Noble Chase: A Novel

by Michael Rudolph

  Without another word, Len opened the hatch and made his way down into the cabin, closing the hatch behind him, leaving Erica tethered to the pedestal, alone on deck.

  He saw Vincent lying faceup on the leeward berth in the forward cabin. The seasick kid was practically unconscious, secured to the bunk by Erica’s leather bracelets. Len thought of moving him into the main salon but decided against it when he saw the remains of Vincent’s pitiful retching covering the front of his shirt. He decided that no purpose would be served by moving him.

  He thought to settle his own stomach with a Coke from the refrigerator but poured only enough to flavor the rum used to wash down the pill he swallowed.

  He unzipped the front of his red flotation jacket and reached inside to reassure himself that the waterproof envelope was sitting securely in the inside pocket, then sat at the navigation table. He looked at the GPS and made a note of the time, latitude, and longitude on the chart. The storm had blown them far off course, and he could see they were now on a heading midway between Aruba and Panama. They were actually farther away from Panama now than they were six hours ago when the storm hit.

  He turned on the VHF, hoping for a weather report that might tell him how long the storm was supposed to last or where it was heading. It was no use, though. The VHF was programmed for four weather station channels and he couldn’t raise any of them.

  Disconsolate, he turned the radio back to channel 16, inadvertently following normal maritime practice this time by leaving it on. There was nothing to be heard except for static, but he was too groggy to adjust the squelch control, too seasick to monitor any of the other channels.

  He took a deep swallow of rum and put his head down on the table, covering his ears with his hands to block out the roar of the wind. He just sat there, anticipating that every monstrous wave slamming into the boat would be the one to turn them over for good or send tons of water cascading in through the hatch. He waited for the roll that would start and not end, broaching them on their side or pitchpoling them down by the bow. Either way, they were finished.

  The head-splitting crash he heard up on the deck instantaneously forced him out of his self-commiseration. The entire cabin shook with the force of the blow. It was followed by the sounds of the diesel engine cranking over and over and then starting and stopping. He quickly closed up his jacket and scrambled across the cabin to the companionway ladder.

  He clambered up to the top of the companionway and reached for the hatch cover to slide it back but couldn’t budge it. It was jammed shut. He tried to force it open but wasn’t strong enough. It was hopeless. He was trapped. He panicked and started shouting for Erica through the closed hatch. Then he realized that she couldn’t possibly hear him on deck.

  He skidded back down the ladder, went over to the galley, and reached up to unbolt the small hatch cover on the cabin roof above the sink. He pulled himself up, stuck his head out the open hatch, and saw what had happened. The gale force of the wind had shredded the mainsail into a hundred independent strips of Dacron, all of which were flapping wildly in the air. The heavy aluminum boom, no longer supported by the sail, had fallen on the cabin roof. Its full weight was now lying on the hatch cover, jamming it in its closed position. Erica was behind the wheel, trying to get the diesel started, desperate for some auxiliary power to get the boat under control.

  “I’m stuck below!” he shouted to her. “Can you move the boom off the hatch?”

  “I’m trying to start the engine!” she screamed back at him.

  He climbed on top of the sink and tried to boost himself out of the small ventilation hatch, but the opening was too narrow for his body. He was able to get his head out of the hatch and his arms up to his elbows, but that was all. He got stuck at the shoulders and had to withdraw back down into the cabin, trying to close the hatch cover as he did.

  Just as he began to pull it shut, another mountainous wave hit Atrophy broadside, crashing down with full force on its deck, pouring water through the open hatch into the cabin below. It buried Len under a torrent of water and left him sitting, choking and coughing, on the galley countertop. The force of the wave lifted the boom and moved it three feet across the cabin roof, where it came to rest atop the hatch he had just vacated with his head.

  There was nearly a foot of water on the floor of the cabin, but fortunately the bilge pump had turned itself on automatically. He was able to close the hatch and prayed the pump would be able to handle the water.

