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darkness engulfed him, and that’s when he saw it again.
    The Dutch Cloud. It was moving north just as the Dustboat was moving west. It was about a thousand yards off the stern and looked just as it had the first time he saw it: a long, dark container ship, bearing one yellow, one green and one red light. Painted mostly black, it had a white bridge. But as before, the vessel seemed strangely lifeless, as if there was no one in control, no one on board.
    It was a dark night with no moon, and Nolan didn’t have his one-eye electronic telescope with him. He could see the ship with his good eye for only about ten seconds, and then it was gone, covered over once again by the darkness.
    In fact, it disappeared so fast that he immediately wondered if he’d seen it at all—or if it was a figment of his imagination or a side effect of his clinical exhaustion.
    Or maybe he was still asleep and dreaming.
    *   *   *
    HE WALKED UP to the bridge and was greeted warmly by the Senegals.
    He hesitated to ask if they’d seen the mystery ship, since the last time this had happened, they’d seen nothing.
    So he asked them instead: “Are we and the Georgia June the only ones out here tonight?”
    “Just us and the sea monsters,” one Senegal replied in his native French.
    Nolan slumped into a seat and another Senegal passed him a cup of mooch , the slightly hallucinogenic liquor favored by many North Africans.
    “Drink this and maybe we’ll see some UFOs, too,” one said to him.
    Nolan hesitated—but only for a moment.
    Maybe this is just what I need, he thought.
    *   *   *
    AS USUAL, WHENEVER Nolan drank mooch with the Senegals, he wound up laughing crazily and seeing the stars above light up in different colors—and this time was no different. And then, suddenly— poof! —the next thing he knew, it was morning and he was lying on the bridge’s bunk.
    He looked up to see the Senegals were now wearing brightly colored flower shirts, like those sported in the tropics.
    One of them handed him a mug of coffee. At that moment, a rain squall passed them by and they were suddenly bathed in brilliant sunshine.
    Then, suddenly, Nolan saw Crash go flying past the bridge window, head first, followed by a great splash on the port side. Gunner soon followed—with another huge splash. Batman went past the window next, and on his heels came Twitch, prosthetic leg and all. Two more huge splashes.
    Nolan froze. Had his four colleagues had just fallen off the ship?
    It was so weird, Nolan was convinced he was still under the influence of the mooch. He struggled to his feet, and through bleary eyes looked out the bridge window.
    In front of him was a vision of heaven, a string of tropical islands that stretched forever in both directions. Blue water, white sand, and a breeze gently flowing through the palm trees.
    That’s when it finally dawned on Nolan.
    His colleagues didn’t fall off the ship—they were diving off the mast to swim in the warm, inviting water. And that could only mean they’d come to the end of their journey.
    He just looked at the Senegals, who laughed at his confusion.
    “Welcome, mon,” one of them said in a bad imitation of Jamaican-tinged English. “Welcome to the Bahamas.”
    *   *   *
    THEY WERE ANCHORED off a small pinprick of land called Denny Cay.
    Located at the far eastern edge of the Eleuthera Cays, it was shaped like a quarter moon laid on its side. Barely a half-mile long and mostly covered in tropical flora, it had a white beach dotted by a handful of huts and a single finger dock that reached out into the crystal-clear water. Space for three small boats comprised the entirety of its harbor.
    Paradise.
    Anchored about a half mile farther offshore was the Georgia June , watching over them like a big brother, as always. Looking out the Dustboat ’s bridge window, Nolan could see some of the container ship’s crewmen were diving off its bow, enjoying the warm waters, too.
    So, why not