by Chris Thrall
“Missed the excitement?”
“Yeah, but mostly the camaraderie. What is it the French call that shit?”
“Esprit de corps.”
“Yeah, esprit de corps.”
“I can relate to that. It’s the same in sailing. You cross a huge ocean, battle waves as big as mountains, knowing your life is in the hands of the people around you. You bond as a team and everyone plays their part, because whether you’re still alive in the morning depends on it. Then you get back on terra firma, having stared death in the face, and friends say, ‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ then start talking about their new handbag or where they’re planning to go on holiday next year.”
“Purses, vacations, the next Lexus, Republican-Democrat bullshit, whether the Knicks will make the play-offs . . .” Phipps gave a despondent shrug. “But do you know the worst of it?”
“Go on.”
“In the military, folks act with integrity and honor. If you’re in a tight spot, your buddies close ranks and get you the hell out of there. If there’s an obstacle, you go over it. A bullshit rule, you bend it. But in civilian life so many people are just gutless cowards. They close ranks all right – not to help you, but against you. Obeying the rules to protect their petty promotions and greedy salaries, all to pay a mortgage on a life they don’t even own.”
Phipps fell silent. Penny took the opportunity to refill their mugs. When she sat back down, the huge African American had a grin on his face.
“You know, we had a fire in our building. Only a small fire, but the alarm went off, and we had to leave our office on the third floor and take the stairs down to the street. There’s this one guy in a wheelchair parked on the landing. Everyone’s rushing past him like he was invisible. So I shout to my boss to help me carry the guy down. And he says, ‘No! Safety and health policy! We leave him here and let the fire department deal with him.’”
“Really?”
“Yeah, in case we inadvertently hurt him and he sued the company!”
Penny raised her eyes.
“And the crazy thing was the guy was happy to go along with it. He’d rather risk burning to death than break the goddamn rules!”
“That pretty much answers my question,” said Penny. “I can see the appeal of working for the Concern.”
“The Concern’s about doing the right thing. Something exciting that you can feel good about—”
The phone on the desk rang. Phipps held up an apologetic hand and answered it.
“Phipps . . . Okay . . . yeah . . . yeah.” His hand clenched the receiver, his face deadpan as he spoke in brief, clipped tones.
Penny could tell it was the coastguard’s office and leant forward as a feeling of dread came over her.
Phipps scribbled down a long number and the name “Kimberley II.” Ending the call, he looked Penny in the eye. “Hans has been picked up.”
“A-a-and?”
“She didn’t make it.”
- 8 -
Lieutenant Dave “Bungy” Williams flew the Lynx Mark 8 helicopter low over the emerald-green water of the North Atlantic as he radioed the bridge of HMS Fortitude, “Flight, this is one-seven-seven, over,” his upper-middle-class English accent unwavering and professional.
“Go ahead, one-seven-seven.”
“We have visual on the cargo ship, over.”
“Proceed with caution, one-seven-seven. We await a sit-rep, over.”
“Roger that, out.”
HMS Fortitude, a Type 23 frigate, had been on a joint training exercise with the Cape Verde coastguard. Upon receiving the news of Hans’ rescue, Phipps wasted no time in contacting its captain to request a casualty evacuation. The ship steamed toward the Kimberley II to get within the operating range of its Lynx helicopter. Hans would remain aboard the British warship until the ship’s doctor was satisfied his condition had stabilized enough for the chopper to transfer him to Cape Verde’s Agostinho Neto Hospital.
Despite having spoken to the captain of the Kimberley II by satphone, Bungy Williams circled the aging vessel twice, as per procedure, checking for any landing hazards before making his final approach, flaring the high-tech bird gracefully to set her down on the designated shipping containers highlighted with a crudely painted white H.
The aircrewman leapt out and skipped across the stack of freight to where Carlos and Juan crouched next to Hans’ stretcher, doing their best to shield him from the downwash from the rotor blades. After a brief conversation the Filipinos helped load the injured man onto the Lynx.
