Supreme Justice

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John Finley’s eyes snapped open. His heart was beating rapidly. Something had jerked him out of a deep sleep, but he didn’t know if it was a dream sound or a real one.

Captain Finley sat up. The China Sea was moored at an isolated dock on the Columbia River in Shelby, Oregon, roughly halfway between Portland and the coast. No machinery was running, so every night sound was audible. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he slid his hand under his pillow and gripped his.38. He was never without a weapon on a trip like this, especially with the cargo they were carrying and a crew he didn’t trust completely. The ship swayed gently against the pilings of the dock. Finley’s breathing eased. He’d just convinced himself that he’d been dreaming when a groan slipped through the stateroom speaking tube.

The China Sea was an old supply vessel, originally built to take crews to and from oil rigs. She had been extensively refitted for her midocean rendezvous with the freighter from Karachi. There were intercoms throughout, but Finley had kept the old-fashioned speaking tubes on a whim. There was one on the bridge above his stateroom and one in the engine room.

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