The boat was a beauty, a classic Maine DownEast design, unchanged through the decades, made the same today as it had been for more than the past century—much like her Baron in that respect, although Beech had phased the line out of production a generation ago. Built for speed and comfort, the Bermuda Forty had a single tall mast, able to fly jibs or spinnaker to complement the huge, triangular mainsail. Ideally, she needed a racing crew of at least six, but two could handle her, with a lot of work and skill to match plus the odd mechanical backup. This wasn’t a show boat either, some billionaire’s toy purchased solely to impress, that never left the dock; she’d been exquisitely kept—an absolute necessity—but all the gear showed the worn patina that comes with use.
As she looked up from the cockpit, she saw Alex grinning above her on the dock.
“What?” she demanded.
“The look on your face just now, never a damn camera or even a paparazzo around when you really need one.”
Thank God for small favors, she thought with no small sigh of relief, while saying, “She’s a lovely boat.”
“And then some. First thing I ever bought,” he said, handing down their gear.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Sorry. First thing I ever bought with money that I earned.”
“Must’ve been some little job.”
“Not really, the boat was in piss-poor shape. I was sixteen, spent all summer working at a boatyard.”
“Why?”
“Make my Old Man crazy. And prove that I could. I was out of college, accelerated scholar program, fast-tracked like you wouldn’t believe and bored blind by the whole stinking ratrace. I’d learned pretty much all they could teach me, didn’t see any sense hanging about grad school just for the initials. Most of the areas I was interested in, I was already on the cutting edge, so a DSc or a PhD wouldn’t add to my credibility. And being a Cobri, they sure wouldn’t make a difference about getting a job. I wanted to try something new. Where maybe I wasn’t necessarily God’s Gift. And where maybe being who I was didn’t matter so much. So I found a place in Maine, walked in like any other high-school kid looking for some seasonal bread, became a BN. What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking how some terms never die, no matter how ticky-tacky. Best time of your life, right?”
“You kidding”—he laughed—“it was hell. Most totally scorched people I’ve ever seen—world-class poseurs summer-cruising up the coast from Beantown and the Apple, using their hulls to flash their status—ran my ass ragged morning to night, seven days a week, sunburn, muscle strain, blisters. Guy who owned the place, though, he taught me to sail. Figured I had ‘potential.’ Let me hook up with one of the locals, do a few regattas. Started as rail meat. Then I graduated to grinder—Jesus, that first afternoon I knew I was dead. Arms popping out of my sockets from working the crank, getting the sails up and down, figured I’d never stand up straight again, either, ’cause I spent most of the day hunched over.”
“I know. I’ve been there.”
“Last couple of races, though, I got to steer. Even got myself a bullet. Came back next spring, crewed on Newport to Bermuda. Had dreams of a TransPac. Maybe even the Whitbread Cup. Then Amy came along.”
“So much changed, just because of your sister?”
He ignored her question as though she hadn’t spoken a word. “Anyway, I had the money I’d earned, I saw this boat in the yard, made an offer. Me an’ Toby—he’s the fella owned the place—put her back in shape.” Rueful chuckle. “Actually, that isn’t quite true, he did the work, I did what he told me; same pretty much as with me and Ray, working on your plane.”
“You should be proud, this is a beautiful job.”
“Yeah. Given half a chance, I don’t do half-bad work. Finish stowing the gear, okay, I just have to touch base with the dockmaster, then we’ll shove off.”
The sun was just clearing the downtown skyscrapers and beginning to make its presence felt, reminding everyone that for all the glories of San Diego’s natural harbor the land around was reclaimed desert. Nicole ducked into the cabin and stripped out of her clothes, pulling on what was for her normal sailing attire: a one-piece swimsuit under baggy shorts, a loose T-shirt to keep her shoulders and back from frying, and a pair of boating sneaks, plus a Red Sox baseball cap and shades. The ensemble was brand-new—the suit the only one left at the Edwards co-op in her size, a slikskin racer that was a bit too tight and daringly cut for her taste—her old sailing clothes she’d worn out before leaving for the Moon better than two years ago. Didn’t worry about replacing them then because she hadn’t thought she’d be back soon enough to matter. She shook her head angrily. Every day she seemed to find some way of reminding herself of what she’d lost, as though what happened was something she needed to be punished for, over and over, without even hope of a reprieve.
