“Chino’s three miles off,” Sam called. “You ought to be able to see him now.”

“I’m busy. What time did that boat blow up? Real time. On their clocks.”

“Just a minute,” Sam said. “They’re checking with Washington. Hold on. Five-fifteen.”

They had to ask Washington for the friggin’ time? “What’s the time now?”

“What’s the time now? Sam asked the radio. “Hold on.” Amy thought she could overcook pasta in the time that was passing. “Five twenty-three,” Sam said.

She was struggling to remember the knots she was supposed to tie. Over? Under? Over then under? She knew how to restart a human heart with the hall of her fist and she couldn’t remember how to tie the fucking knot? “That prick lied to me! He made me think everything was going to happen a half an hour later than he actually had it scheduled.”

The knots were tied, more or less. She lowered the spinnaker overboard aft and watched it spool out into the current. “Tell those guys on the cutter that the nuclear device, as you so nicely called it, will go off at five-thirty.”

The boat wanted to go out to sea. She had to let out the sails. “You’re brilliant, Merrill. It works beautifully. How fast are we going?”

He stuck his head out for a look. “Three knots. Not so bad, considering.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I’m hanging in,” she said.

“What makes you so sure it’s going to go off at five-thirty?”

“Chino said he was going to kill those other guys just before the bomb went off. He and Gregory kept dropping hints, like naughty boys sharing a secret. How far away is he now? Turn up the volume.”

“Two thousand yards and closing on you,” Captain Hanson said.

“How far is that, Sam?”

“A little more than a mile.”

“Here’s the deal, Commander. You’re not going to make it. You’re three miles off our port bow. He’s going to get you first, and he’s well inside Colombian territorial waters. Fuck him, we’re not going to sit here while he kills an American woman. We’re scrambling the deck gun.”

“You better do it quick.”

“Under the circumstances, Washington is limiting us to one shot. One is an accident — always. We want to make it count.”

Amy looked for the sport fisherman. Was Chino hugging the shoreline? If he was, he would have to head right for them if he was going to get any distance out to sea by five-thirty.

“Fifteen hundred yards, Commander. He’s not going as fast as he would be able to. He’s heavy in the water.”

“And getting heavier, thanks to my wife.”

Amy got the hailer out of the cockpit locker and switched it on.

“What are you doing?”

“At worst, I’m going to buy us some more time. Stay below. What time is it now?”