The sails were down. The ship would be visible now, except that the storm was so thick. The Ginger Star would never see it coming. Jake and Turner and Cordie stood in solidarity, on the poop deck, bracing themselves against the railing.
It was painful to stand in the middle of a storm, but this wasn't Cordie's first time. She stood strong, one hand clamped on the railing, afraid she would get swept off by a giant gust of wind—they'd lost several crewmates that way.
Her scarf nearly came undone.
She took her hands from the railing, feeling precarious, to tighten the knot. While she was fixing it, a gust of wind did hit. She lifted off her feet. Jake grabbed her shoulder, and her hands immediately went to the railing.
Jake laughed—not a condescending laugh, but a fun one. He loved all of this. So did Cordie. She laughed as well.
Turner called out a command.
One of the crew slowed the ship.
Turner was keeping his eye on the sand clock.
He knew exactly when to call out the right commands.
They would hit The Ginger Star when the sand in the dial emptied. They couldn't hit it full force, though, because they'd destroy it completely. They needed it in okay shape to be able to fix it up inexpensively and re-sell it. Couldn't destroy it outright.
"Brace for impact," shouted Turner, to the crew on the deck below which couldn't be seen. They had a man on the wheel up here, just behind them. He was in training to pilot during sandstorms. Turned looked back to him.
"You ready, son!?"
He nodded, holding the wheel strong.
Cordie returned her eyes frontwards.
About twenty seconds.
Then they'd complete protocol—just before the sand dial emptied, their chain runner would punch the diesel engine. They were operating on magnet power. But they'd thrust forward at the last moment with the diesel engine and plow right into the side of the ship, hitting it hard enough to disorient the crew, to cause somewhat significant damage to the hull of the ship.
Captain Jake described somewhat significant damage as damage that all but caused the rival ship to go down altogether. He wanted the rival ship to stay afloat, to keep going. Didn't want to destroy it outright—but take it to the brink. It was a balancing act. Performed successfully, the crew of the opposing ship usually surrendered right away.
The wind pushed them forward, a little too fast, since it was primarily behind them. She could see Turner feeling it with his body, with his mind, watching the dial.
"Slower!" he shouted, holding up his hand.
Jake was looking around, looking at the masts—well, the mizzenmast and boom were all that could be seen from here. The mizzenmast was halfway down the ship. The boom was behind them.
Ten seconds left.
"Prepare boost!" Turner shouted. His sixty-year-old voice booming over the sand and the wind. Turner's commands would just reach the ears of the second-in-command of the lower deck. Who would then echo the command down a chain, through the doors to the atrium. The command would reach to each crewmate in a sequential order of importance.
Of course, the man responsible for the boost was the man at the wheel. He was only a few feet behind and could hear Turner clearly. No excuses if he failed.
In these last moments, Cordie took one to appreciate the color coordination of the scarves they'd tied over their mouths. Jake had planned the coordination some time ago, but if he knew she was thinking about it now, he'd make fun of her, say just like a girl.
Her scarf was purple.
His was red.
Turner's was grey.
The rest of the crew's were blue.
Cordie loved this life.
"Brace for impact!" Turner shouted. "Diesel, baby!"
This was it, then.