Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  Within a few minutes, despite my bias, I liked him. We started off, literally, on the right foot. As Bette and I dropped down onto the yacht’s deck, I caught his quick glance at our feet. Both of us were wearing sneakers. He smiled apologetically.

  “Forgive me. Some people think spiked running shoes are suitable for yacht visiting.”

  It was an attractive voice with a strong English accent. Bette introduced us. He had a firm grip without being offensively strong, although it was obvious he was no ninety-pound weakling.

  We were joined by the fourth member of the party, a young, rather intense-looking brunette of something like twenty-two. With four of us in the cockpit it was rather like playing sardines, and I got a restricted view of her, but enough. She wore faded, knee-length jeans and under her thin white sleeveless shirt I could see a bra doing a fine job.

  “Let’s get below, Karen. It’s too crowded here.”

  Karen blushed. “Guess it was kinda silly.” She back-pedaled down the short ladder, cracked her head on the hatch, and disappeared, stifling a wail. Visick dropped a point in my estimation. Karen struck me as very dumb.

  The cabin was surprisingly spacious. A settee which doubled as a bunk with deep drawers underneath took up one side, then, over the three-foot central space, hung a table from the deckhead. On the other side was another identical bunk/settee. Above the bunks, which lay fore and aft, ran deep shelves. At the forrard end the bulkhead was covered with bookshelves, a bottle rack, and one painting. The after bulkhead, on either side of the ladder, was similarly fitted. Three small scuttles on each side above the shelves provided little light, but being painted entirely in white, the saloon looked fairly bright. The only color was the rich maroon plastic covering the settees and backrests. It was all very neat and clean.

  Visick dumped some bottles and glasses on the table, while Bette asked how his arm was. I asked him how he liked America, and he handed me all the usual answers. There was no point in asking Karen; she was as native as the California poppy.

  He sensed, or may have known from experience, which is more likely, the questions I was avoiding.

  “I expect you’re wondering what a man of my years is doing, wandering around the world. That’s an easy one: I like it.” He smiled at me. That was another nice thing. He was very attentive to both women, watching their drinks, lighting cigarettes and so on, but he was talking mostly to me. What was very surprising, both the women liked it that way. Karen’s dark eyes watched him all the time; and Bette, in between a series of swift glances at the cabin and Karen, did much the same. It was a treat the US male does not often get.

  Visick tapped his pipe gently in the ashtray. “You see, I’m a painter. I specialize in marine subjects. I cruise around and paint pictures of people’s yachts.” He nodded toward the painting on the bulkhead. “That’s my sample.”

  It was a picture of the Mayfly. It looked fine to me and I said so.

  He shrugged deprecatingly. “To be brutally frank there are worse, and a good many better. One advantage I do have is that I know what I’m painting; at least they are technically accurate. Yachtsmen like that. I’ve just spent a couple of months in L.A. refitting the boat and my bank balance. That’s where I met Karen.” He smiled at her, and with very un-British unselfconsciousness, took her hand and held it.

  She spoke, a little shyly. “We met at a party a yacht club threw for Bill. I was sick of my job. He let me come along.” Her expression said the rest.

  Visick changed the subject with patent deliberation. “You, Doctor Grant. I gather you’re a geologist?”

  I agreed I was, sort of, and gave a broad outline of my work. He listened with interest, and asked some very intelligent questions about continental drift that showed he was not totally ignorant of the subject. Then he exploded the bomb under me.

  “You’re the very chap to tell me about this volcano.”

  “Volcano?” For a moment he had me guessing.

  “Yes, this submarine thing away to the north.”

  I had caught up with him. I tried to look puzzled. “Volcano—tell me more!” Did I detect a small flicker of surprise?

  “There’s a lot of chat about it in the waterfront bars. It seems there’s this volcano or geyser, suddenly active about three hundred miles north northwest of here. The Coast Guard is keeping a full-time watch on it.”

  I was very glad I’d told Bette. Without that knowledge, she could have so easily landed me right in the middle.

  “Are they?” I said. Karen helped out.

