by Peter Tonkin
Nic strode over to her at once. ‘This is a disaster,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Maxima seems to be crippled. Heaven knows what we’ll do now. I’d like to radio for assistance at once but Captain Toro wants to check the boat over first so he knows exactly where we stand. Jesus, this is a mess.’
‘You have a point, Nic. It seems pretty bad.’ She looked her old friend straight in the eye, willing him to calm down. ‘But things could be worse. She’s crippled, maybe, but she doesn’t seem to be sinking. And there’s a silver lining.’
‘A silver lining! A silver lining! I have to tell you, Robin, I’m damned if I can see one. Where in hell’s name is the silver lining in all this mess?’
‘Well,’ answered Robin. ‘For a start, I think we’ve found Liberty …’
But as she spoke her bracing words, they were lost under the jangling of the fire alarm as all the lights went out.
TWENTY-FIVE
The sudden wrenching of the float line when Maxima became entangled was enough at one end to jerk five metres of the net and the shark off Pilar’s deck and to swing her right round. At the other end it was enough to flip Katapult8’s sail right over. The four women attached to each other and to the toggle beside the hand-holds were tossed from relative safety to deadly danger in an instant. Had it been any of the others secured to the toggle they might well have drowned there and then, but Florence Weary was quick-thinking and given a blessed extra dose of the grit with which Antipodeans count themselves blessed. She disregarded the desperate floundering of the three bodies tied to her harness, therefore, and felt for the simple carabineer clip that had them all fastened to the underside of the sail. Her face was hard up against the slick, black surface, her body was bent agonisingly at the waist and her back and legs were getting the crap kicked out of them, but all her focus was on that little metal hook. Blindly but unerringly, she felt for the tiny column of the catch. Disregarding the growing pain in her oxygen-starved lungs, she unscrewed the safety and pulled the spring clip wide. But there she stopped. The combination of her relentlessly buoyant life vest and increasingly vigorous movements of the others simply made it impossible for her to angle herself so as to slip that last couple of inches out of the toggle. For the first time since Katapult8 pitchpoled, it occurred to Flo that they might actually die here. Killed, for the most part, by their survival gear. She wondered whether to laugh or cry. But she did not panic. She simply focused on working out how to retrieve the situation. Then she felt something unexpected. Someone was feeling down her leg. At first, she thought that it was one of the others, tangled and panicking, and she kicked, trying to heave her body upwards that final inch or two. But the grasp on her thigh tightened; she felt a steady hand exploring the outside of her calf, and she understood. Someone was reaching for the knife strapped to her leg. It had to be Liberty, who had lost her own knife as she cut herself free after the wreck. Florence stayed still – in spite of the overpowering need to breathe – willing her friend and skipper to work more quickly. Because getting the knife would only be the first step. Liberty would have to use it accurately, carefully and quickly to cut them all free.
Flo did not feel the knife come out, for her consciousness was beginning to come and go. Only her Australian grit kept her mouth shut and what little was left of good air firmly in her lungs. But abruptly the grip on her leg loosened. The next thing she knew, her PFD exploded into a fury of bubbles and her harness sprang free. She felt herself falling out of it, weighed down by what she was wearing now that her lifebelt was punctured. But a firm hand caught her deflated lifejacket’s grab handle and dragged her back to the surface. ‘Shit,’ she heard as her head burst into the blessed air. ‘Now I’ve dropped that one too! What is it with these bloody knives?’
‘Look on the bright side,’ gulped Florence, still fighting for breath. ‘You only tend to lose them when you’re saving someone’s life.’
‘Enough of the byplay already,’ called Maya. ‘Let’s climb back aboard the sail before we get tangled in that fucking net or bitten by whatever’s eating the poor bastard fish that are caught in it.’