The boat stirred against the dock as someone stepped aboard and she poked her head up through the hatch, assuming it was Alex.
“Looks tasty,” a stranger said, poking through the picnic basket she and Alex had found waiting for them—together with a Range-Rover for transportation out to the San Diego Yacht Club, where his boat was berthed—at Lindbergh Field’s private aircraft facility.
Couple of young buckos starting to seriously edge past their prime and refusing to admit it, dressing flash with the air of folks who can’t conceive of being refused anything. As she climbed up to the deck, the man’s buddy struck a pose on the dock, eager to impress. Strangely, these were a type Nicole found more often around yacht clubs than airports; there was something about the act of flying—perhaps the subconscious realization that you literally took your life in your hands every time you took to the air—that seemed to strip away a major layer of artifice. Also, you went out to the airport to fly, whereas at marinas a lot of folks just hung out, either in the club proper or aboard vessels that wouldn’t know the open ocean if it bit them on the ass. Nicole was surprised at their interest, she’d have thought she wasn’t their type—too tall, too rangy a form on what these guys would no doubt class as a nonexistent figure, as little for show as the boat she stood on. But evidently that didn’t seem to make much difference.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Heading out?” the other asked with a charming smile, brimful of designer teeth. He helped himself to a beer, tossed another up to his friend.
“Yup,” she replied as laconically as she could, taking her cue from the high-country wranglers who looked after the cadets during zoomie summer camp back at the Air Force Academy. Their job being to help teach kids all of two months removed from civilian high school, still trying to get their bearings on military life, how to handle themselves in the wild.
Ben Ciari was like that, too, not a word or gesture that wasn’t called for, as though the Marshal’s entire being had been pared down to barest essentials, and those as dangerous as they come. He’d done his best, during their Wanderer flight together, to hone her in that image. And even though she’d fought him all the way—it wasn’t why she’d joined the Air Force, and most definitely not what she wanted from space—she’d also responded.
The guys didn’t even catch the hint, much less take it. And she wondered about her next move.
“I’m Phil,” said the one beside her. “Donny,” pointing to his companion, who—not quite as practiced—returned a halfhearted wave. “Pretty old boat for a young girl.” Another flash of his back molars.
“Not my boat. Not your beer, either, for that matter,” she continued pleasantly. “But now you’ve got some, enjoy by all means. Somewhere else, if you don’t mind.”
“Excuse my frankness, but you strike me as the kind of lady who enjoys speed, and the finer things in life.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or simply deck the man, and wondered why she was hesitating with either?
“That’s ours, four slips down,” and impressive it was, too, a gleaming cigarette, long and low and sleek, with an
engine-to-hull/horsepower-to-mass ratio guaranteed to break world records. Where Nicole came from, a sure sign of a huge ego and small... and she had to stifle an irreverent giggle. “I know the best little place for brunch over on Catalina, we could be there in next to no time.”
“You’re really too kind, but I can’t.”
“I know you, right?” said the man on the dock.
“Not to my recollection, no, we’ve never met.”
“Wait a minute.” Donny was rummaging in his belt pouch, Nicole’s heart sinking as he came up with a micro-terminal that he immediately clipped to his headband. As standard a businessman’s accessory these days as a cellular phone used to be, on a perpetual link with die national data nets. The orientation to the eye was such that, even though the screen was all of an inch square, the visual perception was the same as that of a standard full-size display. Before she could turn away, he’d pointed a pencil camera at her and entered the query.
