The Devil on Chardonnay (20 page)

“So, by stealing the land from the tribes in South Sudan these jihadists are violating the principles in the Holy Qur’an.”

“They are.” 

“What do they plan to do with the water?”

“There are two possible answers, old friend, and it troubles me to bring this to you, but I must.”

“You are a good friend, and a loyal follower of the Prophet, peace be upon him,” Raybon said by way of encouragement.

“Many believe that the last time all of Islam was unified under one imam was the Fatimid Caliphate from the 10
^th
through the 12
^th
centuries, and Cairo was the center.  That was the Islamic Golden Age, when we led the world in science and art and literature.  Restoring the caliphate to Cairo is the goal of all jihadists.  They will need the water for the resurgence of Islamic civilization.”

Raybon nodded but didn’t speak.  He waited; it was coming. 

“There is land along the Nile in Egypt, dry, barren land.  With water, it could become a paradise for agriculture.   Some are buying this land to profit when the water comes.”

“Land speculators!  They’re using jihadists to take land so speculators can profit?” Raybon checked himself, seeing the pain his outburst produced in his friend. 

“It is a sad day, if that is true.”  Aarif looked glumly down at his tea.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

The Storm

         
“There’s a blow turnin’ ta chase us, laddies.  A high over Florida, and a storm north of Puerto Rico. We may be in for some excitement,” Neville said as he brought a weather fax down from the doghouse and spread it out on the table. 

All hands, save Candido on deck, were finishing their breakfast, two days out of Bermuda. 

The map showed a tight spiral with winds in the 65-knot range stalled 200 miles from San Juan.  Chardonnay was 400 miles east of Bermuda heading east at 12 knots.

“How far is that?”  Mikki asked, wrinkling her brow.

“It’s 600 miles from here,” Neville answered.

“That’s a long way, and we’re headed away from it,” Pam said.  She seemed more anxious than the rest.

“Aye, but it can move a lot faster than we can.  We still have 1,500 miles to go to Faial,” Neville answered, taking a long drink of his coffee and placing the cup in the sink in the galley.

“Should we turn back?”  Pam asked.

“We couldn’t make 10 knots against this wind.  It’d take three days to get back to Bermuda, we might sail right into it.  It’s best to head east as fast as possible.”

Lounging on the deck through the day, Boyd noticed a steady deterioration in the weather as well as in the mood of the crew.  High clouds appeared, then thickened, and the day grew darker.  They watched the satellite weather feed of the Bermuda radar.  By noon, it was clear the high over Florida was moving east and would push the storm north and east.  By 4 p.m., the barometer began to drop, and the seas were dark with swells 4 to 6 feet.  Fortunately, the wind was just right, 10 degrees south of west, for them to make maximum speed.  All sail was out.

Chardonnay leaped through the water, spray flying well back onto the deck as she slid down the building swells to buck up the next one. 

“Wear the lifejacket at all times, even in your bunk.  When on deck, everyone must have a safety harness attached to the mizzen or mainmast, or along the life rail at the sides.” 

Neville had called an all-hands meeting in the saloon and was laying down the law.

“We have four of these radio beacons.  If we go down, or someone is swept overboard, they can be lifesavers.  We’ll keep one here, the rest should be with someone on deck.”

Wolf looked very bad.  His right arm was in a fiberglass cast from his fingertips to his shoulder, and his left arm was strapped to his chest.  Mikki and Pam took turns feeding him. 

********

Thrilled by the towering waves and steady rush of the wind, Boyd remained on deck as evening came.  Neville had the wheel.  Candido and Manuel had shortened the mainsail and mizzen by half in the steady, 25-knot wind, stowed the jib they had used early in the day, and were below eating.  Donn was seasick.  Wolf was in bed.  Mikki came on deck.

“The power of the storm. I love the power,”  she said, attaching her lifeline next to Boyd’s and Neville’s by the wheel.  She looked up at Boyd from within the hood of her rain gear, and he saw a little girl on an adventure.

“The front hatch is open!”  Mikki called out as she peered around the mainmast.  She cupped her hands around her mouth to be heard.  They all peered forward in the gathering gloom.

“I’ll turn on the lights,” Neville called out. Turning, he found the control panel and turned on the outside lights.  The hatch over the storeroom in the forward compartment was open.

“Candido can close it,” Neville said quickly.

