The giant’s keel parted the sea in crests like foam-covered murky-green mountains. One of them rolled into the Corinth II’s battered hull and shook her like a twig in a stream. We were so close to the tanker that we could see the rivets, dents, and weld marks on its hull. As the tanker bore down on us, the wall of water the tanker pushed forward, along with a gust of wind, turned our boat with excruciating slowness and saved us from being crushed.
We still had a chance, but we had to act fast. I turned to Prit, who stared, slack-jawed, as the massive vessel passed no more than five feet from us.
“Prit, find the flare gun and send up a flare!”
The Ukrainian snapped out of his stupor and held up the gun he’d brought with him from the cabin. He raised it over his head and pulled the trigger. The flare shot out with a hiss and exploded, bathing the entire scene in bright red light.
As the flare drifted down, tied to its parachute, I leapt into the cabin. The once-cozy cabin was now in shambles, flooded with cold, ankle-deep water. Oil, food, navigational charts, and papers sloshed around. I was pretty sure I knew where the leak was, but there was no way to fix it. In one corner of the room, Lucia clutched the cat, looking at me expectantly.
“How do you propose we get on that thing?” she asked in an astonishingly calm voice.
“Don’t know yet, but first we have to keep them from leaving without us.”
I grabbed one of our two spearguns and slung it across my back. Ignoring Lucia’s incredulous look, I dug around in the locker for the strongest sail. After I’d found it, I looked for its line and tied it to the end of the spear. It was crude, but it might work.
“What’s that?”
“A guide wire, or something like it,” I yelled as I rushed back on deck.
By then the tanker had advanced nearly half its length. Rising as high as an eight-story building, it sheltered the sailboat from the wind and waves that pounded its other side. I watched stunned as the Corinth II bobbed gently in that small oasis of calm, still lit by the red flare. A few feet away, at the edge of the flare’s light, the protective barrier created by the tanker ended and the sea rose up furiously.
We only had one chance. I aimed the speargun up toward the deck of the tanker, nearly invisible in the black night. I did some quick calculations. It was the most powerful speargun available, but it had to travel a very long, very steep distance. Add to that the weight of the rope and…
Fuck it! Take a deep breath, and shoot! The annoying voice in my head nagged me. If you don’t hook this tanker, you’re dead. Their propellers will suck you under and make mincemeat out of you. If not, the storm will finish you off. This is your only chance.
“Shut the fuck up, smart-ass!” I muttered, clenching my jaw.
I shook off my doubts and fired. The spear flew out with a snap. The cable tied to it uncoiled at full speed. I counted in my head—fifteen feet, thirty, fifty… At seventy-five feet, it stopped dead. Trembling, I grabbed one end and tugged gently. Then I tugged harder, but the cable still didn’t give. We’d hooked onto the tanker.
The sailboat’s winch, where the line was attached, groaned as we were dragged forward—but it held. The Corinth II had latched on like a remora to a whale and was moving alongside the huge ship. Inertia propelled our boat against the tanker’s hull, each blow tearing off sheets of carbon fiber and jarring us all to our bones.
Sudden beams of light danced on the sailboat’s deck as several flashlights found us. At that distance, we couldn’t hear what the crew was saying, but they had to be asking themselves who the hell we were and how the hell we’d gotten there. After a few long minutes, they unwound a boarding net down the side of the tanker. It must’ve taken a titanic effort to haul that heavy net across their deck as the storm whipped around at full force. Whoever they were, they were determined to help us climb aboard.
“Come on, before they change their minds!” Prit shouted.
The Ukrainian grabbed hold of the net and scrambled up as agile as a monkey. Lucia settled Lucullus into my arms, gave me an excited kiss, and followed Pritchenko up the net. I stood on the deck of the sailboat with a knot in my stomach. The last time I’d boarded an unknown ship was in Vigo. That experience had not gone well. I hoped that, this time, there wouldn’t be anyone pointing a gun at me when I reached the deck. I tucked Lucullus into my slicker and cinched it tight. He squirmed around inside the improvised bag, then stuck his head out the neck hole.
With a last backward glance, I started up the net, wrapped in the smell of wet fur. I realized we’d left all our gear on the sailboat. Of course, scaling the net like Spider-Man, I couldn’t have carried much anyway.
When I reached the tanker’s deck, several things happened. First, the wind hit me so hard that I nearly pirouetted backward in a fall that would’ve been fatal. Second, a pair of strong arms grabbed me and pulled me on board, while others threw a blanket over my shoulders. Third, and most surprising, an elegantly dressed, Nordic-looking officer with a dazzling smile and pearly white teeth walked up to me and held out his hand.
“You are the strangest fish we’ve ever caught, I can assure you,” he said in very proper English, with an accent I couldn’t place. “Allow me to welcome you aboard.”
“What’s the name of this ship? Where are we?”
The officer’s gesture swept the entire tanker as the curtain of rain soaked us. “Welcome to the Ithaca.”
6
Edna made landfall south of Morocco, then quickly weakened. Twenty-four hours later, her violent winds were gentle breezes. After dumping gallons and gallons of rain on the ocean, the clouds were wispy and no longer menacing. The August sun beat down on the African coast once again. By the time Edna passed through the Strait of Gibraltar and drifted onward to the Mediterranean Sea, she was just a harmless rainstorm. But we saw none of that.
The moment I woke up, I instinctively felt around for my HK. When it wasn’t next to my bed where I always kept it, I panicked. Then the fog in my head cleared, and I remembered it was back on the sailboat—probably at the bottom of the ocean.
I realized that I was in an unfamiliar cabin. Sunshine streamed in through an open porthole and glinted off the light-blue walls. I bolted upright and regretted it instantly, as every muscle in my arms and back exploded in pain. Even the muscles in my neck cramped. I was so stiff I struggled just to reach the bottle of water on the nightstand.
I gulped down the entire bottle in seconds, belched, and then took a better look at the cabin. It was a simple room, about ten feet square, with a small closet next to the door. Another bed stretched along the wall across from mine. The warm sunlight coming through the porthole meant the storm must have passed. That answered my first question.
Judging by what I could see of the sky, I must’ve slept for over twelve hours. That was no surprise, considering how exhausted we were when we boarded the tanker. I vaguely remembered two burly sailors in jumpsuits whisking me off to this room and Lucia helping me get undressed and into bed before she collapsed onto a mattress on the floor. That answered my other question. Lucia was still right there, sleeping peacefully; next to her was Lucullus, sprawled on a pillow, dead to the world.
I didn’t have to wonder where Prit was. The Ukrainian was snoring loudly on the bed across the room. I had a hazy memory of him, exhausted like the rest of us, refusing to go to bed until he was sure Lucia and I were warm, dry, and in no danger. Our blond guardian angel.