"Do you read me, Odyssey II? Come in." The radio crackled on channel sixteen, the ocean mariner's open line. "Goddammit Mike, do you copy? Over."
Michael Vance was exhilarated, and scared. The salty taste of the Aegean was in his mouth as he reached for the black mike of his radio, still gripping the starboard tiller. His waterproof Ross DSC 800 was topside, since there was no other place for it.
He was lean, with leathery skin and taut tanned cheeks all the more so for his having spent the last three days fighting the sea. He had dark brown hair and a high forehead above eyebrows that set off inquiring blue eyes. His face had mileage, yet was curiously warm, with a slim nose that barely showed where it had been broken year before last—during an ARM special op in Iran.
"Is that you, Bill? Good to hear your voice, but this is a hell of a time—"
"Who else would it be, you loony gringo? Hey, I'm getting a damned lot of static. How about switching channels? Over to seventy."
"Seventy, confirmed." He pushed in the code, his fingers slippery and wet. The wind was already gusting up to thirty
knots, while his boat was crabbing across the growing swell. "Okay, Lotus-Eater, you're on."
