With the end of the runway nearing, the landing gear was jettisoned from the aircraft, the idea being that two hundred pounds of metal wasn’t worth lugging all the way to Paris when one could land on the skid underneath the plane’s belly.
Relieved of the landing gear, the plane climbed more easily, clearing telephone wires strung along the road at the end of the runway. Only now did the photographer snap his final shot. It caught the red plane turning east, heading for the coast, the sun glinting off its polished ram’s head emblem. The Atlantic Ocean beckoned and, on the other side, Paris, fame and fortune.
* * *
—
The photographer developed his photographs the next morning. His pictures of the Golden Ram in flight would be used repeatedly over the next month, first in articles describing the great hope on the day of the flight, then during the unsuccessful search for the plane, which would go on for weeks after the Golden Ram vanished.
Despite the possibility of selling it for a large sum of money, the photographer would never publish the slightly blurred picture of Melbourne climbing onto the wing.
“Bad luck,” the reporter had called it. And for the rest of his life the photographer would believe it had been just that.
Chapter 2
The North Atlantic, off the coast of Scotland
The present day
Gale-force winds howled across a hundred-foot trawler, whistling through the masts and booms that rose above the deck. Rain and spray blew in equal measure, lashing the windows of the bridge with blinding sheets, while the seas beyond the ship became a field of endless whitecapped swells rolling beneath the heavy gray sky.
A powerful Atlantic storm that had briefly been a hurricane had wandered north toward Newfoundland and then back across the pond toward Ireland. It was only the second such tempest to reach the British Isles in as many decades and it had come on faster than any of the predictions said it would.
Inside the trawler, three men occupied the bridge, one of them clinging to the ship’s wheel, the other two holding tight to anything that helped them remain upright.
“Keep us square on,” the captain shouted to the helmsman.
“I’m trying,” he replied. “But the winds are shifting, Cap’n. We’ll be getting blown over before long.”
Both men spoke with a deep Scottish burr, a lifetime of northern heritage clear in their words. And despite their efforts, the trawler was struggling.
As it crested a long swell and dropped down the back side of the wave at an angle, the ship leaned hard to starboard and threatened to capsize. The helmsman had no choice but to turn downward and go with the wave.
Even then, it seemed like the ship might roll until the bow dug in to the bottom of the trough, the hull groaned loudly and the trawler’s nose pitched up, shedding the seawater that had nearly swamped it.
Timing his steps to coincide with a brief moment of stability, the captain moved to the navigation computer. Holding on to the sides of the console for balance, he looked at the screen. The sweep of the radar beam showed an even heavier wall of rain to the north, but nothing beyond that. To the east, it picked up a small number of contacts and the rocky coast of the Isle of Skye.
As they neared the crest of the next swell, spindrift blew back at them, raking the windows and sounding like hail. “It’s no good,” the captain said. “We’ll never make it around the point. We need to find somewhere to shelter from the storm.”
The third man on the bridge, whose name was Vincennes, took exception. Small in stature, thin-bodied, with a round, soft face, he looked anything but the demanding sort. Yet there was no mistaking the intensity in his unblinking eyes. “No diversions,” he insisted, stepping closer to the captain and tapping a finger on the screen. “We go to Dunvegan.”
Vincennes was neither an officer nor member of the crew, but he’d paid for the voyage and he intended to arrive at his chosen destination.
“Listen to me,” the captain said. “The storm has passed far enough over that the wind is coming from the northeast. Right now, the Isle of Skye is between us and the worst of it. But the moment we pass Neist Point Lighthouse the waves will double in size and the wind will start ripping things off the boat. Things we need, like antennas, radar masts and life rafts. One bad wave and we’ll lose a hatch or a window and then we’ll start taking on water. Do you understand?”
Vincennes stared.
In case he hadn’t gotten the point, the captain put it together for him. “We’ll not be making Dunvegan tonight. The only thing for us to decide is if we spend the night sheltered in a bay or drowning out here.”
The helmsman offered a solution. “If we put in to Loch Harport, we’ll be safe from the storm. The loch is protected on three sides. And, from there, it’s no more than twenty kilometers by road to Dunvegan.”
By the time he’d finished making the suggestion, the boat had pitched forward once again, dropping into another trough between the waves. Everyone braced themselves for its bottom and the inevitable upward thrust that accompanied it.
This time the bow pierced the oncoming wave, submerging beneath it for just a moment. The crest of the wave flew back toward the bridge at a frightening speed. It slammed into the structure like a hammer, cracking one of the storm-proof windowpanes and staggering the boat.
The impact startled Vincennes. He flinched and ducked and then stood up slowly, looking surprised to be dry. “All right,” he said, nodding to the captain. “Take shelter in the loch. But no radio calls. No one must know we’re there.”
The captain nodded to the helmsman, who’d already begun the turn.
Buffeted by the wind, the trawler swung ponderously to the northeast. It brought them on a course more directly into the waves. The awful twisting and rolling they’d been enduring for half the day was reduced.