Without realizing she’d moved, Nicole found herself on the dock, ignoring Donny’s reflexive protest as she swept the terminal off his head. She took a step back, balanced on the balls of her feet, free hand a little behind her, ready to block or strike, whichever was needed.
“What the hell?” the man cried.
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said, “but this isn’t your boat and you’re no longer welcome.”
“Look, missy,” Phil, the bigger of the two, poised to haul himself up from the boat.
“Some problem here?” Alex called jauntily as he strode towards them from the shore.
“None at all,” she replied quietly, not taking her eyes off the other men.
“How’re ya doin’,” Phil said, holding out a hand as he clambered out of the sloop. Alex took it without breaking stride, a gesture so perfunctory that it became more of a deliberate slap than ignoring him completely would have been.
“Nicole,” Alex said, “want to stow the lunch?”
She dropped down the hatch to the floorbelow, taking the basket and ducking into the shadowed cabin, ignoring the voices of the men talking, Donny excitedly demanding the return of his headband display, Phil wanting more than ever to tag her as a trophy, Alex responding with remarkable poise while she worked on automatic, filling the icebox and a couple of lockers.
She held the tiny terminal up to her eye, saw an archive still photo of herself, taken up on the Moon when she was awarded her Solar Cross. The screen automatically scrolled to the next entry in the data file, some video caught of her when she returned to Earth, with a later scene on her way to the family homestead on Nantucket. There was a period—thankfully brief—when seemingly every time she looked up it was into a camera lens, and every other line spoken at her was an inane question. She didn’t need audio to remind her of how she must have sounded, achingly formal, her only refuge the clipped, perfunctory speech and manner of her Academy days. The journalists saw her as nothing but a cipher, she gave that prejudice right back at them, deciding that if they were bound and determined to steal pieces of her life, she’d make sure what they came away with wasn’t worth much.
All she really wanted to do, though, then as now, was run away. So she could be left alone.
Her hands were steady, but there was ice inside her, a thrill of mixed confusion and fear. Only two guys, she thought, making as clumsy a pass as ever I’ve seen, no big deal. So why couldn’t I handle it, handle them? She’d reacted as training and practice had taught her, only they hadn’t responded according to program, because they’d realized that the moves were hollow, a dumb-show bluff without strength—of will, not body—to back it up. This was new for her. In her whole life, the thing she’d come to take for granted was that she could handle any situation. Caution was one thing, this flinching hesitation scared her. What one of those old Colorado wranglers would call a “hoodoo.” She wasn’t reacting to the moment anymore, when those moments involved a potentially violent confrontation, but to her anticipation of it. Not what was, but what might be. Jinxing herself, crippling herself, before she even began.
Was this what it came down to, bottom line, final analysis? Everything was fine so long as nothing was at risk?
Small wonder Elias bounced her.
She closed her eyes, faces rolling into view out of the darkness of memory, slain friends and foes, hard to tell which hurt worse, the losses already endured or those yet to come.
A grinding whine from outside, the clatter of gear across the roof of the cabin, shocked her out of her reverie, to find herself on a bunk, curled tight into a corner. She snapped to her feet and was up the companionway in three quick steps, ducking back down a split second later as the mainsail topped out and the boom stirred right above her head. Donny had already freed the bowline from its cleat and he gave the sloop a hearty shove with his foot to push the bow away from the dock. Aft, they were still secured, Phil holding that line.
“Alex,” she started to say, but her interrogative became a cry of protest, “what the hell,” as Alex heaved the boom off to the side, forcing her to duck again. Overhead, the sail rippled with whip-crack sounds as it was stirred by the fresh morning breeze. Procedure called for sailboats to use their engines to clear the marina, raising sail only when they were free of the mooring fields. Alex clearly had other ideas. Phil let go the stern line, tossed it aboard, the sail belling full as it caught the wind. With a surprisingly emphatic surge, they were away.