“Wait, wait!” Carlos yelled above the din. “You better take this.” He pulled the teddy bear found in the life raft from his overalls.
With a shrug, the crewman threw it into the hold and clambered in himself, and the chopper was away.
Meanwhile, in Boston, Muttley had organized an experienced medical team, who would fly out to Cape Verde on the Concern’s Learjet and provide urgent treatment before returning Hans to a hospital in the US. Naturally, Penny and Phipps insisted they accompany him on the flight.
On the deck of the Kimberley II, Jens and his boy Chamfar watched the helicopter depart until it was a speck on the delicate blue backdrop. With the reward money shared among the crew, this would be Jens’ last voyage on the faithful old barge.
He put an arm around the first mate’s shoulders. “So how do you think the fishing is in Mozambique, my friend?”
“I think it is very good, Captain,” the boy replied with his ever-cheeky grin.
- 9 -
“Hey sailor,” Penny held Hans’ hand as he opened his eyes.
“Miss Masters I presume.” He feigned a smile.
They were in a private ward in Boston’s exclusive Ross Medical Center, where Hans had spent a week in an induced coma following surgical debridement to remove gangrenous tissue from the side of his head. The surgeons left the gaping wound open at first to allow the site time to self-heal, closing it when reinfection was no longer a threat, leaving a jagged red welt only a skin graft would fix. Hans came out of the coma four days ago, but it was only now he was lucid that the various intravenous feeds of drugs, fluids and nutrients had been removed.
“Feeling better?” Penny knew it was a ridiculous question, but there was not a lot else she could say.
Hans squeezed her hand and stared into the distance. Their thoughts locked. It was all Penny could do not to dissolve into a sobbing mess. With painkillers flooding Hans’ bloodstream, the full extent of Jessica’s loss had yet to hit home, and she prayed she could do something to ease his pain when it did.
“I . . . I can’t believe she’s gone.” Hans’ good eye fixated on the teddy bear sat on the table by his bed.
“Let me move this,” she offered.
“No!” Hans rasped, placing his hand on her arm. “No.”
Moments passed in silence, the agonizing reality suspending them in a meaningless black void.
“I thought I had her, Penny.”
“You don’t need to talk about it now—”
“No, I need to.” Hans turned to face her. “She was swimming up to me as Future sank. I grabbed her hand . . . but the safety line . . . It was clipped to the bunk . . . ‘You always gotta clip on your safety line, Bear,’ she used to say. But I never thought she’d clip on inside the cabin.”
“Hans, you weren’t to know. How could you?”
“I thought she was in the life raft with me. I could see she wasn’t herself, but I thought she was in the raft.”
Hans reached for the bear. Penny passed it to him, and he clutched it to his chest.
“I thought you were with me, sweet pea.”
He drifted into unconsciousness.
- 10 -
Dr. Simon Preece, Boston’s leading trauma specialist, removed his glasses and slid them into the breast pocket of his immaculate white coat.
“He’s been through a lot, Penny. Way beyond what a person should ever have to take, to be truthful. Another day or two at sea, and we wouldn’
t be having this conversation.”
Sitting on a green leather chesterfield in the doctor’s spacious office, a room that could easily have passed for an executive suite at the nearby Ritz-Carlton, Penny wished they weren’t having this conversation.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t offered you a drink.” Preece stood up. “Tea, coffee, soda – or perhaps something stronger?”
“Oh!”
The doctor smiled. “I’m not a big believer in drinking tea at a time like this.”
“A beer perhaps,” Penny tendered, feeling it couldn’t have come at a better time.
“Of course.”
Preece walked over to an oak panel and pulled it open to reveal a well-stocked refrigerator. He took out a Budweiser for Penny and a Perrier for himself.
“Glass?”
“No, no. It’s fine.” Penny cracked the tab on the can.
