“You always want a ship, Sara,” he said, holding the door.
The sun was shining outside, warm on their faces.
“Here,” he said, stopping by a black London taxi. The driver got out and helped stow her bags.
“This is going to cost a fortune,” she said.
“That’s okay. I’ve got plenty of money,” he said.
She looked at him. “Since when?”
“Since I quit and cashed out my retirement.”
They climbed into the cab and settled in behind their luggage. “Where to, mates?” the driver said looking in the rearview mirror, and Hugh gave him an address. “Righto,” the driver said happily, and they pulled into traffic.
All Sara could think to say was, “Why, Hugh? It was your dream job.
“Not much point in working for them if they won’t listen to me. Be cause, as you know, I’m always right.”
Another ghost of a smile. Encouraged, he said ruefully, “Besides, wasn’t getting all kinds of encouragement to hang around. The director seemed suddenly to have taken a dislike to me. I can’t understand it myself, but there it is.”
“What are you going to do?”
He smiled at her. “I’ll think of something.” He changed the subject. “Is it true that you told the president to shove it?”
She was honestly shocked. “No! Where did you hear that?”
“The O’Reilly Factor.”
She relaxed. “Oh. Well. Consider the source.”
“Also the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, the-”
She waved a hand. “Okay. Okay. I may have said a little something.”
He nodded, as if she had confirmed something he already knew. “And,” he said softly, “it cost you your ship.” He looked at her. “Defending me.”
She looked out at the passing fields, at the airplanes above lining up for final approach into Heathrow. “Where are we going?”
This time he let her change the subject. “I’ve found a flat in Kensington.”
“That was quick.”
“I sublet it from a Brit, a diplomatic type who got transferred to South Africa. It’s not very big, but it’s got all the modern conveniences, and it’s a short bus ride from your office.”
Sheep and cows and horses flashed by, their noses buried in the lush green grass. She rolled down the window and breathed deeply of the aromas of manure and airplane exhaust. No salt tang to the air here.
At least she was on an island. She would never be far away from the sea.
“About the flat,” Hugh said.
She turned to meet his eyes. “What about it?”
“I was thinking,” he said, “that we could share it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
COULD NOT HAVE WRITTEN this novel without the sixteen days I spent on patrol on the United States Coast Guard medium endurance cutter Alex Haley in the Bering Sea in February 2004. My entirely inadequate thanks to Commander Craig Barkley Lloyd and his superb crew for putting up with my colossal ignorance and my million questions. It was an honor, a privilege, and a joy to be on board.
Going above and beyond the call, Commander Lloyd and CPO Marshalena Delaney fact-checked the manuscript. Aviator Lieutenant Dan Leary helped me get the vertical insertion right after I horrified both him and Commander Lloyd with the suggestion of a controlled crash. Any errors which remain, by accident or design, are mine alone.
My infinite gratitude goes to my editor, Kelley Ragland, who took this manuscript out to the woodshed and beat all the errors in chronology and character out of it. A good editor’s price is far above rubies.
My thanks also to my agent, Rich Henshaw, who kept insisting I write a thriller. Now that I have, maybe he’ll leave me alone.
I first read about modern pirates in Richard Halliburton’s The Royal Road to Romance, and much later in John McPhee’s Looking for a Ship. William Langewiesche’s “Anarchy at Sea” in the September 2003 Atlantic Monthly was an invaluable overview of what is happening on the world’s oceans today, as was his book, The Outlaw Sea.
Peter Landesman’s “Arms and the Man” in the August 17, 2003, New York Times was an excellent introduction to the international arms trade. Especially helpful on the subject of North and South Korea were Jonathan Kandell’s “Korea: A House Divided” in the July 2003 Smithsonian magazine and Philip Gourevitch’s “Alone in the Dark” in the September 8, 2003, New Yorker magazine.
Kieran Mulvaney’s The Whaling Season is a matter-of-fact first-person account of the Greenpeace fight to end commercial whaling, and Kieran was kind enough to answer more of my questions. Special Agent Eric Gonzales of the Federal Bureau of Investigation helped me understand much about the FBI’s antiterrorism efforts, both foreign and domestic. Robert R. Kresge (CIA, retired) provided insight into the workings of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Researcher Sherry Merryman helped get me started on all of the above. Thanks to Chris Carlson and Jo Carlson for naming the Sunrise Warrior. Jim Kemper, world’s greatest meteorologist, conjured me up yet another magnificent and terrifying Aleutian storm. USCG Commander Robert Forgit briefed me on USCG operations in Anchorage and introduced me to Port of Anchorage operations manager Stuart Greydanus, who gave me the dollar-and-a-quarter tour, after which I repaid them by doing my best to blow it up, fortunately only in fiction. Chief Engineer Bruce Sherman toured me over the CSX Anchorage twice, which he may not be pleased to know helped my pirates no end.
Special thanks go to librarian Nancy Clark, who found me the perfect ordnance, and to marine pilot Don Ryan, whose help with the bang-bang part of the kiss-kiss-bang-bang ending was inspired and invaluable. It is safe to say that I wouldn’t have been as successful at nearly destroying Elmendorf and Anchorage without them.
Dana Stabenow
***
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