"Which Mac might provide," the captain said. "The first thing we have to do is find Mac."

Dave went off to search, glad to be on the move, doing something something. The captain stayed on deck, keeping his eyes on the hijackers. He walked, in what he hoped would be construed as a casual manner, over to the teachers, who were standing together near the rail trying to make sense of the situation. Most of all, they wanted to keep the students occupied, both to try to keep their minds off the danger as far as possible and to keep any of them from attempting, with adolescent bravado, something foolish.

"I think even the hijackers would have to see that it's in their interests as well if the kids maintain their routine," Anika was saying as Captain Marzynski joined them.

She was right, of course, they all agreed. And she, as shipboard director and lead teacher, volunteered to be the one to broach the subject with Phillip. And if he didn't go for the idea-well, she didn't care to think about what he'd do in that case. None of them did.

The teachers had been too distracted to notice that Mac was missing. Their eyes lit up when the captain told them; with Mac at large, unknown to the hijackers, they had a chance. And Mac, whatever you might say about him, was canny. There was practically nothing he couldn't do, if he put his mind to it.

But it was essential to keep Mac's existence a secret. Just one casual remark from just one student-one "Say, where's Mac, anyway?" -within the hearing of the hijackers and the jig would be up. It was all the teachers could do to disband with no apparent haste, no apparent direction, when all they wanted to do was run to tell the kids before it was too late.

19.

Mac heard nothing the first time Dave came to his locker to look for him. He hadn't heard the captain's announcement. He was sound asleep behind a screen of old sails, on a small shelf he'd rigged up for just this purpose. He was a hard worker and more than willing to do his share-h.e.l.l, more than his share. He felt it was not in the least out of line for him to retreat, during the lull of the afternoons, to his locker for a wee tipple-the academy folk were great to work with, but this no-alcohol-for-anybody-onboard was just going too far-and a lie down.

The locker was the first place Dave thought to look. He strolled to the bow, his hands in his pockets, and looked out at the small rippling waves, forcing himself to stand and wait until he was sure he was not being observed. Where, he wondered, were those sickening rolls and lurches when you needed them? If only another nauseating round of turbulence would come along, sending the hijackers running for the rail, losing their guns along with their lunches over the side ...

Once he was sure no one was in sight, Dave opened the hatch of the steel box that projected from the deck. He crawled in, closed the hatch behind him as quietly as he could, and began scuttling down the first of the steel rungs that led to the bosun's locker.

"Mac?" he whispered. "Mac, you down here?"

No answer.

He peered down into the locker, some ten feet below him. The room was empty.

"Mac?" he called again, just in case.

No answer.

He heard footsteps above and froze for a moment, listening. He could hear m.u.f.fled sobs, along with a soft murmur of voices making comforting sounds. He clambered back up and popped his head out the hatch, taking a small cl.u.s.ter of Floaties by surprise. He hastened to warn them not to breathe a word about Mac.

The news that Mac might be able to help cheered the group considerably, and they set off in better spirits to start alerting the other kids to keep mum about the bosun's existence. Dave refrained from mentioning that no one had any idea of the whereabouts of their hero-to-be.

He went below now, walking slowly along the corridors. Mac and Charlie, the bosun's mate, shared a cabin, but neither was in it when Dave looked. He debated with himself about leaving a note somewhere inside-where? The head?-telling Mac to go under cover to his locker, and Charlie to act as bosun, but decided it would be too risky. He continued knocking on cabin doors, keeping a sharp eye out for any of the hijackers, searching for Mac in every niche remotely big enough for a human being to fit into. Had the man disappeared entirely?

Oh, dear G.o.d. What if he had run into one of the hijackers and told him, in his inimitable way, to b.u.g.g.e.r off, and had been pumped full of bullets and tossed overboard? Although he was the kindest of men in his heart of hearts, Mac wasn't known for his tact. Or even his good sense when it came to matters of manly pride. In the rough Glasgow tenements where he had grown up, tact had not been the most useful commodity, especially for a boy of his short stature. He had found it more to his advantage to hone his scrawny body into wiry fleetness, and to mask his sensitive nature behind a tough facade. These tactics had enabled him to avoid most confrontations altogether, and to hold his own the rare times he could not. He was smart, he was sympathetic, he was as capable as they come, but he had been known to part company with common sense on occasion when someone got his goat. And what they were up against now was no mere squabble with rowdy pub-crawlers, but a group of ruthless drug dealers with their backs up against the wall.

Mac was nowhere below, Dave was sure. He pa.s.sed several more Floaties as he continued his search. He could tell before he even talked to them which ones had heard the news and which had not. Those who knew had a faint glimmer of hope in their faces, a purposeful way of walking. Don't look too purposeful, he had to remind them. Just keep walking and spreading the word as quickly as you can, but without appearing to rush-and if you see Mac anywhere, tell him to go to his locker and stay there.

Where else could the man possibly be, Dave wondered-a.s.suming, of course, that he was still among the living? Was it conceivable that he'd secreted himself somewhere in the mess, in some infinitesimally tiny recess-he was a small and agile fellow, after all-and was biding his time now, waiting until it was safe to emerge?