“I can go,” Boyd said. Never having seen the hatch open, he had no idea how to close it.

“I will go.  Candido is entitled to eat his meal in peace.  I have the line,”  Mikki said, already moving forward.

Boyd looked at Neville, who shrugged.  After all, it was her ship.

Carefully, Mikki unhooked the carabiner, just like the one Boyd had used rappelling at the Academy, and attached it to the nylon-covered steel cable rigged atop the railing around the sides of Chardonnay.  She made her way forward, carefully holding the rail as she moved the carabiner over the cable.  At the bow, she bent to close the hatch, still attached to the rail by her safety line.  The spray obscured her, even with the lights, and she appeared as just a yellow blob 75 feet away.

The wave was a giant, 20 feet of towering gloom, and its bulk seemed to stop Chardonnay in a trough.  Night was complete in a moment as the fading light was blocked by water on all sides.  In the instant before it hit, Boyd looked up and felt he was in a deep hole.  Black water covered the bow, and swept all the way back to the skylight over the saloon, behind the mainmast.  The crash was as a locomotive passing, and the splash to the rear knocked Neville and Boyd down into the cockpit, which filled with water.

Chardonnay had met such waves before and came through this one, too.  In a moment, she was on the crest, high and strong, with a fading sun still in the west.

But Mikki was gone.

“Mikki!”  Both men yelled simultaneously.  Boyd grabbed the flag beacon that had saved his hide when he’d foolishly jumped in to save Wolf and threw it overboard.  Neville did the same with a life preserver behind the wheel.  Chardonnay slid down into a trough and it got dark again.

Boyd was looking forward to see whether Mikki’s lifeline was still attached to the railing when the next wave rolled over the bow.  This time, the sea seemed to rise and flood over the bow, instead of crashing in a huge monster wave.  The rise brought Mikki, tethered still to the railing but trolling along in the water beside the ship, back into view for just a moment.

“Close the hatch!”  Neville yelled, agitated.

Boyd wondered why he was worried about the hatch when Chardonnay’s owner was drowning. Then he saw water from the second, smaller wave wash in a solid wall down the stairs into the saloon.  He rushed forward and saw Candido and Manuel struggling in knee-deep water below, lights flickering.  Many more of those waves through the open door and Chardonnay would sink.  He disconnected his carabiner and pulled the door closed and slammed down the hatch over the top, then turned to the starboard side and attached to the railing, sliding forward.  Looking down he sensed it getting dark again.

The third wave brought Mikki up into view again, limp.  Boyd grabbed her line and the wave hit, knocking him down along the railing.  The splash roared back along the deck and upended Neville again.  Chardonnay rode through the wave and crested again.  Candido and Manuel burst onto the deck.

Still holding Mikki’s line, Boyd pulled her up to the railing.  Candido’s strong hands went under her arms and steadied her.  Boyd reached down to grab her legs and pull her over the rail.  A wave washed back and they fell into the rail, Mikki draped across it before finally falling onto the deck.  Boyd picked her up.  Candido checked quickly forward. Seeing no impending wave, he disconnected their carabiners, and Boyd made for the doghouse.

Rushing down the steps, Boyd’s first impression was that she was dead.  He laid her on the table and ripped apart the yellow rain gear that had wrapped her into an inert bundle.  Her face was blue, especially around the mouth, and her yellow hair was plastered to her head, making her look more frail and defeated.  Mikki made no effort to breathe. 

Boyd shook her briefly. No response.  He bent to her mouth, pinched her nose, covered her lips with his, and exhaled into her.  The air returned when he broke contact with her lips.  He repeated it three more times.  She was very cold.  His hand found her throat, and the carotid pulse attested to the beating of her heart.  Cradling her head with his right arm, his lips covered hers again and he exhaled deeply.  She coughed, and he tasted sea water.  She moved.

The expensive oriental carpet was squishy wet, but the knee-deep water had drained into the bilge.  The lights flickered as another huge wave bashed the upper deck, and water could be heard hitting the top and sides of the doghouse, but the hatch held, watertight. 

Pam grabbed Mikki’s rain pants and yanked them down, exposing a wet sweat suit beneath.  Mikki inhaled deeply and coughed again.  Boyd stepped back, awed.  His breath had restored a life.  He promised God a more regular attention to the Sabbath.  The emotion he felt paralyzed him from further action.

“She’s hypothermic,” Pam said, taking charge. “Get her into the bedroom, and we can dry her off.  She’s breathing.”

