But the Cyclops was the strangest vessel he'd ever encountered during his twelve years in the Navy. He had been assigned to many different ships and had sailed around the world four times. He was a thin, prematurely gray-haired man a few months shy of thirty. Lieutenant Church had worked his way up through the ranks to commissioned officer. Shortly after departing Rio de Janeiro, the starboard engine broke down and the chief engineer reported it could not be repaired until they reached port in Baltimore.

Her machinery was badly in need of overhaul and even now she was steaming on just her port engine.

Nudged by a friendly current, the heavily loaded collier was plodding along at only nine knots. He vaguely noticed the increasing height of the waves, but as long as they remained wide-spaced and their slopes gentle he saw no reason to reduce speed. dog watch, and it was all he could do to stay awake. Inside the Cyclops' wheelhouse, Lieutenant John Church stared vacantly through one of the large circular ports. The main surge of the sea seemed to be moving beneath the smooth surface, while massive forces were building in the depths below. A few, unable to drift off under the oppressive heat of the trade winds, stood around on the upper deck, leaning over the railing and watching the ship's bow hiss and lift over the high rolling swells. At three-thirty in the morning, most of the off-duty crewmen and passengers were asleep. There was a slight breeze from the southeast that barely curled the American flag on her stern. Even the seagulls that had haunted her wake for the past week darted and soared in languid indifference, their keen instincts dulled by the mild weather. In forty-eight minutes she would become a mass tomb for her 309 passengers and crew- a tragedy unforeseen and unheralded by ominous premonitions, mocked by an empty sea and a diamond-clear sky. The Cyclops had less than one hour to live.

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