  “Gee, it sounds exciting! Bill, d’you think we might—”

  “No.” He spoke gently but with complete finality. He was looking at me. “I don’t imagine the US Coast Guard wants anyone, let alone foreigners, in the area.” He stood up, a trim figure. I doubted if he could even spell “diet.” He paused under the painting in the doorway leading forward. “Let’s go and eat—I know quite a reasonable cafe not far from here, I’ll just put on a clean shirt.” He disappeared through the doorway, and called out, “Doctor Grant, come along and see the rest.”

  Through the doorway I found the lavatory and washbasin in a tiny compartment to port, and opposite it, an equally small galley on the starboard side. Further forward, through a sliding door, I came into the main .sleeping cabin. There was a double bunk to starboard, and a single one to port. This one was used as a storeroom for his painting materials. The forward bulkhead was covered with drawers, cupboards, and shelves; not an inch of space was wasted.

  Visick was already in his fresh shirt. “Doctor—”

  “Why not call me Mitch? This Doctor stuff is very confusing.”

  “Very well, Mitch. I wondered if you and Doctor Jakobsen would like to come to sea with us for a weekend, if the weather is reasonable. Thought I’d get your views first.”

  And that was how we got invited for that fateful trip.

  Next day I told Suffren that SARAH was not likely to remain a secret much longer. He shrugged the matter off. “As long as we don’t get blamed, and I don’t think that likely, now. With two cutters going back and forth, and God knows how many people ashore and in aviation involved, it is hardly surprising.”

  “I think this Britisher suspects I know rather more about SARAH, but it’s for sure neither he nor his bar pals suspect this is a man-assisted phenomenon.”

  Suffren sniffed. “Glad you said ‘assisted.’ I cannot believe that this eruption could have been long delayed. Still, that we will never know. If anyone does think we’re responsible, they’ll put the finger on us with the speed of light!”

  Bette and I met in her apartment on Friday evening. To my intense surprise, she flung her arms around me. “Darling, I’m so excited, so glad we’re going together!”

  Darling! That was new….

  We took Bill and Karen to dinner ashore, and we were all happy for a variety of reasons.

  Then on to Mayfly. Bill was not coy about the sleeping arrangements. “Karen and I have the double bunk. The main cabin is yours. Sleep well; I hope to catch the offshore breeze just after dawn, if there’s no fog.”

  In no time it was 6 A.M. “Mitch! There’s a mug of tea on the deck beside you.”

  I had the pleasure of watching Bette in the other bunk, wake. We drank the hot, sweet tea, and very welcome it was in the chill morning air.

  Returning the mugs to the galley, I found Karen cooking eggs, bacon, and fried bread. “Morning, Karen—no doubt about this being a little bit of England!”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes expressively. “He insists on it!”

  The boat vibrated as Bill started up the auxiliary engine. “I’d better get up there and lend a hand.”

  Karen laughed again.

  “Okay, I’ll amend that; I’d better get up there and watch.” I left her to it, rolled up my sleeping bag and stowed it and did the same for Bette, who had disappeared into the washroom, or as Bill preferred, the “head.”

  The air struck even chiller on deck, the wat
er was as smooth as oil, and a thin mist hung over the bay, shrouding the hills. Visick, bundled up in a thick, crew-neck sweater, was perched on the stern rail, smoking his pipe and steering with one foot. “Morning, Mitch, sleep well?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  He glanced around. “Worth getting up for isn’t it?”

  “Certainly is.” The bridge towered ahead of us. Astern, above the mist, the rim of the distant mountains was tinged with the fire of the ascending sun; windows in a high apartment block flashed golden flame, and on the water were innumerable small craft, like sleeping birds, half hidden in the low-lying mist. It was one of those moments you remember….

  After breakfast, Visick had us scrubbing the upper deck. Well clear of the harbor entrance, and with a favorable breeze, we made sail. The wind was not strong, and we barely had steerage way, but we were in no hurry. The strengthening sun burned off the damp from the deck, Karen was busy below, Bette was steering, and I was flat on my back on the cabin top, watching her. Visick was up in the bows, being nautical with a rope. It was all very calm and silent and wonderful. Things stayed that way for the better part of an hour, a long time for anything really nice in this world….

