My mouth feels like rice paper.

“Send the message again,” I tell Nelinha.

This time, she doesn’t call me babycakes. Everyone on the bridge wears a grim expression.

The second transmission has no obvious effect.

We float in the calm of the sunset. Out on the foredeck, Dru and Kiya stare to the west, their cannon forgotten.

I curse myself for believing in Dr. Hewett’s pseudoscience map. I actually thought I could safely captain a 120-foot training yacht with a crew of freshmen into the middle of the Pacific and find a place that doesn’t exist on any nautical chart.

I think about what to tell the crew. With no food or water, how long can we last? If we put out an SOS, will anyone hear us? Will anybody reach us in time?

I mentally kick myself for not preparing a Plan B. I’ve sentenced us all to death.

“Guys…” I’m not sure what to say to my bridge crew. How do you apologize for such a massive failure?

“LOOK!” Ester yells.

Directly off our bow, the air ripples. It’s as if a mile-wide curtain of mirrors has been reflecting the sea. Now the curtain shatters.

The island takes my breath away.

The central volcanic peak rises three hundred feet, jagged and crumbly like a heap of burnt brown sugar. Surrounding it is a turquoise lagoon, ringed by an atoll maybe a mile in diameter, with sandy white beaches hugging a spine of thick vegetation. Off our starboard side, a break in the atoll forms a natural gateway into the lagoon.

No dynamic camouflage in the world should be good enough to render this island invisible at point-blank range. Yet here it is.

“We did it,” Gem marvels.

A woman’s voice crackles over our intercom. “Varuna, this is Lincoln Base.”

She sounds a bit cranky. “Your visit was not scheduled. Stand by for harbor drone guidance. Make any sign of aggressive intent, and you will be destroyed. If we do not see Ana Dakkar aboard, safe and unharmed, you will be destroyed.”

Okay. Maybe she sounds a lot cranky.

A garbled noise comes over the feed, as if someone else is speaking to her in the background.

“Fine,” the woman growls slightly off mic. Then to us: “You will advise the drone how many will be joining us for dinner. Jupiter is baking lasagna. Lincoln Base out.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Given the choice between destruction or lasagna, I will choose lasagna every time.

Whoever Jupiter is, I hope he can cook enough for twenty extra people. (Dr. Hewett makes twenty-one, but his diet is presently being administered through an IV.)

I scan the lagoon entrance for the pilot drone. I guess I’m expecting something large, like a tugboat. I don’t even see the drone until it buzzes past my ear and settles on the navigation console.