This time the four women found themselves at the narrower side of the sail, so it was possible for them to help each other flounder aboard and scrabble their way up the slick surface to the thick part. Emma clipped on and the others hung on to her because their lines, cut by Liberty, were too short to tie again. And in any case, Florence’s whole harness was gone, while her lifejacket looked as though Jack the Ripper had been playing with it.
The only one who did not spread-eagle herself and hold on for dear life was Liberty. The near-death experience had galvanized her. No longer listless and comatose, she knelt up, holding Florence’s right hand with her left, and used her own right to shade her eyes as she looked along the float-line towards a vague, distant brightness. She couldn’t see it clearly, but it had substance. It was there. She was certain. Seventy-five per cent certain. ‘It’s some kind of boat!’ she yelled down to Florence, hoping her voice would carry over the rumble of the rain.
‘Do you think its Maxima?’ asked Florence.
‘I don’t know. I hope it is because she has to be here looking for us. And I hope it’s not because I think she must be tangled in the net like Katapult8.’
‘Not quite like Katapult8,’ countered Flo bracingly. ‘At least she’s still afloat, whoever she is. Have we got any way of signalling to her?’
‘Shouting and waving and that’s about it. All the flares and stuff went down with Katapult8.’
‘Then if they haven’t seen us already we’re screwed,’ said Florence roundly. ‘No one’s going to see us waving or hear us shouting in this.’
Liberty agreed. She knelt there, staring hopefully along the line of floats, cudgelling her brain for any sort of an idea to help them attract the attention of whoever was out there when suddenly the brightness vanished. Through the overpowering roar of the rain there was a strange, keening wail. Her heart gave a horrified lurch and she gasped in shock and actual pain. She felt as though she had been stabbed in the chest – and suddenly registered how much hope that vague, distant brightness had given her. And now it was gone. Her mind whirled. Had it moved off? Had it sunk as suddenly as Katapult8?
She abruptly realized that she was shouting. Screaming. ‘Hey! Hey! We’re here! Over here!’ There were tears streaming down her face, distinguished from the rain on her chilled cheeks only by the fact that they seemed scaldingly hot. Her right arm seemed to take on a life of its own, waving so wildly that her left hand tore out of Florence’s grip. Then she was waving with both hands and Florence was up on her knees beside her, screaming and waving madly as well. Then Maya joined in. Leaning against each other for support and stability, the three of them pushed themselves erect, still shouting, screaming and waving wildly. They stood there unsteadily, making so much noise and movement that even the huge sail began to rock. Only Emma was left, spread-eagled, attached to the toggle and too sensible to risk uncoupling herself, just in case her apparently hysterical crewmates still needed a secure anchor.
So it was Emma, flat on her face and ready to grab any of the others who might lose her footing, but looking in the opposite direction to them, who saw it first. It was so silent and so unexpected that she doubted her eyes; doubted her sanity for a moment. Initially Emma saw a darker shadow in the restless grey veils of the downpour. A shadow that coalesced into a vague shape as it approached through curtain after curtain of rain. It gradually became a fat, black, inverted capital T. The crosspiece on the water looked to be a couple of metres wide and the upright rising above it a couple of metres tall. And it approached silently – whatever noise it was making lost behind the sound of the rain as its precise shape disappeared behind its relentless thickness.
But then, as though emerging from a fog bank or a wall of smoke, the fat bow of a RIB inflatable came clear. And standing in it was a tall figure dressed in yellow oilskins. Emma scrabbled round, looking up. The others, facing
the other way, still had no idea that anything was approaching. Suddenly the Japanese yachtswoman’s usually calm eyes filled with tears. Her steady, sensible hands were scrabbling at the carabineer clip almost as wildly as Florence’s had done when all of them were trapped and drowning. Then, free, she pulled herself on to her hands and knees. She put her right arm around Liberty’s thigh and began to pull herself erect.
When Liberty felt the movement, she looked down. When she saw what Emma was doing, she turned and looked the way Emma was looking – and found herself almost face-to-face with her father. She stood there, stunned into silence. The fat black bow of the inflatable kissed the thick edge of the sail. Robin Mariner appeared at father’s shoulder and everything seemed to freeze.