Another hour brought them in sight of the loch’s outer bay. The entrance was wide, but dotted with small rocky islands and submerged shoals.
“Watch the current,” the captain urged. He could feel it pulling at the boat, slewing it around and drawing them off their intended course.
Waves were another issue. Out in the channel they were fairly regular and predictable, but as the boat neared the coast the wave pattern became more chaotic as the incoming swells bent around the rocky points and rebounded off the walls of the bluffs. One moment they would be getting pushed from behind, the next a wave would slam off the bow.
It didn’t take long for them to find trouble. “We’re out of the channel,” the captain shouted while comparing their position to what was on the navigation terminal. “Hard to starboard.”
“We’re full over,” the helmsman said.
Turning more, they were now fighting the wind as well. The combination was too much. The trawler was pushed farther out of the channel and dragged across a shoal.
The terrible sound of wrenching metal reverberated through the hull.
The helmsman tried to lessen the damage. He reduced the throttle at the first sound of impact, turned the rudder and waited for the leading edge of the next swell to roll in before returning to full power.
The arriving wave lifted them free, but the trawler was slow to pick up speed and they’d only just begun to make way when the bottom dropped out.
The second impact was more jarring than the first. The captain and Vincennes were thrown to the deck. The helmsman remained upright but slammed into the control panel. He cut the throttle once more as a bilge alarm went off.
“What’s that?” Vincennes asked.
“Water coming in,” the captain replied. “We’ve been holed.”
“We’re sinking?”
The captain ignored the question. “Full power,” he ordered. “Go with the current until we’re over the rocks, then make for the nearest shore. Our only hope is to run up on the beach.”
The helmsm
an did as ordered, but the trawler was like a child’s toy in the storm. Even with the throttle wide open, they were going nowhere. “Prop’s not biting, Cap’n. Might’ve chewed itself up on the rocks.”
“In which case, we’re doomed,” the captain replied.
Another wave hit from the side, swinging them around and shoving them even farther onto the shoal. They came to a jarring stop, caught hard on the rocks. The impact again threw the captain and Vincennes to the deck.
“Now what?” Vincennes demanded, attempting to stand.
The captain was up before him, looking out through the windows into a swath of sea lit up by the trawler’s lights, where he saw the jagged tips of the rocky trap they were being held in. He knew the future. The waves would punish them as the rocks slowly tore his ship apart. “Now we die.”
* * *
—
The trawler’s approach had been noticed by the patrons of the McCloud Tavern, which sat up on a bluff sixty feet above a beach consisting entirely of smooth stones. They’d watched in fascination as the vessel approached the mouth of the loch with every light on board blazing.
A running argument divided the room, with one camp marveling at the bravery of the crew and the other marveling at the sheer stupidity of being out on the water in the first place.
“This gale has been comin’ for three days,” one man said.
“Aye,” a woman replied. “But it’s come on fast. And it’s a wee bit worse than the dobbers on the TV said it would be.”
“Ack,” the man said, raising a mug. “You know you can’t trust that lot. Even if you could, a man would have to be right doaty to be out in this weather to begin with.”
The arguments went back and forth as quickly as the hot toddies and pints of ale. Hoping they made it, the bartender reserved a special bottle of scotch should they arrive in good health. But all the fun went out of the game when it became clear the trawler was in real trouble.
“They’ve run aground,” one of the older men said as the ship’s progress stopped. “I’ve nearly been caught on those rocks myself. Sharp as dragon’s teeth, they are.”
“There’s been no calls,” the bartender pointed out.
Like many small towns on the ocean, half the population here was fishermen. Marine radios were not in short supply. And during a storm everyone listened to the emergency channel.
The bartender picked up the phone to contact the Coast Guard.
“They’ll never get a helicopter up here in time,” the old man said. “And a rescue boat won’t do. Not in this weather.”
Despite the man’s statement, the bartender stepped away to make the call. As he left the window, another man stepped forward, stopping at a spot between the other onlookers.
They looked at him sideways. He was tall, with a lanky build and silver hair. His face molded firmly but weathered by the elements. He wasn’t a local, but he looked like a man of the sea.
The stranger took a brief look at the trawler through a pair of compact binoculars. “How far out are those rocks?”
“Just under a mile from here,” the old man said.
The stranger raised the binoculars again, training them on a different location off to the side where a rugged spit of land stuck out into the bay. “And from the nearest point on that ridge of land?”
“A quarter mile,” the old man guessed. “Maybe a bit more. Why?”
The stranger lowered the binoculars. He turned to the old man, looking at him with a pair of eyes that were deep blue in the gray light. “Because you’re right. In this weather, a boat just won’t do.”
With that, the stranger turned and walked back through the pub. He met up with his friend near the bar and together they walked out through the front door.
The woman exchanged glances with the old man. “Who’s that, then?”
The man shrugged. “Foreigners.”
Chapter 3
Aboard the trawler, things had gone from dangerous to desperate. The boat had settled onto the rocks with a ten-degree list, water pouring in down below and the storm showed no sign of relenting.
