"Hold on!" Bonterre yelled. The little boat skidded sideways and skipped over the foaming crest. As Hatch watched in mingled horror and disbelief, the dinghy became airborne for a sickening moment before slamming down on the far side of the wave. It leveled out, shooting down the following edge.
"Can't you slow down?"
"It does not work if one slows down! The boat needs to be planing!"
Hatch peered over the bows. "But we're heading in the wrong direction!"
"Do not worry. In a few minutes I will come about."
Hatch sat up in the bow. He could see that Bonterre was staying as long as possible in the glassy troughs, where the wind and chop didn't reach, violating the cardinal rule that you never bring your boat broadside to a heavy sea. And yet the high speed of the boat kept it stable, allowing her to look for the best place to cross each wave.
As he watched, another wave crested before them. With a deliberate jerk, Bonterre jammed the engine handle around. The dinghy skipped over the top of the crest, reversing direction as it came hurtling down into the next trough.
"Sweet Jesus!" Hatch cried, scrabbling desperately at the bow seat.
The wind dropped a little as they came into the lee of the island. Here there was no regular swell, and it became far more difficult for the little boat to ride the confused sea.
"Turn back!" Hatch cried. "The riptide's going to sweep us past the island!"
Bonterre began to reply. Then she stopped.
"Lights!" she cried.
Emerging from the storm was the Cerberus, perhaps three hundred yards off, the powerful lights on its bridge and forward deck cutting through the dark. Now it was turning toward them, a saving vision in white, almost serene in the howling storm. Perhaps it had seen them, Hatch thought—no, it had seen them. It must have picked up the Plain Jane on its scope and been coming to its rescue.
"Over here!" Bonterre yelled, waving her arms.
The Cerberus slowed, presenting its port side to the dinghy. They came to an uneasy rest as the great bulk of the ship cut them off from wind and waves.
"Open the boarding hatch!" Hatch yelled.
They bobbed for a moment, waiting, as the Cerberus remained silent and still.
"Vas-y, vas-y!" Bonterre cried impatiently. "We are freezing!"
Staring up at the white superstructure, Hatch heard the high whine of an electric motor. He glanced toward the boarding hatch, expecting to see it open. Yet it remained closed and motionless.
Twisted lightning seared the sky. Far above, Hatch thought he could see a single figure reflected against the light of the bridge instrumentation, looking down at them.
The whine continued. Then he noticed the harpoon gun on the forward deck, swiveling slowly in their direction.
Bonterre was staring at it also, puzzled. "Grande merde du noire," she muttered.
"Turn the boat!" Hatch yelled.
Bonterre threw the throttle hard to starboard and the little craft spun around. Above, Hatch saw a peripheral glow, a blue flash. There was a sharp hissing noise, then a loud splash ahead of them. A thunderous whump followed, and a tower of water rose twenty feet off their port bow, its base lit an ugly orange.
"Explosive harpoon!" Hatch cried.
There was another flash and explosion, frighteningly close. The little dinghy pitched sharply, then heaved to one side. As they cleared the side of the Cerberus, wild water took them once again. There was an explosion ahead as another harpoon hit the water. Spray stung Hatch's face as they fell backward, nearly foundering.
Without a word, Bonterre spun the boat again, throttled up, and headed straight for the Cerberus. Hatch turned to yell out a warning, then realized what she was doing. At the last moment she turned the boat sideways, slamming hard against the huge vessel. They were under the pitch of the hull, too close for the harpoon gun.
"We'll make a dash by the stern!" Bonterre cried.
As Hatch leaned forward to bail, he saw a strange sight: a narrow line in the water, sputtering and snapping, heading toward them. Curious, he paused to watch. Then the line reached the bow in front of him, and with a tearing sound the nose of the dinghy vanished in a cloud of sawdust and wood smoke. Falling into the stern, glancing up, Hatch could see Streeter leaning over the ship's rail, an ugly weapon he recognized as a flechette aimed directly at them.
Before Hatch could speak Bonterre had thrown the boat forward again. There was a sound like a demonic sewing machine as the flechette in Streeter's hands tore apart the water where the dinghy had tossed just a moment before. Then they had cleared the stern and were back out in the storm, the boat bucking, water crashing over the ruined bows. With a roar, the Cerberus began to turn. Bonterre jammed the dinghy to port, almost overturning it as she headed in the direction of the Ragged Island piers.
But in the vicious ripping sea the small outboard was no match for the power and speed of the Cerberus. Looking through the heavy squall, Hatch could see the huge boat begin to gain. In another minute, they would be cut off from the inlet that led through the Ragged Island reefs to the pier beyond.
"Head for the reefs!" he yelled. "If you time the swell, you might be able to ride right over. This boat hardly draws a foot!"
Bonterre jerked the boat to a new course. The Cerberus continued to bear down, coming inexorably at them through the storm.
"Make a feint, let him think we're going to turn at the reefs!" he shouted.
Bonterre brought them parallel to the reefs, just outside the breaking surf.
"He thinks he's got us!" Hatch said as the Cerberus turned again. There was another shattering explosion off the beam, and for a moment Hatch breathed salt water. Then they emerged from the spray. Glancing down, Hatch saw that half the port gunwale had been blown away by a harpoon.
"We'll only have a single chance!" he yelled. "Ride the next swell across!"
They bucked along the reef for an agonizingly long instant. Then he yelled: "Now!"
As Bonterre turned the ruined dinghy into the boiling hell of water that lay across the reef, there came another huge explosion. Hatch heard a strange crunching noise and felt himself hurtled violently into the air. Then everything around him was churning water and bits of planking, and the dying muffled roar of agitated bubbles. He felt himself being drawn down, and still down. There was only one brief moment of terror before it all began to seem very peaceful indeed.
Chapter 47
Woody Clay lost his footing on a patch of seaweed, banged his shin, and came close to using the Lord's name in vain. The rocks along the shore were slippery and algae-covered. He decided it was safer to crawl.
Every limb of his body ached; his clothes were torn; the pain in his nose was worse than he could have ever imagined; and he was cold to the point of numbness. Yet he felt alive in a way that he had not in many, many years. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, this wild exhilaration of the spirit. The failed protest no longer had any significance. Indeed, it had not failed. He had been delivered onto this island. God worked in mysterious ways, but clearly He had brought Clay to Ragged Island for a reason. There was something he had to accomplish here, something of prime importance. Exactly what, he did not yet know. But he was confident that, at the right time, the mission would be revealed to him.
He scrambled beyond the high tide mark. Here the footing was better, and he stood up, coughing the last of the seawater from his lungs. Every cough sent a hideous pain shooting through his ruined nose. But he did not mind the pain. What was it St. Lawrence had said, when the Romans were roasting him alive over a brazier of hot coals? "Turn me over, Lord. Cook me on the other side."