The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1)

by Chris Thrall

  Sitting at Future’s helm during night watches, he’d run through the abandoning ship drill countless times in his mind. Unlike many sailors, who paid lip service to safety considerations, he knew from experience to prepare for every eventuality down to the last detail and that the best laid plans can still go awry – as had been the case when the yacht went down.

  A calm and controlled evacuation was simply not possible when the hull ripped apart and several tons of seawater flooded the cabin. The idea of firing flares, broadcasting a Mayday, launching the life raft and then having time to load it with both crew and supplies would now have been laughable if the situation were not dire. Still stowed in the yacht’s forepeak were their survival suits and a large Perspex box containing additional food, water, clothing and a comprehensive first aid kit. As for the expensive flare gun, it sat in a cupboard just inside the companionway, along with the cartridges. They would have to make do with what was in the ditch kit and equipment bag, along with the few bits and pieces from Future that had surfaced close enough to the raft for Hans to retrieve – the box containing Penny’s jewelry-making kit and the cockpit’s foam cushions among them.

  The cushions proved invaluable. In his haste to board the raft, Hans had landed on the ditch kit, forcing a razor-edged filleting knife through its plastic scabbard and piercing several holes in the rubberized floor. Although not immediately life threatening, the punctures resulted in a permanent state of wetness, and the cushions kept him and Jessica above the worst of this.

  “Etch A Sketch?” she whispered.

  “No, no Etch A Sketch.”

  “Bleeding.”

  “Huh?”

  Fingering his temple, Hans felt a deep gash, one requiring stitches – one not even superglue could fix. They had neither. His thoughts flicked to the vials of penicillin, syringes and sutures in the first aid kit lying on the ocean floor. In the tropics, seawater teamed with bacteria, and even the slightest cut turned septic within hours. He put this out of his mind, opened the ditch kit and returned to the inventory.

  Assorted cordage of varying thicknesses, fishing gear, diving mask and snorkel, sea survival handbook, whistle, a week’s worth of energy bars and snacks, the gallon can of water, a strobe light, duct tape, Silva compass, notepad and pens, ziplock plastic bags, chopping board, filleting knife, cigarette lighter and a few other essentials. In the equipment bag a basic first aid kit, seasickness tablets, hand pump, underwater drogue, ten-pint cans of water, miniature can opener, wooden paddle, signaling flares, sponge, foldout radar reflector, solar still, collapsible basin, hundred foot of rope, maritime charts, pencils, dividing compass, rudimentary directional compass, flashlight, signaling mirror, fishing line and single hook, and the raft’s repair kit.

  Basic navigation would be possible, though the thought depressed Hans. “Navigation” suggested control over one’s destiny, something circumstance denied. He wished there had been enough time to grab the handheld GPS from the chart table drawer. He wished for many things.

  “They’re dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Are we gonna die too?”

  “No, we’re not.”

  Hans opened the repair kit and pondered how to fix the leaks in the floor. The rubber glue and patches would be no good, what with the punctures constantly hemorrhaging seawater.

  Perhaps the quarter-inch-diameter screw-in aluminum plugs?

  But that would mean boring out the holes in the groundsheet with a knife to ensure a snug fit, and if the plugs got the slightest knock – highly likely with all the movement aboard – they would rip out and unleash an even bigger flow. He resorted to placing the sponge over of the seeping slits and weighing it down with six cans of water lashed together with cord. It meant having to wring the sponge out every few minutes, but it was better than marinating in brine.

  - 59 -

  The Learjet came in fast and low on half flaps, just the tiniest puff of tire smoke as it made contact with the runway at São Pedro. Penny stood on the viewing balcony in the airport’s other terminal, one reserved for VIPs, military and, in recent times, top-secret transit flights. She watched as the first four passengers disembarked – burly males dressed in black T-shirts, desert boots and beige fatigue pants, the kind of garb worn by private military contractors the world over – followed by a male and female in their thirties wearing smart causal clothes, and a white-haired man in a suit and an overcoat, despite the high heat. The group climbed into a people carrier with tinted glass, which, having been loaded with a large amount of luggage and plastic containers, made its way toward the arrivals area. She hurried down the stairs to greet them, wondering if life could get any crazier or this was all a dream.

  The elderly gent spoke a few words to the immigration official, who waved them all through without so much a check of their passports.

  Penny brazened herself and walked forward.

  “My dear Penny.” The man held out a bony hand blemished with liver spots. “I’m Innes. How are the sleeping arrangements?”

  “Oh, you know. We all need to rough it now and again.”

  “Exactly!”

  Their laughter broke the tension.

  In front of the terminal they transferred some of the gear to the hotel’s Mercedes to make room in the people carrier for Penny, Edridge wishing to make use of every second of her presence to add to the intelligence portfolio.

  “Oh, before I forget.” Muttley reached inside his jacket. “This is for you.” He handed her a crisp new passport. “Courtesy of the consulate general in Boston.”

  Although impressed with the speed and thoroughness of the operation, Penny worried this meant the Concern believed the yacht had gone down, taking her belongings with it.

  Sensing her thoughts: “Don’t worry, Penny. We’re just covering our bases should we need to move somewhere fast.”

