Loren squeezed his arm, stepped off the seat, and leaped over the side. She was still in midair when Pitt slammed the throttle forward and the speedboat burst away. Bobbing to the surface after a hard splash, Loren watched the boat roar off, praying her husband wouldn’t kill himself trying to save others.

Pitt knew he’d have only one chance to pull off a miracle. The freighter was just a quarter of a mile from the Sea Splendour—no room for error. Taking aim for the freighter’s stern, he braced for impact.

The Tasmanian Star’s aft deck hung over the water, its stern hull curving inward to the waterline. That was where Pitt aimed the speedboat. Closing quickly, he spotted the rudder’s upper spindle mounting—exposed at the surface. He tweaked the steering wheel to adjust his aim. Inboard of the spindle was the ship’s churning propeller. It could easily devour both him and the speedboat.

Had the carrier been fully loaded, his ploy could never have worked. But the ship rode high at the stern, so he had a chance. Aiming a few feet left of the spindle, he braced himself and drove the boat in at top speed.

With a hammering bash, the speedboat’s red hull smacked the freighter’s rudder, smashing into the steering plate’s outer edge. The small boat’s momentum propelled its stern up and out of the water until it was nearly on end. Pitt flew up out of the cockpit but kept his grip on the wheel as the boat fell back. Again the craft slammed into the rudder, this time from above, mangling the spindle and slightly bending the top plate.

Its hull shattered, the little red speedboat slid off the rudder, and its inboard motor gurgled to a halt. The freighter’s churning wake swept the boat aside—and the big ship sailed on.

Pitt grabbed a shin that had split open on the windshield, but otherwise he found himself uninjured. A moment later, Loren swam up and pulled herself aboard the slowly sinking boat.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “That was some collision.”

“I’m fine.” He tore off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his bloodied leg. “I’m just not sure if it did any good.”

He watched the imposing shape of the freighter as it churned closer to the cruise ship. At first, there was no apparent change in its heading. But then, almost imperceptibly, the bow of the Tasmanian Star began to inch to port.

When Pitt had rammed her rudder, mashing it twenty degrees over, the ship’s automatic pilot had attempted to correct course. But the secondary impact from the speedboat arrived first, mashing the spindle and wedging the rudder in place. Try as they might, the automated bridge controls could not override the damage. Pitt had knocked the freighter off its course. But would it be enough?