Preece winked – which would have seemed odd from any other doctor – and eased into his sumptuous swivel chair, picking a stray fiber off his pant leg and brushing down his lapels before continuing.
“Hans has experienced what is known medically as brief psychotic disorder, sometimes called reactive psychosis. It’s brought about by trauma and extreme stress, such as the loss of a loved one or an accident or assault – basically, an extremely disturbing event.”
“Jeez,” Penny muttered, staring down at the expensive Persian rug.
“I’m sorry, Penny, is this too much? We can talk about it later—”
“No, no. It all makes sense. Hans’ wife and son were killed last year, but he doesn’t talk about it.”
Preece kept quiet. As a long-standing operative for the Concern, he was well aware of the circumstances surrounding the horrific double murder.
“And to witness Jessica drown . . .”
The doctor pushed a box of Kleenex across the desktop. “And then there’s the physical trauma. He took quite a thump to the face.”
“So does this explain why he thought Jessica was in the life raft all the time? Like his mind simply refused to accept the truth and blanked it out?”
“Not so much blanked it out, like denial, for example. It’s more that his mind took on a parallel reality.”
“Which would explain the delusions.”
“The delusions, the hallucinations – but!” Preece widened his eyes and beamed. “It’s called brief psychotic disorder for a reason, and it would appear he’s over the worst of it and making a full recovery.”
“And the infection?” Penny realized she had unknowingly finished her beer and was crumpling the can.
“The infection’s under control. With a little help from antibiotics, the human body is a wonderful thing. But spending some time in the hyperbaric chamber will speed his recovery – get a little oxygen into his tissues – and some cosmetic surgery, a skin graft, wouldn’t go amiss, if he wants to retain his good looks that is!”
“I never thought the words ‘Hans,’ ‘Larsson,’ and ‘cosmetics’ would ever be in the same sentence, Doctor,” Penny joked, and they both chuckled.
“Another beer?”
He needn’t have asked.
- 11 -
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Penny asked as the Learjet came in to land at Cape Verde’s São Pedro airport.
A month into his recovery, Hans couldn’t let Jessica’s body lie at the bottom of the ocean any longer, despite the doctor’s advice to rest a good deal more. Fingering the crude scar on his temple, he gave a slow but decisive nod.
Regular flights to Cape Verde took twenty-four hours, with two transfers, then a further hop from the main island of Santiago to the smaller São Vicente, ten miles off which the sunken yacht lay. Hans would have had no problem taking this cheaper option, but Muttley insisted upon the Learjet and booking them in at the Grande Verde.
As they exited the plane and climbed down the stairs to the tarmac, the hot Atlantic air brought a rush of memories and emotions back to Hans. Suddenly feeling queasy, he grabbed Penny’s arm, fearing his legs would give way. Fortunately, an airport car was there to drive them to the terminal, where Karen Shapiro, the US ambassador, waited behind the sliding entrance doors to greet them.
“Hans, Penny, I wish our meeting could be under better circumstances,” said the tall and attractive African American, who dressed island style in a T-shirt, denim miniskirt and flip-flops and spoke in a Southern drawl.
“It’s thoughtful of you to come,” Hans replied, knowing Karen lived in the capital, Praia, on the island of Santiago, a two-hour flight away.
Penny nodded a polite agreement.
After shaking hands, Karen led them straight through immigration, bypassing the kiosks and throwing a smile of acknowledgment to one particular official, and out to one of the Grande Verde’s limousines.
“Guys, I wanted to say a quick hi and give you an update on the search for Future, but if you’d rather settle in and get some sleep I can grab a room and meet you tomorr—”
“Now’s fine,” Hans seized the opportunity. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course,” Karen replied, and then introduced them to the driver, who ushered them into the car.
“Phew, what a relief!” said Penny, fanning the cold air around her face.
“Kinda gets you, don’t it?” said Karen.
Hans appreciated the ambassador’s personable approach and could tell her laid-back persona belied a tough woman who’d fought hard to achieve all she had. It was good to have her on side.
