Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“If there’s something more than just a nearsighted helmsman driving the Tasmanian Star, hundreds could die.”

Loren grabbed Pitt’s shoulder as the speedboat lurched over a wave. The damaged boat surged and wallowed before finding its legs. The bilge pump caught up with the accumulated water, allowing the boat to rise higher as it gained speed

. The damage was all above the waterline, so Pitt had no trouble controlling the boat as it bulled its way past twenty knots, quickly gaining on the freighter.

“Can we alert the cruise ship?” Loren yelled to be heard over the straining engine.

Pitt shook his head. “We have no radio. And the ship is anchored. There’s no way they can move in time.”

“At least we could warn the passengers.”

Pitt simply nodded. That would be a tall order in the scant time available.

As they drew near the freighter’s stern, he considered his few options. There were no other boats nearby, so a radio warning was impossible. Pitt’s immediate thought was to try to board the moving ship. But as he pulled closer, he discarded the notion. There was no easy access, and even if he could somehow find a way aboard, he probably wouldn’t make it to the bridge in time. The sparkling white cruise ship lay dead ahead, barely a half mile away.

Pitt held down the button on the speedboat’s air horn as they ran past the ship’s port flank and shot past its bow. Loren jumped and waved at the forecastle, but there was no response. The Tasmanian Star neither slowed nor altered course, simply plodding ahead on its catastrophic heading. Pitt glanced at the bridge, but could see no moving figures behind the glass windows. By all appearances, it was a ghost ship out of control.

Pitt urgently scanned the surrounding waters for assistance, but there was none to be had. A handful of vessels clustered about the commercial port, a mile or so southwest, but the waters ahead were empty all the way to the curling beachfront. Empty but for the towering mass of the anchored Sea Splendour.

Crowding together on its upper deck, passengers pointed and waved at the approaching freighter. No doubt the helm watch had reported the approaching vessel, and the liner’s captain was furiously hailing the Tasmanian Star by radio. But the rogue vessel responded with silence.

On the speedboat, Pitt surveyed the length of the bulk carrier. At its stern it rode strangely high in the water.

A look of determination was etched on his lean, rugged face. In times of crisis, his mind seemed to work in overdrive, processing all facets at play before calmly pursuing a course of action. With few options, Pitt’s response came quickly.

Spinning the wheel hard over, he cut across the freighter’s bow and held the turn until he was running alongside the ship’s starboard side.

“Loren, put on my wet suit.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Try and nudge this behemoth out of the way.”

“In this little boat? That’s impossible.”

Pitt squinted at the ship in resolve. “Not if we hit her where it counts.”

6

PANIC HAD BROKEN OUT ON THE SEA SPLENDOUR as screaming passengers alerted one another of the impending collision. Parents grabbed their children and ran to the opposite side of the ship, while others scrambled up companionways to reach the upper decks. Even the crew joined the passengers in fleeing the anticipated point of impact.

By chance or design, the Tasmanian Star was aimed toward the heart of the cruise liner. At roughly the same size, the blunt-nosed freighter churned with sufficient momentum to split the passenger ship in two.

On the Sea Splendour’s bridge, Captain Alphonse Franco had few options. He desperately tried to finesse the vessel aside but had only auxiliary power available, as its main engines sat cold. He slipped the anchor line and engaged the ship’s side thrusters in hope of pivoting the ship clear.

But staring at the oncoming vessel, Franco knew it was too late. “Turn away, for God’s sake, turn away!” he cried under his breath.

Few on the bridge paid attention to him, as a flurry of distress calls and emergency procedures occupied the panicked crew. The captain stood immobile, fixated on the approaching freighter as if he could stare it down.

His gaze was diverted by a small red speedboat that bounded over the waves toward the stern quarter of the freighter. A tall, lean man with black hair stood at the wheel beside a woman dressed in an oversized wet suit. They were on their own high-speed collision course with the Tasmanian Star in what only could be viewed as an attempt at suicide.

“Insanity,” Franco said, shaking his head. “Pure insanity.”

PITT PULLED BACK THE THROTTLE for an instant, causing the boat to falter, then turned to Loren. “Jump!”

Loren squeezed his arm, stepped off the seat, and leaped over the side. She was still in midair when Pitt slammed the throttle forward and the speedboat burst away. Bobbing to the surface after a hard splash, Loren watched the boat roar off, praying her husband wouldn’t kill himself trying to save others.

Pitt knew he’d have only one chance to pull off a miracle. The freighter was just a quarter of a mile from the Sea Splendour—no room for error. Taking aim for the freighter’s stern, he braced for impact.