Then Nic reached out to his daughter and Liberty led the way off Katapult8’s sail and into Maxima’s twelve-seater RIB. It was incredibly easy. The sail was steady and still, and the RIB remained hard up against it. Liberty, with her right hand in her father’s, stepped down into the RIB like a princess alighting from her coach in a fairy tale. The others followed in her footsteps as though in a trance. They were all so stunned that there was a dream-like quality to the whole rescue. Even questions such as, How did you find us? What on earth went wrong? Are you all right? got put on hold. Not that Liberty, Florence, Emma or Maya had much of their voices left. And Nic suddenly discovered a lump in his throat that effectively gagged him, while tears streamed down his cheeks along with the rain as he slipped his arm round the oil-skinned bulk of his daughter’s slim waist, hugging her to him as hard as he could. So they sat in silence to begin with, while the crewman holding the controls of the outboard guided them on the long, circuitous course back towards Maxima, once again avoiding all contact with the fatal nets.
Until Robin, never one to sit silent for long, said, ‘Welcome aboard, ladies. I hope we aren’t taking you from the frying pan into the fire.’
Liberty found enough voice to answer. ‘It would have to be one hell of a fire to be worse than that particular pan.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Liberty a few minutes later. ‘I didn’t think you meant it literally!’
The crewman brought the RIB round Maxima’s stern, well clear of the line of floats, passing beneath a disturbingly heavy plume of smoke that was belching out of the engine areas past the ruins of the swimming pool. Maya and Emma glanced up then returned to the vital work of bailing, for the rain was beginning to swamp the RIB with unsettling speed and Maxima was still a good way distant, especially as she sat on the far side of the maze of tangled net.
‘The engineers say it was a combination of electrical short and water damage,’ Nic informed them grimly. ‘But the way we were brought to a halt so suddenly may have caused some fuel lines to rupture as well as breaking the pool’s cover and causing it to overflow, which is what they reckon may have caused the electrics to short out and start sparking. But they think they can contain it. At least, that’s what they told me as I was coming aboard the RIB. Sometime in the near future, though,’ he added darkly, ‘I’m going to find out whose job it was to make sure the Spurs net-cutting equipment was working properly. Then I’m going to find out exactly whose nets these are and make them rue the day they were born.’
‘Come on, Dad,’ teased Liberty gently. ‘Who says rue the day? I mean …’
He laughed a little ruefully, but his expression didn’t really lighten.
‘We’ve shut off the main electric circuits except for the basic emergency systems, power to the davits and so forth, as you can see,’ added Robin, gesturing to Maxima’s dark windows. ‘Because if the fire is electrical, they’ll just reignite it time after time while there’s enough power to cause a spark. But without electricity we’re finding things a little difficult, especially as the sonar, the radar and some of the communications equipment were damaged as well. At least the fire-fighting equipment is on an independent circuit and seems to be working. I just wish more of the lighting and any of the heating was, too. The only warm place aboard is the burning engine room.’
‘But if we can’t radio for help at the moment, we have emergency beacons. We’ll deploy those before we let anyone freeze to death,’ promised Nic. ‘That will alert everyone nearby that we’re in trouble.’
‘If the ones nearest to us take any notice,’ said Robin bitterly.
‘Who’s nearest?’ asked Liberty.
‘There’s a vessel about half a kilometre south of us, but they’re maintaining radio silence and seem to be running without lights. Up to no good,’ Nic explained, his expression darkening once again.
‘Illegal drift netting, I’d guess,’ added Robin. ‘And they’ve sure as hell caught more than they bargained for.’