  As Penny stowed the travel document in her daypack, it occurred to her she hadn’t provided and signed the required paperwork. The UK Passport Office must have authorized its issue immediately, supplying her signature and photograph held on file.

  On the ensuing journey Penny learned that four of the men were former Navy SEALs, two of them having served with Hans, and that the nondescript man and woman were a surgeon and a medic. Between them the group spoke a number of languages, including Arabic, Portuguese and French.

  “Nothing to be concerned about, my dear.” Edridge could tell the personnel and equipment took Penny aback. He pulled on his shirt cuffs to square them. “But as we used to say in the Boy Scouts back in Scotland, it’s best to be prepared.”

  Penny nodded vaguely.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” One of the former SEALS, Phipps, gripped her shoulder with a gorilla-sized black hand. “If they’re out there, we will find them.”

  Penny smiled and said thank you, her thoughts lingering on the latter statement.

  Upon arrival at the Grande Verde, the team wasted no time in setting up laptops and other communication equipment to serve as a command center. What with the modern décor and bank of computer screens, Penny had a brief vision of the Starship Enterprise.

  Edridge – “Muttley” – spent time on the telephone talking to the United States Africa Command. Clearly frustrated, he held his head down and gripped the folds in his immaculately pressed suit pants with a veiny hand. Having terminated the call, he whispered something to Phipps, who pursed his lips, shook his head and went back to scanning the grainy satellite images on his screen, downloaded at considerable expense from a private French company.

  “Code Purple,” Muttley muttered as he led Penny into another room for a second debrief.

  “Purple?” She wondered if this was a good thing.

  “Yes . . .” For the first time since they’d met, Muttley didn’t look her in the eye. “Someone’s putting pressure on the Pentagon to block our request for US military intervention. Code Purple means that for reasons of national security, no explanation need be offered.”
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br />   Penny thought back to her conversation with Hans on board Future two nights previous following their fire on the beach. Hadn’t he said something about an undesirable in Washington? She kept quiet and was sure she heard Muttley swear under his breath.

  By midafternoon the team had established communications with all the necessary agencies. They arranged for the printing of flyers and their distribution to yacht crews throughout the island group and shipping entering and leaving port, offering a reward of two hundred fifty thousand dollars for any information leading to the rescue of Future’s crew. Skippers of small craft joining the search would receive a thousand dollars an hour, five thousand for commercial vessels and the pilots of private aircraft.

  Not surprisingly a veritable flotilla headed for the search area, along with a flight of twenty-plus planes, all coordinated by Phipps and his men over the radio and plotted on charts pasted to the command center’s walls. The coastguard’s plane now refueled a fourth time in preparation for another sortie, their patrol vessel continuing to sail a crisscross pattern. The British Lynx helicopter was down for routine maintenance but would be up flying again within the hour.

  A website and Facebook page were set up to draw attention to, and share information about, the missing yacht, aimed at crews and shipping in the area and amateur radio enthusiasts. One such operator had already made contact to say he picked up a brief transmission of coordinates he believed to be from Future – quickly ruled out by the team, since the position was too far out into the Atlantic to correspond with the yacht’s top speed.

  Over the coming days messages offering well wishes and support bombarded the website. A psychic in Ireland saw the yacht knocked down by a rogue wave and its crew taking refuge on a tiny atoll. In view of there being no reefs remotely near Future’s last known position, and attempting to keep things in perspective, Muttley reminded her to be realistic, but it was yet another niggle in her overtired mind.

  A leading public relations consultant in the US – “One of our own,” Muttley said, winking – initiated a media campaign to raise the profile of the search, specifically targeting Cape Verde’s news outlets and those in the Caribbean. Penny’s jaw dropped when later in the day a report from RTC – Cape Verde’s primary TV station – flashed up photographs of the missing crew that, although bearing a resemblance, were not the father and daughter she knew.

  “You don’t think we’re going to show the face of one of our foremost agents to the world, do you, Penny?’ said Muttley. ‘It’s a yacht or a life raft we’re encouraging people to look out for. The identity of the crew is irrelevant.”

  An anonymous contributor to the website reported seeing Hans and Jessica in a restaurant in Guinea-Bissau. Phipps was right on the case, tracking the user’s IP address to find it scrambled via a proxy server. It initiated yet another grave and hushed discussion between him and Muttley.

  When Yachting Life ran a column detailing how a local fishing boat witnessed Future’s gas tank exploding, but was unable to provide a source for the information, Muttley took Penny to one side.

  “Penny, it could well be that someone is attempting to sabotage our efforts. There’s no logical explanation for a gas leak leading to an explosion in the galley. Hans doesn’t smoke, and it’s not as if he would be cooking a meal while single-handedly sailing the yacht, especially when they were due back in port in two hours. As for the sighting in Guinea Bissau, if Hans decided to disappear off into the sunset without informing anyone – which there is no evidence to suggest – then it would be for good reason. A reason known only to Orion.”

  “But, but . . .” Penny felt as though she had a million counter explanations, though attempting to formulate a coherent argument she realized they just weren’t there.

