Chapter 2: The Rusted Disc Mystery
The pickup’s tires crunched over gravel as it burst through the sweep of a searchlight. Ngozi warned in a low voice of a trap ahead. Fermi gripped the compass, feeling it shudder violently in his hand.
The vehicle reached the port of Lagos, where the heavy reek of fish mingled with diesel fumes. Fermi realized the Black Sail was in danger of being swallowed up for a pittance.
Coffee, the guild master, appeared and greeted them in fluent Yoruba, hinting that he intended to buy the hull at scrap-metal prices.
Fermi rejected the offer. Coffee sneered, claiming that without the guild’s backing, he could not even afford the docking fees.
The argument reached an impasse. Coffee summoned his men and tried to force his way aboard for an inspection.
Fermi displayed the golden compass and pointed out the abnormal tide. If they forced the ship out now, the undercurrent would drive its bow into the breakwater.
Coffee did not believe him at first. But when the compass needle steadied toward the southeast, he was startled to find that it matched the pattern old fishermen called the “Blackwater Tide.”
Fermi gave a detailed reading of the current chart shown by the compass, accurately plotting a safe route around the reefs.
Zula, the mechanic, crawled out from beneath the ship, covered in grease, and confirmed the magnetic anomaly indicated by the compass.
Coffee tentatively proposed new terms of cooperation, hoping to make use of Fermi’s navigational skill. His tone had become markedly respectful.
Fermi stated his bottom line: independent rights to a berth in the harbor.
They reached a temporary truce. Coffee turned and left, all outward cordiality, but he had already placed a call and quietly ordered his men to intercept the Black Sail.
Zula announced excitedly that the engine could be repaired. As long as they avoided the undercurrents, they could clear the channel that very night.
Night fell. Searchlights flickered across the harbor. Fermi heard engines roaring in the distance—Coffee’s inspection squad was closing in on the pier.
The engine noise drew nearer. Searchlights from two patrol boats swept across the water, their beams cleaving the darkness before pinning the Black Sail’s hull in stark light. Men in guild uniforms stood at the bows, nail guns in hand, their muzzles glinting coldly.
Ngozi yanked Fermi into the shadow of the gunwale and lowered his voice. “They came faster than I expected. When Coffee made that call, he never intended to let you leave.”
Fermi said nothing. He looked down at the compass in his palm. The needle was still trembling, but its rhythm had changed. Before, it had quivered in quick, tiny bursts, as if something beneath the earth were beating a drum. Now it swung slowly and heavily, each turn dragging with a sticky resistance. He frowned. He had seen this kind of vibration only once before: when the compass sensed a massive ferromagnetic object moving at high speed.
“Zula,” he called without looking back, “are you done checking the hull?”
The mechanic’s head emerged from the hatch, half his face smeared with grease and a screwdriver still clenched between his teeth. “The engine runs. The drive shaft’s making noise, but it’ll hold until we reach open water. Why? In a hurry to leave?”
“The guild’s coming aboard.”
Zula followed his gaze toward the pier, swore, then ducked below again. A moment later, the engine gave a muffled rumble and died. Zula’s voice came through the iron plating. “Three minutes to warm up. You’d better stall them.”
The patrol boats pulled alongside. Iron hooks caught the gunwale with a piercing scrape. Their leader was a scar-faced man with a radio clipped to his belt. He stepped onto the deck, surveyed his surroundings, then narrowed his eyes.
“Captain Fermi. The guild master sent me with a message. The Black Sail is suspected of smuggling. Under guild regulations, she is hereby impounded.”
Still holding the compass, Fermi did not move. He raised his head and looked past Scarface toward the windows of the harbor administration building. Coffee stood behind the glass like a spectator watching a show.
“Smuggling?” Fermi’s voice remained even. “All I have aboard is fish. Two hundred crates of sea bream, five of squid. Every one bears the harbor authority’s seal.”
Scarface snorted and waved a hand. Several men filed aboard behind him and began searching the ship.
“The guild master said the ship gets seized whether we find anything or not. Be smart. Come sit down with us at the guild and sign the papers. Then your ship might still—”
He broke off abruptly.
Fermi raised his hand. The compass gave off a faint glow beneath the searchlights, its needle snapping toward the channel on the left.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet, yet it stopped Scarface cold. “A backwash will hit where you’re standing in three minutes. Your patrol boat is too close to the breakwater. When the wave comes, its stern will smash into the corner. Of the five of you, at least two will end up in the water.”
Scarface froze for a moment, then scoffed. “Quit your fucking bluffing. The water’s dead calm. What wave?”
The instant he finished speaking, ripples appeared across the water beyond the harbor. They spread rapidly, rising into a gray-white surge that moved against the wind, slanting toward the pier. The wave struck the breakwater and shattered into white foam. As it recoiled, it slammed hard into the stern of the patrol boat.
The boat lurched violently, its bow rearing upward. Two men lost their footing. One plunged into the water. The other crashed into the railing and doubled over, clutching his ribs with a groan.