  I must have dozed, for when I next took stock the breeze had freshened slightly, the sea sparkled, and the California coast was further away. Bill’s brisk voice must have awakened me.

  “Right, Bette,” he ordered. “I like to know my helmsman’s capabilities! Bring her up into the wind, pay off on the other tack, then jibe her round and get back on this course—okay?”

  The golden head nodded. Her set expression told me that she was determined to do it as well as she possibly could. Again, I had that faint feeling that this was partly because she sought his approbation. She completed the exercise.

  Visick nodded. “Notice anything?”

  “She’s a lot handier and lies closer to the wind than I had expected.”

  “Good. Now, for the hell of it,” he grinned at her, “pretend this is a man.” He picked up the lifebuoy that lay on the cabin top. “And now he’s overboard!” He heaved it into the sea. “Go!”

  Bette was good and fast.

  “Mitch, can you see it?”

  “Yes!”

  “Keep your eye on it and don’t lose it!”

  She jibed the boat around, handling the main sheet with one hand and the tiller with the other. The boat heeled onto the opposite side, bringing protesting wails from the unprepared Karen below, then around in a circle just large enough to bring up neatly into the wind alongside the red-and-yellow cork buoy.

  “Boathook, Mitch!”

  I fished the buoy out and dumped it back on the cabin top.

  “Not bad at all, Bette!”

  Bette did not actually simper, but she got close to it. I was as jealous as hell; Visick had really got a mental half-Nelson on her. Besides, neither of them complimented me on the smart work with the boathook.

  “You certainly can pick ’em, Mitch,” said Visick, cunningly working me into the picture. “She’s got my confidence.” Just to show it, he disappeared below.

  “Shame!” I said. “He didn’t pat you on the head.”

  “Grow up, Mitch! Green isn’t your color!” She reached out for my hand. “Mitch—”

  “Mitch!” Visick’s face, grave and looking older, appeared in the hatchway. “Come down, will you?”

  One of the bulkhead cupboards was open. A door, hinged at the bottom, was let down to form a small desk.

  Inside the cupboard was a powerful Racal transistorized receiver. Visick was looking at a piece of paper on the desk.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Trouble, by the sound of it. I usually check the local distress net when I’m out, to get the met. reports. Got this,” he tapped the paper. “There’s a boat missing. Seems as if every damned station from Canada to the Mexican border is calling.”

  “Where?”

  “If you’ll dig the chart out, it’ll be in that top roll, we’ll see.”

  As he unrolled the chart he said, “The position must be quite a way from us, but you can’t be sure in these cases, could be wildly wrong.”

  “What is it, a yacht?”

  He was busy with dividers, measuring. He spoke without looking up. “No. Some sort of Coast Guard boat.”

  Suddenly I felt very cold and sick. Leaning over his shoulder, I could see the position he had marked on the chart. “Did they give her name or number?”

  He glanced at the scribbled message. “Yes, it was WHEC 936.”

  Momentarily I closed my eyes. “W” was the Coast Guard designation letter. HEC stood for High Endurance Cutter, and 936 was the vessel’s hull number. And 936 was the Tuscarora.

  Chapter 7

  I could not speak. The Tuscarora! My mouth was suddenly dry. “Have you switched off?”

  Visick looked up sharply at the change in my voice. “Yes, to save the batteries. I usually switch on at the distress periods, quarter past and quarter to the hour—why?”

  “Never mind the batteries,” I said hoarsely. “Switch on!” He frowned slightly, but did so without argument, and looked again at the chart. “That’s the given position, but it could well be wrong.” He frowned again. “Probably is, it’s a hell of a way out for a tiddler.” His even tone did not change, nor did he look up. “I do not wish to intrude, but do you know this boat or someone aboard?”

