“Oh, I can take you, no problem. Things get real bad we have to come back, tha’s all.”
“Great. Do you still have the chart?”
He did. She indicated the route that Jos had suggested. “I’d like to take samples between here and here.”
He studied it carefully then straightened up. “Okay. We c’n leave whenever you say.”
The others were waiting on the afterdeck. She went over to them.
“How are you getting on?”
“All done,” Rob answered.
“What about the respirator masks?”
Rob pointed to the painted wooden chest, grey with red stripes, which had been tucked beneath the benching. Alongside it were the chests with the ice and dry ice and the bag with the sampling equipment.
“Good.” She turned. “All right, then, ready when you are, Max.”
They stood on the open afterdeck, handlining in the last few metres.
“Have you got it?” Maggie called to Rob.
He lifted the drogue into the boat. “Yep.”
They were one hundred nautical miles out and Sara was helping Rob take the first sample. She put the polycarbonate tube in the dry ice and closed the chest.
“Have you got the filter, Rob?”
“Sonia’s got it.”
Sonia passed her the filter and she transferred it to a jar, which she placed in the other chest. Maggie checked the latches on both chests and straightened up.
“Max?”
He was leaning with his back to the wheelhouse, watching the proceedings, his soulful brown eyes with the bloodshot whites roving from one member of the team to another.
“We all through?”
“Yes, we’re done here. Stop in ten miles and we’ll take another sample.”
He looked up at the sky.
“Weather seems to be holdin’.”
“Let’s hope it lasts.”
Half an hour later, Max throttled back the engines, then cut them, and the team went into action again. The moves were getting familiar now and the second sample was quickly on board. They were in the middle of the wedge shape that Jos had described on Wednesday evening.
“How are we off for dry ice?” Maggie asked Sonia.
“There’s still plenty. It’s only gone down an inch or so.”
“Good. All right, Max.”
The others exchanged grins as she turned back to them, rubbing her hands together. In a couple of hours or so the rest of the samples would be in the chests and they could return to port. Things were going smoothly at last.
The engine note rose, drowning any attempt at conversation, and they contented themselves with watching the grey ocean speed past. Before long Max was slowing the boat for the approach to the third sampling site. Maggie frowned and looked at her watch.
There should be several hours of daylight left. Why was it getting so dark?
Max cut the engines and emerged with Casey. They stood there, stiff and alert, squinting at the horizon. Maggie gave them an uneasy glance before following Rob and Jos, who were preparing to take the sample. She lurched as she went because a fresh breeze was coming off the sea and the deck was beginning to rock. The sky grew darker and the line sawed back and forth endlessly in the black water as Jos hauled it in. Eventually the drogue surfaced, got sucked back again and then came free. Rob helped Jos to transfer the sample filter to a jar, then staggered back to place it in the sample chest.
In the distance lightning flickered through the clouds.
“Okay, get the waterproofs on,” Max commanded. “It’s blowin’ up fast.”
Casey hinged open one seat, which formed the lid of the locker, and handed out the clothing. Maggie pulled on the waterproof trousers, fastened the jacket and put her life jacket back on over the top. Then, moving awkwardly in the stiff, bulky clothing, and with the deck now heaving under her, she retrieved the sampling gear. As she returned, Rob pointed at the empty locker. He had to shout over the growing noise of the wind.
“Maggie? We could probably get one of the sample chests in there.”
She stopped where she was, feet planted wide.
“Good idea,” she shouted. “Casey? Could you give Rob a hand?”
She watched the two of them manoeuvring the chest. Behind her the wind flowed out in gusts strong enough to tear white foam from the tips of the waves and stream it at her back, thundering on the waterproof fabric and forcing her to duck into her collar. As soon as the chest was stowed she put the rest of the sampling gear in the locker alongside it, tightened the drawstrings on her hood and stumbled over to sit down with the others. The gusts had now consolidated into a howling gale. It was so loud, so enveloping, that Maggie felt as if the sound of it must be generated inside her own head. The waves swelled higher and ran in excited surges, slapping heavily against the bucking hull, hauling back and running again with redoubled force, like an army retreating, mustering, and renewing its attack on an implacable foe.