Scarface’s expression changed. He instinctively retreated half a step, staring at the compass in Fermi’s hand with a mixture of shock and wary fear.
Fermi stepped forward, his tone level. “I don’t need to bluff. Go back and tell Coffee that I’m the only one who can read this ship’s route. Impound her if you like. But starting tomorrow, none of your guild’s ships will make it through the Blackwater Channel. There are seven undercurrents and three reefs along that route, all submerged at high tide. Without my compass, every ship you send in will sink.”
Scarface’s lips moved, but no rebuttal came. He raised a hand to his radio, murmured a few words. Moments later, Coffee’s voice came through the static, deliberately cordial: “Captain Fermi, young men have hot tempers. My people lack manners. They offended you. We won’t impound your ship. Your berth stays yours. But you need to do something for me—there’s a shipment moving through the Blackwater Channel tonight. Lead the way. Standard freight fee, doubled.”
Fermi did not answer at once. The compass trembled differently again. This time, its needle abruptly spun backward, pointing straight down beneath the hull. A direction he had never seen before. A chill climbed his spine, yet his face remained blank. “What kind of cargo?”
“Don’t ask.” Coffee’s voice darkened. “Just lead the way. Leave port before dawn. Once it’s done, I cover your berth and supplies.”
Fermi fell silent, his gaze passing over Scarface and the men behind him before settling on the black water beyond the rail. The compass still shook, pointing beneath the ship, pulse after pulse, as though something in the abyss were answering it.
“Deal,” he said. “One condition—my people leave first. I pilot the ship myself.”
Coffee laughed over the radio. “Fine. You’re a smart man, Fermi.”
The patrol boats slowly backed away. Scarface led his men off. The docklights still burned. Zula climbed up from the hold, looking baffled. “You’re really going to guide them? That ‘cargo’ sounds filthy.”
Fermi did not look at him. He stared down at the compass. Its needle now held steady in one direction—not the channel, not the tide, but directly below the ship. When he spoke, his voice was rough.
“Zula. When you repaired the engine, did you see anything under the hull that shouldn’t have been there?”
Zula blinked. “No. Just an ordinary hull. Rusted to hell. Some spots were rotted clean through, I—”
He stopped.
Fermi raised the compass before him. The needle pointed squarely at the ship’s belly, trembling without pause.
“This compass,” Fermi said quietly, “came from my father. It’s been with me seventeen years. It only recognizes tides and currents. Never once—not once—has it pointed at the bottom of my ship.”
In the distance, the windows of the harbor office went dark. On the water, the two patrol boats had not gone far. Their lights were out as they waited silently at the mouth of the Blackwater Channel.
From deep beneath the Black Sail’s hull came a faint, dull metallic knock.
As if something inside the shell had answered the compass’s trembling with a single tap.
Fermi clenched the compass until his fingertips blanched. The cabin was so silent that only water slapping against the hull remained.
“I didn’t put it there,” he said softly. “Which means someone else did.”
Zula’s face changed. “You mean…”
“Don’t make a sound.” Fermi raised a hand, his gaze deep. “First we find out what it is, who put it there, and when.”
He went to the bulkhead above the hold, crouched, and rapped his knuckles against the hull. The echo was dull and heavy—solid iron plating, not hollow. Yet the compass pointed down, shaking without stop, as though something beneath them were breathing.
Zula lit a miner’s lamp and swept its beam over the rust-streaked hull. The light halted on one spot. A weld ran there, glaringly fresh, the paint around it still bright.
“This isn’t an original seam,” Zula said under his breath. “Someone welded a false compartment onto the bottom during the overhaul.”
Fermi said nothing. His thumb traced the weld. Only one thought came to him: Coffee did not want the Black Sail.
He did not want Fermi, either.
The “cargo” had been under the ship all along.
He looked up, his voice calm. “Do you know where this ship came from?”
Zula shook his head. “When I took it over, it had already been sitting in dry dock for a year. Nobody could say.”
Fermi rose. The compass trembled in his hand, pointing below, pulse after pulse, as if urging him on. From the distant harbor office came a faint sound on the night wind—as though someone, several hundred meters away, were watching the Black Sail.
“Zula,” he said softly, “can you open the compartment?”
Zula glanced at the seam and nodded. “I’ll need tools. I can get it open by morning.” He paused, then added, “But if Coffee’s people are watching—”
“We’re not waiting until morning.” Fermi walked to the cabin door and looked toward the mouth of the Blackwater Channel. The two patrol boats lay there in darkness, like two crouching beasts watching the Black Sail.
He withdrew his gaze, his voice even lower. “I want to know what’s in there now.”
Zula gritted his teeth, grabbed a wrench, and climbed down into the hold. Fermi stood on deck, the compass pressed to his palm, trembling without pause, as though the thing beneath the ship were waiting for them.
The night was so heavy it seemed ready to drip. From deep beneath the Black Sail’s hull came a faint, dull metallic knock.
As if something inside the shell had answered the compass’s trembling with a single tap.