Captain Lowe was a prudent man nearing retirement, not known as a cowboy, but it was obvious to all of them that he had had just about enough. The last time they’d threatened a boarding. This time, Sara was pretty sure, they would be boarding the Theodora, arresting the crew, confiscating the catch, and taking command of the vessel to bring it into Dutch Harbor and turn it over to the federal authorities. Where, Sara very much hoped, it would be sold at auction to the highest bidder and the resulting monies invested in some worthy government agency, like, say, the U.S. Coast Guard.

“What the-” The captain was training a pair of binoculars on the horizon. “What’s that?”

It was, of all things, a freighter.

The entire bridge crew stared. The chief put what they were all thinking into words. “What is she doing way the hell and gone up here? Especially at this time of year?”

She wouldn’t have been such an odd sight if they’d spotted her four degrees south, where freighters and containerships hid from weather north of the Aleutians year round on the great circle route between Asia and North America, but here, crossing the Doughnut Hole, she was as exotic as a scarlet macaw in Kaktovik. She rode low in the water, indicating a full load. She had cargo containers strapped three high to her foredeck. Everything looked well secured, which made Sara think well of her master. The weather was clear enough to read the name lettered on her bow.

“Ops,” the captain said.

“On it, Captain,” Ops said, busy on the computer. A moment later he said, “Their IRCS checks out, captain. It’s the Star of Bali, a tramp freighter. Panamanian-owned.”

“Give them a call.”

Ops reached for the mike. “U.S. Coast Guard cutter Sojourner Truth to freighter the Star of Bali.”

There was a momentary silence, then response. The voice was male, with an Indian accent that stumbled badly over the cutter’s name. “Cutter Sojourner Truth, freighter the Star of Bali. We read you loud and clear, over.”

“Yeah,” Ops said into the mike, “freighter the Star of Bali, cutter Sojourner Truth, no problems here. Just wondering what you’re doing so far north.”

“Coast guard, Star of Bali, we running from weather, over.”

“Any farther north and you won’t have to worry about the weather, you’ll have to worry about the ice,” Ops said. He keyed the mike. “Yeah, Star of Bali, cutter Sojourner Truth, understood. What was your last port of call, what’s your next port of call, and what cargo are you carrying?”

“Coast guard, Star of Bali, our last port of call was Petropavlovsk, our next port Seward is. Our cargo is steel and drilling equipment.”

Ops looked at the captain, who looked at Sara, who shrugged. “No reason to stop them, sir.”

“No.” The captain nodded at Ops.

^uStar of Bali, cutter Sojourner Truth, good copy. Be advised, there is another storm headed out of the southeast, rated hurricane force.“

“Cutter Sojourner Truth, Star of Bali, many thanks for the advisory. Star of Bali out.”

“Safe journey, Star of Bali, Sojourner Truth out.” Ops looked at Sara. “It takes all kinds.”

“That it does,” the captain said. “Back to business, people.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The radio erupted with an excited call from the lookout on watch above at the same time Chief Edelen said in a voice that was not quite a shout, ^uPheodora in sight, sir!“

Everyone who had them raised binoculars.

The Pheodora’s rust-streaked hull was plowing along at full throttle, as evidenced by the wake boiling up from the stern, but the Russian processor’s single-screw diesel was no match for the Sojourner Truth’s two, and they were closing fast. The helo, an orange flea to the Pheodora’s large bulk, was hovering on the starboard side of their bridge fifty feet off the water.

“Tell the helo,” the captain said.

Ops reached for the mike on the radio with the secure operations channel. “Coast Guard helo six five two seven,” Ops said, “this is the cutter Sojourner Truth. We have the target in sight, I say again, we have the Pheodora in sight.”

“Two seven, Sojourner Truth, roger that. We have hailed them and requested that they heave to. They have not responded.”

“Roger that,” Ops said, and looked at the captain.

District, as fed up as the captain at the repeated incursions, had already given Truth the go-ahead. Captain Lowe nodded. Ops nodded back and said into the microphone, “Russian fishing vessel Pheodora, this is the United States Coast Guard cutter Sojourner Truth. You have intruded into American territorial waters and are in violation of the Maritime Boundary Line. Reduce speed and prepare to be boarded.”

They waited. There was no noticeable reduction in the Pheodora’s speed. The captain’s mouth thinned. Sara saw it and rejoiced inwardly. Ops was grinning openly, and the bridge exuded an air of taut expectation. Partly it was a desire to do good to wipe out the Dutch Harbor debacle, and partly it was delight at the unexpected gift handed to them by this patrol that none of them had wanted to go on.

It was also the John Wayne reflex, that intrinsically American instinct to chase after the bad guy, the chance to wear the white hat, the unmistakable thrill of the cops-and-robbers chase that came so seldom into the daily routine of their patrols. Sara bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning back at Ops.

Ops keyed the mike to repeat the message and at the same moment the secure channel erupted into life again. “Sojourner Truth, Sojourner Truth, this is Coast Guard Hercules aircraft one seven five two, come in.”

Ops raised an eyebrow at Sara and said into the mike, “Go ahead, five two.”

The Here’s aviator’s voice was terse. “Truth, we’ve got another incursion about five miles south of your location.”

The captain swung around in his chair and stared at Ops. “Here five two, how far inside the line?”

“Sojourner Truth, five two, this one’s a little over two miles inside.”

“Son of a bitch,” the captain said, frightening everyone within earshot. Captain David Josephus Lowe, officer, family man, and deacon of the Kodiak First Baptist Church, never, ever swore.

Sara, however, sympathized, and was thinking a lot worse than the captain was saying out loud. The Coast Guard had run into this before in the Bering, one or more Russian vessels making an incursion over the line at the same time, so that the one vessel being boarded occupied the attention of the lone cutter on patrol, while the other vessel pulled in their gear more or less at their leisure and moved back to their side of the Line. Bait and switch.

Ops said into the mike, “Here five two, this is the Sojourner Truth, have you identified the vessel, I say again, what is the vessel?”

“Sojourner Truth, Here five two, their IRCS number is about six inches high and on the front of the flying bridge.”

Which meant that the foreign ship’s four-letter international identification number had been deliberately painted too small for the Here’s crew to read from two hundred feet up going one hundred seventy knots, which meant the cutter couldn’t input it into their onboard database.

“Five bucks says it’s the Agafia,” Seaman Razo said.

Chief Edelen snorted. “No bet.”

The Pheodora and the Agafia were both leased by the same Russian fish processor. In the litter of three-hundred-foot vessels maintaining a year-round presence in the Bering Sea next to the Maritime Boundary Line each year, the two could always be found near each other, and all too often a little too close to the line for comfort. This put them both in the HIV or High Interest Vessel category.