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conversations took place in English. “It’s time to cut our speed to five knots.”
    It was an unusual request, since there was no ostensible reason to reduce the ship’s speed, but Kroger understood nonetheless. Though not especially fond of each other, the two men had one thing in common, and that was their mutual desire for large quantities of money—the kind of cash available to merchant officers who were willing to tolerate the presence of a few extra bodies on their ship and reduce revolutions at the proper moment. Kroger ran blunt fingertips through his short, bristly beard. It was heavily shot through with gray, a reminder of how many years had passed since his graduation from Breman’s Polytechnic University. “Is the pick-up crew ready?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then reduce speed we must,” the German said evenly. “The VTS people will notice the change and ask what we’re up to…. I will inform them that we’re running ahead of schedule—and need to slow down in order to meet the pilot on time. Let me know when the passengers clear the stern.”
    Suzuki thought about the sick, frightened men huddled on the ship’s fantail and wondered if they qualified as passengers. They certainly had paid enough money to justify the title—or would once they completed up to ten years of indentured service. But that was in the future. At the moment they were cargo that the crew needed to jettison before the pilot came aboard off Ediz Hook. The Americans had become more security conscious since 9/11 and that made everything more difficult. The officer nodded. “I will notify you by radio.”
    Suzuki was still making his way off the bridge when the communication came in over VHF FM Channel 5A. “Freighter South Wind , my radar shows you have slowed to five knots. Do you have a problem? Over.”
    Kroger keyed the mike. “Seattle Traffic, this is the South Wind . I am slowing my speed tofive knots to make my ETA for the Port Angeles pilot station. Over.”
    There was a pause followed by a whisper of static. “Freighter South Wind —I have no reported opposing traffic. In the future adjust your speed to avoid loitering near the precautionary area. Over.”
    Kroger smiled thinly. “Seattle Traffic, this is the South Wind . Roger…. I will increase speed within ten minutes. South Wind out.”
    Meanwhile, back on the stern, ten men stood in a tight little group. They wore brightly colored Viking SOLAS PS5002 Immersion Suits, all of which had been purchased secondhand to save money, and were at least one size too large for the men from Fujian Province. Strobe lights, one per suit, flashed in quick succession.
    But, surplus or not, any protection would be welcome, since every one of the illegal immigrants knew that he was about to jump into some very cold water. Still, Lok Lee was a strong swimmer, and if anyone could survive, he could. That’s what the young man was thinking when Suzuki appeared and Hector Battoon sent the first illegal out onto a specially rigged plank. He was Filipino and spoke halting Mandarin. “You must walk out to the very end before you jump off!” the crewman shouted. “Otherwise you could be sucked into the props! Move quickly so you land in the water together…. That will make it easier for the boat to pick you up.”
    Then, conscious of the need to get them going before they had too much time to dwell on the danger, Lee and the rest were herded into place. Huang went first, quickly followed by Wong and Ma. Then it was Lee’s turn. A strange world of wind, waves, and lights swirled around the young man as he made his way out onto the plank, took a deep breath, and fell into the void.
    It was a long drop and the youngster felt the impact as his feet hit the surface quickly followed by a cold slap as the water made contact with his face. He sank, but not for long, as both the air in his lungs and the suit acted to lift him up. Lee broke the surface as a small boat roared past. The freighter was