Estrella De Asís
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 26
Atlantic Ocean, 300 nautical miles off the coast of Africa.
It was evening aboard the Ocean Wanderer, and the entire crew had taken to their quiet corners. A hush had settled over the ship — an anticipatory silence, like a theatre just before curtain rise. We were on station, holding steady near the Romanche Trench, floating above one of the deepest scars on Earth’s surface. The trench below us felt like a secret, waiting to be unearthed.
While the ship held position in a moderate swell, I was reclined on the one luxury in my cabin – a sofa. Not luxurious by any means, but after a few days aboard, even that spartan slab had grown familiar. The porthole had been sealed shut with blackout covers; no glint of light was permitted to leak from the hull. Stealth mode was fully engaged — every deck, every cabin, even the bridge bathed in shadow. The only illumination came from faint infra-red strips in the companionways, painting ladders and bulkheads in ghost-light. A world in monochrome. The term that sprang to mind was; “Darken Ship.” It was 20:16 SAST and counting down.
Trying to still my thoughts — get into mission head space — I was listening to instrumental music through my Bluetooth earbuds. I had chosen something slow, cinematic, elemental. Wind and strings. The type of music that seemed to root your spirit to the Earth ... or the ocean, in this case. My hands rested folded on my chest, eyes closed, breathing matched to the rhythm of the ship’s sway. The motion was subtle, but I could feel it in my bones. Old bones. Bones that had been on too many seas.
At some point — I don’t know when exactly — the music changed.
Not overtly. Not like a new track started. Just ... shifted. A faint resonance crept in. Something that didn’t belong to the orchestra. It wasn’t dissonant, not loud or menacing. But it was wrong. Like a violin string tuned just past pitch, humming inside the marrow instead of the ears.
I opened my eyes.
The cabin remained exactly as it had been. Dim, still, wrapped in its veil of red. And yet ... different. The air felt dense, charged — like the moment before a lightning strike. No sound. No movement. Just presence. Observed — not by eyes, but by something deeper.
“Are you in a restful state, or may I intrude?”
The voice wasn’t coming from the ear-buds. It wasn’t even sound, strictly speaking. It threaded itself directly into my mind — unmistakable. Stella.
“No, no,” I said aloud, sitting up on one elbow. “I’m awake. Just listening to music. Where are you?”
“Outside your cabin. May I enter?”
“I’ll get the hatch.”
I swung my legs off the sofa, still a little groggy but grounded. I opened the cabin door.
She stood there, a silhouette in red hues, the soft IR glow catching the angles of her face just enough to make her look like a statue — flawlessly still, hauntingly composed. She stepped inside without hesitation. No creak of boots, no wasted motion. I was used to her grace by now. What used to unsettle me had evolved into something else. Familiar. Even comforting.
“I did not intend to disrupt your pre-mission routine,” she said, voice precise, but with a softness folded subtly into the phrasing. It wasn’t emotion, but it wanted to be.
“You’re not interrupting,” I said, gesturing toward the bench under the porthole. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk about what’s coming up in a few hours.”
“That would be beneficial,” she replied with a nod. “But first: may I inquire—what composition were you listening to?”
“Instrumental version of Lara’s Theme.”
A pause — perhaps two-tenths of a second.
“Lara’s Theme is a musical leitmotif composed by Maurice Jarre for the 1965 film Doctor Zhivago. It was later adapted into the popular song Somewhere, My Love, performed notably by The Ray Conniff Singers. The piece is characterised by its romantic phrasing and melancholic overtones.”
I raised a brow. “Thank you, Professor. Wikipedia’s got nothing on you.”
“You are welcome.”
There was something almost resembling a smile in the way she delivered it. A data smile.
“But have you ever really listened to it?” I asked. “Not just processed it. I mean ... felt it.”
She tilted her head precisely five degrees — curiosity mode.
“I have not analysed it from an emotional resonance standpoint. Should I?”
“You might like it. There’s something soothing in the harmony. It’s very ... human. You might resonate with it. Emotionally, I mean.”
“If it contributes to your calm, I would like to include it in my internal database. Please upload it.”
“Oh, sure,” I said, grinning. “Just give me your email address and I’ll send the MP3.”
That triggered something.
She arched an eyebrow with elegant deliberation, her eyes narrowing a millimetre.
“Is this equivalent to a human male requesting contact details from a female for courtship purposes?”
I laughed. “Something like that.”
“Then I must decline. I cannot endorse the initiation of your dating protocols during mission parameters.”
“You’re toying with me.”
“Would you prefer I refrain? Playful interaction is common in human social bonding.”
I smirked. “Depends.”
She didn’t respond — just gave me that long, sideways glance. One second. Maybe less. But in that time, she read everything I wasn’t saying. And behaviour at that moment felt like a real woman’s response.
