”

There was a tense silence on the bridge. Cutter turned to the helmsman. “Steady on two five two.”

“Aye, sir, steady on two five two.”

LeSeur could see the lights of the tanker on the starboard bow, growing brighter. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead. It was true that they had the clear right of way and that the other ship should give way, but sometimes you had to adjust to reality. They were probably on autopilot and busy with other things. God knows, they might be in the wardroom watching porn flicks or passed out drunk on the floor.

“Sound the whistle,” said Cutter.

The great whistle of the Britannia, audible over fifteen miles, cut like a deep bellow across the night sea. Five blasts—the danger signal. Both bridge lookouts were at their stations, peering ahead with binoculars. The tension grew excruciating.

Cutter leaned into the bridge VHF repeater. “Ship crossing on my starboard bow, this is the

Britannia

. We are the stand-on ship and you must alter. Do you understand?”

The hiss of an empty frequency.

The whistle sounded again. The lights on the ULCC had resolved themselves to individual points. LeSeur could even see the faint bar of light of the tanker’s bridge.

“Captain,” said Mason, “I’m not sure that even if they altered now—”

“CPA four minutes,” said the officer of the watch.

LeSeur thought, with utter disbelief,

Bloody hell, we’re going to collide.

The silence of dread descended on the bridge. The

Britannia

sounded the danger signal again.

“He’s altering to starboard,” said the lookout. “He’s altering, sir!”

The whistle of the ULCC sounded across the water, three short blasts indicating it was backing down in an emergency maneuver.

About frigging time

, thought LeSeur.

“Steady on,” said Cutter.

LeSeur stared at the ECDIS. With excruciating slowness the ARPA vector radar overlay recalculated the ULCC’s heading. With a flood of relief, he realized they were moving out of danger; the ULCC would pass to starboard. There was a palpable relaxation on the bridge, a murmur of voices, a few muttered curses.

Cutter turned to the staff captain, utterly unperturbed. “Captain Mason, may I ask why you reduced speed to twenty-four knots?”

“There’s heavy weather ahead, sir,” Mason replied. “Company standing orders state that on the first night out, passengers are to be acclimated to the open sea by—”

“I know what the standing orders say,” Cutter interrupted. He had a slow, quiet voice that was somehow immeasurably more intimidating than bluster. He turned to the helmsman. “Increase speed to thirty knots.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the helmsman said, his voice dead neutral. “Increasing speed to thirty knots.”

“Mr. Vigo, you may resume the watch.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cutter continued staring at Mason. “Speaking of the standing orders, it has come to my attention that one of the officers of this ship was seen leaving the stateroom of a passenger earlier this evening.”

He paused, letting the moment build.

“Whether or not there was a sexual liaison is irrelevant. We all know the rules regarding fraternization with passengers.”

With his hands behind his back, he made a slow turn, looking into each officer’s face in turn, before ending with Mason.

“May I remind you that this is not the Love Boat. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated. Let the passengers be responsible for their own indiscretions; my crew must not indulge themselves in this way.”

LeSeur was startled to see that the flush on Mason’s face had deepened considerably.

Couldn’t be her,

he thought.

She’s the last one who would break the rules.

The door to the bridge opened and Patrick Kemper, the chief security officer, stepped in. Seeing Cutter, he moved toward him. “Sir, I—”

“Not now,” Cutter said. Kemper stopped, fell silent.

On every large cruise ship LeSeur had served on, the captain’s prime responsibilities were to schmooze with the passengers, preside over long, jolly dinners at the captain’s table, and be the public face of the ship. The staff captain, while nominally second in command, was the chief operating officer. But Cutter had a reputation for disdaining the glad-handing duties, and it appeared he was going to carry this habit into his first captaincy. He was an officer of the old school, a former commodore in the Royal Navy from a titled family, who LeSeur suspected had been advanced somewhat beyond his competencies. A few years before, the captaincy of theOlympia had gone to Cutter’s most bitter rival, and it had stuck in his craw ever since. He’d pulled strings in high places to get command of theBritannia —which should by rights have gone to Mason—and now his intentions were obvious. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure this maiden voyage was the crossing of his career—including breaking theOlympia ’s own fastest crossing, set just the year before. Rough weather would have no effect on him, LeSeur thought grimly, other than to steel his resolve. Cruise ships fled weather; but an ocean liner, areal ocean liner, toughed it out.

LeSeur glanced at Mason. She was looking ahead through the forward windows, calm and poised; the only hint of something amiss was the rapidly disappearing flush. So far, through the shakedown cruise and today’s departure, she’d taken the commodore’s heavy- handedness and second-guessing with equanimity and grace. Even being passed over as master of theBritannia seemed not to have ruffled her feathers. Perhaps she’d gotten used to the high-seas chauvinism and developed a thick skin. The captaincies of the great ships seemed to be one of the last male bastions in the civilized world. She was no doubt aware of the unspoken rule: in the passenger ship business, the so-called teak ceiling remained: no matter how competent, a woman would never make master of one of the great liners.

“Speed under the hull thirty knots, sir,” the helmsman said.

Cutter nodded and turned to the chief security officer. “All right, Mr. Kemper, what is it?”

The small, bulletlike man spoke. Despite his heavy Boston accent and inescapable American-ness, LeSeur thought of Kemper as a kindred soul. Maybe it was because they both came from working-class neighborhoods in port cities on the Atlantic. Kemper had once been a cop, shot a drug dealer who was about to pull the hammer on his partner, become a hero—but left the force anyway. Couldn’t deal with it, apparently. Still, he was a bloody good security officer, even if he did lack self-confidence. LeSeur guessed that lack was one of the by- products of killing a man.

“Captain, we’ve got an issue in casino operations.”

Cutter turned away from Kemper and spoke to the man as if he weren’t there. “Mr. Kemper, the casinos are incidental to the operation of ship. The first officer will handle it.” Without even glancing at LeSeur, he turned to the officer of the watch. “Call me if you need me, Mr. Vigo.” He strode crisply across the bridge and disappeared through the door.