Boyd picked Mikki up and carried her forward into her cabin.  She moved in his arms and coughed again.

“Turn on that heater over there,” Pam, right behind him, ordered as he put Mikki down.  He turned to see an electric space heater in the corner and stooped to turn it on.

Pam stripped Mikki with swift efficiency.  The wet clothes flew into the saloon as Mikki was roughly rolled over and slapped on the back, Pam holding her around the waist.  Mikki coughed and spit.  Her thin buttocks were pulled against Pam’s life jacket as Pam shook Mikki’s torso and pounded her back.  Mikki responded by struggling and freeing herself, coughing and spitting the whole time. 

Mikki rolled out of Pam’s grasp and turned to sit, bewilderment on her face.  She coughed some more and her color improved.  Neville came into the room and, finding Mikki nude and in capable hands and improving, retreated to the deck.

“Get some towels.  In there,” Pam turned from Mikki and pointed with her head toward Mikki’s bathroom.

Boyd found a stack of large, thick, cotton towels and returned.  He sat on the bed across from Pam and followed her lead drying a now sobbing Mikki.  Chardonnay hit another wave with a shudder that threw them off balance, and the crash reverberated back along the deck above them.

“I was drowned,” Mikki said, looking at Boyd wide-eyed.  “I saw my mother.”

Boyd remembered the soft, cool lips.

“She held her arms out to me.  I was falling …”

Pam snatched the wet towel Boyd had been circling in one spot on Mikki’s back and replaced it with a dry one in front.  She continued fluffing Mikki’s hair.  Boyd dried her small, puckered breasts, and moved to abdomen and thighs.  He kept his eyes on hers as he dried her legs.

“Your breath was warm, it drew me back.  I saw a great light, then it was dark again.  I felt your arms around me.”  Mikki’s eyes never left Boyd’s.  Her teeth began to chatter.

Pam wrapped a wool blanket around Mikki, then stepped to the cabinet by the door and brought back a decanter of brandy.  She sloshed some into a heavy crystal glass and handed it to Boyd.

“Get that down her,” she said sternly, standing now, surveying the situation, the brandy decanter still in her hand.

Boyd’s mind swirled with awe and confusion as he put the glass to Mikki’s lips, which were now quite pink.

“Get her under the covers. Stay with her.  Keep her warm,” Pam said, handing Boyd another crystal glass and retreating out the door.  She closed it solidly. 

Boyd stood and removed his rain gear and lifejacket, dropping it into a wet pile in the corner.  He sat down, and Mikki’s arms were around his neck.

“I’m so cold.  Please hold me.”  Her little girl voice, the memory of the soft lips and the helpless exhaling of their breath made him want to.

“Here, have some of this first.” 

Boyd helped her with the brandy and she finished it, making a face as she retreated into a ball back under the wool blanket.

Boyd tugged to turn down the bed.  Mikki rolled over, then back into the now open bedding.  Boyd dropped his wet jeans, slipped off his shirt and socks and was beside her.

“You’re so warm,” she said, her nude body, still quite chilly, covered him.

Mikki’s lips were warm now, and flavored by the brandy.  Passion more powerful than any he could remember gripped Boyd, and he rolled Mikki to her back.  Lips locked together, they shared breath in a reliving of the rescue.  Chardonnay crested a swell and was flung into a trough.  Wind howled, and shouts on deck bespoke sailors working to adjust sail in the mounting storm.

Arousal, passion, and climax merged into one exquisite plane for Boyd, and he was no longer aware of the storm.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

16 September

“The USS Kearsarge departed Norfolk Naval Base yesterday.  It has Harriers, Super Cobra gunships, the MV-22 Osprey and 1,800 Marines on board.  With the Kearsarge, we could take the whole Azores, if your ship ever gets there,” Navy Capt. Curtis Lestrange said proudly.

He was standing in the DTRA Operations Center briefing Ferguson and his staff, now enlarged by Marine and Navy officers. 

“You raise a point,” Ferguson said.  “I talked with Captain Chailland when they were in Bermuda on 10 September, and a storm passed through there right after that.  We don’t know where they are.  I put in a request to the National Reconnaissance Office to find that ship, but they said it would take too much satellite time and might not find anything.  Finding a ship at sea can be really hard.”  He paused.  “I guess you Navy guys already knew that.”