"Not uncommon in these waters," replied Worley. "We're nearing the area where the North Equatorial Current meets the Gulf Stream. I've seen the surface as flat as a desert dry lake, other times I've seen waves twenty feet high, nice easy rollers that slide under the keel."

Church started to say something, but paused, listening. The sound of metal scraping against metal rasped through the wheelhouse. Worley acted as though he hadn't heard anything, but Church walked to the rear bulkhead and looked out over the long cargo deck of the Cyclops.

She was a large ship for her day, with an overall length of 542 feet and a 65-foot beam. Built in Philadelphia in 1910, she operated with the Naval Auxiliary Service, Atlantic Fleet. Her seven cavernous holds could handle 10,500 tons of coal, but this trip she was carrying 11,000 tons of manganese. Her hull was settled deep in the water a good foot over her Plimsoll mark. To Church's mind the ship was dangerously overloaded.

Staring astern, Church could see the twenty-four coaling derricks looming through the darkness, their giant clamshell buckets secured for rough weather. He could also make out something else.

The deck amidships appeared to be lifting and dropping in unison with the swells as they passed under the keel.

"My God," he muttered, "the hull is bending with the sea."

Worley didn't bother to look. "Nothing to concern yourself over, son. She's used to a little stress."

"I've never seen a ship twist like this," Church persisted.

Worley dropped into a large wicker chair he kept on the bridge and propped his feet on the binnacle. "Son, no need to worry about the old Cyclops. She'll be sailing the seas long after you and me are gone."

Church's apprehension was not soothed by the captain's unconcern. If anything, his sense of foreboding deepened.

After Church turned over the next watch to a fellow officer, he left the bridge and stopped by the radio room to have a cup of coffee with the operator on duty. Sparks, as every wireless man aboard every ship at sea was called, looked up as he entered.

"Mornin', Lieutenant."

"Any interesting news from nearby vessels?"

Sparks lifted his headset from one ear. "Sorry?"

Church repeated the question.

"Only a couple of radiomen on a pair of merchant ships exchanging chess moves."

"You should join in to avoid the monotony."

"Checkers is my game," said Sparks.

"How close are those two merchantmen?"

"Their signals are pretty weak. . . probably a good hundred miles away."

Church straddled a chair and leaned his arms and chin on the backrest. "Give them a call and ask what sort of sea they're encountering."

Sparks gave a helpless shrug. "I can't."

"Your transmitter acting up?"

"She's fit as a sixteen-year-old Havana whore."

"I don't understand."

"Captain Worley's orders," answered Sparks. "When we left Rio, he called me to his quarters and said not to transmit any messages without his direct order before we dock in Baltimore."