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  Foster gritted her teeth against rising anger and turned to the man who paced the deck behind her, chewing nervously on his damned peanuts. Captain Everton had stalked back and forth for over an hour, wearing his battered wool hat, a 6 shot strapped to one hip like some mad, grizzled sailor from an ancient movie.

  Just call me Ishmael, she thought sourly.

  “Winds gusting to one-ten,” she said. “If it gets to one-thirty, we’re on the verge of a category five.”

  Everton didn’t answer, walked past her to stare through the bridge’s aft window, searching for his precious cargo in the driving darkness. He bellowed to the third member of their little bridge party as if the helmsman were deaf, his voice rough and powerful.

  “Put ’er back into the wind, Woods! Forty-five degrees down-swell!”

  J. W. Woods, Jr., spun the wheel tightly, coffee cup in one hand, his face stretched taut and shiny with sweat. The lanky blond helmsman still wore a fading black eye from his last bar fight and looked unhappy but loyally determined, always eager to prove his worth; Woods was the only crew member who truly seemed to enjoy kissing Everton’s ass. The man was a toadying creep, pure and simple, and she could expect no help there. Steve, Squeaky, and the other two hands probably had more sense, but they were busy below—and not too likely to side with her about anything, the way they’d ignored her for the past week. No one in the small crew seemed to know each other well except for Steve and Squeaky, the engineers; they had obviously worked together before.

  And the rest of us, strangers. Great way to meet people. I’ll definitely have to do this again . . .

  Foster looked back at her screens as the Sea Star turned against the movement of the barge, wondering again why she’d signed up for this run; well, she knew why, but pride didn’t seem like a good enough reason at the moment. There was more blindly dogmatic testosterone poisoning on this tug than she experienced in all her years with the navy. Everton had made it perfectly clear since they’d set out that he’d only hired her because he hadn’t had time to find anyone better, and no one on board seemed to disagree with him. It was as if having boobs made her useless as a navigator to these jerks, her opinions ignored or scoffed at. God forbid she might know what she was doing . . .

  There was another thundering crash as a huge swell slammed into the tug, jolting her out of her self-righteous reverie. All that mattered now was getting out of this alive; she could complain to someone who cared when, if, they managed to thwart Leiah, and currently the odds weren’t looking so hot.

  The Sea Star lurched suddenly as the barge was hit with another big one, a towering wall of seething foam that assaulted their tow with devastating force. There was a groaning shriek as the connecting cable pulled tight. The thousand-pound weight that anchored the cable had jumped; Foster knew it and prayed silently that the drag wouldn’t be too much—

  The Sea Star jerked like a dog at the end of a short leash and stopped dead, breaching herself to the furious seas. Everton grabbed for a support and Woods fumbled for his flask, uncapping it and pouring a healthy slug into his coffee.

  Jesus, what is he waiting for?

  “Captain, the barge is taking on water,” she said.

  Everton said nothing, his scruffy face set and closed.

  “Captain—”

  “We’re not releasing the cargo, Foster. There’ll be no discussion,” he snapped, and popped another handful of peanuts, staring out at the barge.

  Foster studied him for a moment longer, unable to believe that any man could be this suicidal or any captain this blatantly irresponsible; he hadn’t seemed insane when she’d met him, he’d been pleasant, handsome in a weathered way, radiating authority and self-confidence. What had happened to that man? Who was this sexist idiot munching on nuts in the skirt of a raging typhoon and ignoring his navigator?

  Well, fine. The cable would tear loose, the winch plate would rip out of the deck, and they’d dump the goddamn cargo anyway; she’d already kissed her percentage good-bye, and if he wasn’t going to listen to the truth, he could just choke on it.

  She turned back to the screens frustrated and nervous, wishing again that she hadn’t taken the first job to come her way when she’d hit the South Pacific—and hoping that they all wouldn’t choke on it with him as the Sea Star took another pounding at the writhing black claws of Leiah.

