The Rising Sea (NUMA Files 15)

27

GAMAY LISTENED to the water lapping against the side of the ship. It wasn’t long before the reassuring and repetitive sound was overcome by the roar of the patrol boat. It raced around the bow of the ferry and charged along the starboard side, slowing only as it neared the cable dangling from the window of their cabin.

From high above it, Gamay grinned. “Pretty smooth idea, dropping the cable out the window and making it look like we’d gone overboard. They think we’re swimming for shore. They’re searching for us now.”

The anchor chain locker was crowded, oily and mildly claustrophobic, with several hundred feet of heavy chain piled up inside it. It was no place for comfort, but it made for a terrific hiding spot.

“I’d have preferred something in the cargo hold,” Paul said, “but those soldiers we spotted changed my mind.”

They’d narrowly avoided one gang of soldiers in the forward section of the cargo hold and, after catching sight of a second squad, made a change of plans.

Coming forward, they pried open the hatch to the locker and climbed inside. As Paul pulled the hatch shut, he made sure to prevent it f

rom latching.

“The pièce de résistance was all your idea,” Paul said. “If you hadn’t mentioned it, I’d have kept my boots on.” He wiggled his toes for emphasis.

It had been Gamay’s suggestion to dump their boots, backpacks and other belongings in the room, with the exception of the laptop computer, which was now wrapped in a plastic bag and tucked under Paul’s shirt. “Nobody swims with all their luggage,” she said. “It would have been a dead giveaway. I’m just glad they took the bait.”

“Can you see what they’re doing?” Paul asked.

Large piles of heavy chain surrounded them, filling up the room and exiting through an opening called a hawsehole. Gamay was able to peer through the gap between the chain and the hull to see most of the starboard side. “They’ve moved toward the stern,” she said. “They’re checking under the fantail.”

A moment later, the boat disappeared around the aft end. As it did, a second boat raced out toward the ferry and then a third. “Calling in reinforcements,” she said.

Shortly afterward, a distant boom reached them, muffled and distorted by the hull. Over the next few moments, they heard several more. Each farther off than the last. The impact reverberated through metal skin as if the two of them were sitting inside a giant drum.

“What do you think all that’s about?” Gamay asked.

“Fishing expedition,” Paul said. “Using dynamite or grenades.”

“Trying to blow us out of the water?”

Paul nodded. “Not a bad strategy, considering how vulnerable an unprotected diver is to shock waves.”

Because of the way seawater transmitted sound and force, a grenade explosion a hundred feet off would rupture eardrums and cause concussions. Any closer and it might kill them outright.

The explosions continued sporadically for at least the next twenty minutes, and perhaps even longer, but all external sound was drowned out when the ferry’s engines came back to life.

Soon the big ship began to move. “Looks like they’re finally going to dock this ferry.”

“I’d be happier if they were sending us back to Japan,” Paul said, “even considering the accommodations. But we couldn’t be that lucky. They’ll dock the ship, all right. Then they’ll off-load the passengers with plenty of extra eyes at customs to watch for us in the crowd.”

“And when they don’t see us in the line,” Gamay began, “or spot our bodies floating on the surface after all those makeshift depth charges?”

“They’ll search the ship again,” Paul said. “Which means we either stay here until the ferry goes back to Osaka—which could be days, or longer if they quarantine the vessel—or we find a way to get off this boat without drawing any attention to ourselves.”

“I vote for fresh air,” Gamay said. “I know they’ll probably just tie up to the pier, but I’d rather not be in here if they drop that anchor.”

“Deafening and dangerous, at the very least,” Paul said. “We know they’ve searched the cargo hold already. I say we make our way back there and find a nice container to hide in.”

“Great idea,” she said. “Lead on.”

It would take twenty minutes to work their way from the anchor chain locker to the cargo deck, where they found an unlocked cargo container filled three-quarters of the way up with sacks of rice.

They crawled in on top of the bags, moved a few of them around to present a false wall—as if the bags were stacked all the way to the roof—and waited. Breathing was no problem, as rice shipments required plentiful ventilation to prevent condensation from wetting the grains and spoiling them.

Eventually, the ferry docked and a group of stevedores came on board to begin the unloading. It took hours. At one point, the container doors were opened and then closed. Then the container was loaded onto a flatbed and driven off the ship.