Terminal Justice by Alton L. Gansky Read Free Book Online Page A

and pink. Over the port side he could see the hill country of Mozambique with the meager lights of Moçambique, Nacala, and Memba struggling to push back the invading darkness. Off the starboard side was the island nation of Madagascar. Where the setting sun blanketed the hills of Mozambique in ever darkening shade, it bathed the mountains of Madagascar with its soft waning light.
    The sea, any sea, was Adair’s only love. He had never married, not wanting to put a wife through the misery of being attached to a man who seldom came home and who could never love her as much as he loved the rising and falling of a ship on the swells of the ocean. And in some mystical way, he felt the sea loved him back.
    Under the
Sea Maid
’s hull were the waters of the Mozambique Channel. Four hundred miles wide and more than one thousand miles long, the channel was home to the humpback whales (which the Malagasy considered to be the spirits of the dead) who frolicked and gave birth to their young. Below the clear waters rested the coral-encrusted carcasses of ships that had, over the centuries, succumbed to cyclones or pirates. Ahead of him lay the rest of the Indian Ocean, pristine blue during the day, ripening to near blackness at night. Between him and Mombasa were the Comoros, a small island group formerly owned by the French.
    “Mr. Salizar,” Adair said with aplomb, “do we have a weather update?”
    “Aye, Captain,” Salizar snapped. “Weather remains unchanged. Satellite shows all clear. It should hold all the way in, sir.”
    “Very good,” Adair replied. “Maintain speed and course.” Adair studied Salizar. He liked the young officer. Like Adair, Salizar had graduated from the Maritime Academy and had demonstrated himself an able and trustworthy officer, always showing up at his station precisely on time. He never questioned the captain directly, but was unafraid to offer suggestions that might improve the working of the ship.
    “Captain,” a voice said to his right. “If you have a moment, sir.”
    Adair turned to see his first mate, Rudy McGriff, standing with binoculars raised to his eyes and looking over the prow. “What do you see, Mr. McGriff?”
    “Unsure, sir, but I think it may be a raft.”
    Raising his binoculars to his eyes, Adair scanned the distant waters.
    “About half a mile out, sir,” McGriff said without breaking his gaze. “Look to starboard.”
    “I have it.” Adair studied the bright orange object bobbing on the sea. “I believe you’re right, Mr. McGriff.”
    “In this dim light it’s hard to tell if there’s anyone in it.”
    “Let’s assume there is,” Adair said decisively. “Mr. Salizar, I take it there hasn’t been a Mayday recently?”
    “No sir.”
    “Helm!” Adair ordered. “All stop.”
    “All stop, aye, Captain.” A moment later: “Engine room answers all stop, sir.”
    A moment later, Adair felt the ship slow as the friction of tons of water pressed against the now unpowered vessel. “Mr. McGriff, I would like you to lead a rescue team to that raft. Use the Zodiac and be sure to take a radio.” Adair limited his command to that single order. McGriff was an experienced seaman and an exceptional first officer. He would know exactly what to do. “And please work as speedily as possible. I would like to arrive at Mombasa on time.”
    “Aye sir.” Rudy snapped, turning on his heel, and hurrying out of the control room.

    The rescue crew consisted of McGriff and two other men: Chief Boatswain’s Mate Harry Adizes and Seaman Bill Shank, both Americans. Adizes, a powerfully built man in his mid-fifties, piloted the Zodiac toward the raft. Rudy had always admired Adizes for his knowledge, skill, and, most of all, his ability to commandmen. One word from the chief and men hopped to action. He was gruff, impatient, and able, the men said, to intimidate paint off the bulkhead.
    Seaman First Class Bill Shank was as thin as Adizes was brawny, his rail-like frame covered