mustn’t spook them.’’

The KSTV technician, who had crowded the chopper’s backseat with gear, reported, ‘‘I’ve got their feed.’’ He passed Stevie a small color screen the size of a paperback book, a single wire running from it. On the tiny monitor Stevie saw the ship’s shape as a collage of iridescent colors—a yellow-orange wake spilling away from the stern of the ship like a paper fan set afire. She couldn’t look at the screen very long without added nausea.

Below her the freighter grew in size from a child’s toy to something large and menacing as the rain fell harder and the collapsing ceiling of thick clouds swirled like water headed down a drain.

Fully loaded, the SS Hana carried twelve hundred containers the size of railroad boxcars. Stacked five high on deck, a few hundred of these were secured by chain with links as wide as a man’s leg and leveraged turnbuckles that required two strong men to set or remove them. With containers rising fifty feet from its deck, the ship looked ready to capsize.

The technician warned, ‘‘They’re getting ready to go live, or they wouldn’t be transmitting images.’’

Stevie asked the pilot, ‘‘Can we get between them and the ship, and still avoid being seen?’’

‘‘Not with our lights on,’’ he said, flipping a switch and making them dark. No strobes whatsoever.

‘‘Is this legal?’’ she asked.

‘‘Hell no.’’

‘‘Could you lose your license?’’

‘‘Hell yes.’’

‘‘Is it safe?’’

The helicopter dove so quickly that Stevie reached out for a grip.

‘‘Depends,’’ the pilot answered, talking loudly into the headset.

‘‘On what?’ she asked nervously.

‘‘On what they do,’’ he answered, indicating the neighboring helicopter as they passed below it.

‘‘Stand by,’’ the technician said, ‘‘I think they’re going to broadcast.’’

‘‘Get between them!’’ Stevie instructed. She could not have Seven revealing the ship and spoiling Boldt’s efforts. Melissa! she thought. ‘‘Oh my God!’’ she hollered. ‘‘Hurry!’’

The screen in her lap showed the water as a dark green, the ship’s outline boldly as black, its wake, a flaming orange roil, its onboard lights pale yellow and tiny.

She asked her technician, ‘‘What’s that red blob at the stern?’’

‘‘I’m thinking engine room,’’ he answered. ‘‘Those engines will be cooking. The bright yellow dots are probably some of the crew out on deck. Same with the darker yellow just forward of that—most likely the pilothouse.’’

‘‘And this?’’ she asked, indicating another much larger mass of pale yellow slightly forward of midship.

‘‘That’s coming from a container,’’ he confirmed.

‘‘As in people inside a container?’’ she asked.

‘‘Warmth,’’ he answered. ‘‘The source? We don’t know.’’ He touched his headset. ‘‘Hang on! They’ve gone live. Listen up!’’ He threw a switch and Stevie’s headphones filled with a reporter’s introduction. On the screen, the ship appeared against the blackness of the water, a large rectangular shape of unexplained color. Sparkles filled the screen.

‘‘That interference is us,’’ the technician said proudly.

‘‘Blind them!’’ Stevie ordered the pilot. The helicopter slowly turned to the right and aimed up toward the flashing strobe lights just below the layer of clouds. Both helicopters remained to the stern of the SS Hana, less likely to be heard or spotted by the crew.

The reporter said on-air, ‘‘Without infrared, you can barely see the stacked containers aboard this ship . . . but in a moment we’ll show you what the eye cannot see! It is this reporter’s contention that the heat inside a forward container represents body heat from illegal immigrants. What you will see next is an infrared image of this same ship, with yellow and red representing heat sources. It is Live-7’s intention over the next hour to follow this ship to port.’’

The video screen switched to the infrared color images.

‘‘Now!’’ Stevie shouted.

The pilot brought the chopper’s nose up. He tripped a bright spotlight that flooded the other helicopter white. On the screen, this appeared as a blinding bolt of fire-engine red that interrupted the view of the ship.

‘‘Direct hit!’’ shouted the technician.

‘‘You’re brilliant,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘Pun intended.’’

The image on the screen appeared to burn and melt from the edges until completely white.

The fraught and anxious voice of the news reporter complained like some old lady with her garden torn up by a neighbor’s dog. Channel Seven had caught a few seconds of the infrared image and it reappeared on their live broadcast. The reporter delivered a voice-over narrating the events below.

Stevie asked the pilot if it was possible to contact the other helicopter by radio. He warned her it would have to be quick, threw a switch on the console and indicated for her to depress a button when she wished to speak, and to release to listen.

‘‘Now?’’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘‘Julia?’’ Stevie spoke, naming the Channel Seven reporter. ‘‘It’s Stevie McNeal. Do you realize what you’ve