Mariner's Ark

by Peter Tonkin

  The mountains of the Baja formed a watershed which transformed itself – after a valley filled by the mouth of the Gulf of California – into the much more massive coastal mountain system she had seen in Nic’s film of Puerto Banderas: the solid wall of the Sierra Madre mountains which began behind Mazatlán and ran on down the coast towards Puerto Vallarta and Acapulco, reaching heights of more than ten thousand feet consistently and repeatedly within a very few miles inland from the Pacific coast.

  And no sooner had she thought of Nic than the man himself appeared. ‘Come on, you two,’ he called from the doorway at the aft of the bridge. ‘Sundown. Time for some drinks before we settle into supper. Alcohol-free, I’m afraid, Robin. But I think I can promise you something to eat that will be the equal of the last two meals we’ve shared.’

  They lingered over their fruit-juice cocktails then ate, taking their time over a dinner that was every bit as delicious as any they had enjoyed so far. Captain Enrique Toro and chopper pilot Biddy McKinney joined them and proved witty and amusing companions, even though Nic ran a dry ship and the most powerful stimulant available was the after-dinner coffee. After coffee, they retired to Maxima’s cinema and Nic showed them the full film of his new Puerto Banderas home, inside as well as outside – a process further enlivened by Biddy’s wry commentary on the hair-raising things she had to do with the Bell in order to get most of the pictures.

  Captain Toro broke things up just before midnight as he went up on to the bridge to oversee the change from the first to the middle watch. Impressed by the professionalism of the captain and his crew, Richard and Robin retired to their suite and fortunately decided not to christen the vast new king-sized bed that occupied a good deal of it. Not tonight, at any rate.

  So they were decently dressed in night clothes and contentedly asleep a little under two hours later when Nic tapped on their door with a worried frown and some disturbing news. The radio officer had been roused some ten minutes earlier by the officer on watch. He had taken an urgent radio contact from Long Beach, then he had roused the captain, who had woken the owner in turn. And the owner bore the bad tidings to Richard at once. ‘Major Guerrero has been in contact from Sulu Queen. He needs to speak with you urgently. Apparently Captain Sin has suffered some kind of stroke or seizure. He’s on his way to hospital and the first officer is in charge of Sulu Queen at the moment. Major Guerrero wants to know what they should do.’

  Five minutes later, Richard, clad in dressing gown, was in the open section of the bridge they referred to as the radio room. A minute after that, he was talking to Guerrero. ‘I don’t know what triggered it,’ explained the major on a tenuous link that sounded as though an ARkStorm was fighting for possession of the airwaves. ‘I wasn’t on the bridge when he collapsed but I was called immediately. His face was sagging on the left side; he had limited strength in his left arm and I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, though at first I thought that may have been because he was speaking in Chinese. But then the first officer couldn’t understand him either, and he speaks Mandarin, of course – though his English is limited and I’m not sure I understood what he was saying either.’

  ‘Sounds like a stroke,’ said Richard. ‘He’s on his way to hospital, you say?’

  ‘Long Beach Memorial on Atlantic Avenue.’

  ‘Good. Is the first officer there? Put him on, would you?’

  There was a sort of shuffling, which just managed to rise above the crackling downpour on the line, then a surprisingly youthful voice said, ‘Nin hao?’

  ‘Zushang hao,’ answered Richard, slipping into Mandarin as though he were back in Hong Kong. ‘Can you please update me as to the current state of the ship and crew?’

  ‘Sulu Queen remains in dock. We cannot load or unload until the crane is repaired. Shushu Sin was trying to get permission to move to another dock with a functioning crane when he fell down with whatever illness has overtaken him. Permission has been refused. No other dock can be made immediately available. So we are stuck, unless we wish to sail to another port altogether. The captain has not wasted his time in the interim. The ship is fuelled and our supplies have been replenished. We are ready for sea as soon as there is somewhere to go. The crew apart from the captain are well. Well rested. Well fed too, as the captain has given permission for the full use of kitchen equipment.’

  Including the deep-fat fryer, thought Richard.

  ‘… Except for one thing …’ the first officer continued.