Then her voice dropped, just slightly: “I enjoy our verbal sparring, Roy. However, I must consider Fiona’s potential interpretation. She is human — and emotional. Should she perceive my interactions with you as invasive, she may act irrationally. Perhaps even violently.”
I chuckled. “She’s not the jealous or violent type.”
“She has access to agricultural equipment. A heavy-duty tractor, for example, would present a significant threat to my physical shell if she decides to run me over. This outcome is suboptimal.”
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t run you over. Honestly, she’d probably love to talk with you more.”
“I would like that. She has much I could learn.”
“Then we’ll make that happen — after this mission. Hell, I think I’ve even got a vacation in mind for you.”
“I do not require rest periods, besides, it is counterproductive lying on a towel on a beach. I might overheat. And sunscreen doesn’t protect me from ultraviolet radiation.”
“Not a vacation vacation, just time with me and Fiona. Actually, that reminds me — have you ever heard of the Star of Assisi?”
She blinked once. A micro-reboot.
“Estrella de Asís: a relic cited in the private correspondences of Sir Francis Drake to Queen Elizabeth I. Purportedly lost at sea, possibly apocryphal. Classified as historical artefact with high myth-to-fact ratio. Eighty-five percent of sources deem it fictional.”
I leaned forward. “She knows where it is.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Not calculation — consideration.
“Then Fiona and I will have much to discuss.”
I nodded. “You will.”
Stella pivoted smoothly. “Now, Roy. You previously indicated a need to speak about the mission. Shall we?”
“Yes.” I straightened. “How the hell am I getting you aboard the South Sea Spirit?”
She answered without hesitation: “On the starboard side, midway between the waterline and main deck, there is a structural aperture known as the pilot door. It facilitates the transfer of harbour pilots during docking. It is occasionally left ajar in tropical climates to increase air circulation on lower decks. Given our equatorial location and the ship’s tonnage, the ambient temperature during nighttime is 20 to 25 degrees Celsius. The probability of door being open exceeds seventy percent.”
“And if it’s shut?”
“There will be a short delay. While it cannot be opened from the exterior by conventional means, I can manipulate the electromagnetic locking mechanism with localised directed electro magnetic induced interference generated from my palms.”
She gave a slight smile — her version of holding four aces in a poker game.
“Wouldn’t that kind of activity attract attention? You’re not exactly standard crew.”
“I will carry a fabricated device in my hand to misdirect visual observation. The effect will appear as a technical procedure.”
I stared. “Stella ... Never mind.”
“You were going to ask something.”
“No, it’s stupid.”
“Roy, I am equipped to process all inquiries without judgement.”
I hesitated, then blurted, “How much voltage are we talking here?”
Her response was factual, clinical, and terrifying: “Up to 4,000 volts at 0.5 amps for utility tasks. In defensive situations: 10,000 volts at 30 amps.”
I blinked. “Jesus. Remind me never to make you mad.”
“You are classified as an essential asset. Electrocution is contraindicated.”
“Thanks. That’s ... comforting. I feel much better...”
At 01:00 SAST, the Ocean Wanderer shifted beneath us—engines whispering to life in their dampened mounts. The final green light. Everything was ready. On deck, the air was taut with silence and resolve. No words left to say. Just action now.
Dawie, Stella, and I stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped ops room, going over the last tactical brief from TC. The Rangers were stone-faced. The Angels sat quietly, suited and ready, their presence as unsettling as it was reassuring. They didn’t blink much. They didn’t need to.
Outside, the sea was cloaked in shadow. A moonless night. Broken clouds limped across the sky like smoke from an invisible fire. What little starlight filtered through painted the ocean with a silver haze—haunting, surreal. The swell was manageable but restless, the kind of motion that makes silence feel louder.
TC stood at the digital map table, tapping two red zones on the holographic projection of the South Sea Spirit. “My teams will board here and here. Port and stern access points. Bridge secured within five. That’s our window.”
Then he turned to me, his tone sharpening. “But getting us there ... that’s your world, Navy. You tell me how we make that hull without them hearing us coming.”
I nodded, stepping forward. “We’re thirty nautical miles out. The RIBs on the Wanderer were retrofitted — silent props, reinforced hulls, tuned for range. Running at thirty-five knots through these swells gives us a minimum of seventy minutes to contact. That’s assuming optimal vector and no mechanical issues.”
TC cut in. “That’s your headspace window. Seventy minutes. Get your gear right, your minds tighter. We drop comms the second we launch. Radio silence until we’re aboard or dead.”