  He climbed down from the countertop and went back over to the companionway, climbing up the ladder. This time, thanks to the force of the last wave, the hatch opened easily with the weight of the boom removed. He clambered up to the cockpit and closed the hatch behind him.

  The night around him was black—blacker still because his eyes were not adjusted to it. The shrieking wind made concentration impossible for him. The violence of wave after wave hitting the sail-less, engineless boat was enough to shatter whatever composure he had left.

  When he was finally able to see, at least to the end of the cockpit, he was able to make Erica out, still behind the wheel, still trying to get the engine started. He hooked his safety line to a handy block on the now useless track formerly used by the mainsheet traveler and made his way over to her.

  “We’re sinking!” he yelled.

  “We’re not sinking,” she replied calmly enough. “We’ll be okay as soon as I can get this engine started.”

  “Should I send out a Mayday?”

  “And let everybody know who and where we are? I’ll get the diesel working in a second and we’ll be able to make our way under power. Now go below and let me work.”

  “We’re going to sink,” he repeated.

  “You impotent little prick!” she exploded violently at him, ignoring any pretense of self-control. “I can’t stand any more of your goddamn whining!”

  He just stared at her, speechless, paralyzed by her vehemence as wave after wave battered them about. She was staring at him, her face frozen with cold fury. “Get below and leave me alone,” she repeated.

  He finally turned away from her, more eager to escape the immediate force of her anger than the storm. He scrambled back to the hatch, slid it open quickly, and climbed down into the cabin again, closing it behind him. At least in the safety of the cabin, the sound of the wind wouldn’t be so loud and maybe he could figure out something to do. He glanced over at the wind indicator, but when he saw it hit 65 knots, reasoning became impossible. They were practically in a hurricane, he thought, or maybe they were.

  He staggered over to the settee and threw himself down wearily, putting his feet up, not bothering to open his parka, satisfied just to take off the hood, grateful to be out of the storm. Atrophy pitched and rolled violently, totally out of control. Then it climbed heavily up the side of a wave and paused. Len closed his eyes, his body shuddering out of control.

  The roar got louder and louder, and when he didn’t think it could get any louder, it got still louder. The wave hit the boat in a head-on collision, tossing him hard up against the side of the hull, where he stayed, pinned. The boat continued to roll over. He felt or heard a thud on the deck and then thought he heard her shouting at him again. He was tossed violently up onto the ceiling, except that it was now the floor.

  The plastic rum bottle he had put in the sink for safekeeping came flying out and hit him in the head, causing no real damage, but the toaster and electric wok that fell out of the storage locker did. One or both of the appliances opened a wide gash on his forehead, but by that time, he was unconscious. Everything was tossed around in the cabin like so much trash until Atrophy slowly righted herself.

  For a few brief moments, the storm abated, and when he regained his senses, things were quiet, relatively speaking. He felt intense pain in his elbow and knew it must be broken. He touched his forehead and saw blood on his hand. He got up slowly, stumbled over to the companionway, and, using his good arm, made his way up the ladder and out into th
e cockpit.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dark this time, he knew instantly that she was gone. She wasn’t behind the wheel. She wasn’t up on the foredeck. She was simply gone. Overboard gone. The bitch had deserted him. He became hysterical, screaming for her. He shouted at her and he shouted for her. He looked for her in the water, but it was too dark.

  Then the wind returned.

  He skidded down the ladder into the cabin and slogged over to the VHF radio. Someone had to help him. In a distant corner of his addled brain, he heard Vincent screaming to be released, but he was too preoccupied to respond. The kid wasn’t his problem. Grabbing frantically, he snatched the mike off its hook. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!” he called, wondering if the sea remembered distress calls. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!” he screamed.

  Beth opened her eyes, concentrated, and heard it again. This time she focused her attention on the radio. There was definitely a Mayday call coming in. It was garbled and there was a lot of static caused by the storm to the north, but the operative word Mayday came through clearly enough.