A few minutes later the hail started. The rear deck danced with balls of ice that ricocheted off every surface and rattled deafeningly on the windows and roof of the cabin. Then the hail turned to rain. They hunched close together, holding the benches tightly, faces averted from the stinging drops that were flying in through the open back of the cabin.
Max struggled to keep Cleaver II pointing into a sea that was now cresting twenty to thirty feet high. The vessel rode down the slopes, shuddered as it was struck by intersecting waves, and climbed slowly back up again. Casey stood next to him handling the levers, throttling back quickly as the boat tipped and remained poised with the screws clear of the water before they descended into another trough. The noise was thunderous, the cabin drenched repeatedly with volumes of sea water that descended like blows from a giant hammer. The rear deck was awash and the water rolled in up to their ankles as the boat tilted. Sara and Rob were vomiting over themselves, incapable of moving.
A huge wave broke over the side of the boat and swamped the deck; water rushed in and the equipment chests were lifted and dragged back. Maggie saw one of the chests containing the precious samples receding across the deck. She hurled herself at it – and slid away with her arms still wrapped around it. Jos leaped up and grabbed her life jacket. The water drained back, then another huge wave dropped down from the opposite direction. Now both of them were in danger of going overboard. Sonia, and even Rob and Sara, staggered forward to help; Sara managed to grab Jos’s ankles and for a moment they were all floundering in a welter of foam and water. Then the deck lifted clear again and they crawled, spluttering, back into the relative safety of the cabin.
Maggie used the trembling fingers of both hands to wipe strands of soaking hair off her face. Her eyes burned from the seawater, saltier here than anywhere else in the Atlantic. She shook her head to clear her vision and realized the others weren’t with her. She got up quickly. Rob and Jos were coming back along the deck, pulling someone between them.
Sonia!
They hauled her up and sat her on the bench. Her eyes were flickering.
Another wave crashed against the cabin windows.
“What happened?” Maggie shouted to them.
“I don’t know,” Rob answered. “Seems like she slid the length of the deck. There’s a winch back there. I think she banged her head it. Knocked her out.”
Sonia groaned and rubbed her temple.
Maggie bent over her. “Sonia, are you okay?”
“Yes, I think so. God, that hurts!”
Maggie grimaced, then turned to the others. “Did we save the samples?”
Jos shook his head. “Sorry,” he shouted. “Only the ones we put in the locker. The rest have gone.”
Sonia murmured something.
“What was that, Sonia?” Maggie asked.
“I was trying to save the other one. But we lost that, too.”
“Which one?”
“The painted one with the respirator masks.”
The vessel continued t
o screw and pitch violently. Max was managing to maintain the heading, but they were making no forward progress. Each time the waves lifted the boat they carried it further back.
There was an excited exchange between Casey and Max. Maggie turned to see what was the matter and her blood ran cold.
Coming into view behind them, rocking on the mountainous waters, was a broad, dense blanket of weed.
CHAPTER 69
To Terry’s dismay their Friday flights were cancelled as well and they had to rebook yet again for the following Monday.
Crews had worked throughout the weekend to clear the major runways and de-ice the aircraft, and by the time he and Milner checked in at Logan Airport flights were arriving and leaving in quick succession. There was, however, still a backlog to clear. They were scheduled to leave at nine o’clock; the plane took off at two-thirty in the afternoon. They were relieved just to be on their way.
Milner had left his car at the airport. He drove them back to the campus and dropped Terry off at the Institute. Terry waved goodbye and went in. He dumped the bag in his office and went to find Maggie.
The door to her office was closed. He frowned, knocked and tried the handle but it was locked. He turned for the stairs.