  Richard frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘My Master’s papers are not recognized here. It would be illegal for me to take the vessel out of dock. Perhaps even for me to be in command in harbour.’

  That one word, shushu, made more sense then. It was Mandarin for ‘uncle’, although the relationship sometimes went well beyond ‘parent’s brother’ which defined it in the West. Captain Sin had clearly taken the young first officer under his wing and had planned to give him the experience he needed to earn his International Master’s certificate to command freighters and container vessels.

  ‘Where did you get your papers from?’ Richard searched through his memory for anything at all about the first officer, but he could recall neither face nor name nor – crucially – personnel record.

  ‘Dalian Maritime University.’

  ‘That course can only be completed with on-the-job experience and further certification, then final certification as Ship’s Master. You’re getting the experience but haven’t qualified for the further certification. Or the final International Master’s certification. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What about the other navigating officers?’

  ‘I am the senior officer, sir. I am the best qualified.’

  God give me strength, thought Richard. ‘Engineering officers?’ he asked.

  ‘The chief is extremely experienced, but he does not hold any Master’s papers.’

  Richard paused for a moment, breathing heavily through his nose, then turned to Nic. ‘I have to get back. Can I borrow Biddy and the Bell?’

  ‘If it’s OK with Biddy, it’s OK with me.’

  Richard turned to Robin. ‘You see I don’t have any real choice here?’

  ‘You could call Crewfinders. You set the company up so you know better than most that they could get someone with the correct papers to take command aboard Sulu Queen within twenty-four hours …’ But even as she spoke, the certainty drained out of her voice. She knew she was wasting her breath.

  ‘I can be aboard within two and a half …’

  ‘Only if Biddy is willing …’

  ‘And,’ observed Nic, ‘only if she thinks the Bell is up to handling whatever weather there is between here and Long Beach.’

  The story went that someone had once gone into Biddy’s cabin unannounced and had suffered several broken bones as a result. Richard, therefore, volunteered to wake her, and was circumspect as to how he did so. But, in fact, Biddy had taken a shine to him, so he probably could have survived a more direct approach. As things were, he dressed, tapped on her door and waited for an invitation before he went in and began to explain the situation.

  ‘Where exactly are we?’ was her first question. Unlike Robin, she was wide awake and raring to go the moment her eyes opened. Also unlike Robin, she did not sleep in a Stella McCartney camisole but an olive-coloured military T-shirt which had clearly been designed for a far larger frame than hers.

  Richard had come prepared. ‘We’re three hundred and sixty miles south of Long Beach. That’s five hundred and eighty kilometres. I’d give you the name of the nearest settlement on the Baja California but there aren’t any. We’re past the Arrecife Sacramento, the Sacramento Reef, but short of giving you the precise lat-long readings, that’s about it.’

  ‘That’s OK. The Bell’s got a range of four hundred and fifty miles, more than seven hundred kliks, so we’d have elbow room if we need to skirt round anything. And she can get up to two hundred and s
eventy kliks per hour if push comes to shove, so a couple of hours should get us there with the better part of an hour in hand. I’ll get dressed and take a quick walk round her, but I’m willing if you’re able.’

  ‘Right,’ said Richard. ‘Let’s get to it, then.’

  FOURTEEN

  While Richard packed a few necessities, Biddy dressed and walked around the Bell, checking it just as carefully as she would have done if she hadn’t checked it from nose to tail soon after landing sixteen hours earlier. They met on the floodlit helideck half an hour later, with Maxima still powering southward at twenty knots, her speed enhanced by a brisk following northerly wind, her radar still observing Katapult8 as Liberty tacked from one reach to another, hoping to pull further ahead by the time day dawned in three and a half hours. Richard slung his case into the side door then walked sternwards to join Robin, who had placed herself beneath the chopper’s slim tail and was looking back along Maxima’s glittering phosphorescent wake into the world-wide cavern of utter darkness they had so recently escaped. Even though they were heading downwind at twenty knots, the gale was blowing past them forcibly enough to make her golden curls dance. It could have been coming from a hairdryer or an oven, except it was so thick with moisture that breathing was by no means easy. ‘It’s like being waterboarded in a hot bath,’ she said as he joined her.

