The Lost Island

31

As the burning swell subsided, Gideon struggled to his feet from his position at the bow and made his way aft, clutching at the rail to avoid being swept overboard. He found Amy at the helm. The lone working engine was making an ugly, coughing sound, and lights flickered. Each wave seemed to push the boat down farther, it rising ever more sluggishly.

“Check the forward bilge,” she cried over the roar of the sea.

Another wave slammed into the boat, pushing it sideways and almost knocking Gideon off his feet as he made his way down the companionway. The cabin was a total mess; the 50-caliber rounds had ripped through the foredeck, leaving gaping holes, shattering fiberglass and wood. The hatch to the bilge, he remembered, was located in the passageway to the head. He found the square piece covering the bilge access, pulled it up, unlatched the hatch, and raised it.

Water was sloshing around a mere inch below the cabin floor. Even as he watched, the boat was shoved sideways, the floor tilted, and water sloshed up and into the passageway. He tried to shut the hatch but the upwelling of water forced it open again.

The lights flickered again and the engine hacked and coughed. There was a strong smell of diesel fuel building in the enclosed space. He pulled out his walkie-talkie.

“The bilge is full, water’s at floor level and still rising. Also, a big fuel leak somewhere.”

“Get a life preserver and bring me one.”

Gideon pulled out two life jackets from a locker, donned his, and carried the other to the pilothouse. Amy was still at the helm, calmly working the controls with her left hand while broadcasting an SOS on the mike with her right.

“Activate the EPIRB,” she said. “Instructions printed on the outside.”

Gideon exited the pilothouse and located the emergency position indicating radio beacon in its compartment on the outer wall — completely shot to pieces. He raised his walkie-talkie again. “EPIRB’s destroyed. Do we have a backup?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I’m calling Glinn. We need a rescue.” Gideon leaned in toward the sat phone, flipped on the switch.

Nothing. A closer inspection revealed a bullet hole that bored straight through the phone’s innards.

“Shit!” He pounded the dead device with his fist.

Amy grabbed his arm. “Listen to me. Get some drysacks, fill them with water, food, matches, a knife, two headlamps, portable sat phone, briefing book, two handguns, ammo, food, rescue dye, binoculars, shark repellent, medical kit, quarter-inch line. Pull out as many life preservers as you can, bring them on deck, tie them together, and tie the drysacks on.”

“It’s done.” Gideon stumbled below again. The water was now up to his calves, covered with floating debris and trash. The boat was sinking fast. He grabbed two drysacks and began wading about, filling them as quickly as he could. The boat was getting heavier, lower in the water, totally at the mercy of the thunderous sea. Each swell pounded the hull, threatening to shake it apart. Cabinets were crashing down; light fixtures had come loose and were swinging from their wires.

And then the lights went out. Simultaneously the engine quit with a strong shudder.

Gideon put on one of the headlamps and kept collecting gear. The boat spun wildly, throwing him into the water. He struggled up, clinging to whatever he could, trying to keep the open drysacks above water. Throwing open the gun cabinet, he pulled out some ammo to match the handguns they were already carrying, and tossed in a couple of grenades for good measure. In went the briefing book, some line, two fixed-blade knives with sheaths, half a dozen liters of water, several boxes of granola bars.

The water was now past his knees.

The boat shook as an exceptionally powerful wave struck the hull. He heard cracking and a sudden spray of water, more cabinets tumbling down.

He sealed the drysacks. Now for the life jackets. He pulled out a mass of them from an emergency compartment and, looping a rope through their armholes, tied them together and dragged them up the companionway.

Another massive wave hit the boat, tilting it sideways. It did not swing back. The vessel wasn’t recovering. It was about to go under.

“On deck now!” he heard Amy cry.

Water was surging over the deckrail and pouring into the cockpit as the boat canted. Gideon struggled up the now cockeyed stair, against a rush of water, hauling the bundle of life preservers and the drysacks.

The Turquesa began to slide down into the sea sideways. The rush of water through the pilothouse door became a Niagara. It was perhaps the most sickening feeling Gideon had ever experienced. They really were going down.

“On deck!” screamed Amy.

Struggling with his burdens, he rammed them through the companionway door and, falling sideways as the deck became vertical, scrambled along the pilothouse windows. The boat had rotated and was lying on its beam-ends, going down by the stern, the bow rising higher and higher as water continued to surge through the door, the stern now completely underwater.

A great wave slammed the boat, throwing Gideon into the rising water. He struggled to find his footing. He couldn’t see Amy in the howling darkness, but he could hear her voice.

“Get out now!”

But the pilothouse door was completely underwater, the stern sinking fast and the boat vertical, its bow pointing straight up. He was trapped in the pilothouse, a row of sealed windows above him. There was no way he could swim underwater and out the door — not with the life preservers and drysacks.

Where was Amy?

He heard a deafening crash and a flash of light, then another and another. The far pilothouse window exploded into fragments of Plexiglas and in the flashes he could see Amy astraddle the mooring post, 45 in hand, firing through the windows to create an escape route.

The air rushed out of the gaping windows with a sigh and the water rose still farther, carrying him upward. He maneuvered the bundle of life preservers to the hole, where, with another great sigh, the rising water forced them through, pushing him underwater at the same time. He followed them up and a moment later found himself on the surface of the water, clinging to the mass of preservers.

Seconds later the bow of the Turquesa vanished beneath the waves. As he watched, the bottom of its hull appeared like a rolling whale, upside down.

“Amy—?” he began to call.

“Right here.”

He could see her dark outline bobbing in the water. A few strokes brought her over to the makeshift float. A great hissing wave rose over them, the comber at its top sweeping over their heads, pushing the float under for a moment. They rose again, shedding water. Gideon took a gasp of air, sputtering.

“Thank you,” he managed to say.

Another great wave towered above them, and they were buried again under the foaming crest.

Gideon clung to the makeshift raft for dear life, gasping for air. The only thought going through his mind was: One hundred and sixty miles from land.