The rope was released, and Olander hoped his opposite boat did the same. At the end of the rope there was a round, red buoy, just large enough to keep the end above water, ensuring a nice belly for the prop to run across. He spun, watching it, his teeth gritted in anticipation, until he saw the rope begin to get sucked down like a giant strand of spaghetti.

Just as they began to pass by the rear of the Slava, Olander heard the satisfying fluttering thump of fouled machinery, and knew they’d succeeded.

“Victory!” He fist pumped, turning to beam down at Annabel. The girl clasped her hands to her breast.

As the dinghy peeled away, he looked up to see figures leaning over the gunwale, gesticulating and yelling down at him. Strangely, it didn’t sound like Russian, and some words could have been in English – out of the water, they seemed to yell, and then something that sounded like megalomaniac, or dark something. He gave them the finger.

Olander looked to the burnt orange glow on the horizon. The sun was fast going down, and they had perhaps thirty more minutes to accomplish their work, get it all on film, and then package and send it to the media.

He picked up his front rope again, and placed one leg on the bow, in his favorite Delaware pose. They sped out in front of the slowing boat to meet with their partner dinghy. Together they skidded in the water to face the crippled whaler.

Olander waved the exuberant whoops down for a moment, and once silence was returned, they could hear the Slava's crew still yelling – abuse now, no doubt. He blanked it out until gunshots sounded.

He cringed. “Fuck! Those Russian assholes are firing at us. Get down!” He flattened to the rubber floor and turned crablike. “Keep filming, keep filming.”

His cameraman, also lying flat, lifted the lens above the inflated gunwale.

There were more gunshots – three in fast succession, and he saw Flying Bird-1 speed out to the left of them, heading momentarily into the setting sun. They obviously hoped to make it difficult for them to be seen, or move out of range. He should do the same.

Annabel was down low, but had field glasses to her eyes, and had the twin lenses perched gunwale.

“I think they’re firing in the air.”

Olander spun. “Bullshit.” He turned to the cameraman. “Edit those last remarks out; Russians don’t give warning shots.”

He snatched the field glasses from her hand and after quickly refocusing for a few seconds; he saw she was probably right. Olander got to his knees. He lowered the glasses and whistled again, waving his second boat in closer.

They waved back, and did a huge loop in the water, beginning to speed back towards him.

“Will we paint them now?” Annabel asked.