Silvia Mussini was in her lab on the second floor.
“Hi Silvia, I got stuck in Boston. Have you seen Maggie?”
“No, none of them are back yet.”
He blinked.
“Back from where?”
“From the field trial. It must have taken longer than they thought.”
Alarm drilled out along his veins. “When did they leave?”
“Last Monday. Maggie went with Jos, Sonia, Rob, and Sara. They should have been back by now.”
His jaw went slack. “I thought they weren’t going till this week!”
“Pieter and Ulrich managed to make enough organism so they brought the trial forward.”
He took a deep breath, nodded to her, and made for the stairs.
He went straight to Kramer’s office, knocked on the door, and went in without waiting for a response. He ignored the look of affront on Kramer’s face.
“Dr. Kramer, did you know that Dr. Ferris went out to conduct a field trial in Bermuda waters?”
“I was aware of something of the sort, yes.”
“And were you also aware that there were potential storm conditions in that area?”
“No, but really Dr. McKinley, this is none of my concern.”
“It isn’t? Five staff go missing from this Institute and it isn’t your concern?”
“Dr. McKinley, I can’t be responsible for someone who ignores good advice. I told your colleague that it was premature to conduct ocean trials without convincing laboratory evidence. I also considered such trials far too dangerous for anything but a skilled Navy team.” He gave Terry a glacial smile. “It would seem I have been proven right.”
There was the merest instant of blank silence, then Terry lunged forward, grabbed the astonished man by the tie and lifted him bodily halfway across the desk. He remained suspended there, squirming helplessly on Terry’s fist, his face an inch from Terry’s own.
“You really don’t get it, do you? She’s out there trying to save the lives of every man, woman, and child on the planet, including yours, you pompous, self-satisfied little shit!”
The tie bit deeply into Kramer’s skinny neck; a purple flush rose into his pallid face, and his eyes bulged. Terry shook his head in disgust and threw him back into his chair. He left him there, spreadeagled like a rag doll, and stormed out without closing the door.
He went quickly to his own office.
It wasn’t hard to guess which boat Maggie had chartered and he got the number from the contacts list on his lap top.
Milner looked up in concern as he came in.
“Terry?”
“Maggie did carry out those field trials last week, Sam, and they haven’t come back. Could I use your phone?”
“Sure, help yourself.”
The girl who took the call was guarded.
“Are you family?” she asked.
He swallowed hard. “This is Dr. McKinley,” he said. “I’m a close scientific colleague of Dr. Ferris. Please tell me what’s happened.”
There was a pause, then the girl said:
“I’m sorry, sir. A real bad storm came through here. It blew up suddenly. Did an awful lot of damage.”
“Dr. Ferris should have returned by now.”
“I know. They were caught in the storm, see. Last time we spoke to Cap’n Gibson he said it was drivin’ them backwards into the weed mats. We been tryin’ to make radio contact with them ever since.”
Something fluttered inside Terry’s stomach. He forced himself to think rationally.
“Does the Maritime Operations Centre know?”
“Oh yes, sir. We told them.”
“And?”
“They can’t handle Search and Rescue that far out. Normally they ask an incoming vessel to divert, but there’s nothin’ due. No tourist industry now, you see – because of the volcano – we just gettin’ the occasional tanker and container ship. Bermuda Harbour Radio got a message through to United States Coast Guard. We been trying to raise the Coast Guard ourselves since this morning but they’re busy all-a time. Must be a lot of emergencies, right now, with the storm an’ all.”
“Right. I’ll speak to them. Which station would that be?”
“The air station at Elizabeth City, North Carolina.”
“Got it. Thanks for your help.”
“You welcome. Please don’ worry, sir. Max Gibson is a ver’ experienced cap’n. I’m sure he can handle it.”
“I’m sure. Thanks again.”
He was breathing hard as he clicked off the phone. Milner raised his eyebrows.
