"Well?"

"Damnedest thing."

"What's that?"

"It's birds."

Caan turned around sharply. Wait for the birds. They will be your sign. "What?"

"It's birds, sir," the seaman said, suddenly aware of Caan's presence. Caan moved toward the rail to get a better look, hanging on against the rolling of the ship.

"Gimme them glasses," one of the sailors said, snatching away the binoculars. "Can't hardly see with this rain and all."

"Goddamn birds, I tell you."

"What kind of birds?" an observer asked.

"I dunno. Seagulls, it looks like."

"They're the size of buzzards," the man looking through the binoculars said incredulously.

Caan placed his hand over his breast pocket. The vial lay over his thundering heart. There will be terrible destruction. "Clear the decks," he said, turning back toward the seamen.

"Sir, it's only some birds—"

"Clear the decks, I said!"

The sailors backed away from him. "Yes, sir," the senior one said hesitantly. Caan saw him striding toward one of the ship's officers. The officer, a lieutenant commander, cast an angry glance at Caan, barked something at the seamen, and stormed over toward the copilot.

"What is the idea of telling my men to clear the decks in the middle of a storm?" he raged.

"It's the birds, sir," Caan began to explain.

"Haven't you ever seen birds before? You're a pilot, for God's sake, you must have run across them once or twice."

"It's not like that, sir—"

"Look here, Lieutenant. We've got weather on our hands that's getting worse by the minute. My men can't clear the decks just because of a few birds. Is that clear?"

"You've got to believe me!" Caan shouted. "These aren't ordinary birds."

The other officer's lips tightened. "I think you'd better stick to flying planes, son."