She had sprung awake a little less than an hour ago — fully awake for once, with her heart racing. She’d come hurrying up to the bridge as fast as her rudimentary ablutions allowed, informed by her trusty wristwatch that the time had come to start worrying about what might be lying immediately ahead of them. Toro confirmed that they were still following the eastward set of the sea at ten knots, which was still the speed Maxima had to maintain to run just ahead of the big storm waves. And they had been running at that speed all night, she discovered in her conversation with a clearly exhausted Captain Toro, who had been on the bridge for two consecutive watches. Maxima was also running deaf, dumb and blind since the beheading of the second communications mast. Even considering keeping a human watch seemed to be a waste of time — nobody could stay outside for any lengthy duration. And there was nothing to see but wall after wall of rain and spray. But even had she been fully equipped and her state-of-the-art electronics all working, there would have been little chance of doing anything other than what she was doing now, Robin observed wryly.
‘We could have called for help,’ admitted Toro, his voice gravelly with fatigue. ‘But we would still have to stay in front of the storm exactly in the way we have done until that help arrived. Of course, we could have done with radar and sonar to tell us what’s ahead. But the chances of altering course are limited. If we turn by more than five degrees — or do so too quickly — the sea is likely to overwhelm us.’
Deep in thought, Robin moved to the front of the bridge and tried to look through the windscreen, but the heavy downpour had returned fiercely enough to overwhelm the wipers and render the glass opaque. ‘We were just over four hundred and fifty miles out when we recovered the boy,’ she estimated. ‘We must have come the better part of three hundred and twenty miles, therefore, which has brought us to the point at which our blindness is becoming something of a concern. The coast — and Puerto Banderas, with any luck — might be little more than one hundred and thirty miles ahead, but the islands named the Tres Marias are likely to be dead ahead. Maybe five miles, maybe ten. But that close. At this speed, maybe quarter of an hour away. Half hour tops. And even if we manage to miss them, there’s Isla Santa Isabel with its outlying walls of dangerous reefs behind them. And Santa Isabel is less than thirty miles offshore. Even if we miss her, we hit Puerto Banderas or the coast pretty close to it before the end of this watch.’
‘I know. I know this coast quite well,’ said Toro.
‘Our survivor probably knows it even better than you do,’ said Robin. ‘He’s a local fisherman, after all, even if he is just a kid.’
‘You think he’s well enough to come up and see if he can help?’
‘I can find out. If yesterday evening was anything to go by he’ll be in the canteen if he’s up and about. You want me to have anything sent up for you?’
‘Bacon sandwich and coffee. Tocino graso. Big. Black. Four sugars.’
‘It’s on the way,’ she said and walked briskly off the bridge. The way Maxima was riding — even though she was doing her best in the high seas — made Robin decide against the lift, and so she ran down the companionway to the canteen. And there, indeed, was Miguel-Angel, looking lost in clothes borrowed from the crew that were far too big for him, just finishing a massive plate of chilaquiles. The look and smell of the tortilla casserole tempted Robin, especially as it had obviously been topped with fried eggs and grated cheese. But she was vividly aware that if she sat down to eat a serving, Maxima could well be aground on one of the Tres Marias before she finished. ‘The captain wants a bacon sandwich and coffee,’ she told the chef. ‘Both big. Tocino graso …’
‘I know how he likes them,’ the chef answered. ‘I keep some fatty bacon especially for him. It’ll be up on the bridge in five.’
‘Thanks. Miguel-Angel — up to the bridge. The captain wants a talk.’
‘I think he wants me to work my passage home, no?’
‘Not in the way you think,’ said Robin. ‘We’d better stop off on the way up and get wet weather gear and safety harnesses for the pair of us.’
‘Si,’ said Miguel-Angel five minutes later as he stood on the bridge after Toro had explained their problem. ‘I can guide you past the Tres Marias. They sing to me and I know their voices.’
Ah, the confidence of youth, thought Robin, who was still finding it hard not to laugh at the sight of him in a gigantic yellow jacket that was only held on his slight frame by a safety harness tightly fastened over it. ‘They sing to you even in conditions like these?’ she asked, meeting Toro’s sceptical gaze.
‘Es verdad,’ insisted Miguel-Angel. ‘The fiercer the storm the louder their songs. I also know the voice of Isla Santa Isabel. Capitan Carlos taught me. I can guide you into Puerto Banderas, even if I cannot see Dahlia Blanca.’
‘Who’s talking about Dahlia Blanca?’ asked Nic as he and Liberty came on to the bridge.
‘It is I,’ admitted Miguel-Angel. ‘Dahlia Blanca makes a fine beacon to guide us into the harbour at Los Muertos, day or night. You know this house?’
‘I built it,’ said Nic. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Es verdad?’ asked Miguel-Angel. ‘Is a fine house. Capitan Carlos, his daughter and son-in-law, they work there.’
‘Right,’ said Robin, before the discussion got sidetracked into gossip. ‘If we want to be sure of seeing it again — as a beacon or as home — we’d better get out and listen for your singing islands, Miguel-Angel.’ She led him down to the main deck level, and they went out side by side into the wind shadow of the bridge house. She stood still while Miguel-Angel strained forward into the blast, listening with all his might. Robin pushed her walkie-talkie to her lips. ‘Can you hear me, Captain?’
‘I can hear you.’
‘Well, it all depends on what the boy hears now …’
No sooner had she finished speaking than Miguel-Angel was gesturing to her.
‘Listen!’ he shouted. ‘You hear her?’
Robin closed her eyes, concentrating as fiercely as she could, sifting through the overlapping waves of sound. The buffeting bellow of the wind — big, deep blasts from behind exploding over the deep ocean; piercing, keening whistles from above as it howled through the ruins of the equipment masts. The throbbing of the racing motors that fought to keep the boat alive in the mountainous seas. But then, to her right, she suddenly heard another sound altogether. A deep, percussive booming that echoed almost to silence before it was repeated. ‘You hear!’ shouted Miguel-Angel, mightily pleased. ‘This is Maria Madre. She has the deepest voice of all. She is away to starboard, perhaps a kilometre south of us. We will run safely past her on this heading and through the Isla San Juanito Passage. But I would tell your capitan that he needs to ease us five degrees northward to port as soon as he comes into her wind shadow, which will happen within half an hour. That way, he will run north of the reef at Isla Santa Isabel, which he will reach in two more hours or so. Only then can he turn ten degrees southward to starboard and take us south into the harbour at Los Muertos an hour after that.’