Chapter 1: Foggy Night

Ben Schooland rested for a moment, letting his paddle lay across the top of his kayak. Around him the night was black as pitch, the only light the dim glow of the compass just in front of him.

San Francisco Bay on a foggy night. Tendrils of fog wrapped themselves tightly around him and everything else in the night.

Two miles. That’s all it was. He rowed more than two miles most mornings before breakfast. But that was in the light of the day, not in the middle of the night in the thickest fog he’d ever seen, in a very busy shipping channel — busy even on foggy nights. He had a compass and a GPS — what could go wrong?

Steve Callahan’s voice spoke in his ear. “Red Rover, Red Rover, let Earl come over.”

For a second Ben could only see red, his anger was so great. Okay, this was a prank, an initiation to the University of San Francisco’s rowing team. He picked up the walkie-talkie he had and gave vent to his feelings, unconcerned about what anyone might feel.

He was rowing north from the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge, heading to the north shore of the entrance to San Francisco Bay. The radio transmission was supposed to alert him if there was a ship heading into or out of the narrow strait that led into San Francisco Bay and tell him which way to go to avoid it. Ned, Sam, Earl and Wally, north, south, east and west.

Except east was suicide — the traffic would be coming from the east or the west. A course to the northwest or northeast, the southwest or the southeast, made sense. Due east? He’d either be heading towards an oncoming ship, or would be trying to outrun one. And you don’t outrun hardly anything that had a power plant with a kayak.

“Listen you stupid fucking asshole,” Ben said into the radio, throwing the elaborate voice code into the trash, “turn east? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”

“Ben,” the voice on the other end said. “We’re getting a faint echo on the radar, coming from the southwest, heading northeast. East takes you away from the course at the best angle. It’s a really faint trace, but I’m positive it’s real.”

“Listen to me,” Ben said. “A ship coming from the southwest, heading northeast is going to be on the rocks in a few minutes. Forget this shit. Call the coasties.”

“GPS, Ben!” Steve replied. “They’re just waiting for the right time to make the course change! For you, a jog to the east, then continue north. Ten more minutes, man!”

“If they have GPS, they’d have radar,” Ben said. “You picking it up?”

“Well ... no. But this isn’t a military rig, Ben. Look, you need to get moving.”

Ben grunted and started paddling. He was five ten and he was solidly built — when he wanted to move, he did just that.

The first hint that things weren’t working was when he tried to get Steve again and heard only an ocean of static. The next thing he heard was a faint whisper of sound.

Really, unless it was a very large ship, which Steve hadn’t said it was, there was little risk. All he had to do was avoid the bow and then keep well clear. He peered into the darkness in the direction of the whisper.

Suddenly he was pinned in the kayak by a tight spotlight. The ship swerved in his direction and there was nothing he could do to avoid it coming up alongside the kayak. He did everything he could to minimize the wake of the ship — fortunately, it wasn’t much.

Two men clattered down a set of wooden stairs, and reached for the kayak with boathooks. Ben waved them off, hoping they’d understand that the hooks would be lethal for the kayak and perhaps for him as well. He turned towards them and a second later; two men lifted the front of the kayak out of the water.

Evidently it wasn’t as heavy as they thought, and they got a better grip and pulled it bodily out of the water.

Ben lifted the radio to alert Steve, but one of the two men saw the radio and lifted a pistol and pointed it at Ben. Ben let the radio fall, trusting the lanyard to save it and raised his hands.

Then followed a funny interlude as they tried to figure out how to get Ben out of the kayak ... evidently they didn’t know what a zipper was. One of them called up to the deck and a stentorian voice came back, commanding something.

Ben looked more closely at the ship he’d been taken aboard. A wooden sailing ship, probably one of the replicas that were due into San Francisco Bay later in the week. He grinned thinly when he realized that there were no sails set. So, they were running on their engines. What pantywaists!

Then he remembered where they were and swallowed. Not pantywaists: brain-dead morons with a death wish.

Sure, you could enter San Francisco Bay on a dark, foggy night on GPS and radar alone. Of course, if either quit or if you had engine trouble, you were dead, but heck, it was like flying under the Golden Gate Bridge fifty years before: a lodestone for any pilot with big brass balls and a tiny, shriveled, peanut-sized brain.

He undid the zipper, watched by two men, one of them standing back, his weapon pointed at Ben.

The unarmed man waved at the companionway leading up and the one with the pistol gestured for him to go up.

At least they let him keep the radio!

He made up his mind as he climbed the stairs. A couple of these replicas belonged to either the Navy or the Coast Guard. If there was an officer of the deck, he, Ben Schooland, was going to give the stupid shit the finger instead of a salute.

When he topped out, he looked around the deck. Well, if there was an officer of the deck, he wasn’t readily apparent. Instead, a dozen men with pistols were lined up, facing him, their weapons ready.

Ben said something calming and gentle; he wasn’t sure what was up, but he knew the approach he wanted to take.

A man appeared, followed a few steps behind by a woman. She said something to the man, something Ben couldn’t catch. Her voice was very soft.

The newcomer looked at Ben and then at the kayak, already carried on deck by one of the men who’d brought Ben aboard.

Ben pointed at the man he thought was in command. He made a ‘sailing-across-the-sea’ motion with his fingers, and then pointed to the northwest. Then he slammed his hand into his fist.

To his surprise it was the woman who realized what he meant and who then spoke a command.

“All engines stop! Full emergency thrust astern! I want us stopped dead in the water!” Minerva commanded.

Her brother stood still watching the stranger closely. “Why gestures and not words?” Demeter asked.

Holrith, the Master of the Ship, laughed. “He spoke when we were below, Lord Demeter. I could not understand a word he said. I don’t think he understood any of the words I spoke. He surely recognized my weapon, though. And he knew to stop trying to speak into his radio.”

Minerva was surprised. “He has a radio?”

“I think that’s what it is. I saw him lift it, like he was going to speak into it. It is very small, Guardian. It’s that small pendant thing hanging from his neck.”

Minerva turned to the young man standing in front of her. “Explain yourself, sir! I am the Guardian of the Southern Gate! I demand that you explain yourself!”

He shrugged and shook his head, then said something in a language Minerva didn’t recognize.

One of the electronics ratings appeared. “Guardian, that one radar that has been close to detection values? It has been focused on us for several minutes. I wouldn’t think our return would be strong enough for them to detect, but evidently it is. Moreover, I’m detecting hundreds of radar sources ahead, some of them incredibly strong. Most of them aren’t tasked to cover the sea approach, but many are. I have detected hundreds of aerial vehicles within a hundred miles of our position, all of them radar sources.”

“Hundreds?” Minerva had trouble believing that.