  She got off the bunk, went to the radio, and grabbed the mike, firmly keying the transmit switch as she replied, “This is the yacht Red Sky responding to the Mayday call. Over.” She repeated the message and then released the switch, listening for a reply. She waited a painfully long minute and tried again, but no reply was forthcoming.

  She put the microphone back on its clip, noted the call in the log, and climbed up into the cockpit, where Max and her mother were sharing the evening watch, content to let the autopilot steer toward Aruba on the deserted ocean.

  “We just had a Mayday call,” Beth announced dramatically to the idlers, who were instantly all ears. “But I didn’t get any details. I was half-asleep.”

  “Too far away?” Andi asked.

  “It must have been,” she answered. “I heard the call, went over to the radio, and answered it, but they never came back to me. Some other boat must have responded.”

  “That’s exciting,” Andi said.

  “I think I’ll go back below and monitor channel sixteen for a while.” Beth went over to the hatchway and bounded down the ladder, two rungs at a time, into the cabin.

  “Well, I’m going to sleep,” Andi replied. “What about you?” she asked Max as she got up to follow Beth.

  “You two go ahead. I’m going to stay up top for a little while longer. I’ll be down soon.”

  “Okay, love. How’re we doing otherwise?”

  “We’re making incredible time. The wind is averaging twenty-six to twenty-eight knots now and we’re doing close to nine knots under a reefed main with the genny almost half furled up.”

  “Do you think we ought to put a second reef in the main before we turn in? Take some of the pressure off the autopilot.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Let’s see what happens in the next half hour or so.”

  “I’d rather do it now than in my bra and panties during the middle of the night, getting buried in spray.”

  “What did the last weather report say?”

  “The worst of the storm has passed to the northeast of us. The barometer should start rising before morning.”

  “We’re staying fairly dry and comfortable on board. Maybe I’ll roll up the genny a little more. That’ll depower her enough for the night.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Give me a hand with the sheet.” He reached for the furling line that controlled the size of the genoa.

  “You got it.” She uncleated the genoa sheet and held it loosely in her hand as Max grabbed the furling line.

  As soon as they had the genoa shortened enough, Andi recleated the sheet and went below. Max stayed behind up in the cockpit to see if the autopilot needed any adjustment as a result of shortening the sail. While he was waiting, however, Andi came partway back up the ladder to tell him that she and Beth had just heard another Mayday call. Max went below immediately.

  Beth was seated by the radio. “This is Red Sky, Red Sky, Red Sky, calling that vessel making the Mayday call. Over.” She released the key and stood by.

  There was no response. Then a moment later, the Mayday call was repeated and this time they were able to hear the voice pleading on the other end: “This is Atrophy calling. We’re sinking. A woman has been washed overboard. We need help. Over.”

  “Jesus, it’s Atrophy!” Max exclaimed excitedly, jumping up and unintentionally pounding Andi on her back. “Quick, get their position….Jesus, how about that!”

  Beth didn’t need to be urged on. She keyed the mike again. “Atrophy, this is Red Sky. We copy your message. Give us your position. Over.”

  Again, there was no response, only a trancelike repetition of the original call.

  “We’re not reaching them.” Beth finally suggested, “Let’s see if I can raise the Venezuelan Coast Guard. I can relay the Mayday to them.”

  “See if you can track them on the GPS.”

  “Good idea, Mom.”

  “While you’re doing that,” Max said, “I’m going to try the radio direction finder. If that homing device is working on Atrophy, maybe I can pick it up on the RDF.” He opened the storage locker under the navigation table and pulled out the RDF, turned it on, and started rotating the antenna. The first several turns of the dial proved fruitless, but suddenly the unmistakable sound of a Morse code transmission was clearly heard: “––∙ –∙–∙ –∙–∙.”