“Just what I was afraid of, Sam. A big storm ripped through there. Maggie and the team were out in it. When they last called in they were being driven back into the weed mats. And now they can’t be contacted at all. Sam, you’ve done a bit of sailing. What does a captain do in a situation like that?”
Milner screwed up his eyes. “It’s a tough call. If he leaves the motors on he risks fouling them up in the weed. But if he cuts them the wind will turn him sideways and there’s a real risk of capsizing.”
“Even if they didn’t capsize,” said Terry, “they’re stranded in one of the most poisonous places on the planet. That weed is one great mass of ammonia organisms. A group of holiday-makers got trapped in it and every one of them died.”
“Maggie must have known that beforehand, though. Did she take respirators?”
“Yes, thank God. But they could be suffering from exposure or dehydration. I’ve got to get them out of there. The US Coast Guard seems to be the best bet. Who’s the top man?”
Milner thought for a minute before answering, “the Commandant. The Coast Guard’s a branch of the military, but the Commandant reports direct to the Secretary for Homeland Security.”
“James Brierley?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
Terry didn’t like to say he’d been introduced as they were about to enter the Oval Office.
“We’ve met. Where do I find him?”
James Brierley’s desk was the counterpart of his own immaculate appearance. Pens and pencils were neatly aligned, the pad was square, the telephone at precisely forty-five degrees. Terry found him more daunting to speak to than the President, although he was no less helpful.
“The best thing,” Brierley said as he returned to his room, where he’d left Terry sitting at the side of his desk, “would be for you to speak to Captain Andrew Boyd personally. He’s in command of Air Station Elizabeth City. I’ve paved the way for you. My secretary can get him on a private line, you can take it in her office. She also has a map and a list of other Coast Guard stations. You may want to look those over first.”
“Excellent. Thank you very much, sir. I appreciate your help.”
“No
t at all, Dr. McKinley. I know how much the President values your services. Good luck and let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
The voice on the line said, “Boyd.”
“Captain Boyd, this is Dr. McKinley. I – ”
“Ah, Dr. McKinley. I was expecting your call. Right, missing vessel Cleaver II out of Bermuda. ASEC logged a call from Maritime Operations Centre last Friday at 1530 hours. Shortly after that we received a 406 MHz distress beacon with a position plotting 100 nautical miles north-east of Bermuda...”
His heart missed a beat. “Sorry, can I stop you there? A distress beacon? Does that mean they’ve capsized?”
Boyd sounded like he didn’t enjoy being interrupted.
“No, it doesn’t have to mean that. Category I EPIRBs – that’s Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacons, doctor – are released automatically at a depth of three to ten feet, it’s true, but they can also be activated manually. Category II beacons are only activated manually.”
“You’ve no way of knowing which sort it was?”
“No. Shall I go on?”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Weather on scene was very severe so we couldn’t do anything at that time. At first light things had improved enough to send a C-130 Hercules to the distress position. Crew sighted a vessel which appeared to be trapped in a large weed mat. The vessel released signal flares.”
Terry’s spirits lifted.
“So they hadn’t capsized?”
“It’s a fair assumption,” the Captain remarked drily. “At that point we would normally send out a rescue crew in an HH-60 Jayhawk.”
That, Terry knew, was Coast Guard’s standard long-range helicopter.
“So why didn’t you?”
Terry thought he detected a sigh.
“Sir, you have to appreciate what’s been happening here. We have a crisis situation in a huge area of the north-west United States because of the eruption at Yellowstone. They need every helicopter they can get, especially long-range helicopters. They’ve requisitioned Jayhawks from wherever they can get them. All the Coast Guard Air Stations are down to just one, and that includes ours. The storm on Friday created emergencies up and down this coast. We’ve been running missions with that machine continuously for twenty-four hours. It did a valiant job but now it’s grounded for technical reasons. We’re working as hard as we can to make it airworthy but there are problems getting the engine parts. Until they come there’s nothing we can do.”
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