Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“That’s just it,” the crewman said, “she has no course and speed. The target has been intermittent, appearing and disappearing. For the last hour there was nothing there and we thought whoever it was had moved on, but then it came back in the same relative position.”

“But we’re drifting,” Paul said. “Even if she was sitting still, her bearing should be changing unless she’s drifting as well.”

“Or it could be shadowing us at the very limit of our radar coverage,” the crewman noted ominously.

“Has to be a pretty big target to show up that far off,” Gamay added. “Maybe they’re keeping their distance, hoping not to be seen.”

It was all guesswork. But considering what they’d already been through, Paul was not interested in giving anyone or anything the benefit of the doubt. “When’s the helicopter due back?”

“That’s problem number two,” the crewman said. “The pilot reported a mechanical failure shortly after leaving Durban. They’ve had to turn back. The last we heard, they were trying to scrounge up a spare part. But even if they found one right away, we won’t have them back until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“And the tug is four hours off?”

“At least.”

Paul sighed. Alone on the darkening sea and being watched was not a position he liked being in. “Contact HQ on the satellite phone,” Paul said. “Tell them we might have company.”

“What do you think we should do in the meantime?” Gamay asked.

Paul was pragmatic. “Either hope it’s nothing and enjoy

the evening or prepare to repel borders.”

Gamay folded her arms across her chest and offered a pout. “Guess I’ll cancel my plans for a candlelight dinner and go scour the hold for a few rocks and a slingshot.”

As the Condor continued to drift, dusk gave way to darkness and the lonely feeling of isolation. The ship, normally a hub of activity, was quiet as the crew prepared to fight if necessary. But the feared borders never materialized, and Paul began to wonder if they’d read suspicious intentions into a harmless situation.

“Any change?” he asked the radar operator as he stepped onto the bridge.

“No, sir,” the crewman replied. “Whoever they are, they’ve drifted along with us for the past three hours.”

Sensing the danger had passed, especially with the tug only an hour away, Paul had a new idea. “We have a high-speed launch on this boat, don’t we?”

“An FRC,” the crewman replied. “Fast rescue craft.”

“Good,” Paul said. “Have it readied. I’m going to take it out and investigate our mystery contact.”

“Not without me, you won’t,” a voice insisted from behind him.

Paul turned to see Gamay in the doorway. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “In fact, I think we should make it a double date. Bring Duke and Elena.”

Shortly thereafter, the four of them were aboard the quickest of Condor’s motorized launches, a sleek machine constructed by the Dutch Special Marine Group. In design, the thirty-foot boat looked like a police river cruiser on steroids, with a high bow, an open deck, and a centralized control console and navigation mast. Powered by a throaty Volvo water jet, it raced across the waves at forty knots.

Paul stood at the bow with Gamay while Duke handled the controls and Elena prepared a raft of weapons obtained from the Condor’s arms locker just in case they were needed.

Navigating from dead reckoning, Duke offered an update. “We should be close enough to see the target in a few minutes,” he said, “assuming she has any sort of running lights on.”

Peering through the darkness, Paul nodded. He saw nothing yet.

“What’s our plan when we arrive?” Gamay asked.

“Plan?” Paul asked.

“Plan,” Gamay repeated. “You know, that thing you come up with in advance so you can throw it out the window when everything goes haywire.”

“Oh yeah,” Paul said. “I figure we encircle the target and, should it be a threat, talk the captain into surrendering.”

Gamay sighed. “Yep,” she said, “that will go right out the window.”