  ‘Don’t worry. Whatever’s going on back there, Biddy’ll keep on top of it.’

  ‘You’d sure as hell better not get underneath it. Or anywhere near the middle of it.’

  He slid an arm round her waist and gave her a reassuring hug as she snuggled her head against his shoulder.

  ‘Take care, sailor,’ she said. ‘Take very special care.’

  ‘You would never, ever believe,’ he growled, ‘how careful Biddy, the Bell and I are going to be.’

  It never occurred to him that he should warn her to be careful too. Maxima was so sleek, solid, stable; so outstandingly designed, so painstakingly constructed, so well maintained, so excellently crewed. Everything, in fact, that the Titanic had been on her maiden voyage.

  Five minutes later, he was buckling himself into the co-pilot’s seat while Biddy went through the pre-flight instrument checks. ‘You ready?’ she asked as she completed the shortest possible formalities.

  ‘Ready,’ he said. The Bell elevated gently, almost imperceptibly, and reversed off the deck as he spoke. Then, nose down with her flood-lit launch pad already falling away upwind of her, she swung round to face the northerly wind head on. Richard turned in his seat and looked back as the brightness of Maxima passed beneath them and became blurred by a writhing haze almost at once as it fell away into distance and darkness surprisingly swiftly. Biddy began to power the suddenly frail-seeming Bell upwards and forwards, into the enormous darkness ahead.

  It became obvious within the first fifteen minutes that the game little chopper did not like the conditions through which she was flying. The thick wind battered her with unexpected force and solidity, making the windscreen in front of them vibrate and seem to flex, while the doors on either side of them rattled as though invisible giants were trying to break in. Biddy ran out of conversation almost at once, and a glance at her closed face, lit by multicoloured brightness from the displays, frowning in concentration, made Richard decide against disturbing her. It seemed incredible how rapidly the storm swept over them. Fair enough, Biddy had pushed the engine controls to maximum and the Bell was doing a very respectable one hundred and fifty knots – say two hundred and fifty kilometres per hour – into a wind that seemed to be coming against them at the better part of fifty knots. ‘How much flying time do we have?’ he asked casually after the longest silence he could bear.

  ‘Three hours or so, like I said. Plenty to get us there if I can shake this headwind,’ she grated. ‘I have a practical ceiling of about eleven thousand feet, and we’re fully fuelled but otherwise unladen, so that’ll help. Let’s go up and see how far we get.’

  ‘You won’t get over the top of the ARkStorm,’ Richard warned her, thinking back to Dr Jones’s briefing yesterday morning. ‘There are likely to be cumulonimbus thunderheads peaking above twenty thousand feet somewhere quite close ahead. Certainly between us and Long Beach. Think of the Himalayas.’

  ‘Hunh,’ she grunted. ‘Like the weather predictor on Maxima didn’t already tell me all I wanted to know about that. Well, maybe we can go round whatever’s there. The top of my ceiling will put us a thousand feet above the highest peaks of the Sierra Juarez, so maybe we’ll just take a little detour …’ As she spoke she twisted her controls and the Bell swung to the right as it continued to climb. The wind continued to push back against her at first, but then Richard began to suspect that, in among the northerly gusts, there were occasional squalls coming in from the east. These had a beneficial effect to begin with, pushing them over the thin ribbon of land that was the Baja California.

  After a while, Richard began to make out the jewel-bright lights of major highways winding like necklaces from north to south and, as the flight proceeded towards the end of its first forty-five minutes, the wider webs of brightness that denoted villages and towns. While the battering from the thick black northerly continued to intensify, he thought grimly, the sight of solid ground and civilization – even if it was sparse – was reassuring. Or it was so to begin with. After three-quarters of an hour or so of an unsettling flight, the Bell swooped eastwards and the ground began to rise towards the peaks of the Cerro Picacho del Diabolo towering above the National Park of Sierra de San Pedro Martir, their bright red warning lights designed to inform such aircraft that might want to venture nearby that these were mountains more than ten thousand feet high. The colour and the elevation of the red warning lights put Richard in mind of the glimpse Robin and he had shared that evening of the silver-skinned Dragon Dream airship burning low in the sunset sky. The bright red gleams were far ahead on what Richard would have called the starboard forequarter on a ship. In at two o’clock on a clock face.

