Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  "Isobel!" he roared, bracing his feet against the walls of the cabin and locking his hands around the wheel. "Go into the forward cabin and unscrew the metal hatch in the center of the floor. Tell me how much water's in the hold."

  Bonterre shook the rain from her eyes and nodded her understanding. As Hatch watched, she crawled through the pilothouse and unlatched the cabin door. A moment later, she emerged again.

  "It is one quarter full!" she shouted.

  Hatch swore; they must have hit some piece of flotsam that stove in the hull, but he'd never felt the impact in the violent seas. He glanced again at the loran. Two and a half miles from the island. Too far out for them to turn around. Perhaps too far to make it.

  "Take the wheel!" he yelled. "I'm going to check the dinghy!"

  He crawled aft, hanging desperately to the gunwale railing with both hands.

  The dinghy was still behind, bobbing like a cork at the end of its line. It was relatively dry, the Plain Jane's bulk having kept most of the heavy seas out of it. But, dry or not, Hatch hoped to God they wouldn't have to use it.

  The moment he relieved Bonterre at the helm, he could tell that the boat had grown distinctly heavier. It was taking longer to rise through the masses of water that pressed them down into the sea.

  "You okay?" Bonterre called.

  "So far," said Hatch. "You?"

  "Scared."

  The boat sank again into a trough, into that same eerie stillness, and Hatch tensed for the rise, hand on the throttle. But the rise did not come.

  Hatch waited. And then it came, but more slowly. For a grateful moment, he thought perhaps the loran was off and they had already come into the lee of the island. Then he heard a strange rumble.

  Towering far above his head was a smooth, Himalayan cliff face of water. A churning breaker topped its crown, growling and hissing like a living thing.

  Craning her neck upward, Bonterre saw it as well. Neither said a word.

  The boat rose and kept rising, ascending forever, while the water gradually filled the air with a waterfall's roar. There was a massive crash as the comber hit them straight on; the boat was flung backward and upward, the deck rising almost to vertical. Hatch clung desperately as he felt his feet slip from the deck beneath him. He could feel the water in the hold shift, twisting the boat sideways.

  Then the wheel went abruptly slack. As the roaring water fell away, he realized the boat was swamped.

  The Plain Jane came to rest on its side and began to sink rapidly, too full of water to right itself. Hatch looked rearward. The dinghy had also shipped a quantity of water, but was still afloat.

  Bonterre followed Hatch's eyes and nodded. Clinging to the side, up to their waists in roiling water, they began working their way toward the stern. Hatch knew that a freakish wave was usually followed by a series of smaller ones. They had two minutes, maybe three, to get into the dinghy and free of the Plain Jane before she dragged them down with her.

  Clinging to the railing, Hatch held his breath as the water surged over them, first once, then a second time. He felt his hand grasp the stern rail. Already, the eyebolt was too deep underwater to reach. Fumbling about in the chill sea, he located the painter. Letting go of the rail, he reeled in the rope, kicking frantically against the tug of the water until he felt himself bump the dinghy's bow. He scrambled in, falling heavily to the bottom, then rose and looked back for Bonterre.

  She was clinging to the stern, the Plain Jane now almost under. He grabbed the painter and began pulling the dinghy in toward the eyebolt. Another great wave lifted him up, smothering him with briny foam. He leaned down and grasped Bonterre under the arms, pulling her into the dinghy. As the wave subsided, the Plain Jane turned bottom up and began to sink in a flurry of bubbles.

  "We've got to cut loose!" Hatch shouted. He dug into his pocket for his knife and sawed desperately through the painter. The dinghy fell back into the swell as the Plain Jane turned its stern toward the inky sky and disappeared with a great sigh of air.

  Without hesitation, Bonterre grabbed the bailer, working fast to lighten the dinghy's bottom. Moving aft, Hatch gave the outboard a tug, then another. There was a cough, a snort, then a tinny rasp above the scream of the ocean. Engine idling, Hatch quickly began working the second bailer. But it was no use: with the Plain Jane gone, the little dinghy was bearing the full brunt of the storm. More water was crashing over the side than could be bailed out.

