The Navigator

“What should we do?” Carlos said.

“Keep him company, if you’d like.” He smiled and closed the door.

A panicked look came to the Filipino’s face. He dashed for the other helicopter and clambered into the cabin as the rotors reached takeoff speed. The helicopter rose slowly from the containers. Dangling from the fuselage was a line with a hook attached to the end of it. The helicopter moved around to stern.

The helicopter hovered over the object wrapped in canvas. The chopper dropped down and engaged the hook of a rope loop at the top of the object. Austin watched the maneuver from around the corner of the bridge house.

In the brief time Austin had known the hijackers, he had come to dislike them intensely. Bending low, he ran toward the object and undid the hook attached to the end of the helicopter’s Kevlar line. He wrapped the line around a bollard and hooked it to itself.

He was ru

A second before he made a prairie dog dive into an open hatchway, he looked up and saw the second helicopter. A gun barrel protruded from the open door.

With all the confusion, the pilot of the other helicopter was unaware that his aircraft was attached to the deck. He tried to gain altitude and gave the helicopter extra power to compensate for the weight. The chopper reached the end of the line, came to a jarring halt, and began to gyrate like a kite on a string.

The line caught in the rotor blades, which severed the co

Austin peered from the hatchway. The other helicopter circled over the expanding circle of foamy bubbles. A man stood in the helicopter door, looked down at Austin, and they locked eyes for a second. A smile spread across the man’s cherubic face. A second later, the helicopter banked off and flew away from the ship.

Austin climbed back onto the deck and saw why the helicopter hadn’t bothered to make another pass. The Great Western oil rig loomed directly ahead.

With the wind whipping at his clothes, he gazed up to the bridge, silently cheering the captain on. He could imagine the desperate struggle in the pilothouse as the captain tried to avoid a calamity. The ship was still moving at full power. Austin put himself in the captain’s place. Even if Lange killed the engines, the ship would continue moving on its momentum. The captain would want to maintain even the tiniest shred of control that the engines would allow.

As the ship closed in on the platform, Austin detected a shift of a few degrees to the right. The ship was finally going into its turn. It would need sea room to miss the rig. Austin knew that a ship the size of the Ocean Adventure didn’t turn on a dime.

He leaned over the rail and saw crewmen scrambling on the oil platform like ants on a floating leaf. A couple of service boats strained against the lines attached to the platform. Icy fingers grabbed at his heart as he pictured the inevitable collision.

Someone was calling Austin as if from afar. He realized that the voice was coming from the walkie-talkie earpiece dangling at his side. He stuck the plug in his ear.

“Kurt, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Austin cut into Dawe’s frantic soliloquy.

“Just dandy. What’s happening with the rig?”

“They’ve untangled the last anchor.”

The sentence was barely out of the captain’s mouth when Austin saw a burst of foam where the rig’s anchor had pulled free of the water. White water boiled around the rig’s legs. The wakes forming behind the legs indicated that the platform was on the move.

The rig’s evasive action would still fall short. The ship would strike the front right leg within seconds. Austin braced himself for the impact.

At the last instant, the ship’s bow moved slightly more to starboard. There was a tortured scraping of metal on metal as the side of the ship grazed the leg. The platform was free of its anchors, and, instead of resisting, which would have spelled its doom, the rig gave way to the force of the impact.

The oil platform rocked from the blow, then slowly stabilized and continued moving out of the danger zone.

A ship’s horn was blowing madly. The Leif Eriksson had been keeping him company.

Zavala’s voice came over his earpiece.

“That’s one way to scrape the barnacles off your hull. What do you do for an encore?”

“That’s easy,” Austin said. “I’m going to make a di

Chapter 13

THE ASSISTANT LIBRARIAN IN the archives division of the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia was a slightly built young woman named Angela Worth. Day after day spent hoisting cases filled with documents and files had given her strength that would have been the envy of a professional arm wrestler.

With little apparent effort Angela slid a heavy plastic container off a shelf and placed it on a cart. She wheeled the cart out of the manuscript vault into a reading room. A man in his midthirties sat at a long library table, his fingers tapping at a laptop computer. The table was piled high with files, papers, and documents.

She set the file box on the table. “Bet you didn’t know there was so much historical material about artichokes.”

“Fine with me,” said the man, a writer whose name was Norman Stocker. “My contract calls for a fifty-thousand-word manuscript.”

“I don’t know much about the publishing business, but would anyone want to read that much about artichokes?”

“My editor thinks so. These single-subject historical books on everyday things are a trend in the publishing biz. Cod. Salt. Tomatoes. Mushrooms. You name it. The trick is to show how your given subject changed the world and saved mankind. You’ve got it made if you can mix in some sex.”

“Sexy artichokes?”

Stocker opened a file folder containing copies of old manuscripts. “Sixteenth-century Europe. Only men are allowed to eat artichokes, which are considered to enhance sexual power.” He opened another folder and slipped out a photograph of a pretty young blond woman wearing a bathing suit. “Marilyn Monroe. 1947. California’s first Artichoke Queen.”

Angela lifted the box off the cart and deposited it on the table. She blew a strand of long blond hair off her face. “Can’t wait to see Artichoke: The Movie.”

“I’ll get you a ticket to the Hollywood premiere.”

Angela smiled and told Stocker to let her know when he wanted to get rid of the files. Stocker opened the box and dug into the contents.

Writing books on commodities wouldn’t have been his first choice, but the pay wasn’t bad, the travel could be interesting, and the books gave him visibility. As long as he wrote, he didn’t have to teach to pay his bills. He rationalized that as a subject, artichokes were better than kumquats.

Stocker had come to the American Philosophical Society to look for the type of obscure anecdotes that could spice up an otherwise dry topic. The Georgian-style building that housed the society’s library around the corner from Independence Hall in Philadelphia was one of the nation’s major repositories of manuscripts on many scientific disciplines from the 1500s to the present.

The organization had been founded in 1745 by an amateur scientist named Benjamin Franklin. Franklin and his friends wanted to make the United States independent in the fields of manufacturing, transportation, and agriculture. The society’s early members included doctors, lawyers, clergy, and artisans, as well as presidents Jefferson and Washington.

Stocker was riffling through the carton when his fingers touched a hard surface. He pulled out an envelope that contained a box bound in maroon-and-gold animal skin. Inside the box was a thick packet of crackly paper tied with a black ribbon that had been sealed at some point. The wax seal had since been broken. He untied the ribbon and peeled off the blank cover sheet to reveal words written in a tight longhand that identified the contents as a treatise on the cultivation of artichokes.