‘We could take the RIB, pack it with the heftiest men aboard then go across and talk to them,’ suggested Liberty, her voice suddenly shaking, going from elated to enraged in a heartbeat, delayed shock making her almost bi-polar. ‘I mean, I know how you feel about Maxima, Dad, and I must admit, all joking aside, I’m pretty pissed at what they’ve done to Katapult8. Perhaps we do want to make them rue the day sooner rather than later …’
‘Not a good idea,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t want to leap to conclusions or indulge in stereotypes here, but all of the Mexican pirates and bandits I’ve ever heard of are usually armed to the teeth and then some. Besides, we have other stuff to plan and try to do once we’ve had a chance to settle.’
‘Like what?’ asked Liberty.
‘Like getting some sort of control over Katapult8’s sail, which is a shipping hazard itself in its present state. But until the fire’s out and we have some sort of secure, well-lit and warm base to work from, getting Maxima fixed and functioning has to be our main priority.’ She looked up suddenly, her eyelids flickering helplessly as the rain beat against her face. ‘I wish poor Manuel hadn’t managed to do so much damage to the communications and so forth. If that report from KTLA5 was in any way accurate then this downpour is going to be followed south by one long son of a bitch of a storm …’
This conversation was enough to take them through the maze of nets to Maxima’s stern, where the bathing and boating section was folded down to sit a foot or so above the waterline. Behind it, the glass wall of the pool showed the sad state of things. The pool was half empty, its surface boiling in the downpour, which now had access past the ruined cover. The smoke which formed a big black plume immediately above them was oozing up on either side of it and through the vents from the engineering sections below. But Robin was pleased to see that it was no thicker than when she and Nic had climbed aboard the RIB half an hour or so earlier. And the gangway from the boating section to the main deck house was still clear and smoke-free. If things were no better aboard the incapacitated gin palace, at least it seemed that they were no worse. The CO2 fire control systems were working well. Maybe it was a flash in the pan after all. And they had Liberty and her crew back. That was a huge step forward.
Or it would be if they could restore enough power to keep them warm and dry pretty quickly, and Maxima remained safely afloat – and as long as someone could be tempted into the biblical deluge to rescue them sometime soon. Ideally before the meteorological Armageddon that was scheduled to follow it arrived with its massive seas and its hurricane-force winds. It was with these dark thoughts in mind that Robin climbed back aboard the crippled Maxima. She followed the others across the lowered bathing deck with hardly a glance towards the sad spectacle of the pool, though she did wonder how they were going to raise the bathing deck back into place if the electrics were dead for any length of time. And she thought – briefly, because she simply squashed the speculation – how Maxima would fare in a hurricane with no power, no propulsion, the pool in the state it was and the bathing deck still down. Then, like the others, she hurried up the narrow, smoke-free gangway to the accommodation areas.
As Robin stepped in out of the rain, however, her expression grew more worried. Things hadn’t look
ed any worse from outside in the RIB but they certainly smelt worse in here. Even if the fire down below was out, the smoke damage up here was quite noticeable. The fumes made her cough, bringing tears to her eyes. Her normally buoyant mood darkened. The worries she had squashed earlier were not so easy to overcome now. Maxima was in no shape to offer refuge to anyone as things stood. If things grew worse they’d find themselves in real trouble. And if things got as bad as the USGS predicted for California, they were all as good as dead.
Robin pushed past the others as they staggered, exhausted, towards the cabins they had shared before going aboard Katapult8. She slipped past Nic, who was seeing to their comfort, very much the caring paterfamilias, and ran up the companionway to the bridge. Captain Toro was there, but there was little for him to do other than oversee the varying attempts to repair his vessel and the various areas aboard that had been damaged, seemingly almost everywhere, from the golf balls high aloft to the engines far below.
‘How’s the radio?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Have we had any contacts?’
‘Like the automatic CO2 fire-fighting equipment it is on an isolated circuit that is battery powered,’ he said. ‘If Manuel did not do too much damage aloft it should still be working. I have to insist that you do not put out a general distress call yet, however, if that’s what you were considering. Especially as the engineers say the fire came under control almost immediately. Lots of smoke but limited damage.’