  "We need to be turned against the sea," said Bonterre. "You bail. I will manage the boat."

  "But—"

  "Do it!"

  Crawling aft, Bonterre threw the little engine into forward and jammed the throttle open, swinging the boat broadside to the sea as she did so.

  "For Chrissake, what are you doing?" Hatch howled.

  "Bail!" she yelled in return. The boat sagged backward and upward, the water in its bottom flowing aft. Just as a great comber bore down, she gave the throttle a sudden twist, lifting it up and over. Immediately, she turned the boat again, surfing down the wave's backside, almost parallel to the sea.

  This was in direct opposition to everything Hatch had ever learned about boats. In terror, he dropped the bailer and clung to the gunwale as they gathered speed.

  "Keep bailing!" Bonterre reached back and pulled the stopcock in the stern. Water drained out as the boat picked up even more speed.

  "You're going to kill us!" Hatch yelled.

  "I have done this before!" Bonterre shouted. "I surfed the waves as a kid."

  "Not waves like this!"

  The dinghy skimmed down the middle of the trough, the propeller clearing the water with a nasty whine as they began to climb the leading side of the next wave. Sprawled in the bottom and clutching both gunwales, Hatch guessed their speed at twenty knots.

  "Hold on!" Bonterre yelled. The little boat skidded sideways and skipped over the foaming crest. As Hatch watched in mingled horror and disbelief, the dinghy became airborne for a sickening moment before slamming down on the far side of the wave. It leveled out, shooting down the following edge.

  "Can't you slow down?"

  "It does not work if one slows down! The boat needs to be planing!"

  Hatch peered over the bows. "But we're heading in the wrong direction!"

  "Do not worry. In a few minutes I will come about."

  Hatch sat up in the bow. He could see that Bonterre was staying as long as possible in the glassy troughs, where the wind and chop didn't reach, violating the cardinal rule that you never bring your boat broadside to a heavy sea. And yet the high speed of the boat kept it stable, allowing her to look for the best place to cross each wave.

  As he watched, another wave crested before them. With a deliberate jerk, Bonterre jammed the engine handle around. The dinghy skipped over the top of the crest, reversing direction as it came hurtling down into the next trough.

  "Sweet Jesus!" Hatch cried, scrabbling desperately at the bow seat.

  The wind dropped a little as they came into the lee of the island. Here there was no regular swell, and it became far more difficult for the little boat to ride the confused sea.

  "Turn back!" Hatch cried. "The riptide's going to sweep us past the island!"

  Bonterre began to reply. Then she stopped.

  "Lights!" she cried.

  Emerging from the storm was the Cerberus, perhaps three hundred yards off, the powerful lights on its bridge and forward deck cutting through the dark. Now it was turning toward them, a saving vision in white, almost serene in the howling storm. Perhaps it had seen them, Hatch thought—no, it had seen them. It must have picked up the Plain Jane on its scope and been coming to its rescue.

  "Over here!" Bonterre yelled, waving her arms.

  The Cerberus slowed, presenting its port side to the dinghy. They came to an uneasy rest as the great bulk of the ship cut them off from wind and waves.

  "Open the boarding hatch!" Hatch yelled.

  They bobbed for a moment, waiting, as the Cerberus remain
ed silent and still.

  "Vas-y, vas-y!" Bonterre cried impatiently. "We are freezing!"

  Staring up at the white superstructure, Hatch heard the high whine of an electric motor. He glanced toward the boarding hatch, expecting to see it open. Yet it remained closed and motionless.

  Twisted lightning seared the sky. Far above, Hatch thought he could see a single figure reflected against the light of the bridge instrumentation, looking down at them.

  The whine continued. Then he noticed the harpoon gun on the forward deck, swiveling slowly in their direction.

  Bonterre was staring at it also, puzzled. "Grande merde du noire," she muttered.

  "Turn the boat!" Hatch yelled.

  Bonterre threw the throttle hard to starboard and the little craft spun around. Above, Hatch saw a peripheral glow, a blue flash. There was a sharp hissing noise, then a loud splash ahead of them. A thunderous whump followed, and a tower of water rose twenty feet off their port bow, its base lit an ugly orange.

