The Lost Island

by Douglas Preston

  And they would pull it off. They had the bigger boat, four tough men, and overwhelming firepower. While the Turquesa might have some small arms on board, the 50-caliber at short range could obliterate them.

  She glanced at the radar. They had now closed to six hundred yards. Any idiot could see the Johnsons were doomed. They were no idiots. Cordray unhooked the VHF mike and turned it to channel 16. “Turquesa, this is Horizonte.”

  Silence. She knew they must hear her—it was standard for cruising vessels to keep the emergency channel 16 live at all times.

  “Turquesa, hove to, or we open fire.”

  No answer.

  “Hove to. We just want the map. Give us the map and no one will get hurt. Do you read?”

  Again, no answer.

  She gave the engines slightly more power, even though they were running close to the red.

  The gap began closing more rapidly. The six hundred yards dwindled to five. A large wave bashed the side of the boat, surging up and over the decks. She had to fight to keep the boat on course. The sea was growing worse. The VHF weather channel had begun issuing a stream of bad news: a tropical storm, passing to the north, was gaining power and would soon be a hurricane. Seas were expected to grow to twenty feet or more.

  Another shuddering wave swept over the foredeck, foaming gray-green as it surged through the railing. She couldn’t see the Turquesa, but she knew it had to be worse for them. The boat was shorter, narrower—and much lighter. It would be tossed around like a cork. It was amazing they were still afloat.

  The pursuit continued. They were now edging into the Barraquilla Basin, deep water hundreds of miles from shore. There was nothing out there—nothing.

  Cordray didn’t care. Four hundred yards.

  She picked up the mike. “Turquesa, this is Horizonte. I repeat: hove to or we will sink you. This is your final warning.”

  Nothing. No answer. Three hundred yards.

  She called Manual to her side. He had seen everything the sea could throw at a man, and he was still looking pale. “You and Paco, man the gun,” she told him in Spanish. “Be ready to fire at my signal. Focus your fire on the two. Keep it high, avoid holing the vessel.”

  “Sí, señora.”

  Two hundred yards. One hundred.

  The VHF crackled. “Okay, Horizonte, you win. We’re hoving to.”

  It was the woman. This was it: the endgame had arrived.

  “Lights!” Linda Cordray cried.

  The bank of lights atop of the Horizonte snapped on, throwing a brilliant glow across the heaving sea, blinding them. And there was the Turquesa, swinging around to face them.

  The floodlights of the Turquesa went on in turn.

  She scrabbled at the VHF mike, yanked it down. “Off! Turn those fucking lights off or—!”

  The first shot punched through the pilothouse window, spraying plastic slivers across her face. Her brain was only starting to process what was happening when the second shot slammed into her brow, taking off the top of her head.

  30

  GIDEON REMAINED PRONE in the bow, switching the M4 to automatic and unleashing a blast at the two men manning the 50-caliber machine gun. He was well within range, but the heaving of the deck made it hard to aim, and the burst went wide. Still, it had an excellent effect: it sent both men diving to the deck. And Amy had scored big-time with the H&K sniper rifle.

  Now Amy gunned the engine. The Turquesa headed straight for the Horizonte. Remaining prone on the deck, legs splayed, Gideon held his fire as they surged forward, narrowing the gap between the two boats in a matter of seconds. Confusion reigned on the Horizonte: the two men at the 50-caliber were still on the deck; there was consternation in the pilothouse, no one at the wheel, throttle at full speed. The bow turned in to a cresting wave that burst over the forecastle. The two men at the machine gun, clinging to the mount, temporarily vanished in a frothing mass of water.

  The Turquesa was now just seconds from impact with the Horizonte. One of the gunners managed to get on his feet, pulling himself up by the handles of the 50-caliber, swinging the gun toward them.

  Gideon fired again as the gunner, for his part, let fly a deafening burst; the brutal stream of fire raked the Turquesa, churning up the fiberglass deck like a chain saw as it swept past. The Turquesa checked its course at the last minute, blasting past the other vessel with only a few feet of separation and then swerving away. Gideon could see a grenade canister, tossed by Amy, tumbling into the rear cockpit of the Horizonte.

