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He adjusted the rubber mask, which was beginning to make his face sweat, checked the .45, and stepped through the pilothouse door.
The pilothouse was an expansive area extending the full width of the ship and covering about twenty feet from back bulkhead to the front windows. There was a doorway hatch on either side leading out onto bridge wings. The lighting was a subdued red, to facilitate the officers' night vision. Between him and the front windows was the helmsman's console, behind which an Hispanic-looking man stood with both hands on the trick wheel. Mounted on the back bulkhead to his left was a chart table, but there was no one there. Standing at the windows on either side of the centerline gyro pelorus were two middle aged men, dressed in civilian clothes. He knew one had to be the master, the other the pilot. Where's the mate? There was usually a mate, doing the navigation. The helmsman finally saw him.
"Que -?" he began, and then saw the gun.
He waved the helmsman down to the deck with the gun, motioning for him to get flat. The man obeyed instantly, shutting his eyes. The master and the pilot were oblivious to what was happening behind them as they talked softly, looking forward out the windows. He stepped forward, looking around again for the mate. No one else appeared to be on the bridge or the bridge wings. Through the windows he could see the rest of the ship, all the way to the bow, beyond which he could see the railroad bridge. The ship's head was pointed between the two main channel pier towers. There was a small Coast Guard cutter broad on the port bow, hovering around the bridge. Down-river there was a tug and barge string coming their way. One of the men standing by the windows pointed the barge string out to the other, who raised binoculars to examine its lights.
He stepped up onto the small wooden platform behind the wheel, put one foot on the helmsman's neck, and quietly turned the wheel slightly to the right. Then he reached over to the one-armed engine order telegraph and shoved the brass handle all the way forward and down to the full ahead position. Both men at the window whirled around at the sound of that, and he leveled the gun at them.
"Down," he said. "On the deck. Now."
There was a jangle of bells as the engine room responded to the full bell order, and a moment later he could feel the deck start to shiver as the ship's marine diesel spooled up. The two men at the windows were still gaping at him, but they hadn't moved. A telephone right next to a captain' chair on the starboard side began to ring. The ship had finally begun to respond to the rudder, and her head was starting to swing very slowly to the right. He pointed the .45 at one of the men and pulled back the hammer. "Down, now, or die."
Both men dropped to their knees, their hands raised.
"On your knees, crawl over there, then get flat," he ordered, pointing with the gun to the port side of the pilothouse. He looked back through the windows, and saw the ship's head swinging faster now. Too fast. He spun the wheel back over to port, and she steadied. The two men were knee-walking over to the port side. The bridge was coming up faster now as the ship accelerated. It was maybe a thousand yards away and starting to fill the windows.
"Get flat!" he yelled to the two men, and they obliged. The phone was still ringing next to the captain's chair, but he ignored it. He stepped backwards, keeping the gun trained on the flattened men, and locked the pilothouse door. Then he stepped back to the helm, and once again corrected her head. There was some interaction going on with the river current, because he felt rather than saw that her stern was swinging out, that she was getting slightly cocked across the current. It didn't matter; as her speed came up, he would be able to steer her right back on track to the target.
Eight hundred yards. He gripped the .45 harder.
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