The boilers of the Vanguard roared at maximum draft, their forced-air blowers driving superheated steam through the twin quad-expansion turbines at twenty-one knots. Below deck, the firemen worked in disciplined four-minute rotations, shoveling high-grade Welsh anthracite into forty blazing furnace mouths. The heavy iron hull vibrated with a deep, bone-rattling pulse as the ship sliced through the equatorial swells of the Tuamotu Ridge, leaving a boiling, white wake across the dark ocean.
On the open bridge, the wind was warm and heavy with the scent of tropical salt and sulfur.
Prince Bastian stood at the forward rail, a pair of heavy brass naval binoculars pressed to his eyes. His dark waistcoat was unbuttoned at the neck, his sleeves rolled to his forearms against the humid heat.
