She strained her eyes and scanned the distance, but there was nothing to see. She didn’t know why she had thought there would be, but something had tugged at her heart. He was up there—she knew it, though she couldn’t have told why. He was up there, maybe dropping a load of silver iodide pellets into a monster. He would bank away from that storm, if he could, and he would fly home. He had always been flying home. She wished she could be there to greet him.
At that instant, she almost wavered and called Keith. She could stay with Elvis. The building was designed to handle a storm exactly like the one that was coming, and even if everything went wrong, and they failed, as they were as likely to do as not, she could ride it out. She could be there when that plane cut over the horizon and came in low, looking for a landing field that was overgrown now and planted with gardens. She could be on the radio with him, guiding him to a safe landing somewhere nearby, and be there to greet him when he climbed down from the cockpit.
The clouds glowed, and the sun peeked into view. The sky, which had been a light rosy pink, ran slowly to a deep, bloody red. Andrea closed her tear-filled eyes and turned away. She had to pack, and she had to get moving. If she’d doubted it, God had sent her a quick note, written in dripping ink across a brightening morning sky.
She hoped that she wasn’t too late.
Chapter Seventeen
In a small wooden building far too close to the beach in Bermuda, Gabrielle Martinez hunkered down beneath the frame of a window, her arms wrapped around her knees. The wind outside howled with a force that drove the breath from her, and she knew from the way the walls shuddered at each fresh gust that the building wouldn’t take much more.
They’d long since lost power, and Jason, who had been sitting with her over evening tea, had crawled into the next room to try and locate a radio. They kept some old military surplus communications devices tucked away for emergencies, and he was determined that he would use what he had to contact someone who could help.
Gabrielle let him go, despite her sure and certain knowledge that his efforts would make no difference. No radio signal was going to get through this storm, and if it did, just who in hell would they call? Still, it kept the younger man occupied, and that was better than having him sitting beside her, talking too much and working himself into a panic.
The wind hadn’t built gradually, as Gabrielle had known storms to do in the past. One moment there had been a light evening rain falling, they’d had the BBC on the radio, and the most important thing the two of them had had to discuss was how to market the fish they were producing most effectively. As much as they, and Andrea, wanted to do their part to end world hunger, things like artificial fish farms were not cheap. The business had to turn enough profit not only to stay in operation, but also to grow and to attract the sort of support and personnel that could make a success of it.
Charity was well and good, but you had too little control over where the actual food ended up, and it didn’t really help to pay the bills, unless you counted the tax cut it provided.
Then the world caved in on them. The wind slashed out of nowhere and nearly ripped the roof off over their heads. Gabrielle had never heard such a roar, and a quick glance out the window before she’d hit the floor and cowered against the wall had shown her smaller buildings that were not faring as well as her own. The laboratory and dormitory they lived in had been designed along specifications that Andrea had developed over many years of study. The building was meant to withstand hurricane force winds better than any that had come before, and so far it seemed to be living up to expectations, but this was no ordinary hurricane.
In fact, unless all the rules Gabrielle knew about hurricanes were hogwash, it should not be there at all. Storms don’t just blow up out of the air. Tornadoes could form that quickly, but this wasn’t a tornado. The winds were sustained, and they covered the land as far as she could see.
Jason crawled back around the corner. Just as he did, a huge gust of wind shook the windows in their frames, and Gabrielle was certain they would be yanked physically from the wall and thrown across the room. Jason put his head down, covered it with his arms, and let out a strangled cry, but the window held. A moment later, when he realized he was going to live at least a few seconds longer, Jason lifted his head and scurried across the remaining space as quickly as he could, dragging a green metal box behind him by a strap.
As Jason’s back came to rest beside hers against the wall, Gabrielle glanced down at the green case in curiosity. Jason flipped open several heavy metal catches on the sides. When the final catch released there was a quick hiss of escaping air, and Gabrielle realized the case was airtight and sealed.
Inside was a small rectangular radio. There was also a long, folding green antenna, a microphone on its coiled cord, and another piece of metal that appeared to be an end-cap of some sort. After Jason had the unit out of its box and had begun fiddling with it, Gabrielle realized this last piece was the battery. She hoped that Jason, or someone, had taken the time to charge that battery. Then, catching herself, she almost smiled. No one was going to hear the transmission anyway, so what did the strength of the battery matter?
But something had changed. Jason sensed it too, and glanced up at her. The wind was still strong, but not as strong. The walls shook with each succeeding gust, but not as they had shaken before. The sense that the building and everything in it was about to be ripped up and thrown aside was passing.
Jason turned quickly back to the radio and screwed in the antenna. Next he clipped the battery unit to the rear of the radio and flipped the power to on. There were several bands on the radio—crystals installed inside the radio itself determined the frequencies.
This radio had been tuned for emergency channels, and for one channel they used among themselves. Each of the fish farms had a remote transceiver installed in a weather-sealed compartment on one of its buoys. Jason flipped through the channels. All they heard at first was static. There were quick popping bursts of sound that broke through, but none of it seemed to be actual traffic. He tried three emergency channels one after the other, but either no one was broadcasting yet, or no one close enough to do so still had the capability. The wind died down further, and Gabrielle risked pulling herself up to look out the window.
