Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

Paul chuckled at his wife’s concern. “I don’t think we’re dealing with anything hostile,” he said. “I think we’re going to find another ship in distress like our own.”

“Then why do we all have weapons?” Elena asked. She held a pistol. Two AR-15s rested on the deck. Paul and Gamay would carry the rifles.

“For the inevitable moment when my guess turns out to be wrong,” Paul deadpanned.

As the FRC raced on through the darkness, the radio squawked with a barely audible signal as the chief called them.

“FRC, this is Condor. You’ve gone off the scope. We’re not reading your signature anymore. Based on course and speed, you should be rounding third and heading for home.”

The transmission was coded in simple terms in case anyone was listening. “Rounding third” told Paul they were about three miles from the target. He grabbed the microphone. “Are you holding us up or waving us on?”

“No sign of outfielders ready to throw home,” the chief replied. “Keep on running.”

“Wilco,” Paul said. He put the radio down. “Coast is clear,” he told the others.

“So thought the mouse, as she raced for the cheese,” said Gamay.

Paul returned to the bow, watching and waiting.

“She must be running dark,” Gamay said, “or we’d see her lights by now.”

“Have to agree with that,” Paul said. He looked up. The waxing moon was three-quarters full and casting a fair amount of light on this cloudless night. Even if the target was running dark, they should have been able to see it.

“Duke, what’s our heading?”

“Zero nine five,” Duke replied.

“It should be right in front of us.”

“Maybe it’s a ghost,” Elena suggested.

“A ghost?” Paul said.

Elena rolled her eyes. “On the radar. You know, a false return.”

Paul had to consider that a possibility and began to wonder if they’d made the trip for nothing. He pulled on a set of night vision goggles and stared until he finally saw an outline growing on the horizon. It was low and long and just barely jutting above the calm sea.

“Dead ahead,” he said. “At last.”

The gray bulk of the target began to grow larger, though it was hard to calculate distance in the dark.

“Cut our speed,” Paul said. “Give us ten knots.”

The roar of the engine dropped down to a heavy purr, and the wind noise lessened as the FRC slowed appreciably. It didn’t appear they were dealing with a threat.

Paul glanced at Gamay. “So much for a trap,” he said.

“Famous last words.”

They moved in closer, and the black hulk in the darkness began blocking out the horizon to either side of them. Paul estimated the target to be nearly five hundred feet from stem to stern. There were no smokestacks or antennas, no defined areas of superstructure, that he could see. And though some sections were higher than others, there was a rounded effect to them, more like a river barge piled high with coal or some other bulk commodity.

“Looks like a barge,” Paul said.

“What’s a barge doing all the way out here?” Elena asked.

No one ventured a guess.

“Take us around to port,” Paul said.