  The man at the machine gun let loose another desperate blast, the rounds ripping through the aft section of the Turquesa—and then came a deafening explosion as the grenade detonated within the Horizonte. A ball of fire, orange and yellow and black all roiling together, punched up into the teeth of the storm, the sound of it booming across the water, along with a huge fountain of flaming debris. The initial blast was followed by a string of thunderous secondary explosions, lofting more wreckage into the air. Their fuel lines had ruptured. Within moments the entire superstructure of the Horizonte was splayed open, one long mass of fire. As Gideon watched—rooted in awe and horror—the boat wallowed in the foaming sea. There was another explosion, and a comber burst over the listing vessel, obscuring it as it fell into a trough. And as the swell rose again, all that could be seen was a great fiery slick, sprinkled with burning wreckage.

  The Horizonte had utterly vanished.

  31

  AS THE BURNING swell subsided, Gideon struggled to his feet from his position at the bow and made his way aft, clutching at the rail to avoid being swept overboard. He found Amy at the helm. The lone working engine was making an ugly, coughing sound, and lights flickered. Each wave seemed to push the boat down farther, it rising ever more sluggishly.

  “Check the forward bilge,” she cried over the roar of the sea.

  Another wave slammed into the boat, pushing it sideways and almost knocking Gideon off his feet as he made his way down the companionway. The cabin was a total mess; the 50-caliber rounds had ripped through the foredeck, leaving gaping holes, shattering fiberglass and wood. The hatch to the bilge, he remembered, was located in the passageway to the head. He found the square piece covering the bilge access, pulled it up, unlatched the hatch, and raised it.

  Water was sloshing around a mere inch below the cabin floor. Even as he watched, the boat was shoved sideways, the floor tilted, and water sloshed up and into the passageway. He tried to shut the hatch but the upwelling of water forced it open again.

  The lights flickered again and the engine hacked and coughed. There was a strong smell of diesel fuel building in the enclosed space. He pulled out his walkie-talkie.

  “The bilge is full, water’s at floor level and still rising. Also, a big fuel leak somewhere.”

  “Get a life preserver and bring me one.”

  Gideon pulled out two life jackets from a locker, donned his, and carried the other to the pilothouse. Amy was still at the helm, calmly working the controls with her left hand while broadcasting an SOS on the mike with her right.

  “Activate the EPIRB,” she said. “Instructions printed on the outside.”

  Gideon exited the pilothouse and located the emergency position indicating radio beacon in its compartment on the outer wall—completely shot to pieces. He raised his walkie-talkie again. “EPIRB’s destroyed. Do we have a backup?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I’m calling Glinn. We need a rescue.” Gideon leaned in toward the sat phone, flipped on the switch.

  Nothing. A closer inspection revealed a bullet hole that bored straight through the phone’s innards.

  “Shit!” He pounded the dead device with his fist.

  Amy grabbed his arm. “Listen to me. Get some drysacks, fill them with water, food, matches, a knife, two headlamps, portable sat phone, briefing book, two handguns, ammo, food, rescue dye, binoculars, shark repellent, medical kit, quarter-inch line. Pull out as many life preservers as you can, bring them on
deck, tie them together, and tie the drysacks on.”

  “It’s done.” Gideon stumbled below again. The water was now up to his calves, covered with floating debris and trash. The boat was sinking fast. He grabbed two drysacks and began wading about, filling them as quickly as he could. The boat was getting heavier, lower in the water, totally at the mercy of the thunderous sea. Each swell pounded the hull, threatening to shake it apart. Cabinets were crashing down; light fixtures had come loose and were swinging from their wires.

  And then the lights went out. Simultaneously the engine quit with a strong shudder.

  Gideon put on one of the headlamps and kept collecting gear. The boat spun wildly, throwing him into the water. He struggled up, clinging to whatever he could, trying to keep the open drysacks above water. Throwing open the gun cabinet, he pulled out some ammo to match the handguns they were already carrying, and tossed in a couple of grenades for good measure. In went the briefing book, some line, two fixed-blade knives with sheaths, half a dozen liters of water, several boxes of granola bars.