  "Explosive harpoon!" Hatch cried.

  There was another flash and explosion, frighteningly close. The little dinghy pitched sharply, then heaved to one side. As they cleared the side of the Cerberus, wild water took them once again. There was an explosion ahead as another harpoon hit the water. Spray stung Hatch's face as they fell backward, nearly foundering.

  Without a word, Bonterre spun the boat again, throttled up, and headed straight for the Cerberus. Hatch turned to yell out a warning, then realized what she was doing. At the last moment she turned the boat sideways, slamming hard against the huge vessel. They were under the pitch of the hull, too close for the harpoon gun.

  "We'll make a dash by the stern!" Bonterre cried.

  As Hatch leaned forward to bail, he saw a strange sight: a narrow line in the water, sputtering and snapping, heading toward them. Curious, he paused to watch. Then the line reached the bow in front of him, and with a tearing sound the nose of the dinghy vanished in a cloud of sawdust and wood smoke. Falling into the stern, glancing up, Hatch could see Streeter leaning over the ship's rail, an ugly weapon he recognized as a flechette aimed directly at them.

  Before Hatch could speak Bonterre had thrown the boat forward again. There was a sound like a demonic sewing machine as the flechette in Streeter's hands tore apart the water where the dinghy had tossed just a moment before. Then they had cleared the stern and were back out in the storm, the boat bucking, water crashing over the ruined bows. With a roar, the Cerberus began to turn. Bonterre jammed the dinghy to port, almost overturning it as she headed in the direction of the Ragged Island piers.

  But in the vicious ripping sea the small outboard was no match for the power and speed of the Cerberus. Looking through the heavy squall, Hatch could see the huge boat begin to gain. In another minute, they would be cut off from the inlet that led through the Ragged Island reefs to the pier beyond.

  "Head for the reefs!" he yelled. "If you time the swell, you might be able to ride right over. This boat hardly draws a foot!"

  Bonterre jerked the boat to a new course. The Cerberus continued to bear down, coming inexorably at them through the storm.

  "Make a feint, let him think we're going to turn at the reefs!" he shouted.

  Bonterre brought them parallel to the reefs, just outside the breaking surf.

  "He thinks he's got us!" Hatch said as the Cerberus turned again. There was another shattering explosion off the beam, and for a moment Hatch breathed salt water. Then they emerged from the spray. Glancing down, Hatch saw that half the port gunwale had been blown away by a harpoon.

  "We'll only have a single chance!" he yelled. "Ride the next swell across!"

  They bucked along the reef for an agonizingly long instant. Then he yelled: "Now!"

  As Bonterre turned the ruined dinghy into the boiling hell of water that lay across the reef, there came another huge explosion. Hatch heard a strange crunching noise and felt himself hurtled violently into the air. Then everything around him was churning water and bits of planking, and the dying muffled roar of agitated bubbles. He felt himself being drawn down, and still down. There was only one brief moment of terror before it all began to seem very peaceful indeed.

  Chapter 47

  Woody Clay lost his footing on a patch of seaweed, banged his shin, and came close to using the Lord's name in vain. The rocks along the shore were slippery and algae-covered. He decided it was safer to crawl.

  Every limb of his body ached; his clothes were torn; the pain in his nose was worse than he could have ever imagined; and he was cold to the point of numbness. Yet he felt alive in a way that he had not in many, many years. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, this wild exhilaration of the spirit. The failed protest no longer had any significance. Indeed, it had not failed. He had been delivered onto this island. God worked in mysterious ways, but clearly He had brought Clay to Ragged Island for a reason. There was something he had to accomplish here, something of prime importance. Exactly what, he did not yet know. But he was confident that, at the right time, the mission would be revealed to him.

  He scrambled beyond the high tide mark. Here the footing was better, and he stood up, coughing the last of the seawater from his lungs. Every cough sent a hideous pain shooting through his ruined nose. But he did not mind the pain. What was it St. Lawrence had said, when the Romans were roasting him alive over a brazier of hot coals? "Turn me over, Lord. Cook me on the other side."

