THE VULTURE'S POV
The North Atlantic was a desert of gray water and white foam, a churning abyss that consumed light and sound alike. Most people looked at the ocean and saw a barrier, a terrifying expanse of nothingness. I looked at it and saw a highway one with no speed limits, no checkpoints, and no witnesses.
I wasn't on a ship. Ships were bulky, loud, and left wake-trails that satellites could track from orbit. I was on a semi-submersible, a low-profile, carbon-fiber craft that sat just inches above the waterline. It was painted in a non-reflective, radar-absorbent coating that mimicked the exact gray-green hue of a stormy sea. To anyone watching a monitor on St. Jude's Key, I was nothing more than a rogue wave or a glitch in the sonar.
