by Lyle Howard
The old man rubbed his finger across his lips—lips that only moments before were as hard and wrinkled as a walnut shell but now had begun to miraculously soften and regenerate. “Let me watch him a bit longer. There might be no reason to bring in the heavy artillery if these two are merely a pair of local thieves out for a night’s haul. Are you positive that everything is battened down?”
The technician checked another panel off to his right. Every access location was illuminated by a pinpoint of red light. “Yes sir, all essential hatches are secured and we’ve been running in stealth mode since dawn.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed sinisterly. “Then let them prowl all they wish, Gregor. They will discover nothing.”
Twelve
Between controlled breaths, Cal struggled to pull himself up the anchor chain. More than halfway to the Nocturne, he would find himself stopping every few seconds to hang upside-down from the heavy steel links to rest. This was a very inopportune time to learn that retrieving his own golf balls on the beach and pouring umbrella drinks hadn’t exactly kept his cardiovascular system in tip-top condition.
During one of his frequent respites, he had caught a glimpse of Geiger scampering up the gangplank and began to wonder if splitting up like this had been such a brilliant idea. Not that he believed the deputy wasn’t stealthy enough; it was just that trouble seemed to always be nipping at Geiger’s heels. But who was he to be judging his friend? After all, it was Artie who was already onboard, and it was him who was swinging like a drunken monkey from this greasy chain!
As the raging storm began to close in on the defenseless island, Cal tried not to look down at the churning water some thirty feet below his dangling rear end. Only a few yards more and he would be there. When he got close enough to the ship to reach out and touch it, he patted his hand against the hull. This was no ordinary steel plating. It almost felt like plastic … but stronger. He was familiar with this type of material. He had seen it on elite jet fighters before, but never on a vessel—and especially not one of this size. His spider sense was suddenly at full tingle.
With his arms feeling like they were about to pop from their sockets, he gave it one final burst of effort and pulled himself over the railing before collapsing in an exhausted heap on the bow. What was wrong with this picture? he asked himself. He had tried so hard to be inconspicuous by taking such a deceptive route onto the yacht, and yet he found himself lying here exposed in the early morning light, sucking wind loud enough to wake the dead! His heart was pounding in his chest. How could he have let himself get so out of shape? He had to gather himself and find somewhere to hide. Having them find his lifeless body decorating their deck at first light was definitely not part of the plan!
Looking around, he decided to hide himself behind one of the ship’s sizable lifeboats. As he knelt down and tried to catch his second wind, he couldn’t help but think about the kind of shape he was in and that it had been a long time since his last Special Operations mission!
Safely hidden by the huge lifeboat, Cal would have been happy to settle in for a three or four year nap, but he knew that Geiger might frown on that. He still had half a ship to check out, and less than ten minutes to do it in.
Raindrops the size of marbles began to pelt the ship. Each drop would splatter on the well-varnished deck and then unite with others to become meandering puddles. A lightshow in the heavens heralded the arrival of the storm. Cloud tops lit up in a fierce orchestration of flashes and lingering brilliance. From deep within those same clouds, thunder rumbled loud enough to vibrate the decking below his feet.
Cal didn’t need an Avon Lady to tell him that the boot polish was starting to run off his face and the backs of his hands as the rain grew stronger and the wind began to gust. A growing trail of black spots on the deck led him to realize that he was dripping face paint. Too late to worry about it now though. His time was growing short.
From where he was hiding, he turned his face up to the rain to see the windows of the bridge one deck above. The light seeping from the wet windows was subdued, which was a good sign. It meant the control room was probably deserted. Why wouldn’t it be? It was dawn and the ship was in port. The bridge would be the perfect place to start looking.
Making his way up to the bridge would be like running on ice. The slippery deck eliminated any traction his rubber soles had. Twice on his way to the metal flight of stairs he had to catch himself on the railing. The second time he nearly fell, he caught a glimpse of something lying on the deck. It glimmered in what little light there was. Cal picked it up and examined it before slipping it into his pocket. There was no time to celebrate now. Once climbing the steps, the footing turned even more treacherous as the rain cascaded down the metal stairs like a waterfall.
Locked! He pumped the brass handle on the hatch leading into the control room but it wouldn’t budge. Would he have expected anything less?
Lightning crackled around the ship, causing the hair on Cal’s body to stand at full attention. A clap of thunder nearly lifted the bartender off his feet as the full fury of the tropical storm overwhelmed the island. Cal continued to pump the handle furiously. No longer in an effort to sneak in, but out of pure survival instinct to seek shelter from the pummeling rain.
It all seemed to happen in unison. Not choreographed, but one of those split-second coincidences that perhaps happens once in a lifetime. A jagged bolt of lightning struck the mast of the Nocturne, causing the most infinitesimal surge in the ship’s power supply. The lights all over the ship flickered for just the briefest of seconds, not more than the blink of an eye, or lasting longer than a single beat of Cal’s heart. But in that minuscule frozen fragment of time, and grounded by his rubber soled shoes, the electricity coursed around his body. He was still holding the handle of the metal door in the down position. The electronic lock clicked and lost its authority, and the hatch popped open. Cal gazed up at the ominous heaven and smiled as the rain stung his face. Yeah, even though his hair was smoking and had just lost its naturally boyish curl, things were startin’ to look up.
