The tip of the ancient volcano
rose eighty feet above the rolling ocean. Named for its single granite
ledge, Fargan served as a navigational guide in the Irish Sea lanes
two hundred miles off the Donegal coast. The ocean around it provided
some of the finest fishing in the North Atlantic, at least when the
oil companies and their sonar weren't scaring all the fish away.
Matt was about to give the order
to turn southeast when he caught sight of a vessel drifting north
of Fargan. He sprinted to the wheelhouse and snatched his binoculars.
The boat was too far away to decipher her markings, but Matt knew
her for an English gunboat, one of the fast attack craft used for
coastal patrol and training exercises—but not in Irish waters.
He lowered the binoculars, though
his gaze remained fixed on the gunboat. "Keep your ear to the
radio, Eddie. That boat might be in trouble. Ronnie, cut the throttles."
Fancy Annie slowed until she rocked
in the swells. A dinghy drifted from behind the gunboat. One of three
men sitting in it started an outboard motor and steered the craft
to the edge of the rocky outcrop. Laden with backpacks, the other
two jumped onto the tiny island.
While the dinghy returned to the
gunboat, the men scaled the rock and hoisted themselves onto the ledge.
One man drove a pole into a fissure and raised an English flag; the
other set up a small survival tent.
Matt stared in amazement. "What
in holy hell are they doing? Anything, Eddie?"
"Nothing, Matt."
The gunboat glided toward the Fancy
Annie. Her name was clear now: HMS Coulter. Armed men had gathered
on her deck.
A voice boomed through a bullhorn.
"This is Captain Andrew Mayne of HMS Coulter. Heave to, Fancy
Annie, and prepare to be boarded."
Matt had no bullhorn and didn't
care if Captain Mayne heard his bellowed response. "The hell
I will, you bastard. What do you think you're doing? These are Irish
waters!"
Concerned now for the safety of
his crew, Matt shouted to his first mate: "Get underway, Ronnie.
Full speed ahead!"
The engines growled. Fancy Annie
turned to starboard and cut through the swells. Smoke wafted from
Coulter's forward-mounted gun turret. A moment later a loud boom thundered
over the water. A shot had crossed the trawler's bow.
