then onto a U.S. military transport bound for the States.
Pitt and Giordino remained there to brief police and embassy officials before they hopped their own commercial flight to Washington the next morning, leaving behind the unanswered mystery of who destroyed Cerrón Grande Dam—and why.
8
The city lights of Detroit glistened off the black river like crystalline stars in the night. Bounding waterfront skyscrapers of illuminated glass and steel showed a vibrant defiance to the recent economic struggles of the old industrial city. Captain Ron Posey glanced from Detroit’s shining aura off the starboard bow of his ship to a similar, smaller radiance off the vessel’s port side. In the midnight hour, Windsor, Canada, countered with an equally warm glow of buildings and homes. Posey rubbed his eyes and refocused on the black ribbon of water between the cities that funneled into the narrows of the Detroit River.
“Sir, why don’t you get some shut-eye?” said his second officer, a cheerful young man named Gauge. “Traffic looks light on the radar.”
Posey had stood on the bridge for the better part of the past two days, ever since the Mayweather departed Thunder Bay on Lake Superior’s west coast. The 12,000-ton tanker was laden with Alberta tar sands crude oil, bound for a refinery in Quebec.
Posey hated to give up command, yet he knew he wasn’t superhuman. He’d been officially relieved by the second officer hours ago, but continued to pace the bridge. He stopped and gazed out the window. “I’ll turn in once we kiss the waters of Lake Erie.”
The entrance to Lake Erie was just twenty-five miles away. The remaining path wound through the narrow confines of the Detroit River. The waterway often bustled with traffic, even at this hour. Posey knew there’d be no sleep for him until the tanker reached the safe expanse of the lake.
The second officer ordered the helm to reduce speed as the ship approached Grosse Pointe. The tanker eased closer to the Michigan shore as it approached Peche Island and the onset of the Detroit River. Near the turn of the last century, this short stretch of water had been the world’s busiest commercial riverway. Times and industry had changed dramatically, but the river still held economic prominence for the upper Great Lakes.
A flashing light dead ahead signaled the approach of Windmill Point. Beyond it, the river split in two around Belle Isle, a picturesque state park. With the main shipping channel along the island’s eastern border, the helmsman prepared to ease the tanker to port.
“You’ve got a large vessel incoming,” Posey said.
Gauge followed Posey’s gaze to the radarscope, which showed a white linear shape moving off the center of Belle Isle. A notation on the screen indicated the vessel as the MV Duluth, traveling north at ten knots. The second officer looked out the bridge window, saw only a dark shadow.
Captain Posey had already reached for a pair of binoculars and was scanning the route ahead. “The fool has his running lights turned off and is steaming up the west side of Fleming.”
Fleming Channel was the dredged passage east of Belle Isle designated for commercial traffic.
Gauge reached for the radio and hailed the Duluth. There was no reply.
“Looks to be a bulk freighter, nice-sized one at that.” Posey lowered the binoculars and shifted his gaze to an overhead monitor that displayed a digital chart of the river. A moving white rectangle represented the Mayweather as it approached the northern tip of Belle Isle. The Duluth appeared as a yellow triangle approaching at an angle from Fleming Channel.
On the current course of both vessels, the Mayweather would be boxed out of entering the channel, unless it made a dangerous pass across the freighter’s bow to the east.
Gauge read the captain’s thoughts. “Looks like we should either hold position until they pass or duck into the western channel.”
Posey nodded, his anger at the other vessel receding into concern for his own ship’s safety. “Let’s steer clear of the idiot. All slow and easy toward the west channel until he passes.”
Gauge relayed the order to the helmsman, and the tanker’s bow nudged right, toward the lights of Detroit.
Posey shook his head as the black outline of the freighter drew closer, holding its aggressive course. Due to the nature of the waterway, the Duluth was heading directly for the Mayweather.
A mountain of white water was breaking off the other ship’s bow, and Posey asked Gauge her speed.
“She’s up to fourteen knots,” he said with tension in his voice.