  Penny offered to undergo the harrowing task of contacting Hans’ younger brother, Carl, in the States. They had not spoken before, bar friendly hellos yelled in the background of the brothers’ cell phone conversations, but she figured such awful news better come from her rather than a complete stranger.

  Carl remained surprisingly upbeat, thanking Penny profusely and stating firmly that “nothing will happen to my brother!” He offered to fly out right away, but Muttley suggested it was better Carl stayed in the US should either a rescued Hans or a concerned other party attempt to make contact.

  “We’ve got weather!”

  Clayton, one of the former SEALS, fixated on his laptop screen. A sophisticated map from an online company used by aircraft and shipping showed a full-color satellite image of the North Atlantic and, in particular, a ruddy-brown whirl indicating an area of low pressure sweeping in from Central Africa.

  “Looks like a Cape Verde hurricane.”

  Penny ended the call and looked out of the window to see the palm fronds lining the Grande’s immaculate boulevard swaying in the building gusts, the sky darkening and a metallic aura imbuing the atmosphere as lightning threatened and rain began to fall. She saw Muttley on another line at the far end of the room. Again, he shook his head, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, until all movement stopped and he sat looking at the floor.

  He replaced the receiver slowly and, his stare unwavering, said, “Penny, shall we go for a walk?”

  A banshee’s wail built in the pit of her stomach. “Wh-wh-why . . . ?” she stammered.

  “Oh, dear Penny! So sorry. I just thought you could do with some fresh air.”

  He picked up his overcoat and umbrella and, with one of his ever-gracious smiles, ushered her toward the door.

  - 60 -

  A wave slammed into the back of the raft, tilting it forward and sending its occupants tumbling across the floor.

  Grabbing the webbing strap for support, Hans looked out to see black clouds building above an increasingly angry sea. Worse still, the raft had spun around, and the doorway now faced the approaching swell.

  “It’s okay!”

  He attempted to zip up the entrance but was too late. The next wave surged up over the tubes to send gallons of water flooding into their recently dried home.

  “No!”

  Hans lunged for his daughter as the exiting sea attempted to suck her and their equipment bags into the cauldron. As the raft righted itself, stemming the outpour, he drew up the zippers to prevent further deluge.

  Jessica stayed remarkably calm, floating around in what was now a foot-deep paddling pool. Ironically, the additional ballast gave the raft more stability, but the increased resistance meant the next wave crashing down on them would likely rip its seams apart. Fighting panic, Hans retrieved the drogue from one of the mesh compartments. When streamed underwater on its fifty-foot line, the device would create drag and reduce the risk of capsize.

  The problem was he needed to secure it to the back of the raft to keep the entrance away from the oncoming sea. He considered dropping into the water and working his way aft while holding on to the exterior handline, but that could lead to catastrophe. The next big wave might wrench the raft from his grasp, sending it spinning away across the churning ocean.

  What about the portal?

  An air vent in the rear of the canopy doubled as an observation port. It had a drooping drawstring neck like an upturned duffel bag. Hans released the cord lock and pried the opening apart. He managed to force his head and one arm through, only to see another foaming behemoth bear down on the struggling craft.

  Rather than withdraw inside, leaving a gaping hole for the ocean to exploit, Hans drew a deep breath. The seething mass broke upon them, collapsing the canopy and crushing Hans’ torso into the top tube. Air spilled from his lungs, his head plunging underwater, until the muffled hiss of the raft’s safety valves drowned out the noise of the building storm.

  Silence.

  Despite being seconds from unconsciousness, Hans felt his anxiety evaporating, leaving him with a surreal feeling of calm. He was tempted to suck in a lungful of the Atlantic, to reunite with his wife and son, but the image of his daughter alone in the raft spurred
him on.

  When the raft broke the surface, Hans wriggled back inside and, having checked Jessica was okay, undid the Velcro fastener on the neatly folded drogue and shoved it through the opening, making sure to keep a hold of the tether. Hans thrust both arms out of the portal, his bodyweight crumpling the canopy, and lashed a hitch around the exterior handline. With his face pressed up against the nylon, blocking his vision, it may not have been the neatest knot ever tied but it would do for now. With a sigh of relief, he slid the quick fastener up the portal’s drawcord, gathering the material and shutting out the elements.

  The raft had an arched entrance, with two zippers meeting at its apex like a dome camping tent. Hans pulled them down a few inches to create a football-shaped gap and set about bailing out the raft with the Disney mug. He considered emptying the flares from their Poly Bottle container and using it to speed up the process, but even though the pyrotechnics were supposedly waterproof, he did not want to risk them getting wet. Remembering the foldout basin, he retrieved it from the equipment bag and began heaving out the unwelcome liquid a gallon at a time – no easy task, the ocean buffeting them incessantly.

  “Fishing time?”

  “Not now.”

  “Painting?”

  “Later.”

  Finally, the tether paid out to full length and the drogue flared, its function as a sea anchor preventing the raft from surfing down the face of the waves at breakneck speed. Yet it did nothing to lessen the impact of the rogue breakers slamming into tubes every few seconds, buckling them inwards and catapulting the two of them across the floor.