Thirteen
Barely able to stand because of the buffeting wind, Geiger was dumbfounded by the storm’s sudden ferocity. Every time he thought he had grown used to the baffling way the old lady behaved, Mother Nature would fire another sinking curve ball across the plate.
As he made his way toward the stern of the Nocturne, it was like walking in a wind tunnel. The heavy tarpaulins covering the lifeboats were flopping so hard, Geiger thought that they might rip free at any second. Where was he going? What was he looking for? He was soaking wet and had no idea why he was even here!
The deputy found the tail of the ship to be nothing more than an empty expanse, probably used for sunbathing during the times that the weather was a bit more cooperative. Through the blinding rain, at the center of the huge deck, he could barely discern the indistinct shape of something large and dark flapping in the squall. It was obviously a dark canvas cover of some kind, tied down by thick nylon lines to a set of steel rings that were bolted into the deck. Painted on the floor and surrounding the cover was a large red circle that he immediately recognized for what it was. If his hunch was right, he was looking at a helicopter secured on its landing pad. It just wasn’t fair, he thought. No one should be this rich!
Two steps forward and one step back was how it was for Geiger as he struggled against the steady onslaught of the wind. With one hand shielding his eyes from the assault of sea and rain water, and the other groping blindly for the canvas tarp, it seemed to take him forever to reach it.
Above and just behind his head, a jagged bolt of lightning struck the main mast, sending a barbed and painful shock tingling throughout his body. All over the ship, he saw the lights flicker for an instant. The jolt was so severe he could even feel its icy sharpness piercing the silver fillings in his teeth.
This was insanity! These people, whose only misfortune was to have found themselves marooned outside of Cal’s bar, were probably sound asl
eep beneath their heavy down comforters, blissfully unaware that two imbeciles were playing war games out on their deck. This was madness! He was sworn to uphold the law for Pete’s sake! He could have arrested himself for pulling such a hair-brained stunt like this!
Finally reaching the canvas, he fell flat against the deck and tried to wiggle beneath the cover. The canvas was well fastened, which left him little room; after repeated efforts, he could only manage to fit his head and one arm beneath the thick black shroud. It was pitch dark inside, making it nearly impossible for Geiger to determine if his instincts were on the money. Then he remembered the flashlight Cal had given him.
A pervasive odor beneath the cover was making his nostrils itch, but, because his arms were stuck outside the tarp, he was unable to relieve the irritation. It smelled like the inside of the Sheriffs’ Department Motor pool, most likely a mixture of engine oil and gasoline, he figured.
Awkwardly, he flipped on the beam and tilted his head to the left and then back to the right, trying to make out the enormous silhouette before him. It was a helicopter, but something was different about it. It was like none he had ever seen before. It wasn’t one of those large Hueys like the military flew. This was a more streamlined, commercial model, with six rotor blades. Probably an eight-seater if he had to guess. Even sitting quietly, it still looked fast!
Shining the light up at the passenger door, he noticed it was slightly ajar. Using the tip of the flashlight to pry the door open a bit more, the beam illuminated a thin sliver of the instrument panel. The controls looked incredibly complicated, but even with his lack of flight training he could tell this was no ordinary helicopter—this was state of the art. A tad smaller than the imaginary pair he kept on his imaginary villa on the Isle of Capri, but he was still very impressed!
Another booming clap of thunder violently erupted from the storm. Geiger took it as a signal from Mother Nature that he had probably overstayed his welcome. Pulling himself from beneath the cover was much easier than trying to weasel his way in and he soon found himself lying flat on the deck staring at two pairs of finely crafted but undeniably soggy shoes. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that, unless Cal Mackey had suddenly become twins, the deputy was in deep trouble.
Fourteen
The lightning struck, a surge of uncontrollable power coursed through the hull of the Nocturne, and every monitor that lined the surveillance cabin’s bulkhead flickered and went dark.
“What was that?”
The technician, bathed in sudden red light, had only to wait a split-second before the emergency generators kicked in. “Nothing, sir,” he answered in their heavy-sounding, indigenous language. “We must have taken a direct hit from some lightning. You see,” he confirmed, pointing to the screens that blinked back on one at a time. “There is nothing to worry about. As you can see, everything is rebooting again.”
“And what about the radar screen? Why has it not come back online yet?”
The technician tapped at a series of control buttons like a secretary who was nervously typing an overdue business letter with her boss staring over her shoulder. “The radar mast must have taken the brunt of the lightning strike, sir,” he answered fretfully, “I will make sure to check it out myself.”
Even though his nerves were as tightly strung as telephone wires, the transfusion was slowly beginning to take effect. Before long, Wolfgar Von Robles would be himself again. He could feel the hearty red blood cells coursing through his veins and invigorating his depleted system ... and it felt wonderful!