  Steve Baker was tired and grimy and the engine checked fine, just as it had the day they’d left port and every damned day since. Everton had turned out to be one of those controlling types that rattled under pressure, saw trouble and reacted by making his people jump through hoops.

  He says check the engine, it’s checked; like we sat on our asses for the last week and forgot to make sure it was working . . .

  He and Squeak had given her a thorough inspection on the first run they’d made with Everton a few months back; she was a standard direct-injection diesel that ran like a dream compared to some of the jobs they’d worked. Maybe a little high on the horses for a tug the Sea Star’s size, but no problems, then or now. He stood tiredly in the rocking engine room for another moment and watched it hum, the tight, hot compartment thick with the familiar smells of grease and sweat.

  Everton had seemed like an okay captain on the last trip—but there hadn’t been a fuckin’ typhoon then, either, just a straight run from the Solomons to Vanuatu with a commercial load, cash on delivery—

  There was another thundering blow to the ship and Steve stumbled, widened his stance to allow for the violent movement. What were they doing up there, anyway? Everton must’ve told the navigator to head directly for Leiah, the way the Star was getting mauled.

  He sighed and turned to the door, hoping that their percentages weren’t currently sinking to the bottom. He and Squeaky had weathered worse in terms of the ride, but they also usually worked for a salary; he hoped that Everton had cash on hand, if and when he cut the cargo loose. Insurance companies took too long to pay out.

  Steve stepped out of the engine room and latched the door behind him, glancing back once through the porthole before nodding at Squeaky. His partner was propped up in the corridor with a cup of coffee and another one of his “historical” paperbacks.

  He grinned up at Steve through his dark, short beard and cocked an eyebrow, asking the question that he already knew the answer to.

  “Purring like a kitten, Squeak. I’m going to bed; don’t wake me unless the ship starts to sink.”

  Squeaky nodded and went back to his book, never one for pointless chitchat. Probably why they worked so well together; Steve generally found that those who talked too much didn’t do, and he didn’t have time for people who wouldn’t pull their own weight. Squeaky’s hands were just as dirty as his.

  He hit the cramped, muggy cabin just down the hall from the engine room and flopped down on the small bunk, not even bothering to turn on the light. Squeaky was the night owl, so they switched off on shifts when the engine needed to be in tight form—

  The ship lurched again and Steve barely had time to put his hand out to keep his head from smacking into the wall.

  “Terrific,” he groaned, and decided that someone needed to have a word with their navigator about her plotting. She was cute if a little standoffish—but apparently she didn’t know dick about tropical storms. Squeaky had talked to her, said she was ex-navy, but Steve didn’t care much about her training; she’d led them into a typhoon carrying a full load, and that was beyond stupid. Unless it had been Everton—although he couldn’t imagine a captain deliberately jeopardizing his own ship . . .

  In any case, it wasn’t his problem; he didn’t get paid to worry about what went on above. Steve wrapped the thin pillow around his face, dropped one foot to the heaving floor, and was asleep in less than a minute.

  Captain Robert Everton stood tensely at the window and stared out at his future across a boiling sea. The tremendous dark swells battered at them mercilessly, tossing both the Sea Star and her heavy cargo pull as if they
were cheap plastic toys.

  We’ll make it, just a storm, a storm can’t do this to me, won’t do this to me . . .

  The thoughts, the memories, rushed through his mind unbidden and he was helpless against them, as helpless as a ship on stormy seas. He’d been a deckhand at seventeen, a helmsman at twenty; the ocean waters were his home, had watched him grow from a gawky teenager into a man. They had supported him, fed him, rocked him to sleep under starry skies; he had proposed to his girl on the shining waters of the Pacific under a half-moon, honeymooned on a rented sloop off the coast of New Zealand. When he’d bought the Star in his early thirties he’d become a captain, and his beautiful Sarah, a captain’s wife. God, they’d been so young, so full of plans! A home, a new ship, maybe a few kids when they were ready . . .

