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Luther Hurd , Luther Hurd . This is USS Carney . How do you copy? Over.”
    “What do they want?” asked a foreign-accented voice.
    “I don’t know. Probably just a communications check,” Silva said. Arnett heard the terror in his voice.
    “Answer it and get rid of them,” said the foreign voice. “And do not attempt to warn them, or first the whore dies, and then you.”
    “I’ll try,” said Silva, “but the captain’s been talking to them. They may be expecting her.”
    Something hard pressed into Arnett’s temple and she heard the foreign voice from just above her. “Do it,” the man said. “And be convincing, or the whore dies.”
    “This is Luther Hurd , Carney ,” she heard Silva say. “We copy five by five. Over.”
    Joe Silva had been in the States for most of his forty years—a US citizen for thirty—but there was still a ghost of his native Brazil in his speech, evidently enough to draw interest.
    “ Luther Hurd , this is Carney . Please identify the speaker. Over.”
    “ Carney , I’m Joe Silva, third mate of Luther Hurd . Over,” said Silva, his accent becoming more pronounced due to stress.
    “ Luther Hurd , stand by. Over.”
    The radio fell dead for over a minute, then squawked again.
    “ Luther Hurd , this is Carney . Is Captain Arnett available? Over.”
    Arnett could hear the panic in Silva’s voice as he addressed their attacker.
    “They want to talk to the captain! What do I do?”
    “Make some excuse to delay,” ordered the foreign voice. “Then break communications.”
    Arnett heard Silva sigh and then key the mike.
    “ Carney , this is Luther Hurd . I must call Captain Arnett to the bridge. She will contact you soonest. Luther Hurd , out.”
    “Understood, Luther Hurd . We will stand by. USS Carney , out.”
    Arnett felt strong hands in her armpits as she was hoisted to her feet and pushed forward. She stumbled a few steps and felt the chart-room curtain brush her face as she was pushed through it. Rough hands seized her arms again, and she sensed she was being held between two men, her attackers having apparently learned not to underestimate her. The body odor�shit smell was overpowering and nauseating, and she thought of her taped mouth, visions of strangling on her own vomit flashing through her mind.
    She flinched as duct tape was ripped from her eyes and mouth, and blinked in the light as her eyes focused on the scene around her. The chart room was crowded. Two men held her against the chart table, and another stood across the room pointing an automatic weapon down at Joe Silva and Gomez, a young ordinary seaman on his first trip to sea. The terrified crewmen had been forced to their knees, and Gomez’s hands were bound behind him. Silva’s hands were free, but he looked almost catatonic from fear. In the middle of the small space stood a fourth man, very much in charge. The men were all black, armed, and of medium height and indeterminate age. They were dressed very much like the vendors that swarmed aboard at Suez.
    Mr. In Charge smiled as Arnett’s eyes watered in the unaccustomed light, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
    “Ah, the whore captain cries,” he said in accented English. “Did we upset you?”
    He said something in his own language, drawing laughter from the pair holding her and a grin from the man across the cabin holding her crewmen. A grin somewhat spoiled by missing front teeth.
    Arnett smiled back at the man across the cabin. “Nice teeth, asshole,” she said.
    The man scowled and started for her, then stopped at the upraised hand of the man in charge.
    Now she knew at least two of them spoke English.
    Mr. In Charge moved in front of her.
    “My name is Mukhtar, whore,” he said. “But you will call me master. In a few moments, you will radio your navy friends and convince them everything is in order, or you will live to regret it. Any questions?”
    “Yeah. Would you assholes like some deodorant? I’ve got some in my