small spotlight flashed on and off at them until they were quite close to the Charity, and then floodlights illuminated a ladder swung over her side.
“Why do they call that a ladder when it’s really a flight of stairs?” McCoy wondered aloud.
“Jesus, Ken!” Taylor said.
Two seamen, under the supervision of the diminutive chief petty officer who had supervised putting the lifeboats over the side of the Charity, were standing on the platform at the lower end of the stairs. The officer was wearing immaculate whites.
“Captain,” he called, as the Wind of Good Fortune drew quite close, “the captain suggests you gentlemen come aboard, and that your vessel circle astern of us.”
“Got you, Chief,” Taylor called, and issued the necessary orders to the helmsman.
McCoy saw that he also handed him the flashlight Colonel Dunn had dropped into the mud.
McCoy jumped from the deck of the Wind of Good Fortune onto the platform first, followed by Major Kim and finally Taylor.
“Right up the ladder, if you please, gentlemen,” the chief ordered.
As McCoy reached the level of the deck, the sea pushed the Wind of Good Fortune into the ladder, and the noise made him look down to see what had happened.
There didn’t seem to be any damage; the Wind of Good Fortune seemed to be backing away from the Charity.
McCoy climbed the last two steps of the ladder and stepped onto the deck, where the executive officer was standing in his crisp white uniform. And there were two rows of sailors, in whites, three to a row, saluting. Just as McCoy realized what was going on, there came the shrill sound of a bosun’s pipe, and a voice called out.
“United States Marines, board-ing!”
McCoy faced the stern and saluted the British flag and then saluted the executive officer.
“Permission to come aboard, sir?”
“Granted.”
The executive officer looked at Major Kim as he stepped onto the deck, dressed like McCoy and Taylor, in black pajamas, and for a moment a look of confusion crossed his face, but he rose to the occasion.
“South Korean officer, board-ing,” he called out.
And Major Kim rose to the occasion by mimicking every step of McCoy’s response perfectly.
And finally, Taylor stepped onto the deck in his black pajamas.
“United States Navy, board-ing!”
When Taylor had finished saluting the British colors, the bosun’s piping died out and the executive officer put out his hand to Taylor.
“Nice to have you aboard again, Lieutenant,” he said. “Will you follow me, please?”
He led them between the lines of saluting sailors—who seemed to find nothing strange, McCoy saw, in their rendering honors to three men in black pajamas—into the superstructure, and through interior passageways to the bridge.
Captain the Honorable Darwin Jones-Fortin waved them permission to come on the bridge.
“Your welcome overwhelms us, Captain,” Taylor said.
“Well, the last time I rather sneaked you aboard. You’re now here officially, and it seemed appropriate. First things first. I dislike sitting here dead in the water. How many knots can your magnificent vessel make? And do you have enough fuel?”
“Twelve to thirteen knots, sir,” Taylor said, “in a sea like this. And there’s plenty of fuel aboard.”
“Good show,” Jones-Fortin said. “Make turns for ten knots,” he ordered. “Make a wide circle to port.”
The helmsman repeated the order.
“You have the conn, Number One,” Jones-Fortin ordered.
“I have the conn, sir,” the executive officer said.
“Why don’t we go to my cabin?” Jones-Fortin said, and motioned them ahead of him into an interior passageway.
There was already someone in the captain’s cabin, a Royal Marine lieutenant in field clothing and web gear.
“Gentlemen, may I present Lieutenant Richard Diceworth, Royal Marines?” Jones-Fortin said. “Diceworth, this is Captain McCoy of the U.S. Marines, Lieutenant Taylor of the U.S. Navy, and I haven’t had the privilege . . .”
“Major Kim Pak-Su, Korean national police.”
The men shook hands.
“Admiral Matthews,” Jones-Fortin explained, “apparently after consulting with your General Pickering at some length, and having decided that your Flying Fish Channel operation deserved a bit more support than he initially offered, sent Diceworth and fifteen Royal Marines from HMS Jamaica, his flagship.”
“I don’t know what to say,” McCoy confessed.
“Let me tell you what we have to offer, and then you tell me if you think it would be helpful,” Jones-Fortin said. “In addition to Diceworth and his men, we have the boats that brought them to Charity from the Jamaica. There’s two of them, each with a coxswain, and they’re a bit larger— about twice the size, I would guess—of the lifeboats. They’re also a bit faster and more seaworthy.”
McCoy just shook his head.
“And