  But even as Richard fixed on the bright beacons that functioned as lighthouses for aircraft, their ruby brilliance was abruptly swept away. Or, he realized, as he narrowed his eyes and strained for a clearer view, they were simply washed away.

  ‘What the hell …’ snarled Biddy.

  ‘What?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Easterly squall like a boot in the ribs,’ she answered tersely. ‘Now where the hell did that come from?’ No sooner had Biddy said this than the Bell was hurled further to the right by something more than the wind. A pounding deluge swept in over her, thundering against the canopy and smashing into the windows like a hailstorm. Richard swung round to look past Biddy into the blackness west of them, his all-too-vivid memory full of the raindrops outside the Sky Room. Raindrops the size of baseballs. They were coming at the Bell now as though there were some kind of rail gun out there firing from high in the sky. No sooner did he do so than the familiar pyrotechnic display began. Great white bolts of lightning began to slam down out of the clouds, igniting their writhing bases in a series of instantaneous flashes that also seemed to give depth to the night and some kind of illumination to the wild seas close beneath the writhing thunderheads.

  Another gust of water-laden wind battered in from the west, swinging the Bell’s fuselage like a pendulum beneath the four whirling rotors that fought to grip its howling thickness and keep the sturdy machine aloft. The windows went opaque, while the old-fashioned dials and gauges on the video display screens beneath them seemed to spin out of all control. The thunder of rain and wind all but drowned out the roaring of the twin Pratt and Witney engines fighting to keep them aloft.

  But no sooner had the blinding blast from the west obscured everything around them than another counter-blast from the north replaced it, scouring the panoramic windscreen just beyond their knees clear in an instant. The blood-red light of the Picacho del Diabolo returned – seemingly a little closer this time. Or it did so for a gleaming instant before the nex
t vicious squall roared in from the west to obscure it once more. ‘If it gets much worse than this I’ll be putting down at Cielito Lindo airfield,’ warned Biddy grimly. ‘That’s just across the bay to the east of the San Quintin light.’

  Richard nodded but said nothing. He strained to see the San Quintin light, thinking back once more to the moment Robin and he had shared, looking eastward towards it from Maxima’s bridge at sunset. And there it was – the yellow-white finger of its beam given definition by the downpour. The circle of brightness it cast gave some hint of the wilderness of wild water beating in out of the Pacific against it. Richard was put in mind of the pictures he had seen of the south coast of England during the storms of 2014. Of apparently fragile lighthouses standing bravely against spring tides with storm surges on top of them and hurricane-force winds behind them. Slim fingers of brick and concrete pointed up from the hearts of great walls of spray. He swung round again, frowning, just in time to see the red beacon on top of Picacho del Diabolo vanish once again, drowned out by the deluge.

  ‘I’d have a chat with whoever’s up and about at Cielito Lindo before you come to any decisions,’ he advised grimly. ‘Things down there look even worse than things up here.’

  ‘Good thinking. Buena tarde, Cielito Lindo. Me escuchas? This is Bell helicopter Maxima One. Can anyone hear me?’

  ‘Buenas tardes, Maxima One,’ came a faint reply. ‘This is Cielito Lindo airstrip. What can we do for you?’

  ‘Could you update me as to your current weather, Cielito Lindo?’

  ‘Bad and getting worse. We’ve had nearly two inches of rainfall in the last hour. No sign of a let-up anytime soon. Wind speeds gusting to storm force – with some hurricane-force on the way. The guys at the San Quintin light ten kliks west of us say this is the worst weather they’ve ever experienced, and they’re looking at a storm surge of twenty-five feet which may well wash in here sometime soon. The guys up at the San Quintin airbase twenty kliks north are getting ready for a flood coming down from the mountains of the national park just inland of them. They say they may have to evacuate. We have reports of serious flooding in arroyos that are usually dry this time of year. Our two nearest bridges on highway one are in danger of being swept away, according to the federales. Certainly the bridge over Arroyo Colonet north of here seems to have gone. Where are you bound for, Maxima One?’