  I couldn’t hold back. “I knew lots of guys on her, I’ve sailed on her, and she’s no tiddler! Four thousand tons of ship—and you can take it from me, that position’s right!” Visick looked relieved. “Well, there must be a simple answer. ‘Cutter’ was mentioned, and where I come from that’s a small boat. Four thousand tons is a fair-sized ship: she can’t just disappear! The met. situation’s good, and if there had been a collision—”

  “No,” I spoke with dull, inner conviction. “The Tuscarora‘s gone.” I had a vivid mental picture of her captain and his instinctive distrust of SARAH. I could only think they had hit a bad gas pocket, yet that was hard to believe. Even the makeshift arrangements we had after the first encounter should have been adequate, and unless I was very wrong in my estimation of the USCG they’d have a lot better arrangements by this time.

  Visick was studying me carefully. “You know a good deal more than that about this business, don’t you?” He tapped the chart. “This position can’t be all that far from the volcano.”

  I did not answer, in fact I barely heard him. He inclined his head in acceptance.

  “Well, I’ll keep the radio going—”

  I took a deep breath. “I must tell Bette.” I turned and stumbled up the ladder into the incongruous sunlight.

  Bette’s face hardened as I told her, but she kept her eyes on the sails and the sea. She said only one word, “SARAH?”

  “What else?”

  “But what can have happened?”

  Karen came on deck. “Gee, I’m very sorry, Mitch.” She squeezed my arm sympathetically and hesitated. “I—I’ve got some genuine American coffee down below, will you have some?”

  I nodded, and she went below, leaving me feeling a bigger heel than ever. I was not just shocked and sad about the Tuscarora. I was scared.

  Karen took two mugs up and stayed with Bette. Bill and I had ours down in the cabin, and when he silently offered me a shot of rum in mine, I did not refuse.

  The next distress period came and went. There was the repetition of the earlier message asking for any information on WHEC 936, but that was all. No one answered.

  Visick looked at the radio, then me, and raised his eyebrows.

  “No. I’d be grateful if you kept it on, Bill.”

  “Of course. You listen for a bit. It’s time I gave that girl of yours a relief.” He got up and turned for the ladder, but didn’t make it.

  The radio exploded into strident life with a new voice, loud and urgent.

  “Emergency, emergency, emergency! Calling all ships and craft! This is San Fra
ncisco Coast Guard Station calling all ships and craft! Emergency! A tidal wave is reported approaching the San Francisco coast from the north northwest. Estimated wave height fifteen to twenty feet. It is expected to reach the Golden Gate area at approximately eleven fifteen, local time. All ships that can should proceed to sea. Warn all small craft in your vicinity! I say again….”

  Visick looked at me, then the bulkhead clock, and returned to the chart. I just sat and stared, trying to fight down the rising fear. He moved the dividers across the paper, sniffed, and rubbed his beaky nose. “Um. I’d say we’ll encounter this lot in about an hour’s time, around eleven.” He was remarkably composed.

  “D’you think we can make it back to shelter?”

  “No! I’ll fix our position accurately in a moment, but we must be twelve to fifteen miles offshore. Anyway, harbor’s the last place I’d want to be.” The radio was making one hell of a row, with other stations repeating the emergency message. “D’you mind if I turn this down?” He was not being sarcastic. I shook my head. “Come on deck, Mitch. We’d better tell the girls.”

  They’d heard some of it, and Karen was clearly alarmed. “What was that, Bill?”

  He put an arm around her. “Nothing for you to worry about.” I had got my head out the hatch, loath to get too far from the radio.

  Bill dug out his foul pipe, and, as well as the employed arm would allow, started filling it. “Well, as you probably heard, there’s a tidal wave heading this way, and will be here in about an hour’s time.” He paused to light his pipe. His hand was perfectly steady, and he went about the operation as if he had a million years to spare. “Now, let’s get one thing quite straight. Provided we keep our heads and act correctly, there is nothing to worry about! Forget this tidal wave stuff. Whatever the cause, it’s a wave like any other, except it’s a bit bigger than some and instead of a lot of them, this time there are only one or two. Got it? A wave is no more than motion traveling through water; the energy it contains is not liberated until it breaks, either against an obstacle, like the shore, or when it enters shallow water. Out here, we’re in deep water, and we’re no obstacle, we just ride over the top! The weather’s good, there’s no cross swell or heavy sea to make things difficult, so all we do is to bob up and down a bit.”