Poseidon's Arrow

knots, the cargo ship now carried a twenty-foot section of the Sea Splendour’s afterdeck wedged atop its forward hold.

The cruise ship had keeled hard to port at impact but slowly righted itself. Her captain stood in disbelief. The reports being radioed to the bridge cited only minor structural damage. The fantail had been cleared of passengers, and not a single injury was reported. By the barest of margins, they’d avoided disaster.

At the realization his ship had survived and no lives were lost, the captain let relief turn to anger. “Prepare to lower the officer’s launch,” he told a nearby crewman. “After I survey the damage, I’m going to go deck that clown—the second he steps ashore.”

He had failed to track the Tasmanian Star, assuming it would eventually slow and turn toward Valparaiso’s commercial port. But the freighter didn’t alter course; it sailed on toward a thin sandy beach along the town’s waterfront.

A middle-aged Canadian couple, who had consumed a bit too much local Chardonnay at lunch, was dozing on the sand when the Tasmanian Star touched bottom a few yards off the surf line. A deep chafing sound, like an enormous coffee grinder, filled the air as its hull scoured the bottom. The prow cut easily through the soft sand before its momentum began to slow. The ship burrowed through the beach, leveling a small ice cream stand whose owner wisely fled.

As the ghost ship groaned to a halt, nearby onlookers stared in disbelief. Only the moan of its engines and still-churning propeller gave sign of any life aboard the stricken vessel.

Hearing the noise and detecting a shadow cross his body, the dosing Canadian, his eyes still closed, nudged his wife. “Honey, what was that?”

She opened a sleepy eye, then sat upright. Ten feet away rose the towering slab side of the freighter’s hull. They had come that close to being crushed.

“Harold—” She blinked and looked again. “I think our ship has come in.”

7

CAPTAIN FRANCO’S FACE WAS BEET RED AS HE SURVEYED the Sea Splendour’s damaged stern from an enclosed launch. Yet the destruction was much less than he feared; the shredded fantail showed primarily cosmetic damage. Divers would examine below the waterline, but by all accounts, the crew could handle the damage. They would barricade the aft deck, and the ship could continue its voyage with only minimal delay. Franco well knew the wrath he’d receive from the corporate offices if the passengers had to be put ashore and their fares refunded. Thankfully, that was one lesser tragedy averted. But to him the ship was like a family member, and he burned with fury at the disfigurement.

“Take us to the freighter,” he told the launch’s young pilot.

A deck officer motioned for the captain’s attention.

“Sir, a small boat appears to be in distress off our starboard beam.”

Captain Franco leaned out the open entryway. There was the red speedboat, drifting half submerged. The couple was not only still alive but sitting on the bow and waving at him.

“That’s the nut who rammed his boat into the carrier.” He shook his head. “Go ahead, go pick them up.”

The launch pulled alongside the sinking boat. Pitt helped Loren onto the launch, then jumped aboard. He turned and watched the battered speedboat a moment before it slipped under the surface.

He turned to face the frowning captain. “I guess I’m going to have to buy someone a new boat.”

Franco took a long look at Pitt; he wasn’t a young fool—or a drunk. He was tall, with a lean, muscular body. Despite the bloody gash to his shin, he stood upright with an easy confidence. His face was rugged, showing years spent outdoors, and he grinned in easy bemusement. Then there were the eyes, a beguiling green that burned with intelligence.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Pitt said, “you saved us a healthy swim to shore.”

“I watched you destroy your own boat running into the freighter,” Franco said. “Why did you nearly kill yourself?”

“To knock the rudder over.” Pitt gazed toward the cruise ship’s damaged stern. “Guess I didn’t get there quite in time.”

The captain’s face turned white. “My heavens, of course. It was you who changed the freighter’s course at the last second.”

He grasped Pitt’s hand and shook it until Pitt’s arm almost fell off. “You saved my ship and hundreds of lives. We had no time to maneuver—we would have been mauled by that idiot.”

“He ran over a sailboat, and nearly got us as well.”

“Madmen! They ignored our radio calls and just kept on coming. Look, they’ve run aground.”

“The bridge crew must be incapacitated,” Pitt said.

“They will be when I’m through with them.”

The launch picked up speed and raced toward the grounded ship, steering well clear of its still-spinning prop. A crowd had gathered on the beach to gawk, while distant sirens signaled the approach of the Valparaiso police.

The ship sat upright, with just a slight list to starboard. Her decks showed no sign of life. A long metal conveyor ramp dangled over the side like a damaged limb, nearly reaching the water. Used to fill and unload the freighter’s holds, the conveyor had been knocked ajar during the collision with the Sea Splendour. Franco saw it offered a way aboard, and he ordered the launch alongside.

The ramp just about matched the launch’s deck height. A seaman was ordered to walk on it to test if it would hold. The man took a few tentative steps, then turned and gave the captain the thumbs-up. He scampered up the heavy conveyor belt, which tilted across the ship’s rail, and hopped onto the deck. Captain Franco came next, nervously climbing on the dust-covered belt and making his way up. Too absorbed in keeping his footing, he failed to notice Pitt following a few paces behind.

Franco reached the ship’s rail and was helped down by the waiting seaman. He was startled when Pitt jumped off the belt and landed beside him. Franco turned to admonish him for coming aboard, but Pitt beat him to the punch.

“We better get those engines shut down.” Pitt nudged past Franco and headed toward the bridge.

Franco vented at the seaman. “Search the deck and crew’s quarters, then meet me on the bridge.” He turned and hurried to catch up with Pitt.

The bridge sat atop a multistory superstructure near the stern. Stepping aft, Pitt gazed at the large hatches that covered the ship’s five main holds. The last one was partially open. Each hatch had two hinged covers that opened to the side hydraulically. As Pitt approached the hatch just ahead of the superstructure, he peered through the gap. The cavernous hold was empty except for a tiny bulldozer sitting under a layer of silver-colored dust. Pitt guessed the forward holds still contained their cargo, which would account for the high-riding stern. Noticing fragments of silver rock on the deck, he pocketed a large piece in his swim trunks and continued toward the bridge.

“Is there no one aboard this vessel?” Franco reached Pitt as he started up a companionway.

“I haven’t seen a welcome committee yet.”

They climbed several flights, then entered the bridge through an open wing door. Like the rest of the ship, the expansive control room was empty of life. The ghostly sense was broken by the ship’s radio, which squawked with the voice of a Chilean Coast Guard operator hailing the vessel. Franco shut off the radio, then stepped to a center console and powered down the engines.

Pitt examined the helm. “The autopilot was set on a course of one hundred and forty-two degrees.”

“Makes no sense that they would abandon a moving ship.”

“Piracy is a more likely answer,” Pitt said. “The number five hold looks like it was emptied after she left port.”

“Taking the crew for ransom, I could see,” Franco said, rubbing his chin. “But robbing a bulk carrier of its cargo at sea? That’s unheard of.”

The captain noticed a dark splotch on the wall and similar stains on the floor—and his face turned pale. “Look