"These are international waters," she argued stiffly.
The captain made a show of looking about the gray, heaving ocean. "Oh, I believe you are mistaken. My charts show these to be Canadian waters. You are in our Maritimes, and your boat must be brought in for a safety inspection."
"You have no legal authority to inspect a U.S. vessel," Sandy flared.
"Why don't we leave that to the lawful agencies that govern such things?" the captain said smoothly.
Sandy Heckman dropped one hand to her side arm, and the moment it touched the flap, a bullet whined past her left rear.
She saw a smoking M-16 on the other deck. Behind it was a stiff face looking at her down the darkeyed barrel.
She let her hand drop loosely to her side. It hung there shaking. "It's your party. But you know there will be hell to pay," she said in a grating voice like seashells being chewed slowly.
"Be so good as to order your crew into my boat. I will see that your vessel arrives in St. John's safely."
"Well," Sandy muttered as she turned to address her expectant-faced crew, "they can't boot me out of the guard any harder for losing my ship than for sinking a Canadian sub."
Her crew seemed not to share her nonchalance. They looked worried.
The transfer of crew was executed with expert smartness. The gangplank was recovered.
Soon the Canadian fisheries-patrol boat was thundering north to Newfoundland, the Cayuga bringing up the rear.
There was one bright spot. The Canadians served the shivering Cayuga crew paper cups filled with very strong and bone-warming tea.
But then, they were a pretty polite lot. For pirates.
Chapter 25
On the Air Canada flight north, Remo kept asking for water.
"One moment, sir."
"Please wait your turn, sir."
"We're coming to your aisle."
One stewardess actually ignored him outright.
"Isn't this great?" Remo asked Chiun.
"You will never get your water this way."
"Who cares? I can fly in peace now."
"Your breath smells of carrion."
"I only took one bite."
When the meal-service tray finally reached them somewhere over Maine, Remo lifted his rewrapped shark and asked a stewardess if she would zap it in the microwave oven for him.
"Not enough to toast it. Just warm it. I like my shark on the raw side," he said.
"I'm sorry, sir. It is against airline policy to cook a nonregulation meal."
"Please," asked Remo.
The stewardess's voice turned as frosty as her hair. "Sorry. But no. Do you want the chicken or the fish?"
"What kind of fish?" asked Chiun.
"Scrod."
"What is that, exactly?" Remo wondered aloud.
The stewardess looked at Remo as if he was a imbecile. "Scrod is scrod."
"I will have the turbot," said Chin.
The stewardess looked blank. "Turbot?"
And from the sleeve of his kimono, the Master of Sinanju produced a neatly wrapped packet of turbot fillet.
The stewardess took it with a smile and said, "Be happy to, sir."
"How come he gets special service and I don't?" Remo wanted to know.
"Scrod or chicken?" the stewardess asked, ignoring the question.
"Scrod," said Remo, folding his lean arms unhappily.
"I will have scrod, as well, since it is free. But see that my turbot is not too dry," Chiun admonished.
"Of course, sir," the stewardess said smilingly.
The scrod was served with baked potatoes and kernel corn. The potatoes were little bigger than Concord grapes, and the corn was pale and scant. They ignored both and tasted the scrod gingerly, not certain how it was prepared.
"Tastes like cod," said Remo.
"Mine brings to mind haddock," said Chiun.
"Can't be both."
They exchanged bites, which only confirmed each other's contrary opinion.
When the stewardess came back their way, Remo asked her, "How come my scrod is cod and his is haddock?"