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ankle-deep in fish, mostly big salmon. Refrigerated lockers on both sides bulged with thousands of pounds of fish. The footing was slimy and treacherous, the stench overpowering. Aven gritted his teeth. At least he was in charge of the detail now, but it seemed he would still end up weighing, measuring, and counting fish, the same as his men had been doing all day. He might never want to eat salmon again.
    Two more seamen, wearing jackets and gloves in the refrigerated area, continued the inspection process of weighing, measuring, and recording. They probed into all the recesses of the ship to be sure they’d seen everything. Sometimes fishermen pulled in a catch and threw overboard the lower-grade fish they’d snagged, keeping only the top grade. The only way to prove this illegal and wasteful practice was catching the fishermen in the act. Or they might accidentally catch protected species. Apparently this crew hadn’t tried to keep any illegal bycatch.
    Checking the amount of fish in the hold against the numbers in the fishermen’s records was tedious but doable. Aven spent more time doing this than anything else during Alaska’s fishing seasons. The crew of his law enforcement cutter made sure commercial fisheries didn’t harvest more than the law allowed from Alaskan waters.
    The Milroy had been out a week from Kodiak, plying the most popular fishing shoals. The cutter’s appearance in a new location this morning had no doubt made a lot of fishermen uneasy.
    As soon as today’s work ended and all hands were back aboard the Milroy , the cutter would head back to Kodiak. The quick thought of his home base brought an eager longing. Aven had been at this for eight years now, the last four in his home state’s frigid waters. He didn’t mind a cruise on the roiling, icy sea, but the hassle he got from fishermen who broke the law made the job less attractive. Still, it was worth being close enough to home that he could get to Wasilla to see his family several times a year.
    Right now the fatigue of fisheries law enforcement had worn him down. He’d be glad to get back to Kodiak Island and spend some time on land. Maybe he’d even make it to church this Sunday.
    Church. Would the buoy tender Wintergreen be in port now? If so, the new boatswain’s mate third class would probably be at church Sunday morning. He’d met her there a few weeks ago, before her ship put out for an extended deployment. Caddie Lyle. He could picture her serious blue eyes and pert nose. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had a wholesome attractiveness and a quiet determination that appealed to him. The memory of her perked him up considerably as they weighed the slippery, smelly fish. Next time they were both in port, he would ask her out. That settled, he got on with the job.
    An hour in the cold storage unit was unpleasant, but it gave him enough time to double-check the seamen’s weigh-ins. Time to issue the citation to the boat’s captain. Meanwhile, he assigned another man to run through the checklist of safety requirements.
    He emerged smelly and sticky into the fresh air on deck again, convinced his men’s assessment was accurate. He pulled in a deep breath. It was summer in Alaska, but the sea air still held an arctic edge, and the waters remained icy cold. If a man fell over the side, the frigid waves would sap his strength in seconds, and his heavy clothing would drag him down.
    On the main deck, Wayne still stood a few feet from Andrews, who looked none too happy. The rest of the boat’s crew had stopped working and milled aimlessly about the deck, waiting for Aven’s verdict. Adjusting his gait to the rolling of the boat, he walked over and handed the skipper his clipboard and showed him where to sign the inspection form.
    “I can’t talk you out of this?” the bearded man growled.
    “No, sir. You can appeal if you wish, but we’ve verified the discrepancies in weight twice. You’re carrying way more salmon than your