“Fifteen minute to go.” Wolf pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.
“Hold on.” Rawlings’s voice climbed. “I’m still waitin’ for an answer. What’s the plan if those poor bastards have already started pullin’ in their catch?”
Wolf sat back down and considered the blonde former SEAL. “Our actions would depend on whether they exhibit symptoms of infection.”
“Bullshit.” Rawls scowled. “You know damn well the minute the crew touches those fish, they’ll be infected. You ain’t gonna let them wander around the mainland. So, what you gonna do with them?”
“The longer we sit here stewing over thewhat ifcontingent, the better chance they’ll be fishing when we arrive.” Winters paused, watching his teammate with sympathetic eyes. “You could sit this one out. There’s no shame in saying no.”
A muscle in Rawlings’ cheek twitched. He opened his mouth, only to close it again. Without a word, he got up.
“You know where the Chinook sits,” Wolf said quietly, watching Rawlings walk around the table and head for the door. “It lifts in fifteen minutes, if you decide to join us.”
But when O’Neill climbed on the bird, the southern squid was missing.
Chapter thirty-four
Day 35
Middle of the ocean, off the coast of California
By the time the Chinook arrived at the fishing trawler, Capland was already blocking its outgoing radio broadcasts. Wolf studied the trawler through the chopper’s windshield. The nets were down, its crew on deck. He braced his palms against the back of the pilots’ seats as the Chinook flew overhead. The Bountiful Harvest, according to the name sprawled across the aft of the boat, rolled and dipped beneath heavy swells. Water sprayed up on the deck and slid back down the hull, crashing into the waves.
Four men dressed in t-shirts beneath dripping rain bibs stared up, watching the Chinook pass. The men were responsive. Nostanding and staring, which was a relief. But their awareness didn’t mean they’d escaped infection. Not if their infection had just happened.
“Their nets are down, but their hold’s closed.” O’Neill’s voice came through Wolf’s headset. “They may not have hauled a catch in yet.” His voice hardened. “We need to look inside that hold.”
It was difficult to argue with that statement. The fullness of their hold would define the fate of this boat.If their hold was full, then they’d handled the fish and could be newly infected. Wolf glanced over his shoulder, finding O’Neill and hisjavaaneestanding behind his back.
He turned back to the windshield and leaned between the pilots’ seats, reaching for the loudspeaker mic. He pressed the button to broadcast. “This is the National Marine Fisheries Service. We are ordering you to open your hold so we can assess your compliance with federal fish management laws.”
“NMFS doesn’t use helicopters for compliance sweeps. Nor does the Chinook carry their insignia,” O’Neill said, his voice staticky as it came through Wolf’s headset. “They’ll think we’re trying to steal their haul.”
Wolf shrugged. “If they do not respond to this approach, we will try another.” For the trawler’s sake, as well as its crew, he hoped the Bountiful Harvest complied. If not, the next approach would be far more invasive.
The Chinook’s pilot swung the chopper in a lazy circle and settled her off the Bountiful Harvest’s port side, with her cockpit facing their target.
The four men on the deck moved into a huddle while constantly glancing at the Chinook. A fifth man, an older one with grizzled hair and beard, stepped out of the wheelhouse, planted his fists on his hips, and scowled at them.
“There’s our captain,” O’Neill observed.
“He does not look happy,” Wolf noted.
Wolf pressed the speaker on the broadcast system again. “This is the National Marine Fisheries Service. You are in violation of national commercial fishing laws. Open your hold immediately.”
“In a normal compliance sweep, we’d board them,” Aiden said. “Doubt they’re gonna fall for the open hold demand.”
Aiden’s doubt proved prescient. The captain’s mouth opened wide. His jaw and lips moved. He was obviously shouting something. But the real dismissal came with the double middle fingers he thrust toward the Chinook.
Which was not a compliant response.
“Doesn’t look like he intends to accommodate us.” O’Neill’s voice was laconic.
“Indeed.” Wolf sighed. “Perhaps an illustration of our capabilities will back them down.” He tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Buzz them. Let them feel the heat without the burn.”
The pilot brought the Chinook up, then swung it around, aiming it at the trawler’s stern. They passed overhead much lower this time, so low the five men below them hit the deck and covered their heads with gloved hands.
Wolf waited for the pilot to bring the bird around again. The Bountiful Harvest’s crew climbed back to their feet as the chopper straightened and settled into its previous position off the trawler’s port. But the fifth man, the captain, was missing from deck. His location became apparent seconds later when he stumbled out of the wheelhouse brandishing a rifle. His hair and beard flapping in the ocean breeze, his legs reeling beneath the roll of the deck, he lifted the weapon, aiming it at them. Judging by the flapping of his jaw and mouth, he was screaming something.
