Infernal

1

Land ho.

Bermuda's brightly colored, beckoning shores lay ahead. Beyond the pastel splotches of houses with glaringly bright roofs, Jack couldn't make out much in the way of detail. Everything he'd read said it was a beautiful, cultured, civilized place.

Great.

But Jack wouldn't have cared if it was a barren lump of rock, or the relocation of Sodom and Gomorra. It was land. He'd started to believe he might never see land again.

After the supertanker incident, the remainder of the trip had proved unremarkable.

Jack had climbed from belowdecks the following morning to find Tom sipping a beer and acting as if nothing had happened—no near collision, no punch. No apology for dereliction of duty, no mention of the punch. Everything copacetic.

So Jack adopted the same attitude: The night before hadn't happened.

Not a bad approach, considering how they were looking at another day or so cooped up together on the Sahbon.

The truce allowed them to talk civilly. They got along. They stuck to neutral subjects like sports and movies; they watched videotapes—Dazed and Confused twice at Tom's insistence—and studiously avoided the landmine of worldview.

Jack didn't get Tom. He was unquestionably bright, clever—perhaps a little too clever—and could be charming when it suited him. He'd make a good acquaintance or card-playing buddy as long as you first made sure the deck wasn't marked. But a friend? Jack wondered if Tom had any friends.

True friends… people who knew all about him, people he could call on when in need, and who could in turn depend on him to come running when they needed him.

Look at who's wondering about friends.

Jack could think of only three people in the world he could call friend: Gia, Abe, and Julio.

Three was enough. More than enough. A friend was a commitment. Friends took time and nurturing. And you had to give them your trust. That was the big stumbling block for Jack: You had to let a friend know you. Jack realized he had limitations in that department. He didn't want to be known. The fewer people who knew how he made his living, the better.

Gia, Abe, and Julio. They knew. They were enough.

But Tom? Who did Tom count as a friend? Who called Tom friend? Jack couldn't imagine it.

And that was sad to say about your only living kin.

"Okay." Tom clapped his hands. "Time to get out the fishing rods."

"Fishing? No way. My feet need dry land under them again ASAP."

"You kidding?" Tom laughed. "Fishing? I can't stand fishing. Rather watch paint dry. The rods are our camouflage. We're going to sneak in in plain sight, and then we're going to hide in plain sight."

"Just as long as we don't end up like the Sombra."

"Not to worry. We've got all sorts of advantages they didn't: like charts and channel markers and depth finders."

Jack tried to squeeze some assurance from that, but came up dry.

"All of which you know how to use, right?"

"Of course. I'm not exactly what you'd call an old salt, but I do know a few things. The channel markers are the easiest. Just remember the three R's: red-right-return."

"Meaning?"

"Always keep the red channel markers on your starboard side when returning to port."

Jack nodded. Sounded straightforward enough. He didn't see how Tom could screw that up. Even he could handle that.

Jack scanned the water. The sky was a clear blue dome, the midday sun glinted on the gentle waves. The breeze ruffled his hair. He guesstimated the air temp in the mid-sixties.

And straight ahead, taking up a good chunk of horizon, lay the islands of Bermuda. Islands. Jack had been studying the maps and a tourist guide. He'd always thought of Bermuda as a single island but had learned it was a group—five major and a horde of small ones.

More accurately, Bermuda was the remnant of the rim of a giant, ancient, long-dead, undersea volcano ringed with coral reefs. It ate up a fair number of degrees of their horizon now. Not a desert island—anything but. Its surface undulated with green, pastel-studded hills.

Directly around them lay dark blue water; but not far ahead it changed to a pattern of turquoise interlaced with thick, dark threads: sand and coral.

The maps placed the western reefs about six miles from shore. The Sahbon looked to be about that distance right now.

"Where are the reefs?"

Tom jutted his chin forward. "Dead ahead. Just under the surface… waiting. Five miles deep out here, three feet or so in there where you see those little breakers—that's the only giveaway. Helps you understand why there's three hundred fifty wrecks around here. I mean, imagine coming through these waters at night, or during a storm." He shook his head. "No thanks."

Jack stared at the water. If Tom hadn't pointed it out, he wouldn't have had a hint that a reef lurked below the surface.

"Thar she blows."

Jack swiveled, searching the water. "What?"

Tom pointed to the left. "Our first channel marker."

Jack spotted a red triangle fixed to the top of a flimsy pole. He searched and found another a few hundred yards beyond it.

Red-right-return… all right.

"Let's get those fishing rods in their holders. We need to look like locals."