Spy Tugs
Spy Tugs Pic(s)
The frigid air bit at my cheeks as I guided the Spy Tug, a vessel weathered by countless North Sea gales, into the designated rendezvous point. Its hull, a patchwork of faded blues and rust-streaked reds, cut silently through the choppy, grey water. A dense, persistent fog began to coil around the ship, muffling the distant clang of a channel buoy and swallowing the world beyond our railings. My contact was late, a fact that set my nerves on edge as I scanned the impenetrable wall of mist for any sign of movement. Suddenly, a soft, rhythmic splashing broke the heavy silence, growing steadily closer from the starboard side. I gripped the cold, wet railing, my knuckles turning white, every sense straining to identify the approaching sound. A dark shape, low in the water, gradually materialized from the gloom, resolving into the form of a small, nondescript fishing dinghy. Its lone occupant cut the engine, allowing his boat to drift the final few feet until it bumped gently against the Spy Tug's massive flank. Without a word, he lifted a heavy, sealed crate, its metal surface beaded with condensation, and passed it up into my waiting arms. The transaction was complete in a breath, the fisherman offering a curt nod before his craft vanished back into the obscuring fog as silently as it had arrived. I stood there for a long moment, the weight of the container a sobering reminder of the secret now entrusted to my care.
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