  The water was now past his knees.

  The boat shook as an exceptionally powerful wave struck the hull. He heard cracking and a sudden spray of water, more cabinets tumbling down.

  He sealed the drysacks. Now for the life jackets. He pulled out a mass of them from an emergency compartment and, looping a rope through their armholes, tied them together and dragged them up the companionway.

  Another massive wave hit the boat, tilting it sideways. It did not swing back. The vessel wasn’t recovering. It was about to go under.

  “On deck now!” he heard Amy cry.

  Water was surging over the deckrail and pouring into the cockpit as the boat canted. Gideon struggled up the now cockeyed stair, against a rush of water, hauling the bundle of life preservers and the drysacks.

  The Turquesa began to slide down into the sea sideways. The rush of water through the pilothouse door became a Niagara. It was perhaps the most sickening feeling Gideon had ever experienced. They really were going down.

  “On deck!” screamed Amy.

  Struggling with his burdens, he rammed them through the companionway door and, falling sideways as the deck became vertical, scrambled along the pilothouse windows. The boat had rotated and was lying on its beam-ends, going down by the stern, the bow rising higher and higher as water continued to surge through the door, the stern now completely underwater.

  A great wave slammed the boat, throwing Gideon into the rising water. He struggled to find his footing. He couldn’t see Amy in the howling darkness, but he could hear her voice.

  “Get out now!”

  But the pilothouse door was completely underwater, the stern sinking fast and the boat vertical, its bow pointing straight up. He was trapped in the pilothouse, a row of sealed windows above him. There was no way he could swim underwater and out the door—not with the life preservers and drysacks.

  Where was Amy?

  He heard a deafening crash and a flash of light, then another and another. The far pilothouse window exploded into fragments of Plexiglas and in the flashes he could see Amy astraddle the mooring post, .45 in hand, firing through the windows to create an escape route.

  The air rushed out of the gaping windows with a sigh and the water rose still farther, carrying him upward. He maneuvered the bundle of life preservers to the hole, where, with another great sigh, the rising water forced them through, pushing him underwater at the same time. He followed them up and a moment later found himself on the surface of the water, clinging to the mass of preservers.

  Seconds later the bow of the Turquesa vanished beneath the waves. As he watched, the bottom of its hull appeared like a rolling whale, upside down.

  “Amy—?” he began to call.

  “Right here.”

  He could see her dark outline bobbing in the water. A few strokes brought her over to the makeshift float. A great hissing wave rose over them, the comber at its top sweeping over their heads, pushing the float under for a moment. They rose again, shedding water. Gideon took a gasp of air, sputtering.

  “Thank you,” he managed to say.

  Another great wave towered above them, and they were buried again under the foaming crest.

  Gideon clung to the makeshift raft for dear life, gasping for air. The only thought going through his mind was: One hundred and sixty miles from land.

  32

  THE DAWN WAS little more than a smear of mud along the eastern horizon. The storm continued unabated, mostly wind, roaring over the sea and roiling up gouts of spume. Gideon and Amy clung to the mass of life preservers, too exhausted to speak. It seemed to Gideon their lives had been reduced to a kind of ghastly sea-rhythm: the rise, rise, rise on each swell; the growing hiss of the approaching comber; then the sudden boiling of water, pushing them under while they clung for dear life, often gripping each other, then clawing back to the surface, gasping for breath—and then the awful sinking into the trough, with a sudden silence and cessation of wind, to be followed by the inevitable rise that repeated the terrible cycle all over again. The air was so full of water it was all he could do to breathe. The seas and wind were driving them westward at a tremendous rate.

  At least they had drinking water. Gideon managed to open a drysack and get one bottle out, at the cost of the bag shipping seawater. They managed to pass it back and forth, draining it. Gideon immediately puked it all back up.

