Linda called Max to the op center along with Eric and Mark. She kept helm control up on the bridge for now, but they would want the A Team in place when they retook their ship. She checked the radar repeater. There was a vessel about eighty miles away, and, as she watched, the icon split into two distinct returns. She knew in just a few seconds that this fast-approaching mystery ship had launched a helicopter and it was inbound at better than a hundred knots.

“Here we go.”

Cabrillo could have ended Malcolm Winters’s mutiny in the first few seconds had he so chosen. Winters had been good, stalking his way to the wheelhouse, but Cabrillo had seen him creeping up on him in the reflection of an old coffee urn that sat on a shelf below the fore windows.

Instead of reacting, he’d sat seemingly unaware until Winters pressed the still-warm barrel of his Beretta against the back of Juan’s head. “Sorry about this, Captain, but there’s been a change of plans.”

Hali, standing at the wheel, turned sharply with a quick intake of breath because he hadn’t heard Winters until he spoke.

“Stand easy,” Juan said in Arabic.

“Yes, sir.” Hali fell into the role of frightened crewman.

“What is it you want?” Cabrillo asked, switching to English.

“Number one is, I want you to cut the engines.” Winters moved around so he could cover both Cabrillo and Kasim. An M4 assault rifle was slung across his chest.

Juan suspected a man like Gunny Winters, a veteran of three tours in Iraq, would speak at least some Arabic, so he gave the correct orders to Hali at the helm station. The beat of the engines, an artificial noise created to muffle the whine of the Oregon’s true power plant, eased down until the only sound was the subtle hiss of water floating past the ship’s steel sides.

The morning was as beautiful as only the tropics can be. The sun was up, but the heat and humidity were still some time away. There was the merest of breezes, and the waves were long and ponderous and swelled no more than a few inches.

“What other weapons do you have besides the M60s you used on the pirates last Friday?” Winters asked.

Cabrillo had to admit he was impressed. Judging by the silver in his high-and-tight haircut, Winters was closer to fifty than forty. He had been operating on stress, caffeine pills, and little sleep for over a week and yet he still looked pretty good. Yes, there was the beard, and his eyes were bloodshot, but he had lost none of his military discipline and little of his bearing. In a different world, the two of them would probably be friends.

“I keep a Tokarev pistol in the safe in my cabin, and my first engineer has a shotgun.”