The helmsman, feeling the sting of guilt and believing he’d failed the ship, turned to the captain. “I’m sorry, I should have swung wider.”
“Nothing much you could do,” the captain said. He got on the intercom, calling the chief engineer. “How bad off are we?”
“Three feet of water in the bilge. She’s flooding fast. We need to abandon ship while we’re still upright.”
Vincennes heard this and shook his head vigorously. “No,” he snapped, “we can’t leave the boat. We have to get off these rocks.”
“The rocks are all that’s keeping us afloat,” the captain shot back. He pressed the INTERCOM button again. “Get the lads topside. We’ll go out in the rafts.”
With the order to evacuate given, Vincennes became livid. He pointed an accusing finger at the captain. “If this is some kind of a trick—”
Whatever else he might have said went unheard as a larger wave crashed against the ship, slamming the trawler broadside and rolling it farther over to starboard.
“You want to stay on board, you’re welcome to it,” the captain shouted. “My men and I are leaving.”
Vincennes stared irately as men began coming up the stairs from down below. Unable to sway the captain, he waited for the last sailor to pass and then lurched in the other direction, making his way to the back of the wheelhouse and charging down the stairwell.
The helmsman made a move to follow, but the captain held him back. “He’s my problem, lad. Get out on deck. Keep the men together. Launch the rafts as the waves crest, not before or after, or you won’t stand a chance. Understood?”
The helmsman nodded, pulled on his life jacket and pushed out through the starboard door. As soon as he was in the open, the wind attempted to knock him down. He grabbed the railing and fought to stay upright on the tilted deck.
Things couldn’t have been much worse. They were over nearly twenty degrees now and leaning into the rocks. The port side of the ship was raised and acting like a bulwark against the onslaught of the storm, shielding the deck from being swept by every wave. But any boat that went into the water on that side would be slammed against the trawler’s hull long before it could move away.
The starboard side of the deck looked more promising. The trawler was leaning that way and the edge of the deck was already awash. That should have made for an easier way off, but just beyond the rail lay a field of jagged rock spires.
The rocks vanished every time a wave crested through, only to reappear as it passed, emerging from the trough left behind like teeth in the jaw of some hungry beast. Still, he decided, a small chance was better than no chance at all.
He made his way down a ladder and then along the deck toward the midship’s muster station. By the time he arrived, several of the men had begun inflating one of the boats.
The compressed-gas charges filled the raft quickly, but the wind and the rocking deck made it difficult to control.
“Secure the lines,” the helmsman shouted.
Even as he shouted, the trawler shuddered with the impact of another wave. A blast of spray flew over them as green water a foot deep slid down from the elevated port side of the ship. It swept two men off their feet and took the raft into the sea.
Attached to the trawler by a sixty-foot lanyard, the raft was not yet lost.
The helmsman rushed forward. “Grab the line,” he shouted, wrapping his hands tightly around the nylon cable. After two of the crewmen joined him, they pulled with all their strength, but they’d only managed to drag the raft a short distance before the next wave came surging through.
It swept over the ship and all around it, flooding in from both the bow and the stern. It caught the raft squarely, wrenching the line from men’s stinging hands and flipping the raft as
it carried it into the teeth of the rocks beyond.
One side of the inflatable boat was torn open upon impact. The orange craft lost its shape and was soon awash with seawater. The next wave finished it off, dragging it backward and wrapping its deflated fabric around one of the stone outcroppings.
The crewmen had seen the destruction up close. They all knew what it meant.
“We’re trapped,” one of the men shouted. “Even if we get another raft ready, we’ll never survive that.”
“This gale has a center to it, an eye,” another of the men said. “If we wait it out, we might have a chance.”
“The eye of the storm is hours away,” a third crewman replied. “The ship will be scrap by then.”
“Quiet,” the helmsman shouted. He thought he’d heard the sound of an engine on the wind. He turned his eyes skyward, hoping to spot a Royal Navy helicopter. All he saw were churning gray clouds.
“There,” one of the crewmen shouted. He was pointing toward the channel.
The helmsman turned, squinting against the wind and rain, and finally spotted a torpedo-shaped craft racing through the twilight. Whatever it was it pursued a curving path, disappearing behind the back of a large swell and then reappearing as the wave moved on.
“Are you lads seeing this?”
Murmurs of acknowledgment came his way.
“Whoever it is, he’s got to be a bloody loon.”
The bloody loon was a man on a high-speed watercraft similar in design to a Jet Ski but longer and wider, with an extended section aft of the seats, a bulbous nose and a noticeably broader stance.
The craft moved with great speed and agility and its pilot showed no fear, racing up one wave, coming down its back side and then heading directly toward the stricken trawler.
“He’ll never make it past the rocks!”
The helmsman had to agree. But just as a bone-shattering impact appeared unavoidable, the next swell rolled through. The water rose, covering the rocky spires and lifting the oncoming machine above them.
Journey of the Pharaohs Page 3