Karen slid open the refrigerated drinks cabinet set into the Mercedes’ lunar-gray velour and, without asking, handed Hans and Penny ice-cold cans of beer. Hans’ admiration for the woman went up a notch, and Penny’s thoughts flicked to the gentle Dr. Preece.
“It’s Strela, brewed here in the islands.”
Karen was about to add that they’d probably tasted it before but thought it best not to remind them.
Preliminaries over, she gave them an update on the search, choosing her words carefully, since she knew it wasn’t recovering the wreckage itself that was at stake. Hans had specifically requested that, when found, the yacht and the memories it contained remained on the seabed. The idea of salvaging, repairing and selling Future on filled him with dread, since the thought of a new owner sailing her gleefully around the yachting community would keep the nightmare alive.
“Hans, as you know the satellite images your . . . contacts provided have been obstructed by the weather. We’re in what’s known locally as the tempo de brisas. The—”
“Time of the breeze,” Penny chipped in.
“Ah! Fala português,” Karen complimented her.
“Falo, um pouco,” she replied modestly.
“I’m sure you speak a lot more than I do, honey!” Karen let out a self-effacing chuckle before continuing. “And as we’re not looking to raise the yacht, there’s no point bringing in a salvage rig and crew from Dakar. So, as I said on the phone, I’ve put one of our local guys on it. You’ll like Silvestre. He’s quite a character and something of a celebrity around these parts for his treasure-hunting escapades—”
“But can he find the yach—?” Hans checked himself, realizing he may have sounded rude. “Sorry, Karen, I didn’t mean to blurt all over you. But is this guy any good?”
“More than good, Hans.” Karen reached into her bag. “Have a look at this.” She handed them a folder containing an underwater photograph Silvestre snapped with his boat’s umbilical camera that morning.
There, unmistakably, in a picture taken deep in the ocean’s murky depths was a gilt-lettered wooden plaque screwed to the hull of a yacht: Future.
- 12 -
The Mercedes purred along the coast, the ruffled waters of the Atlantic stretching as far as the eye could see on one side of the road, orange desert dotted with white terra-cotta-roofed homes on the other. As the far-distant hills shimmered in the afternoon heat, a mixture of shock, relief and emotion held Hans and Penny in a trance. Under the circumstances
it was the best news they could have hoped for.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to show you this right at the airport . . .” Karen’s voice trailed off as Hans and Penny continued to stare in silence at the image of Future’s nameplate.
After a time Hans lifted his head and exhaled deeply. “How far down?”
“She’s lying on a sandbar about fifty or sixty meters.”
“And . . . ?”
“No, Hans, both Silvestre and I thought it best to wait until you arrived before a dive’s carried out. I’ve arranged for you to visit the site tomorrow. Obviously, Silvestre’s got all the dive gear, so we can begin the repatriation there and then if that’s your wish.”
“Yes, of course.” Hans pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting them against his lips as he rocked gently back and forth.
“How did Silvestre find the site, Karen?” Penny asked.
“I’m no expert, but from what I understand he took the last set of coordinates Hans radioed through to the marina and, factoring in the wind at the time, extrapolated a return bearing. He’s been scanning the seabed with sonar for weeks, factoring in the drift, but yesterday we had a stroke of luck. A fishing boat spotted a float, and it turned out to be Future’s how do you say, man . . . ?”
“Man-overboard line.” Penny referred to the two-hundred-foot-long floating rope streamed aft as a safety precaution when a sailor is alone on deck – also known as the last-chance line for obvious reasons. As with the fenders, life jackets and cockpit cushions, Hans had painted the yacht’s name on the fluorescent polystyrene float attached to the end of the nylon rope.
“And . . .” Penny was about to say something when she noticed Hans looking overcome.
He leant forward and put his arm around the two women, and as they hugged, tears ran down all their cheeks.