  Except Sarah had been taken from him by a drunk in a pickup truck a few months after she’d named the Sea Star, and now there was only Captain Everton and the sea, as it had been for almost thirty years. He had worked endlessly, made piddling runs from island to island, all the time tired and alone. Scraping out an existence while he saved his money for a better day, a comfortable retirement in a warm and sunny place.

  And now this. He’d made this voyage a hundred times, had eased through these waters at peak season without a whitecap in sight. He’d listened to the big boys in the lanes bitch about the terrible weather while the Star slid by on oceans like glass. In thirty years he’d never lost a pull, never even come close.

  I’ll be damned before I let a storm do this to me; you can’t do this to me!

  There was another crashing blow, and Everton watched in dull disbelief as the barge seemed to pull away from them. Even through the driving rain, he could tell that the towing winch had thrown a bolt; he could feel it after knowing the Star for so long, could feel every inch of her and knew every shudder of her sturdy frame.

  It would hold. It had to hold, or his future was gone.

  “The winch is breaking loose! It’s ripping up the deck!”

  Everton turned, saw the girl next to him, staring out at the barge as though she knew what she was looking at. Hiring Kelly Foster had been a mistake; the woman was thoughtless, emotional—disrespectful.

  “I’ve got eyes, for Christ’s sake,” he snapped. “And I’ve seen her through worse than this, Foster, so calm down and stand your station!”

  He turned away, walked towards Woods to get away from the woman more than anything else. At least the helmsman had some real experience under his belt, could handle a little rough weather without acting like a child.

  “Woods, keep her down-swell,” he said, and the man did as he was told. He cranked the wheel, looked out the fore window—

  —and his mouth dropped open, an expression of pure terror on his bruised and sweating face.

  “Green water!” Woods screamed, and Everton whipped around to see the giant swell peak, a wall of green so deep it was black. It had to be seventy, eighty feet tall—

  Everton just had time to feel shock, disbelief—and an overwhelming relief that it would all be over in seconds.

  Sarah, his mind whispered, and then the tons of water crashed down over them as the Sea Star rammed into the seething wall.

  • 2 •

  Foster heard Woods scream and gripped the hard edges of the radar console reflexively. She pushed herself down into her seat, her muscles tensed against the impact.

  BOOM, and the bridge keeled violently, the hiss of water all around them. A gigantic cracking sound, a cry of terror from Woods. Captain Everton was thrown into the chart table and Woods away from the helm, cups, peanuts, charts, flying across the room.

  Foster was rocked back, head snapping painfully against her neck. She heard and felt metal strain around her, beneath her feet, and there was another crash as part of the Sea Star’s safety railing broke behind them.

  She turned, actually saw the long, heavy antenna that had torn the railing spin into the watery darkness as the bridge lights flickered.

  The long-range, Jesus, it snapped.

  It seemed to last forever, the terrible thrashing slide of foam all around them—and then they were through the worst, the Star bobbing back to the roaring surface as the storm swept them on.

  Foster took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, saw that the damage was minimal, considering; the windows were intact, the lights were back on—they still had a chance.

  Everton rushed to the aft window before they had even settled, his lined, scruffy face horrified and searching. Foster looked past him and saw the container barge had nearly upended in the crashing wall of water, one end thrown into the air. A stack of lumber broke free, was tossed across the pull like a bundle of twigs. The top of the canister stack had torn loose and she saw several of the containers slide away and disappear into the foaming darkness as the barge smacked down into the water.

  Foster could see the desperate anguish on the captain’s face and felt pity for him, in spite of the fact that it was his idiocy that had caused it. She glanced at Woods, who seemed shaken but unhurt, then back at Everton, searching for something encouraging to say; the captain stared out at the loss as though his heart was breaking.

  “If you were any kind of navigator . . .” he said, trailing off as though the rest were obvious.

