current.
In his fifty-plus years on the sea, Moore had never seen anything like the disruptions caused by the Kaala. Even the bitter North Sea or the East Indies, violent waters that did not suffer mistakes, were more predictable than this slop. Seas moved, yes, sometimes at deflecting angles to the weather patterns. All sailors knew this; the world above and the world below were just that, two different worlds. A tropical storm could be a fearsome presence, great cumulonimbus clouds stocked with enough energy to blow the all navies of the worlds to smithereens. Yet below the surface the tiniest fish floated along impervious to the energies above the surface. Likewise, the tides and currents and upwellings in the ocean decimated entire marine habitats or regions, while leaving those above unaffected by, and usually ignorant of, the changes below.
The Kaala was an exaggeration of these contrasts, a great ribbon of icy water flowing south against the warmer Gulf Stream. Already today the Nokomis had to endure two rogue waves, the latter a true monster, thirty feet tall if it was an inch. They had seen the wave on the radar in plenty of time, because NOAA was spitting out marine advisories left and right, and Moore had dedicated one of his junior officer to full-time radar watch. He took the wheel himself as the wave closed in on them, shutting off the autopilot and steering the Nokomis into the swell so they took it at a quartering angle. He warned the crew and passengers beforehand, and when they rode up the wave the bridge was quiet, almost churchlike. The Nokomis crested the massive wave and he powered up, his insides tingling as they tipped downward, and then there was the thrill of the descent, and he was in full control of the ship as the rogue wave lurched past them and was lost into the fog-shrouded world. Then there was cheering from the sheep below, and for a moment, Captain Donald Moore felt like a sailor again.
Now he glanced back into the bridge. He could see the radar through the glass, and the seas were clear. The GPS indicated they were twenty-seven miles out from the Massachusetts coastline, past the Stellwagen Bank. Sonar showed the floor of the ocean as a series of smooth humps, more than a hundred fathoms below them.
Too far out.
It was that prick Giuliani’s fault, forcing the casino boats to go three miles out, minimum, before the gambling could begin. In the past year the local and state politicians, enthralled by the money flowing in from the land-based casinos, had taken it a step further and banned ship-based gambling inside the Line. The fuel bill for the big Allis Chalmers diesels was murderous even with a three-mile run—at twelve miles out, they had seen a steady decline in profits. Well, the offshore gambling industry was on a long downslide, a fact reflected in his paltry captain’s pay . . . which was still more than he could make doing anything else.
He did not know his employers at Sefelis Industries. He was well aware of the rumors; Sefelis was mobbed up, and that the Nokomis and its gambling losses were a front. Moore did not particularly care if it was true. He suspected that, at the very least, Sefelis was not the most principled player in the marine entertainment world. That they had hired him, an unofficially blacklisted captain who had not piloted a ship for eight long years, loomed large in this suspicion.
None of that mattered now. He was back on the sea, and the Nokomis was a decent ship with a legitimate purpose. His tenure with Sefelis had gone smoothly for fourteen months—a paycheck every two weeks, a crew of officers who were competent if not stellar. And sometimes his unseen employers actually heeded his e-mails and provided what was needed to maintain, if not upgrade, the ship.
Then the phone had rung on a dreary Tuesday afternoon, a loud klaxon in the small office he maintained near the marina. He jumped, choking on his cigar smoke; the phone had been silent for
In his fifty-plus years on the sea, Moore had never seen anything like the disruptions caused by the Kaala. Even the bitter North Sea or the East Indies, violent waters that did not suffer mistakes, were more predictable than this slop. Seas moved, yes, sometimes at deflecting angles to the weather patterns. All sailors knew this; the world above and the world below were just that, two different worlds. A tropical storm could be a fearsome presence, great cumulonimbus clouds stocked with enough energy to blow the all navies of the worlds to smithereens. Yet below the surface the tiniest fish floated along impervious to the energies above the surface. Likewise, the tides and currents and upwellings in the ocean decimated entire marine habitats or regions, while leaving those above unaffected by, and usually ignorant of, the changes below.
The Kaala was an exaggeration of these contrasts, a great ribbon of icy water flowing south against the warmer Gulf Stream. Already today the Nokomis had to endure two rogue waves, the latter a true monster, thirty feet tall if it was an inch. They had seen the wave on the radar in plenty of time, because NOAA was spitting out marine advisories left and right, and Moore had dedicated one of his junior officer to full-time radar watch. He took the wheel himself as the wave closed in on them, shutting off the autopilot and steering the Nokomis into the swell so they took it at a quartering angle. He warned the crew and passengers beforehand, and when they rode up the wave the bridge was quiet, almost churchlike. The Nokomis crested the massive wave and he powered up, his insides tingling as they tipped downward, and then there was the thrill of the descent, and he was in full control of the ship as the rogue wave lurched past them and was lost into the fog-shrouded world. Then there was cheering from the sheep below, and for a moment, Captain Donald Moore felt like a sailor again.
Now he glanced back into the bridge. He could see the radar through the glass, and the seas were clear. The GPS indicated they were twenty-seven miles out from the Massachusetts coastline, past the Stellwagen Bank. Sonar showed the floor of the ocean as a series of smooth humps, more than a hundred fathoms below them.
Too far out.
It was that prick Giuliani’s fault, forcing the casino boats to go three miles out, minimum, before the gambling could begin. In the past year the local and state politicians, enthralled by the money flowing in from the land-based casinos, had taken it a step further and banned ship-based gambling inside the Line. The fuel bill for the big Allis Chalmers diesels was murderous even with a three-mile run—at twelve miles out, they had seen a steady decline in profits. Well, the offshore gambling industry was on a long downslide, a fact reflected in his paltry captain’s pay . . . which was still more than he could make doing anything else.
He did not know his employers at Sefelis Industries. He was well aware of the rumors; Sefelis was mobbed up, and that the Nokomis and its gambling losses were a front. Moore did not particularly care if it was true. He suspected that, at the very least, Sefelis was not the most principled player in the marine entertainment world. That they had hired him, an unofficially blacklisted captain who had not piloted a ship for eight long years, loomed large in this suspicion.
None of that mattered now. He was back on the sea, and the Nokomis was a decent ship with a legitimate purpose. His tenure with Sefelis had gone smoothly for fourteen months—a paycheck every two weeks, a crew of officers who were competent if not stellar. And sometimes his unseen employers actually heeded his e-mails and provided what was needed to maintain, if not upgrade, the ship.
Then the phone had rung on a dreary Tuesday afternoon, a loud klaxon in the small office he maintained near the marina. He jumped, choking on his cigar smoke; the phone had been silent for
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