Chapter 59 - The Apostle Shallows
I climbed the narrow steel ladder into the wheelhouse, clutching Ruby beneath my heavy shearling coat.
Outside, Lake Superior was an expanse of black, churning mountains topped with frothing white crests. The green phosphor screen of the sweep radar cast an eerie, sickly glow across Thomas’s weathered face. On the edge of the twelve-mile ring, two solid blips were closing the distance at twenty-five knots—far faster than the *Eleanor V* could ever dream of running.
"Coast Guard?" I asked, though my gut already knew the answer.
"No transponder signal," Thomas grunted, wrestling the heavy wooden helm as a massive swell broke over the tug’s bow, shuddering the iron keel to its rivets. "Private cutters. Fast ones. Reinforced bows. If they catch us in open water, they won't bother boarding. They'll just ram us amidships and let the lake swallow the evidence."
"Where can we go?" I asked, looking out into the blinding squall.
"Devil’s Island," Thomas said grimly. "The old light station on the northern tip of the Apostles. The water’s too shallow for their deep drafts among the sea caves. If I can run the *Eleanor* through the shoals, we might beach her on the sandstone shelf before they can flank us."
"And if you miss the channel?"
"Then we hit the granite at twelve knots and become part of the reef," Thomas replied, shoving the brass engine telegraph forward to maximum output.
Behind us, a high-intensity xenon searchlight slashed through the blinding snow, cutting a brutal white swath across the dark rollers. The lead vessel was already within two miles, surging over the crests with military precision. A megaphone horn crackled through the static of the marine radio on the console.
"Tugboat Eleanor V, cut your engines and prepare to be boarded. You are carrying stolen commercial property. Comply immediately or force will be used."
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Thomas didn't reach for the radio. Instead, he reached into the locker beneath the dashboard, pulled out a flare pistol loaded with a phosphor slug, and set it on the chart table.
"Hold on to that baby, Amanda," he muttered. "The bottom's coming up fast."