  “That’s it,” he announced. “G - C - C. Gold Coast Charters. I got it!” He continued to fine-tune the antenna until he got a bearing on Atrophy. In the meantime, Beth was trying to reach Aruba or Venezuela on the single-sideband radio while Andi monitored the VHF and GPS in case they received another transmission from Atrophy.

  “I’m not having any luck,” Beth announced.

  “Keep trying,” Max said. “Somebody’ll wake up and respond sooner or later. In the meantime, I have a bearing on Atrophy. They’re on a line ten degrees northeast of us. All we have to do is sail along that course and we’ll find them.”

  “They could be anywhere on that line,” Andi interjected.

  “Not quite,” he responded. “They’re not on the radar screen, so they’re more than fifteen miles away from us. And the range of the homing device is fifty miles maximum. I figure we’ll be there in anywhere from two to five hours.”

  “You’re going to sail us right into that storm?”

  “Look, I’m not any more interested in sailing into a storm than Beth or you. But that was a Mayday call they sent out, remember. This isn’t only a matter of catching the bad guys anymore. This is a matter of responding to a distress call. I hate to moralize, but we have an obligation to respond.”

  “Even if it means putting us in danger?”

  “I have no intention of putting us in danger. The worst of the storm will be over by the time we get there.”

  “What’s left may be bad enough.”

  “If it gets too bad, we’ll turn around. Beth, how do you feel about it?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the two of them could drown in boiling water before I’d lift a hand to help them….”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “But you know what also, Dad?” she continued. “I’ve been tilting at windmills since October. Now it’s for real. I need to see it through to the end, and if we have to save Sloane to catch Sloane, then so be it.”

  Andi looked at Beth, and Beth looked at Andi. Finally, without a spoken word passing between them, Andi nodded and reached over to the GPS receiver mounted on the wall. “Might as well program in the course to Atrophy.”

  “Let me know when you’re ready to interface the GPS with the autopilot.”

  “It’ll just take a second or two.”

  “Come up topside with me in the meantime,” he said to Beth. “We’re going to have to come about as soon as your mother’s finished programming the GPS.”

  “Give us a shout when you’re ready, Mom.”

 
—

  The farther they proceeded toward Atrophy, the closer they came toward the remnants of the storm that had disabled her. Red Sky was on a port tack, sailing under a double-reefed main and a genoa furled to less than half its maximum area. With the wind at 35 knots, she was under control, making good headway despite being pounded by the confused and heavy seas, accentuated by twelve- to fifteen-foot waves. The night sky was overcast, with temperatures in the low sixties.

  There had been no radio transmissions from Atrophy since Red Sky had changed course two and a half hours ago. Their GPS was not picking up any signal, either. Beth had no idea whether it was even Sloane on board or, if it was him, whether he knew help was on the way. The absence of any communication from Atrophy indicated her radio was dead, or worse.

  Andi was in the cabin below, monitoring the radio for any sign of Atrophy. Every fifteen minutes she repeated her calls to Atrophy and to the Coast Guard, all without success.

  At eleven fifteen p.m., she checked the radar screen and for the first time saw a blip at the outer edge of the sixteen-mile screen, indicating a vessel located directly in front of them. She went to the companionway and stuck her head up out of the hatch.

  “I have something on the radar,” she announced to Max and Beth. “It’s right in front of us, about fifteen miles.”

  “Any luck raising them on the radio?” Beth asked.

  “No. I haven’t raised any Coast Guard either.”

  “I guess we’ll know the answer in two hours or so.”

  “How’re we going to be able to spot anything in this weather? It’s pitch black out here.”

  “Maybe they’ll have their running lights on.”

  “Somehow I don’t think they will. If they’re still afloat but not transmitting, it’s because their batteries must be dead. I’ll get the spotlight out.”

  “Right, Beth.”

  “I’d better get the flare gun out of the cabin also. A white parachute flare might come in handy when we get closer to their position.”