“Raise the jib,” Alex told her, and she scrambled forward. Everything was set, the turtle laid out on the deck. She broke open the bag and grabbed the sail packed tight inside, tossing a quick glare over her shoulder as Alex exhorted her in no uncertain terms to hurry, as though split seconds were crucial. The boat was already building a fair amount of headway, the jib was needed to give that force control. One point of the triangular sail got attached to the very front of the bow, another to the halyard that stretched up the forestay to the top of the mast, and the sheets were attached to the third corner.
She found the bill of her Red Sox hat in the way, so she reversed it, threading the jib sheet through the port and starboard tracks, then hauling on the jib halyard to raise the sail. There was a small chop across the harbor and as they turned across the wind, she caught a splatter of spray, just like standing at a corner when a car wheel pops through a water-filled pothole on the way past, that left her shirt moderately drenched.
She ducked back into the cockpit, preparatory to stripping off the shirt and tossing it below, when a faint tremble to the deck beneath her warned her he had other ideas. She’d already dropped to her knees as he yelled his command and pushed the wheel hard over, throwing the boat into a sharp tack. Speed was of the essence here, she had to release the jib from the old leeward side and switch it over to the other as the boat came about, cleating it in place before the wind filled the sail without losing any headway. This was pure muscle work—usually, on a boat this size, the job of three—as she pulled on the sheet for all she was worth, ignoring the pain from her lower leg where she’d barked it on an offensive piece of gear. Murphy’s Law of Sailing: If there’s anything aboard that can possibly do you injury, you’re sure to run into it. Hard.
Her effort, though, wasn’t quite enough, as the jib luffed a moment or two before filling taut with air, the boat staggering a little, its forward progress slowed. She tossed the tail aft to Alex, then used the winch to grind it in a little tighter. Her back and shoulders burned, and this time the sun had nothing to do with it, or with the sweat that soaked her top to toe. She was fit, in as good a shape as she ever was, but this was specialized work, taxing a specific set of muscles that hadn’t been pushed in such a way for quite a while and didn’t like it one bit. She didn’t understand the need for the tack, there was plenty of sea room—not too much in the way of sail traffic and even less in terms of the big ships porting at the naval base—she’d figured one, two max, to sail them out the harbor mouth. But even as she posed herself those thoughts, she heard Alex’s shouts
of “Tack” and sprang for the sheets with a curse as he reversed course. The boat protested, even as it came about. He was sailing right at the edge, pulling moves where fractions make the difference, and the crew wasn’t up to it.
A buoy marked the channel edge, at the head of Coronado Island, and he took it with less than a meter to spare, on the latest of a half-dozen fast tacks, as though bent on clearing to the ocean in record time. A couple of front-line aircraft carriers were parked on the eastern side of the island, a line of grey steel cliffs fifty meters high and almost a thousand long. The wind got squirrely coming over their decks and then across the flat open space of the Naval Air Station’s runways, dying momentarily before coming back stronger than ever, the sudden header catching Nicole by surprise.
She was too stroppy with fatigue to quite register what was happening, so pissed off she tuned out Alex bellowing at her from the helm, and hesitated a moment to get some bearings. The jib filled fast and full, and she cried out as the sheet burned through her bare hands; there’d been so much work, coming in such a fast and never-ending stream, she’d never had the chance to put on sailing gloves. Now she paid the price, as she made a frantic grab for the runaway line to give it a turn around the winch, before collapsing into the cockpit, blinking back tears as she held up both hands before her until the initial burst of pain passed. The left had caught the brunt of the damage, she’d actually broken the skin, while the right was just rubbed raw.
“Nicole,” Alex was calling, “I’m getting headed, pull the line taut and make ready to come about!”
She craned her head up a fraction, saw open ocean to one side, the Del Coronado Hotel off the other, not all that far away, and seriously contemplated rolling off the deck and making a swim for shore. Sensibly realized she didn’t have the energy and lay where she was, figuring that if Alex was stupid enough to come any closer, she’d happily give him a foot in the face for his troubles.
Grounded! Page 16