Everything in sight had been flattened. Everything. Trees lay down across the ground, some of them as big around as the trunk of her body. There had been several outlying buildings around them, small places where they kept things like coiled rope and lawn tools. Now, there was nothing. No foundations, no walls, and certainly no lawn tools. Gabrielle fervently hoped that none of what had blown away from outside her place had harmed anyone in another place.
“We should have tied it all down, or put it away,” she said.
Jason looked up from the radio, where he’d just made his third circuit of the frequency switch without finding anything but static. “We should have tied down what?”
Gabrielle made a vague gesture toward the yard beyond the walls. “Our things. Our buildings, the tools—all of it. When there’s a hurricane coming, you’re supposed to . . .”
“Are you nuts?” he asked her, maybe a little too bluntly. His eyes were very wide, and he stared at her in amazement. “There was never any time when this hurricane was coming. We didn’t hear about it on the news and decide not to evacuate. One minute it was raining, and the next the big bad wolf was at the door threatening to blow it in. Just like that. When do you suppose we would have tied things down?”
Gabrielle knew he was right, but it didn’t change her fervent prayer that the shed no longer holding her rake or the small riding lawnmower, had not sheared off some poor, unfortunate man or woman’s head, or crushed them with the weight of the storm bearing down from behind. She shook her head and watched as the winds died away to a steady breeze. Rain drummed the roof again, and spattered hard against the window, but if it hadn’t been for the destruction surrounding them, and the dim, lightless interior of
the room, there would have been no indication that the storm had ever existed.
“What just happened?” she asked. “What in God’s name just happened, Jason? What was that?”
He only grunted in answer. Then there was a crackle slightly louder than the static they’d been listening to, and a voice came faintly over the radio.
“Bermuda Station, this is Sierra Foxtrot One, over.”
The voice was familiar. It was Andrea’s voice, crackling over their private frequency.
Jason gripped the microphone hard and replied. “Sierra Foxtrot One, this is Bermuda Station. You are not going to believe what just happened here, over.”
Andrea’s reply was clear, but weighted with concern and weariness. “Bermuda Station, we know what happened, over. No time now, more later. Get your people to the barges and get that tug underway. Will contact you once you are at sea. And hurry. For God’s sake, hurry. Over.”
Jason stared at the microphone in his hand in disbelief. He glanced at Gabrielle, who waved her hand impatiently at the radio. He turned back and keyed the microphone. “Sierra Foxtrot One, this is Bermuda Station. We have heavy damage here, I repeat, heavy damage.”
“I know,” Andrea replied. Now she sounded impatient, and either irritated or frustrated. “Believe me,” she said, ignoring protocol, “I know. I need you out here, Gabrielle, if you’re there. I need all of you out here, and quickly. We may already be too late.”
Still staring at the microphone in his hand, Jason shook his head. Gabrielle caught the motion and stepped closer, taking the microphone out of his startled hand.
“Andrea, we will be there if we can. We’re leaving now. Bermuda Station, out.”
She flipped the radio off and held out her hand to Jason, who was staring at her in slack-jawed amazement.
“Get up,” she said, grabbing a jacket off of the wall, and pulling her cap down over her eyes. “We have to see if we can find a jeep that will still run, and we have to get to the others. The tug should be safe; it’s harbored on the far side of the island. The barges are there as well, to keep them safe. You know that as well as I do.”
“But, what about,” Jason waved his hands around to indicate the building, the yard with its missing hardware and outbuildings, the power that didn’t function.
“It will be here when we get back,” Gabrielle replied tersely. “Andrea paid for all of that, if you recall. We aren’t likely to keep it at all if we don’t get out there and help her do whatever it is she intends to do.”
They both knew what Andrea intended. There was only one thing Andrea had ever intended to do, for all her grand talk about world hunger and fish farms. They were going to fight a storm—probably the one that had just brushed past them with such maddening force.
The two bundled their jackets around themselves tightly and stepped out into the rain swept night.
~ * ~
At exactly 11:48 PM, a large tugboat, the Santa Muriel, pulled out of a harbor near downtown Norfolk, Virginia. It had arrived less than a week before with five barges in tow, but it was leaving with only three. The other two remained at the shipyard, up in huge metal dry-docks, where the hulls were being scoured and painted and the pumps were being overhauled, cleaned, and tested.
It was late, but those bustling about the big tug’s deck moved with the surety and ease of long practice. Captain Jay Greenwood had his cap tipped back on his head and his hand on the wheel. The tide would only be high enough for their exit for another hour, and with the heavy load they towed, their progress was anything but swift. The Santa Muriel was a strong craft, the strongest of its type available, but the barges weren’t light.
Just before he’d left port, three teams had embarked on the barges, swarming over the dark surfaces and stowing their gear in the berthing compartments at one end of each barge. The compartments included a small labyrinth of chambers below the main deck; there were bunks, a small kitchenette, and little else. This was no pleasure cruise they were on.