Dave decided to have one more look in the bosun's locker before searching above again, just in case one of the Floaties had come across Mac and relayed the message to him.

He scurried down into the boxy s.p.a.ce again, disappointed but unsurprised to see no sign of the bosun.

"Mac?" he whispered, knowing full well there would be no reply.

A soft nasal rumbling met his ears, followed by a whistle of expelled air.

"Mac!" he started to shout, then modulated his voice into a whispered croak.

"Mac?"

His voice reverberated against the gray steel walls. The metal chair by the small, cluttered workbench was unoccupied. Mac's jacket lay folded on one of the steel shelves built into the wall, his small kit bag sat on the shelf above.

Dave heard another soft rumbling, faint but unmistakable. Where in the world-?

Along one side of the locker, where two gray steel trunks hugged the wall-that's where the gentle sound seemed to be coming from. The trunks, Dave knew, were full to the brim with seldom-used tools and emergency equipment. Whatever anybody needed, Mac could find it in there somewhere if he hunted around long enough. On top of the trunks lay a precarious jumble of ropes, wires, and oddly shaped metal doodads of indeterminate usefulness; over them hung several old sails in need of repair.

Dave's eyes roamed over the piles of stuff. It was a wonder Mac ever found anything at all in this hodgepodge. Funny, though-that one back corner of the trunk on the right, he saw, was clear. It wasn't a big s.p.a.ce, less than a foot long, he'd guess, and not as wide, but not a thing was in it-except a little silver flask, with its lid off.

Dave yanked the sails aside.

"Mac! Wake up! Mac!" he cried, shaking the bosun's shoulder. Mac grunted, his hand swatting the air around his face as if at a mosquito.

"For G.o.d's sake, Mac, wake up!"

Mac's eyelids flew open. If he was surprised to find Dave in a dither beside his hideaway, he gave no evidence of it as he unfolded his body and, catlike, hopped from the narrow shelf down to the trunk and then to the floor.

"What's the matter then, lad?" he asked, now wide awake.

Dave told him, as calmly and concisely as he could.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Mac said.

Melissa sat on one of the lower bunks in her cabin, looking at nothing in particular, clutching Pierre's hand. Nancy and Michael sat across from them, on the other lower bunk, Michael's arm around Nancy's shoulders. Trudy, Kathy, Dan, Evan, and Chris hovered nearby, sitting on the floor or leaning up against the ends of the bunks. The tiny cabin had barely enough s.p.a.ce for its usual four occupants, much less the four more from Pierre's cabin and Michael, as well, but none of them could bear the thought of being apart.

No one could think of anything to say. They'd been through their situation a dozen times or more already and there were no answers, only unanswerable questions. The light buzzed overhead. Every little sound was magnified: Every throat clearing, every tummy rumble seemed an irreverent intrusion into their silence.

Melissa was still trying to comprehend how her life could have gone in a heartbeat from the unparalleled highs of the past few days to this unparalleled low. She was trying hard not not to think that this might in fact be the end of her life altogether. to think that this might in fact be the end of her life altogether.

Her family! Her dear, wonderful parents. And Eric. And Uncle Jack. Would she ever see them again? Would her parents rue for the rest of their days their decision to allow her to apply to Blue Water Academy? And yet, if she had not applied, she never would have had these most amazing, most wonderful experiences of her life, and she never would have met Pierre. Getting through this without Pierre was unthinkable. If indeed they did get through it.

Of course, if she had not become a Floatie and met Pierre, there wouldn't be this horror to get through in the first place. But not having met Pierre at all was just as unthinkable. Her thoughts went round and round in circles. Her head began to ache.

What time was it anyway? Would this awful day never end?

And if it ever did, how how would it end? would it end?

20.

He heard the voices long before he could make out the words. A vague burble at first, indistinguishable as voices, then clearer. Yes, human voices ... two of them, verdad verdad? He recognized one ... didn't he? Si Si, he was sure ... claro claro ... ...

The next time he woke his brain felt a little less fuzzy. How long had he been sleeping? That was Phillip's voice, no cabe duda no cabe duda, but who was the other guy? He pried his eyelids open.

Where the h.e.l.l was he?

The light was blinding. His eyelids snapped shut again.

"Stefano?"

He half opened one eye, bracing himself for the excruciating brightness.

A face was bending over his, one he'd never seen before. It was blurry, but it seemed to belong to a gringo, a sandy-haired gringo with a neatly trimmed beard, blue eyes, and a steady gaze. A warm hand-did it also belong with this face?-was picking up his own hand, turning it over, feeling his wrist. Suddenly another face appeared on his left.

"You're doing great, hombre hombre! You had us worried there for a while, man, but Dr. Williams got the bullet out okay. The infection ought to be clearing up in a few days. You'll be back on your feet in no time!"

Stefano turned his head slightly to the left. It seemed to weigh a ton.

Phillip was peering into his half-open eye. He was blurry, too. His face looked pale-even paler than usual-but he was smiling and nodding his head up and down, up and down.

