Fangtooth

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The trawler Silver Queen plunged through the relentless waves, plaything of the Gods. Wood creaked and squealed, crying like an animal in pain as the boat plummeted from the top of a swell.

“What the hell is it?” Howser asked.

Billy Trasker looked up from the echo sounder and shook his head. “It might be a large school of fish… but to be honest, I’m not sure.”

Howser frowned at the display. It was all do to him. His wife, Maureen, had only recently dragged him into the technological age of mobile phones. That’s why he employed people. But sometimes, a man had to go with his feelings, and this was one of those times.

He picked up the microphone from the panel. “Blunt, secure that buoy,” he shouted, his voice coming through the speaker outside and fighting to be heard above the cry of the force eight gale.

The men on deck hurried about their jobs, working with proficiency gained from years of toil at sea. The wind howled around their ears, but they seemed oblivious to its roar.

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