The restoration was gradual, but easily perceived by the naked eye. Making a surreal, almost sickening crackling sound, the vertebrae along his spinal cord began to realign themselves. Now, where just until scant moments ago, his head had been flecked with a sparse accumulation of wiry white strands of hair, a thick, dark mane was sprouting from his scalp.
It was a freakish phenomenon to behold, but one that everyone who sailed aboard the Nocturne had grown warily accustomed to. As if by trick photography, the wrinkles that had creased Von Robles’ face began to soften like sand dunes in a windstorm. All the telltale signs of a lifetime of aging were beating a hasty retreat. Loose skin that had sagged over his entire body suddenly turned taut as it clung to an iron-man musculature that was growing increasingly firm and powerful.
The suppleness was painstakingly returning to all of his extremities. His legs were regaining their soundness; summoning his renewed strength, Von Robles lifted himself out of the dreaded confinement of his wheelchair and detached the nearly empty blood pouch from his catheter. “Where are they?”
The technician surveyed the array of monitors in front of him. “Excuse me?” he asked, trying to avoid the urge to glance over his shoulder at the freak of nature who was eerily undergoing his radical metamorphosis while standing hunched over him.
“The intruder that was climbing up the anchor chain. Where has he gone?”
The technician swallowed hard. The tone in his employer’s voice was as sharp as a guillotine and twice as deadly. “He ... he was there just a second ago!”
Von Robles repeatedly flexed his fingers into a fist and then relaxed them as though he were working out the stiffness in the knuckle joints. If his words could have been visualized as a color, they would have hung in the air icy blue. “Find him.” Two simple words that once uttered by the now middle-aged Von Robles sentenced the interlopers to a certain death.
“The video surveillance seems to have been knocked out, but I can still perform a thermal search of the ship if you would like me to, sir,” the technician offered, never daring to cast his gaze away from the monitors.
Von Robles’ eyes fluttered closed as he took a deep breath. It suddenly felt glorious to bask in the freedom of unfettered air once again. Droplets of blood drained from the end of the tube protruding from his arm and ran down the back of his hand. He was totally unaware of the blood loss until it splattered onto the console and made the technician, who thought it might be his own, flinch.
“How many are on duty at this ungodly hour?”
The technician removed a tissue from his pocket and nervously wiped up the revolting crimson spill. “I believe five, without waking Raimund. That number also includes Eric and the Swede who are working full time to repair the engine.”
Von Robles studied the monitor in the top left hand corner. The second intruder was barely visible in the shadows, his thermal signature a pale shade of blue due to the rain, but he appeared fairly robust as he struggled to make his way aft battling against the relentless elements. Another healthy, hopefully virus-free specimen delivered to him on a silver platter. “Send Ian and Alexi to capture the one on the stern.”
The technician flipped a lever on the console and passed on the order. “When they capture him, shall I have them put him with the others?”
Von Robles shook his head. “No, keep the two of them separated for the time being. Unfortunately, our holds are relatively empty, are they not?”
The technician checked the screens. “Out of the fourteen, only two are occupied ... the couple in one, the vagrant in another.”
Von Robles walked to the rear of the cabin, attached yet another fresh pouch of the succulent, life-giving liquid to his feeding tube, and took his seat in the wheelchair. “Will a thermal scan find the other one’s heat signature even in this miserable weather?”
The technician nodded in the affirmative. “If he is anywhere out on the deck of this ship, our thermal sensors will locate him.”
Von Robles looked up at the pouch that was draining as it should. “Very good, Gregor. Start the search.”
The central monitor, which was considerably larger than the others, abruptly modified its view, shifting from an image of varying power readouts and fluxing multi-colored status bars to a computer-rendered blueprint of the Nocturne. Green graph lines crisscrossed the vector diagram as it rotated on the screen in a computer-simulated three dimensional aspect. A solid yellow l
ine swept back and forth over the image as finely-tuned sensors encompassed the ship. Every so often, the graphic image would stop spinning on its axes, a beep would sound, and a bright red square would zero in on a viable target ... usually a rat or some other furry dockside scavenger foraging about the ship.
As Wolfgar Von Robles studied the monitor, his transformation neared its final stage. Once again, the self-proclaimed Sovereign Pirate of the High Seas had returned to the exuberance of a man in his late thirties. “How long will it take to track this man down, Gregor?”
On the screen, two blotchy orange silhouettes emerged from a doorway on the middle deck. The technician casually zoomed in on them. “Those would be Alexi and Ian, sir.”
“Follow them,” Von Robles instructed as he pointed at the screen.
“But what about the pre-programed search pattern?”
“I said, follow them!”
The technician knew better than to argue with his employer.
The computerized skeleton of the ship rotated around until the picture on the monitor became an aft-end view of the Nocturne. As the two bright human shapes made their way back toward the heli-pad, the computer automatically pitched the view of the ship to a bow up position in order to follow them.
Von Robles leaned forward on his chair. Wasn’t this new technology marvelous? he thought. “Can you get in any closer, Gregor?”
The technician shook his head. “I am sorry, sir; the thermal sensors have a limited range.”