  Slowly, slowly, the day rose. The wind didn’t abate, but at least the sea became more orderly, the great march of waves going in the same direction as the wind and currents. Periodically, bands of rain came lashing down in torrents, the sky split with lightning. The heavy rain seemed to flatten the chop and lessen the wind, and Gideon finally ventured to speak. He could see Amy’s dark hair and small face, drawn and pale, as she clung to the other side of the makeshift float.

  “Amy?”

  She nodded.

  “You…okay?”

  “All right. You?”

  “Good.”

  “More water.”

  Gideon waited for a wave to pass, and then he unsealed the drysack and pulled out another liter bottle. More water slopped in as he resealed the bag. He waited, cradling the water bottle protectively as another wave crushed them, and then handed it to Amy.

  She opened the top, drank deeply. Another wave passed and she handed the half-empty bottle to him. He finished it. Thank God—this time the nausea passed and he managed to keep the water down.

  All day they fought the sea, enduring the endless cycle of up and down, wind and water, the half drowning with each passing wave. Toward evening, Gideon could feel his arms growing numb. He would not be able to hold on much longer—certainly not for another night.

  “Amy, we need to tie ourselves on,” he gasped. “Just in case we can’t—”

  “Understood.”

  Gideon struggled to get the rope out of its drysack, and then, with numb fingers, managed to loop it through his belt and through the rope holding the life preservers together, and then through Amy’s belt, keeping it slack but not so slack they might become entangled.

  The wind began to abate as night descended, and once again they were surrounded by the thundering blackness of the sea. They had now been in the water eighteen hours. In the darkness, with his eyes open, Gideon began to see shapes, in brown and dull red, flickering about. At first they were mere blurry lights, and he told himself they were delusions. But as the night wore on, with the terrible rhythm of the sea never ceasing, he began to see a face—a devil’s face, mouth opening wide, wider, like a snake, vomiting blood.

  Hallucinations. He closed his eyes but the shapes only grew worse, crowding in. He quickly opened his eyes, tried to slap his own face to give himself a taste of reality. Hours had gone by and he hadn’t spoken a word to Amy. Was she even there? But, looking over, he could see her pale face. He sought out her cold hand, gave it a squeeze, and felt the faintest pressure in return.

  Another wave buri
ed them; another spluttering rise. He realized that, even with the water at around eighty-five degrees, he might be suffering from hypothermia. Or salt poisoning—God knew he’d swallowed enough seawater. And now, in the roaring, hissing, and boiling of the water, he could hear voices: whispering voices, cackling voices. Devil’s voices.

  He squeezed his eyes tight shut, waited, and opened them again. But the Devil was still there: the vomiting Devil, mouth opening, showing its hideous pink cavernous interior, the rotting teeth, the sudden eruption of blood and bile…

  “No! Stop!”

  Had he spoken? He thought he heard Amy say something. His head was spinning.

  “. . . fight against it…fight…”

  Fight what? And then he saw it, out in the water. A light. A real light. Glinn’s rescue mission.

  “Amy!” he cried. “Look!”

  But she didn’t seem to respond.

  “Help!” he screamed. “We’re over here!”

  He felt a terrible desperation. How could they be seen in this darkness, this howling watery wilderness?

  “Amy, a ship! Over there!”

  He felt her hand gripping his arm, cold and hard. “Gideon. There’s nothing. No ship.”

  “There is, there is! For God’s sake, look!”

  Now he could see it clearly, and by God it was as large as the Titanic, a huge cruise ship, lit up like a Christmas tree, all sparkling yellow, rows of windows, black shapes of people on deck silhouetted against the warmth. It was amazing what Glinn had done.

  “Amy! Can’t you see?”

  “Fight it, Gideon.” The hand tightened.

  The ship let out a long, booming steam whistle, then another.

  “You hear that? Oh, my God, they’re going to miss us. Over here—!”

  A wave came over them, burying them, pushing them down into roaring blackness. Gideon struggled without air, clawing up, having sucked in water with his shouting. It felt like he was under forever. And then they broke the surface, coughing, spluttering. He looked around wildly.