The cutter surged forward, its reinforced hull slicing through scattered ice floes with metallic groans that echoed throughout the vessel. On the radar, the distance between the two vessels slowly began to decrease.
"He can't outrun us," Reynolds assured them. "But if he reaches the dense pack ice, he might be able to navigate channels too narrow for us to follow."
"How long until we intercept?" Isla asked, calculating scenarios in her head.
"Three minutes at current speeds," the radar operator replied.
Those three minutes stretched into an eternity as the Maple closed the distance to Bradley's vessel. Isla used the time to prepare mentally for the boarding, reviewing maritime law protocols she'd learned during a training rotation with the Coast Guard in Miami. But this was different from anything she'd faced in Florida—the freezing spray, the treacherous ice, the knowledge that a single misstep could mean death in waters that would claim her in minutes.
"Visual contact!" someone shouted, and Isla moved to the forward windows.
Through the swirling snow, she could make out the distinctive silhouette of a commercial fishing vessel, white wake churning behind it as it plowed through increasingly dense ice floes. The acrid smell of diesel exhaust carried on the wind, mixing with the sharp scent of ice and the underlying fishy odor that clung to working boats.
Reynolds lifted a radio handset. "Fishing vessel Northern Star, this is United States Coast Guard Cutter Maple. Heave to and prepare to be boarded. This is your final warning. Failure to comply will result in forceful measures."
No response came from the fishing vessel, which continued its desperate flight toward the ice field visible as a white expanse in the distance.
"Prepare the boarding team," Reynolds ordered. "And ready the warning shots."
Sullivan turned to Isla. "Last chance to stay aboard. These conditions are treacherous for boarding operations."
Isla met his gaze steadily. "I'm going. Whitman deserves justice, and whatever Bradley is hiding might disappear if we don't secure it now."
Something flickered in Sullivan's eyes—respect, perhaps, or at least acknowledgment of her determination. He nodded once, then led the way to where the boarding team was assembling.
The Coast Guard team consisted of four armed personnel in full winter gear, led by a seasoned petty officer named Ramirez. They were equipped with sidearms, specialized boarding equipment, and communications gear.
"We'll come alongside to port," Ramirez explained as they prepared. "Standard procedure is to order all personnel on deck with hands visible. Given Bradley's non-compliance, we're treating this as a high-risk boarding."
Isla checked her sidearm, ensuring it was secure yet accessible beneath her survival suit. The weight of the gun provided little reassurance against the elements they were about to face but some comfort against whatever human danger awaited them.
"Remember," Sullivan said quietly, just for her ears, "Bradley's got at least three crew members, according to harbor records. All experienced sailors, all with records. They're cornered and desperate."
Isla nodded, appreciating the warning. "How do you want to handle the evidence search?"
"You take the wheelhouse and captain's quarters," Sullivan replied. "I'll search the hold and crew areas. If Bradley is smuggling something, it'll most likely be hidden below."
Their planning was interrupted as the ship's PA system crackled to life. "Boarding team to starboard deck. Prepare for intercept."
They moved through the ship to the designated area, where crew members were already preparing the equipment needed for the boarding operation. Through the open doorway, Isla could see Bradley's vessel now running parallel to the cutter, perhaps fifty yards away.
The cutter's horn blasted three times—the final warning. When Bradley's vessel still showed no signs of slowing, a warning shot was fired across its bow. The sound cracked through the freezing air like thunder.
"They're slowing!" someone shouted.
Indeed, the Northern Star was reducing speed, its engines throttling back as it came about slightly. The Coast Guard cutter matched its speed, bringing the vessels into alignment.
"Boarding team ready," Ramirez announced as the two ships drew alongside each other, now separated by perhaps twenty feet of churning, ice-flecked water.
Through loudspeakers, the Coast Guard issued commands to Bradley and his crew: "All personnel on deck! Hands visible! Comply immediately!"
Long moments passed before figures began to appear on the Northern Star's deck. Isla counted three men, all in heavy winter gear, their movements suggesting reluctance rather than cooperation.
"Is Bradley among them?" she asked Sullivan, who was studying the men through binoculars.
"The one in the middle," he confirmed. "Thomas Bradley. The others are his regular crew—Martin Kozlov and Derek Finch. Both with prior records."
As the vessels drew closer, the Coast Guard prepared for boarding. The plan was to use a specialized gangway system designed for ship-to-ship transfers in rough conditions. But as the distance narrowed to fifteen feet, something unexpected happened.