What was he talking about-bullet? Infection? Why couldn't he get his own mind to think straight? His mouth felt like sludge. He tried to form the confusion in his brain into a coherent question, but the words wouldn't come together. Even if they had, he doubted his lips and teeth and tongue would have known what to do with them.

"You've had surgery, Stefano," the voice that wasn't Phillip's said.

Stefano rolled his leaden head toward the right and squinted at the face.

"You'll be a little groggy for another half hour or so, but the effects of the anesthetic will start to wear off quickly now."

This must be Dr.-Dr. What? The doctor Phillip was talking about.

"I was able to get the bullet out with no problem. The infection was pretty nasty-a few more hours without treatment and I believe you'd have lost that leg-but it's responding nicely to the antibiotic. You're very lucky."

Now the doctor was helping him lift his head up a few inches. Propping him up with more pillows. Holding something against his lips.

"It's too soon for you to drink anything, but see if these ice chips help a bit."

Stefano struggled to find the muscles that would open his mouth, that would allow his lips to curve around the ice chips and deposit them on his parched tongue. At this moment, that cup of ice chips was the most desirable object in the world.

The name came to him: Dr. Williams. Si Si, that was his name, that's what Phillip had said, sure. The ice was making little channels of moisture as it melted, forging a narrow path through the forest of fuzz coating his tongue and throat. He swallowed. He took another mouthful, losing less down his chin this time; he let it slide down his throat, then took another. The swallowing was easier now. The cool liquid seemed to be penetrating the fog in his brain, too.

"Now," Dr. Williams was saying, "suppose you tell me what exactly is going on."

"You don't need to know," a different voice said. "In fact, your services here are no longer needed. Muchas gracias Muchas gracias. Now get out. You, too, Phillip."

Juan was standing at the door.

Anika hated being called "perky." She knew she was young looking for thirty, and she was enthusiastic and cheerful, she would grant you all that. But perky perky? No. Perky was for airheads, Gidgets, all those too-cute types.

She had cut off her long blonde ponytail during her second year of grad school in an effort to look professional, or at least less like an incoming freshman-had, in fact, donated it to a program that wove shorn hair into wigs for children with alopecia. Surely that wasn't something most perky persons would have thought to do. She had tried to dress professionally, too, purchasing tailored slacks and jackets when she had started her student teaching. Now, of course, as a BWA teacher, she had to wear the same outfit all of the crew, teachers, and students were required to wear.

She was wishing she had something considerably more mature and professional looking on now as she made her way across the deck to where Phillip was standing. She'd have felt much more confident in her ability to get him to see the wisdom of her request if she'd been clad in something other than a casual T-shirt.

Oh, well, she thought, taking a deep breath, throwing her shoulders back, and putting on her most self-a.s.sured expression. It was was a wise request, never mind how she was dressed. a wise request, never mind how she was dressed.

Phillip eyed her as she walked toward him. Cute little thing, that one. Nice, trim figure-and that snug little T-shirt sure showed if off, too. But his thoughts turned almost at once back to Stefano and to Juan. He hadn't liked the way Juan had looked at him, or the way he'd dismissed him from the first-aid room like that. Like he'd been nothing more than a stand-in, like he hadn't taken control of a desperate situation and handled it like a pro. Yeah, well, Juan. Juanito. Your big brother would be dead by now if it hadn't been for me.

The little blonde was coming over to him. She was close enough to touch.

"Could we talk for a minute?" she asked.

"Sure. What about?"

"I'm the shipboard director and I'm resp-"

"Shipboard director? Aren't you kind of young?"

"I am the shipboard director," Anika began again firmly, looking him in the eye, "and I am responsible for the education and well-being of the students...o...b..ard this ship. There are thirty-two students aboard. The last thing you would want, I am sure, is for those kids to start getting restless."

She paused for a moment to see how this was going down so far, then continued.

"They're good kids, every one of them, but you know how it is when teenagers get bored. And these kids are scared besides. They don't know what to think. They could easily get out of control."

She gave Phillip the warmest, most conspiratorial smile she could muster.

"I'm sure you wouldn't want that to happen. The best thing for everybody concerned would be for the kids to go on with their regular routine."

"And what's that exactly?"

So far, so good.

"Well, they're in cla.s.s several hours every day. They also share in the galley work and the maintenance of the ship. They're each on watch duty twice every day, once in the daytime, once at night. And we all meet on deck at eight every morning to go over the day's activities."

Phillip could see it would be best to keep the kids occupied. The babe was smart, too. And she was plucky. He liked that.

"Okay. I have no problem with that," he said. "Just make sure they understand we are in control of the ship. Orders will come from me, not from your captain. And I don't want anyone on the bridge except my men."

His men. Yes. Screw Juan. men. Yes. Screw Juan.

"What'd you say your name was?" he asked as she turned to go.

I didn't say, she thought. Didn't want to, either. "Anika," she mumbled.

Then she lifted her head defiantly, looked him in the eye, and said in a clear voice, "Anika Johnson."

"Mine's Phillip. A pleasure to meet you."