Captain Jay was glad he had his own cabin on the tug itself. It was a hell of a lot more comfortable. He had a ten man crew for this trip; they’d be taking double shifts and sleeping when they could. The call to get underway had come on incredibly short notice, but he’d been warned long before that it might happen just like this. They didn’t make many voyages, and when they did, they weren’t too taxing, so he didn’t mind earning his pay this time.
The rest of it worried him, though. That storm, if it was as big as they said it was, and moving as quickly as they said it was, was going to be trouble. As good a craft as the Santa Muriel was, it was not what you wanted to be riding if you got caught in such a storm. The barges were worse still, but he knew the plan as well as any. Once he’d towed them into place they would take over, and he would hightail it for the far side of Bermuda.
The two cutters were fueling, and their crews were being recalled. They would leave the following morning and catch up along the way. Once the barges were operational, the two fast, light boats would pick up the crews, one by one, and get the hell out of Dodge. It made sense, and in theory it would be just fine, but Jay knew theories and trusted them about as far as he could hand-toss the Santa Muriel.
He glanced at the small plastic Jesus that dangled from his ship-to-shore radio, and for just a second, he closed his eyes in silent prayer. If he’d had a St. Christopher’s medal, he’d have rubbed it for luck, but all he had was a headache and black coffee, and he figured that was going to have to do. The sun would be up soon, and they had a lot of miles to cover before they could get these barges into position.
Behind him on the barges, pumps were checked over and lubricated. Men and women scurried over each barge’s damp, salty deck, moving with smooth, efficient ease. They had practiced for this moment since the first day the barges hit the water. They might not be the answer to the coming storm, but they were ready to find out—and if Andrea had been there, watching them, she’d have to have admitted it was all she could really ask for—and then some. It was going to be a long trip.
~ * ~
Andrea stepped out the front door of the complex as the helicopter touched down. She waited as it settled and the blades began to turn more slowly. They weren’t going to stop. When it was safe, a man in a flight-suit and helmet motioned to her, and she ran to his side. Over her back she’d slung a canvas knapsack filled with warm clothes and everything she could fit in such a small package that she might conceivably need at sea. In her other hand she carried a heavy briefcase with her laptop, some notes, and a few other odds and ends that hadn’t fit in the knapsack.
Reports had been coming in all morning. The storm had veered away from Bermuda. Heavy damage had been sustained from the wind, and there had been a small storm surge, but overall the island had come through okay. Gabrielle’s people were working their way across to where their tug and their five barges lay in wait, and the supplemental crews, including those who would pilot the tugboat, were on alert to be on station.
All that remained was for her to reach her own crew, get on board, and get underway. The helicopter would drop her near the docks, and she expected to be on the ocean and moving within the hour. She took a last glance up at the sky through the whirling helicopter blades, and then she looked away before the tears could return. The time for that was past—and still to come. For now she had to focus.
She climbed into the helo, and they shut the door behind her as she strapped in for the ride.
The race was on.
Chapter Eighteen
The wind speed above the storm was greater than Phil had ever encountered, or dreamed possible. He knew that if he tried to turn too rapidly in either direction he’d be caught in the grip of that rushing air and dashed to his death. Visibility was short, and though they seemed to be functioning, his instruments were a little off. He didn’t trust the altimeter at all. It fluctuated randomly, and once or twice it spun completely around. Phil figured the sensor had been damaged, and reflecte
d that he was damned lucky if that was all that was damaged. He was able to keep his wings level, and the controls continued to respond normally, and that was enough. It had to be.
He’d lost all radio contact. He knew the time must be long past for seeding the storm wall, but he knew, also, that he couldn’t trust his perception of time or distance well enough in such a situation to be certain. With a quick, silent prayer, he flipped the toggles that released the silver iodide pellets. He knew they were trailing off behind him into the wind, swallowed up instantly and dragged into the whirling vortex of air beneath him. He wished he could watch their glittering descent, just to see it with his own eyes and be certain they’d reached the storm’s wall, as he intended, but there was nothing to see below, or above.
Phil had flown blind plenty of times. The instruments were as much a part of his senses as his hearing or his eyesight. Without the altimeter, though, he couldn’t shake the image of the storm. With visibility so low, it was impossible to judge if he was drifting up, or down, and the thought of getting too low and being sucked into the storm ate at his concentration. It took less than two minutes to drop the entire load of silver iodide, but it might as well have been two years.
The vibration of the aircraft communicated with him through pings and groans, and each time he felt a new flutter, or heard a sound he’d not heard before, he was certain something vital had been dislodged—something had given under the relentless pressure of the wind, and that his life stretched before him measured only in seconds.
The plane held, and his courage held, and at last he was able to reverse the toggles and close off the release mechanism. He breathed a sigh of relief, but only allowed himself that one moment of ease. What came next was going to be tricky—maybe the trickiest bit of flying he’d ever pulled off. He was flying blind and he had to start pulling up and away. He had to stay with the wind, keep himself as level as possible and get to a safe altitude, preferably far above the upper cloud layer where he couldn’t even see the damned hurricane, and he had to do it immediately. Even if the plane could withstand more of this, his mind could not.
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