With an abundance of caution, Kurt considered the possibility of mass hysteria. It happened often enough among shipwreck survivors, but usually after days of exposure and dehydration.
“Give me a flare,” Kurt said.
Joe handed the flare gun to Kurt. By now, the thrum of heavy diesel engines could be heard clearly. There was a ship out there, running dark for whatever reason and moving closer.
Kurt aimed the gun skyward and pulled the trigger. The flare rocketed straight up, casting a white light down on the sea around them. A half mile off, Kurt spotted the prow of a freighter. It was heading roughly in their direction, though it would miss them to the east.
“It’s not one of ours,” Captain Winslow said.
“Nor is it a yacht with a band and a bar,” Joe replied. “But I’ll take it.”
The flare had a forty-second life, and the darkness returned once it dropped into the sea.
They waited.
“There’s no way they didn’t spot that,” Joe insisted.
Kurt loaded another flare into the firing chamber. “Let’s hope they’re not sleeping or watching TV.”
He was about to fire the second flare when the sound of the big engines and the reduction gearing changed.
“She’s cut her throttles,” Winslow said gleefully.
Kurt held off on firing the precious flare. Waiting. Hoping.
A spotlight came on near the aft of the big ship. It played across the water until it locked onto the orange raft. It went dark for a second and then began to flash a message.
“Use the flashlight,” Kurt said.
Joe moved to the edge, snapped on the light, and began to signal an SOS in Morse code.
More flashes followed from the ship.
“They’re coming around,” the captain replied, reading the message before Kurt could speak. “They’re going to pick us up.”
A cheer went through the boat.
With the spotlight blazing down on them, the survivors watched as the freighter heaved to. It slowed appreciably and then came around, settling a hundred yards to the west of the lifeboat, blocking the swells to some extent.
Kurt and Joe rowed with great enthusiasm to close the gap. Their efforts were rewarded when the orange inflatable bumped into the side of the blue-painted hull.
Thirty feet above, a wide cargo hatch opened in the side of the ship and a few faces appeared. A basket was lowered to haul up the injured crewmen. After they’d been secured, a cargo net was draped against the hull like a ladder for the rest of the survivors to climb.
One by one, they went up until only Kurt and the captain remained.
“After you,” Kurt said.
The captain shook his head. “My ship went down without me,” Winslow insisted. “The least I can do is be the last man off the lifeboat.”
Kurt nodded, secured the flare gun to his belt, and climbed onto the cargo net.
He glanced down to see Winslow latching onto the net and the orange lifeboat drifting away. Truth was, they’d been lucky. Lucky to have survived the sinking, lucky to have avoided hypothermia, lucky to have been picked up.
In fact, they’d been extremely lucky. Their rescuers weren’t from NUMA or any navy or coast guard. The ship was a merchant vessel. Forty feet above him, Kurt could just make out the boxy outline of shipping containers stacked three high.
A thought began to form in his mind, a spark of insight that struggled to flare brightly in his weary, half- frozen brain. They were a thousand miles from the nearest trade route, he told himself. So what on earth was a containership doing there?
He got part of the answer as he was pulled into the hatchway. It came in the form of a black pistol pressed up against the side of his head.
He looked around. The other survivors were down on their knees. Stern-looking men wielding AK-47s stood around them.
Captain Winslow climbed in and received the same treatment.
Kurt received the rest of the answer a moment later as one of the gun-toting men got on the ship’s phone.
“Russians,” Kurt muttered.
The man hung up the phone as the sound of the ship’s propellers reengaging shuddered throughout the vessel. He came toward Kurt. He was tall, but a little on the thin side. Half of his face was covered with scabs. Despite that, Kurt recognized him.
“So we meet again,” Kirov said, slamming the barrel of his AK-47 across the back of Kurt’s legs.
Kurt dropped to his knees. For a moment, he was thankful that his legs were almost numb.
He resisted the urge to fight back or fire off a snarky comment. And since Kirov refrained from shooting him, it seemed Kurt had made a wise choice. Or so he thought until Kirov stepped toward the open hatch, through which a bitter air was beginning to flow as the ship picked up speed.
“You made me jump from a moving train,” Kirov said, peering down at the cold sea below. “It seems Karma wishes me to return the favor.”
Kirov nodded to his men. “Throw him out.”
Two men grabbed Kurt and tried to drag him to the door. Kurt pulled free of one and slugged the other, but a third man jumped into the melee.
With all eyes on Kurt, Joe spun and batted away the AK-47 aimed in his direction. From his knees, he threw an uppercut into the guard’s groin, and the man fell, dropping the weapon and releasing a grunt of agonizing pain.
Captain Winslow joined the fray, lunging at one of the guards and tackling him before he could fire.
This second commotion distracted Kirov. As it did, Kurt managed to kick free of the remaining guard. He lunged at Kirov, grasping him in a headlock before the others could regroup.
“Enough!”
Kurt’s voice boomed off the metal walls of the small compartment. Everyone looked his way. He was all but choking the life out of Kirov with one arm. He was also holding the flare gun to Kirov’s cheek with his other.
An uneasy stalemate settled over the room. Joe went for a rifle that was lying on the ground, but the guard closest to him raised his weapon.
“Tell your men to lower their guns,” Kurt growled, “or I’m gonna give you a chemical peel you won’t ever recover from.”
Kirov gulped hard, his Adam’s apple moving up and down against the crushing force of Kurt’s forearm.
“Lower your guns,” Kirov said, “but do not discard them.”
Half a win, Kurt thought. It was better than nothing.
He was pondering what to do next when the sound of the bulkhead door being unlatched caught his ear.
Kurt turned as the door swung wide and an oak tree of a man stepped through the hatch. Despite his size, he moved fluidly. He wore dark khaki pants and a black sweater. His cheekbones were high on his face and angular, almost like the mirrors on a sports car.
The Russian commandos immediately stood a little taller in his presence. Kurt guessed this was Kirov’s superior. He seemed it in every way. He was armed with two black pistols, though for now they sat in shoulder holsters, one on each side of his chest.
“What have we here?” he asked.
“A small disagreement,” Kurt said. “Your slug here wanted to toss me into the ocean. I didn’t feel like being part of any catch-and-release program.”
“So it would appear,” the man said.
