At night, about two miles off Key West, Florida, Smith stood at the deck rail. The freighter had chugged its way through the Panama Canal, across the Gulf of Mexico into the Caribbean and up to the southern tip of Florida. He could see the coast nearby lit up like a swarm of fireflies. Disney World, here I come, he thought. He decided not to risk saying goodbye to the scruffy-looking captain. It was time for Smith to swim.
He pulled down his goggles, adjusted his wet-suit seals, checked the weights on his belt. The gold-filled rucksack, waterproofed and flanked with slabs of cork, hung on his back. He was getting good at this spy business.
Smith climbed onto the rail, prepared to go over. Maybe he would get reassigned once he was back at Navy headquarters. He hoped Admiral Turner still r