  Foster felt her skin flush as the words sank in, all other thoughts blasted away by a throbbing redness. “No, you put us on this course, Captain! You have us a hundred miles out of any normal shipping lane, we’re doing a ten-day crossing in the middle of typhoon season, so don’t blame this on me!”

  He stepped towards her, his own face flushed and angry. “Foster, I’m the owner of this ship and her captain, goddamn it, and I’ll have your respect!”

  They locked stares and Foster hated him, hated his stupid, irresponsible attempt to shift blame, to control her, to kill them all by sending them into a typhoon—

  —and he calls the shots here, sailor, not you. Her father’s voice, a cool reminder of her past and a warning for her future.

  And right as always; shit.

  She gritted her teeth and heard her own voice respond, defiant but tightly controlled.

  “Yes, sir,” she spat, and looked away before the hate could take hold again.

  “Captain, we’re taking on water,” said Woods. “I can feel it, I’m losing her . . .”

  Everton stalked past her to the helm, and she turned back to her screens, furious as another swell tossed them up and dropped them back into the churning waters.

  Foster didn’t want to die, but her reasons had narrowed suddenly to a single-minded goal, a thought to hold on to in the chaos of the storm. She wanted them to make it, wanted to feel the dock solid beneath her feet when she bid Captain Everton farewell with a right cross to his ridiculous, incompetent face. He was only captain of the Sea Star; off her planks, Foster could do as she damn well pleased.

  Steve was jerked from an uneasy sleep to the shrill and pulsing shriek of an alarm. He was on his feet before he could think clearly and was slammed into his cabin door for his troubles. The Sea Star lurched again and he shook his head, remembered the storm, and found his legs.

  The corridor was as tight and humid as his cabin, only much brighter, a red flash punctuating each deafening cry of the alarm. Steve rubbed at his eyes and Richie and Hiko were suddenly there, both men looking as tired and unhappy as he felt.

  “It’s the engine alarm! Come on!” Richie shouted, and Steve was wide-awake as soon as he heard “engine.” Damn it, what could have happened? He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes—

  He turned and ran, the two deckhands behind him, and saw Squeaky’s chair overturned in front of the door to the engine room at the end of the corridor. His partner was staring through the thick glass porthole set into the door, his expression tense beneath the flashing crimson light.

  Squeaky stepped out of the way as Steve grabbed the latch and slapped it down—and nothing happened.

  “It’s bu
ckled,” said Squeaky, and Steve was already scanning the frame, still jiggling on the useless handle and pushing against the door. God, it must have been a big one to jam the thick panel into place—a flaw in the metal exploited by the furious storm.

  He raised his head, looked through the hatch window—and felt ice water hit his veins and electrify every part of his exhausted body.

  Green seawater gushed through a rip in the aft bulkhead, poured into the locked room in a tiny foaming river.

  Steve threw himself into the steel door once again, but it wouldn’t give, didn’t even rattle against the frame.

  “If that water stalls the engine, we’re fuckin’ dead,” said Richie, and Steve turned, struggled to think straight in the shuddering, screaming corridor.

  He looked up into the tattooed face of the silent man behind him, organizing his thoughts even as he spoke. “Hiko, get a torch and cut the door off.”

  Squeaky’ll take over, Richie can assist.

  “I’m going above,” he finished, and all three of the men nodded; they understood what they needed to do without having it spelled out. Steve silently thanked Everton for having enough sense to hire hands with brains and then he was running, headed through the flashing red hall for the ladder that would lead him to the bridge.

  Everton paced the swaying floor, fists clenched, a pounding headache firmly in place from the screaming, flashing alarms. He looked back at the barge, watched another four containers wash away, lost to the swirling black waters. In spite of the loss of ballast, the pull sat low in the tossing seas, too low . . .

  . . . but there’s still plenty left, it’s not all gone, it’s not—Jesus, that alarm is driving me insane!

  “Turn that damned noise off.”