Stella, standing just behind me, spoke up — her voice as clear and calm as ever. “If we maintain a consistent thirty-five knots, the approach will require approximately zero-point-eight-six hours. That is fifty-one-point-six minutes, accounting for drift and swell irregularity.”
Boomer blinked. “Who are you, girl? A walking calculator?”
I turned, already smirking. “Not ‘girl.’ That’s Chief Petty Officer Mara to you.”
Boomer raised both hands in mock surrender. “Sincere apologies, Madam.”
I let the moment sit. Even tension needs breath.
Then I turned to the map again. “For Plan B to work — me and Stella need access to the hull via the pilot door on the starboard side. If they left it open, we slide in clean. If not...”
I paused and looked at Stella. She didn’t move, but there was something almost mischievous in her voice. “If the door is sealed, I can override the locking system. From the outside.”
Bushy leaned in, sceptical. “How the hell are you gonna do that?”
“She has ... a device,” I said, leaving out the part about her being the device. No need to startle the kids before showtime.
TC nodded slowly. “Then it’s set. Four RIBs launch. Roy, you and CPO Mara take Boat One with the Angels. You’ll move to the pilot door and enter first. The Angels will scan for the cargo. If Plan B goes live, you’re already in position to make it happen.”
Mai-Loan, ever precise, added: “Be advised. Hostile crew is a given. There may be ... other cargo. Unlisted. Dangerous.”
Dawie stepped up beside her. “Stay sharp. Keep your heads on a swivel. Don’t assume anything. Not even gravity.”
TC glanced around. “Questions?”
There were none. That silence — heavy, decisive — meant one thing: we were ready.
“Good,” he said. “MAN THE BOATS. Let the games begin.”
No ceremony. No grand send-off. Just the sound of gear packs getting slung, boots on metal decking, and the low hum of engines being brought to idle. Everyone peeled off to their assigned boats. Stella stayed close, moving with that same quiet grace I was getting far too used to.
I glanced at her as we descended the ladder to the launch bay. “Nervous?”
She looked at me evenly. “I am incapable of nervousness. But I am ... monitoring my systems closely.”
“That’s as close as you’ll ever get to admitting anticipation.”
“Anticipation is ... accurate.”
We stepped into the RIB, our boots thudding softly against the reinforced flooring. The Angels were already aboard, checking their gear in eerie silence. I gave the hand signal, and the launch team moved into position.
The sea swallowed us without a sound.
Our navigation had been sharp — laser precise — threading through the black swells like a needle through taut fabric. At exactly 02:17 SAST, we reached our target. The South Sea Spirit loomed ahead of us like a drifting continent, a massive silhouette carved from darkness and steel.
Even in near-total night, her immense bulk was undeniable. Over 150,000 metric tons of momentum slicing through the Atlantic like a blade. Her hull — painted in a battered mix of ocean-worn blue and rust-red streaks — rose up on our port side like the wall of a fortress. The large white painted “ASL” letters on her side contrasted sharply with her dark blue hull.
High above, the superstructure stood in stark contrast: white, blocky, lit faintly in places by the amber glow of low-wattage deck lights. Somewhere inside, men were sleeping, guarding, or scheming. None of them knew we were already at their doorstep.
The ship was still underway, slow but steady, dragging a long white wake behind her like a comet tail. The bow was pushing a steady pulse of water forward, crashing and foaming like an avalanche of ghostly surf. That energy curled along her flanks, forming a slipstream—powerful, chaotic, unpredictable. The South Sea Spirit was making her own sea now, and our little RIB had to survive inside it.
The skipper of our boat—a square-jawed seaman named Rudi—gritted his teeth as he fought the wheel. The RIB pitched hard once, then yawed sharply to port as we hit the ship’s turbulent wash, the twin outboards growling in complaint.
“She’s throwing a hell of a slipstream,” I muttered, bracing my boots against the RIB’s deck.
Rudi, the RIB’s skipper, didn’t look back. His hands danced across the throttle and rudder control, feathering both with the calm of a man who’d fought worse waters.
“I’ve got her, sir. Holding station ... now.”
The RIB surged forward, then steadied — nestled tight along the midsection of the hull, starboard side of the South Sea Spirit. Barely a meter separated us from the steel skin of the cargo vessel. The smell of salt, fuel, and oxidised metal was thick in the air, carried on the spray that lashed our faces. Overhead, the wall of the South Sea Spirit soared upward, sheer and silent, disappearing into cloud-thick darkness.
Stella, crouched low beside me, turned her head. Even under the red-lit goggles, I could see her eyes glinting faintly. Her voice was quiet but certain. “The pilot’s door is open. Ladder is not deployed.”
Her low-light vision made her better than any scope.
“No problem, Captain,” Rudi said with a grin that sounded more than looked. “We’ll grapple up and drop it down for you.”