“Alaska,” he said aloud. “ They can’t very well go anywhere else now, can they?” he added with a smile.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, just a tardy effort by the competition.”

“What’s our approach to the islands?” the captain asked, peering over Zak’s shoulder.

“The south coast of West Island. We’ll make for the mining operation first. Let’s run right up to the pier and see if anyone is home. It’s early in the season, so they may not have opened up summer operations yet.”

“Might be a good place to dump our captives.”

Zak gazed out the aft window, watching the barge that was tailing behind wallow in the turbulent seas.

“No,” he replied after contemplation. “They should be quite comfortable where they are.”

COMFORTABLE WAS HARDLY THE sentiment that came to Rick Roman’s mind. But under the circumstances, he had to admit they had made the best of things.

The cold steel deck and bulkheads of their floating prison quickly sapped their efforts to keep warm, but a solution lay in the debris left behind. Roman organized the men under penlight and had them attack the mound of tires. First, a layer of the old rubber was laid on the deck, then a series of walls were built up, creating a smaller den where all the men could still fit. The mooring ropes were then unwound and draped over the tire walls and floor, creating an extra layer of insulation, as well as padding for the men to lie on. Huddled into the tight enclave, the men had a combined body heat that gradually forced a rise in the temperature. After several hours, Roman flashed his light on a bottle of water at his feet and noted an inch or two of liquid sloshed atop the frozen contents. The insulated den had warmed above freezing, he noted with some satisfaction.

It was the only satisfaction he had received in some time. When Murdock and Bojorquez returned after a two-hour inspection of the barge’s interior, the news was all bleak. Murdock had found no other potential exit points astern of their storage hold, save for the cavernous holds themselves. The mammoth overhead hatch covers might as well have been welded shut for the chance they had at moving them.

“I did find this,” Bojorquez said, holding up a small wood-handled claw hammer. “Somebody must have dropped it in the hold and didn’t bother to retrieve it.”

“Even a sledgehammer wouldn’t do us a lot of good on that hatch,” Roman replied.

Undeterred, Bojorquez began attacking the locked hatch lever with the small tool. Soon the tap-tap-tap of the pounding hammer became a constant accompaniment to the creaking sounds of the moving barge. Men lined up to have a go at the hammer, mostly out of boredom, or in an attempt to warm themselves from the exertion. Against the incessant rapping, Murdock’s voice suddenly raised over the din.