“Try to look like a man on his honeymoon,” John told his stepbrother.
“I’m trying,” Jeffrey replied through clenched teeth. “He’s signaling . . .” A bright light flickered from the Chosen gunboat. “Heave to and prepare to be boarded,” he read. “Arrogant bastards, aren’t they?”
“Jeffrey?” Lola Farr, nee Chiavri, came up the companionway to the bridge, holding on to her hat. “Is there—” She caught sight of the Chosen vessels. “Oh!”
“Don’t worry,” Jeffrey said. He nodded his head upward towards the pole mast in front of the yacht’s funnel. The flag of the Republic of the Santander snapped in the breeze. “They’re not going to start a war.”
Although they might be quite willing to endure an embarrassing diplomatic accident, John thought morbidly. He wished Pia and Lola weren’t along, but then, it would look odd if they weren’t, given the cover story. And Pia wouldn’t stay if I nailed her feet to the kitchen floor.
“Captain,” John said quietly to the grizzle-bearded man who stood beside the wheel with his hands clasped behind his back. “Signal Santander ship, International Waters, and sheer off.”
“Sir.” He passed along the orders. “Shall I make speed?”
“No, just maintain your course,” John said. The Windstrider could probably outrun the Chosen gunboat, but not the airship—or a cannon shell, for that matter. “Act naturally, everyone.”
Jeffrey grinned. “Natural, under the circumstances, would be scared s—spitless.”
“Act arrogant, then; the Chosen understand that.”
John looked around at the bridge of the yacht. It was horseshoe-shaped, with another horseshoe within it; the inner one was enclosed, a curved waist-high wall of white-painted steel with windows above that, meeting the roof above. That held the wheel, binnacle, engine-room telegraph, and chart table. The outer semicircle was open save for a railing of teak and brass and empty save for the two couples and a few stewards. They were in cream-colored livery; Jeffrey wore a summer-weight brown colonel’s uniform, and John white ducks, the sort of outfit a wealthy man might wear for playing tennis . . . or yachting. Pia and Lola were in gauzy warm-weather dresses of peach and lavender, looking expensive and haughty.
Perfect, John thought.
The gunboat was running on a converging course, white water foaming back from its bow. As he watched, it swung parallel to the yacht, almost alongside, and slowed to match speed. John smiled tightly and touched Pia’s hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. She gave his arm a squeeze and released it. He took a drag on the cigarette, suppressing a cough, and strolled in a jaunty fashion to the starboard wing of the open space. His hand rested on the railing, casually touching a certain bronze fitting.
The vessels were less than a dozen yards apart—showing good handling on the part of both crews. That meant that the gunboat was less than a dozen yards from the sixteen-inch midships torpedo tube, armed and flooded. The fitting under his hand was connected to a simple bell-telegraph and light; if he pressed it twice, the men crouched behind the little circular door would pull levers . . . and a slug of high-pressure compressed air would shove the tin fish out of the tube. A few seconds and the Chosen gunboat would be a broken-backed hulk sliding under the waters.
Of course, that would ruin his cover; the airship would report back, or someone in the yacht’s crew would talk even if they got lucky . . .
“Ahoy there!” a voice bellowed through a speaking trumpet from the low bridge of the gunboat. Its Santander English was accented but fluent. “‘Tis iz Leutnant der See Annika Tirnwitz. Prepare to be boarded.”
Cannon and pom-poms and machine guns were trained with unnerving steadiness on him, ready to rake the Windstrider into burning wreckage in seconds—about as many seconds as the torpedo would take to do its work. The gray-uniformed crew waited in motionless tension, all except for a dozen who were shouldering rifles and making ready to swing a launch from its davits. John pitched his voice to carry.
“This is sovereign territory of the Republic of the Santander. You have no authority here and any act of aggression will be resisted.”