rescue hove over the horizon, and she would surely be blamed.
She crept back through the chart room to the curtain. The ship felt as if it had begun to slow. The captain was shouting into his walkie-talkie.
"Rustle up a mess of blankets, and soak 'em down good— Where in hell are those people going? Stop those gutless sons of bitches. Hold on, I'm coming down there. Any hand off station's going to get his butt whupped."
Sarah ran back to the radio room and hid as the captain raced down the stairs. Before his curses and footsteps had faded, she pulled from her pocket a scrap of paper on which she had written a Palau Islands number, and she punched it into the satellite phone. Holding it to her ear as she waited for the connection, she ran back through the curtain and onto the deserted bridge.
Like the elaborate electronics and computer room, and the luxurious owner's suite, the bridge itself appeared to
belong to a wealthier and more advanced ship than the Dallas Belle. The navigational equipment, the radar repeaters, the engine monitors and controls reminded her of an Australian missile frigate they had lunched aboard with the warship's captain, who was Kerry McGlynn's brother. But this, she realized was even more modem, the latest in technology, for the Dallas Belle was an OMBO ship—one man bridge operated.
The giveaway was a glass-walled toilet, elevated with a clear view of the windscreen, and a computer station in front of the helm. OMBO was a cost-cutting experiment that allowed a single officer to stand watch as the fiftythousand-ton vessel steamed full speed, day and night, fair weather and foul.
At the helm, the computer's thirty-inch monitor displayed course, speed, position, weather, and sea conditions; the Dallas Belle itself was represented by an icon of a ship steaming on a pale blue electric sea. If some virus struck down every living soul aboard, the fully automated gas carrier would steam forever on a course dead hands had entered into the computer.
The instant Michael had caught wind of OMBO, he had begun plotting ways to replace Veronica's homemade collision alarm with a modem raster scan radar. The phone clicked, went silent, and then hummed a dial tone.
Sarah dialed again and stepped to the windscreen, crouching so the men on the main deck sixty feet below wouldn't see her. The captured Swan was lashed to a cradle directly in front of the house. Someone knew their business, she was relieved to see: they had furled the sails and even fitted the sun cover over the boom. Two hundred yards ahead of the yacht, firefighters were spraying foam on the deck, while two men in gas masks and rubber suits were struggling with the ruptured valve. The rest of the crew—a half dozen men including their Chinese steward—were watching fearfully from a distance, ignoring the shouts and angry shoves of the bosun. The sea, as usual, was empty.
Directly below her, she saw the captain and Moss run
out of the house, arms laden with blankets. They climbed to a catwalk and raced forward, dropping down to the deck near the plume. Moss shoved a seaman off a fire station and directed the nozzle at the heaped blankets. The captain gathered one up, ran to the plume, and flung it over the broken. valve.
To Sarah's amazement, the blanket froze solid instantly, like a sheet of metal. The gas jet blew it high into the air and it sailed away like a metal bird. Of course, she thought. To compress the gas into a liquid, it had to be supercooled, many degrees below zero. Moss ran up with his arms loaded with dripping blankets. The two men conferred, then darted in through the foam, hurling the wet blankets at the base of the plume. The bosun charged up with a water hose, spraying the blankets as they threw more on. The supercooled gas froze the blankets and hose water. The plume wavered, curled in on itself like a question mark, and dissipated into thin air. The ruptured valve was soon encased in a solid block of ice.
Moss and
She crept back through the chart room to the curtain. The ship felt as if it had begun to slow. The captain was shouting into his walkie-talkie.
"Rustle up a mess of blankets, and soak 'em down good— Where in hell are those people going? Stop those gutless sons of bitches. Hold on, I'm coming down there. Any hand off station's going to get his butt whupped."
Sarah ran back to the radio room and hid as the captain raced down the stairs. Before his curses and footsteps had faded, she pulled from her pocket a scrap of paper on which she had written a Palau Islands number, and she punched it into the satellite phone. Holding it to her ear as she waited for the connection, she ran back through the curtain and onto the deserted bridge.
Like the elaborate electronics and computer room, and the luxurious owner's suite, the bridge itself appeared to
belong to a wealthier and more advanced ship than the Dallas Belle. The navigational equipment, the radar repeaters, the engine monitors and controls reminded her of an Australian missile frigate they had lunched aboard with the warship's captain, who was Kerry McGlynn's brother. But this, she realized was even more modem, the latest in technology, for the Dallas Belle was an OMBO ship—one man bridge operated.
The giveaway was a glass-walled toilet, elevated with a clear view of the windscreen, and a computer station in front of the helm. OMBO was a cost-cutting experiment that allowed a single officer to stand watch as the fiftythousand-ton vessel steamed full speed, day and night, fair weather and foul.
At the helm, the computer's thirty-inch monitor displayed course, speed, position, weather, and sea conditions; the Dallas Belle itself was represented by an icon of a ship steaming on a pale blue electric sea. If some virus struck down every living soul aboard, the fully automated gas carrier would steam forever on a course dead hands had entered into the computer.
The instant Michael had caught wind of OMBO, he had begun plotting ways to replace Veronica's homemade collision alarm with a modem raster scan radar. The phone clicked, went silent, and then hummed a dial tone.
Sarah dialed again and stepped to the windscreen, crouching so the men on the main deck sixty feet below wouldn't see her. The captured Swan was lashed to a cradle directly in front of the house. Someone knew their business, she was relieved to see: they had furled the sails and even fitted the sun cover over the boom. Two hundred yards ahead of the yacht, firefighters were spraying foam on the deck, while two men in gas masks and rubber suits were struggling with the ruptured valve. The rest of the crew—a half dozen men including their Chinese steward—were watching fearfully from a distance, ignoring the shouts and angry shoves of the bosun. The sea, as usual, was empty.
Directly below her, she saw the captain and Moss run
out of the house, arms laden with blankets. They climbed to a catwalk and raced forward, dropping down to the deck near the plume. Moss shoved a seaman off a fire station and directed the nozzle at the heaped blankets. The captain gathered one up, ran to the plume, and flung it over the broken. valve.
To Sarah's amazement, the blanket froze solid instantly, like a sheet of metal. The gas jet blew it high into the air and it sailed away like a metal bird. Of course, she thought. To compress the gas into a liquid, it had to be supercooled, many degrees below zero. Moss ran up with his arms loaded with dripping blankets. The two men conferred, then darted in through the foam, hurling the wet blankets at the base of the plume. The bosun charged up with a water hose, spraying the blankets as they threw more on. The supercooled gas froze the blankets and hose water. The plume wavered, curled in on itself like a question mark, and dissipated into thin air. The ruptured valve was soon encased in a solid block of ice.
Moss and
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