there could only be a couple of reasons for her abandonment.
Insanity. Mutiny. Mass murder . . .
He didn’t like it, but there was no other choice. He took a last look at the forsaken Volkov and then went to get what they’d need, hoping that the ship was truly as deserted as she looked. And he was going to break out every weapon they had, just in case.
Foster stared up at the Russian ship as the Sea Star slowly approached, trying not to think about the Mary Celeste. It had been her favorite story as a child, endlessly fascinating; she must have heard it a hundred times, lingering over each mysterious detail. Now, though, she wished she could forget it; she was anxious enough, watching the port hull of the deserted Volkov slide closer in the softly lapping water. She should be happy, elated; they’d found a way out of the mess Everton had gotten them into . . .
. . . but what happened to the crew? What could have induced three hundred people to abandon a ship that wasn’t sinking?
In November of 1872, the brigantine Mary Celeste had set sail from New York to Genoa, carrying nearly two thousand barrels of alcohol and manned by a crew of eight. In addition were Captain Briggs, his wife, and their young daughter. Five weeks later, the ship was found about six hundred miles west of Gibraltar, the cargo intact, the hull undamaged—and no one aboard. Story had it that the tables were set for dinner, a child’s toys were found on the captain’s bed, and all of Briggs’s personal effects were still in place. There was no evidence of violence, no apparent reason for abandonment; they were just—gone.
And this ship, is that what happened here? Or are we going to find bodies stacked in the hold, the mad killer still aboard, hiding somewhere in the dark . . . ?
Foster folded her arms tightly, feeling chilled and apprehensive. She and the rest of the crew had assembled on the starboard deck of the now distinctly sinking tug, all except for Woods; he and Hiko would stay behind while the rest of them boarded the Volkov and investigated.
Looking up at the lifeless vessel, Foster wished she could pass on the opportunity herself, but they’d need her to check out the navigational equipment. The ominous enigma of the Celeste had been exciting to her as a child, but she was an adult now; things like this just didn’t happen, shouldn’t happen.
Steve had been passing out weapons and small bags of equipment and had stopped in front of her. She took a pack, nodding, and then he held out a somewhat battered-looking .32 caliber Colt semi-automatic, meeting her gaze with an expression she couldn’t quite read. He looked nervous but steady, and she relaxed a little. She wasn’t alone in her unease, at least. And it wasn’t like there were any other options open to them; the Star wouldn’t last much longer.
Foster reluctantly took the offered weapon, checked it, and put it in her coat pocket. She knew how to handle guns but had never liked them much—particularly not when she might have to use one.
Richie stood behind her, a shotgun gripped loosely in one gesturing hand. “I don’t care what Jane says, I studied ships like this. This is a fuckin’ spy ship, man. They’re not gonna like us comin’ aboard.”
Foster reached out and grasped the barrel of his firearm lightly, pushing it away from herself and the others. For someone who was supposed to know weapons, the man acted like an idiot.
Or someone on drugs . . .
“Do you mind?” Foster asked pointedly.
Richie glared at her but slung the weapon over his shoulder.
“Ahoy, Volkov! Anyone aboard?” Everton bellowed again, but didn’t bother waiting for a response. He turned to Steve as the Sea Star came to a stop only a few feet from the huge wall of the ship’s port side.
“Throw up a line,” Everton said, and Steve picked up a grappling hook from the deck, the heavy rope uncoiling.
Foster and the others stepped back as Steve swung the hook and threw, the
Insanity. Mutiny. Mass murder . . .
He didn’t like it, but there was no other choice. He took a last look at the forsaken Volkov and then went to get what they’d need, hoping that the ship was truly as deserted as she looked. And he was going to break out every weapon they had, just in case.
Foster stared up at the Russian ship as the Sea Star slowly approached, trying not to think about the Mary Celeste. It had been her favorite story as a child, endlessly fascinating; she must have heard it a hundred times, lingering over each mysterious detail. Now, though, she wished she could forget it; she was anxious enough, watching the port hull of the deserted Volkov slide closer in the softly lapping water. She should be happy, elated; they’d found a way out of the mess Everton had gotten them into . . .
. . . but what happened to the crew? What could have induced three hundred people to abandon a ship that wasn’t sinking?
In November of 1872, the brigantine Mary Celeste had set sail from New York to Genoa, carrying nearly two thousand barrels of alcohol and manned by a crew of eight. In addition were Captain Briggs, his wife, and their young daughter. Five weeks later, the ship was found about six hundred miles west of Gibraltar, the cargo intact, the hull undamaged—and no one aboard. Story had it that the tables were set for dinner, a child’s toys were found on the captain’s bed, and all of Briggs’s personal effects were still in place. There was no evidence of violence, no apparent reason for abandonment; they were just—gone.
And this ship, is that what happened here? Or are we going to find bodies stacked in the hold, the mad killer still aboard, hiding somewhere in the dark . . . ?
Foster folded her arms tightly, feeling chilled and apprehensive. She and the rest of the crew had assembled on the starboard deck of the now distinctly sinking tug, all except for Woods; he and Hiko would stay behind while the rest of them boarded the Volkov and investigated.
Looking up at the lifeless vessel, Foster wished she could pass on the opportunity herself, but they’d need her to check out the navigational equipment. The ominous enigma of the Celeste had been exciting to her as a child, but she was an adult now; things like this just didn’t happen, shouldn’t happen.
Steve had been passing out weapons and small bags of equipment and had stopped in front of her. She took a pack, nodding, and then he held out a somewhat battered-looking .32 caliber Colt semi-automatic, meeting her gaze with an expression she couldn’t quite read. He looked nervous but steady, and she relaxed a little. She wasn’t alone in her unease, at least. And it wasn’t like there were any other options open to them; the Star wouldn’t last much longer.
Foster reluctantly took the offered weapon, checked it, and put it in her coat pocket. She knew how to handle guns but had never liked them much—particularly not when she might have to use one.
Richie stood behind her, a shotgun gripped loosely in one gesturing hand. “I don’t care what Jane says, I studied ships like this. This is a fuckin’ spy ship, man. They’re not gonna like us comin’ aboard.”
Foster reached out and grasped the barrel of his firearm lightly, pushing it away from herself and the others. For someone who was supposed to know weapons, the man acted like an idiot.
Or someone on drugs . . .
“Do you mind?” Foster asked pointedly.
Richie glared at her but slung the weapon over his shoulder.
“Ahoy, Volkov! Anyone aboard?” Everton bellowed again, but didn’t bother waiting for a response. He turned to Steve as the Sea Star came to a stop only a few feet from the huge wall of the ship’s port side.
“Throw up a line,” Everton said, and Steve picked up a grappling hook from the deck, the heavy rope uncoiling.
Foster and the others stepped back as Steve swung the hook and threw, the
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