Sea of Fire

Mary's smile lingered in Hood's memory. Sometimes just the simplest gesture was also cheerleading.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:39 A.M.

The Hosannah was listing nearly twenty-five degrees to starboard when the captain came on deck. He was hunched forward as he emerged from the companionway. That helped him to keep his footing on the sloped deck. He was carrying the two items he had brought from below.

Kannaday glanced at the stars to get his bearings. He had sailed this region for years and knew it well. The prow of the yacht was facing northeast. The nearest land was probably Cape Melville. That was about a mile to the southwest. The captain turned and swung around the mainmast, then ducked beneath the spar. The dacron sail flapped in the night wind. The fabric made a hollow, mournful sound. Kannaday moved quickly past it. The launch motors were off. The men would be rowing. In the dark, in unknown waters, they were unlikely to be hurrying. Kannaday hoped they had not gone very far.

When the captain was below, drowning seemed imminent. Now that he was above deck on a sinking vessel, drowning also seemed imminent. Yet Peter Kannaday felt invigorated. He had bought himself another opportunity to confront John Hawke. He had a chance to buy back his dignity. Kannaday would rather have that than a life jacket.

The Hosannah took a sudden dip toward the stern just as Kannaday reached the aftermast. He grabbed the thick pole, hugging it tightly with his arms as loose halyards loudly smacked the mast and capstan. In his hands were the two objects he had taken from the radio room.

He waited. The boat would not go down yet. It could not.

It did not.

The vessel listed to port then settled again. Carefully making sure of his footing, Kannaday let go of the mast. He half-walked, half-slid toward the aft rail. The barrier was only knee high. But years on the yacht had taught the captain how to brace himself in unsteady seas. He braced his right knee against the post that supported the flag marking the ship's registry. Then the captain looked out across the relatively calm sea. A fine spray misted his skin. The salty water soothed his bruised jaw and stung the open wounds on his arms. The sea, the pain, and the joy. Anticipation and a driving hunger for something, whether it was wealth or survival or revenge. All of Kannaday's life seemed to be encapsulated in that moment.

The captain raised both arms straight ahead. His left arm was nearly perpendicular. His right arm was parallel to the sea. He fired the flare gun in his left hand. The pinkish fire rose on a puffy magnesium-white plume. The small, dark waves of the Coral Sea became a widening expanse of sharp shadow and light. The light areas dimmed as the flare rose in the sky. But the circle of illumination grew as Kannaday stared ahead. Finally, all but despairing that he had lost Hawke, Kannaday saw what he had been hoping for. About three hundred meters away, he saw the dinghies on the edge of the light. The sailors looked up at the light, then back along the high, smoking arc.

Kannaday swung his right arm in front of him. He stared along the barrel of the second flare pistol and fired. The recoil caused his body to twist slightly on the slick deck. Without waiting to see whether the projectile had struck, Kannaday pulled two spare 38mm cartridges from his pocket. He reloaded each plastic-barrel pistol, raised both, aimed, and fired in succession. The twin streaks flashed through the artificial light on a course toward the dinghies.

The first flare had struck its target, landing inside the farthest dinghy. The heat of the projectile quickly melted the inflated neoprene. The dinghy succumbed with a faint pop and a collapse to the right side. Kannaday's second shot missed both dinghies, but his third and fourth shots both landed in the companion vessel. The flares must have burned through the bottom. In the dying light of the overhead flare Kannaday saw the dinghy fold inward.

He loaded his last two flares and fired them into the sky. The heavens gleamed with white smoke and light. The glow illuminated a scene of a handful of men in the water, fighting to grab the few oars or the remains of the deflated dinghies. Even as the yacht groaned from somewhere under the water, Kannaday could hear their distant yells.

He had done it. Kannaday raised the pistols triumphantly, even as the yacht lurched to the starboard and dipped further toward the stern. He stumbled roughly against the flagpole, dropping the pistols as he fell. He clutched at the pole, nearly swinging over the side. He managed to stabilize his position and remain on deck. No sooner had he steadied himself than he felt a sharp stinging pain in his left shoulder.

He reached for it, simultaneously turning toward the bow. Kannaday gasped as he felt a dart in his flesh. He winced as he drew it out. He did not have to look at it to know what it was.

'A good security chief does not leave a job until it is done,' said a voice from amidships.

A shape was barely visible in the dying glow of the flares. It was the form of a man. John Hawke stepped forward on the sloping deck. He was wearing a life jacket and carrying the wommera in his right hand.

'I heard the fuss you were making and decided I had better stick around,' Hawke said. 'All that pounding and hammering.'

Hawke's right arm swooped back, then snapped forward. A second dart flew toward Kannaday. It hit him in the right thigh. It pinched and the leg buckled. He caught the flagpole to keep from hitting the deck. He hung there while he removed the second dart. The bastard could have hit him harder. He was simply playing with the captain.

'I waited for you at the bow,' Hawke said. 'I did not think you would make it out.'

'You waited until I was out of flares,' Kannaday said.

'A good security chief also knows when to make his move,' Hawke replied as he began walking forward. 'It's a shame you sent our men into the water, though. Not everyone has a life jacket, and it's a long way to shore.' The wiry man leaned backward slightly as he approached. He remained surefooted on the sloping deck. 'But it won't bother your conscience for long. Like many of them, you will drown. There can be no other mortal wound. Otherwise, you would already be dead.'

Hawke was holding the wommera like a club. In a sinking ship, any number of objects could hit a sailor on the head and crack his skull. That was obviously the plan. To knock Kannaday out and then drown him.

Kannaday could not believe that he had underestimated Hawke again.

The captain had a problem and only a moment to solve it. His shoulder and leg had taken muscle damage from the darts. Hawke was uninjured. The security chief could probably overpower Kannaday. But if he turned to climb the rail, Hawke would reach Kannaday before he could get over.

Kannaday knew, of course, what he had to do. He had fought hard to regain some of his self-respect. He refused to surrender that. The captain of the Hosannah would not run.

The security officer was now a silhouette against the vivid splash of stars. Kannaday rested his lower back against the railing and raised his hands like a boxer. He kept his fists close to his chest. If Hawke intended to club him with the wommera, the captain wanted to try to block it. Hawke would probably go for the side he had wounded. That was why he had wounded it. Kannaday would be ready to twist and take the blow with his forearm.

Suddenly, from beneath the men, a third player entered the drama.

Chapter Sixty

Osprey Reef Sunday, 2:46 A.M.

The helicopter was moving in a northeasterly direction when Herbert's phone beeped. All eyes save the pilot's turned to him. Herbert could not see the eyes clearly in the dark. But he knew what was in them.

Hope. They wanted information, a shred of intelligence, a place to look. Anything. Jelbart lowered the binoculars he had been using. He and Loh looked to Bob Herbert's expression for a quick indication of whether Op-