  As a child, when other boys had been reading Hardy Boys mysteries and biographies of Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb, Clay's favorite book had been Foxe's Book of Martyrs. Even today, as a Congregational minister, he saw nothing wrong in quoting liberally from the lives of the Catholic saints, and even more liberally from their deaths. Those were people who had been blessed with visions, and with the courage to see them through, no matter what the cost. Clay was reasonably certain he had the courage. What he'd been lacking recently, he knew, was the vision.

  Now he had to take shelter, get warm, and pray for the revelation of his purpose.

  He scanned the shoreline, gray against a black sky, blasted and pelted by the fury of the storm. There were some large rocks off in the dimness to his right—the kind fishermen called Whale-backs. Beyond was the unnatural dry lagoon formed by Thalassa's cofferdam. Except the exposed seabed was not entirely dry. He noted, with a grunt of satisfaction, that the surf was battering the cofferdam relentlessly. Several of the stanchions were bent and one of the reinforced concrete slabs had warped. Every blow of the waves sent massive plumes of spray over the top of the wall.

  Clay walked up the rocky shore and found shelter in the large earthen embankment, beneath some overhanging tree roots. But even here the rain was lashing down, and as soon as he stopped moving he began to shiver. Standing up again, he began walking along the base of the embankment, looking for some kind of windbreak. He saw nobody and heard nobody. Perhaps the island was tenantless, after all: the plunderers had evacuated in the face of the storm, scattered, like the moneylenders from the temple.

  He came to the point of land. Around the edge of the bluff lay the seaward side of the island. Even from here, the sound of the pounding surf was intense. As he rounded the point, a strip of yellow police tape caught his eye, one end torn free and fluttering wildly in the wind. He moved forward. Beyond the tape lay a trio of braces, made out of some shiny metal, and behind them a dark, ragged opening led into the embankment. Maneuvering around the tape and the braces, Clay stepped into the opening, ducking his head under the low roof as he did so.

  Inside, the sound of the surf dropped dramatically, and it was snug and dry. If it wasn't warm exactly, at least it wasn't chilly. He reached into one pocket and took out his little supply of emergency items: the flashlight, the plastic match case, the miniature first aid kit. He shone the flashlight around the walls and ceiling. It was some kind of small chamber, which narrowed to a tunnel at the far end.

  It was very interesting, very gratifying. He had, in a way, been led to this
tunnel. He had little doubt it connected somehow to the works that were said to honeycomb the center of the island. His shivering increased, and he decided that the first course of action should be to build a fire and dry out a bit.

  He gathered some small driftwood that had washed into the cave, then unscrewed the circular plastic case and upended it. A dry wooden match fell out into his hand. He smiled with a certain suppressed feeling of triumph. He had carried this waterproof match case on every boat trip he'd ever taken since coming to Stormhaven. Claire had teased him about it, of course—being that it was Claire, kind-hearted teasing—but it had rankled nevertheless in that secret part of Clay's heart kept hidden from every living creature. And now, that match case was going to play its own part in his destiny.

  In short order, a little fire was casting merry shadows on the wall of his cave. The storm howled past the tunnel entrance, leaving his nest practically untouched. The pain in his nose had subsided to a dull, steady throb.

  Clay huddled closer, warming his hands. Soon—very soon, now—he knew the special task that had been set aside for him would at last be made clear.

  Chapter 48

  Isobel Bonterre glanced wildly up and down the rocky shore, narrowing her eyes against the wind and lashing rain. Everywhere she looked, there were shapes in the sand, dark and indistinct, that could have been the body of Malin Hatch. But when she'd come close enough to investigate, they had all proved to be rocks.

  She glanced out to sea. She could see Neidelman's boat, the Griffin, two anchors securing it close to the reef, doggedly riding out the howling gale. Farther out to sea, the elegant white bulk of the Cerberus was barely visible, lights ablaze, the crashing surf having lifted it off the reef onto which it had run aground. It had evidently lost steerage, and was now being carried out to sea on the strong tidal rip. It was also listing slightly, perhaps struggling with a flooded bulkhead or two. A few minutes before, she'd seen a small launch put over its side and struggle through the seas at a frantic pace, disappearing around the far end of the island, toward the Base Camp dock.