by Alan Janney
Cody and Dalton and Katie and Cory appeared three minutes later, carrying duffle bags. Cory vomited into the flooded wet deck. Katie kept her eyes on me.
“Gentlemen,” Samantha called over crashing waves. She saluted Cody and Dalton. “You will not be welcome on that boat. This is where we leave you.”
The two SEALs didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry.
Captain Travis radioed. “Majors, your boat is in position. Will lower gate on your command.”
“Ready to roll, Travis,” I spoke into the receiver. “Thank you for your service.”
He didn’t reply. Red lights blared over our heads and a siren wailed. The gate jerked and began lowering.
Fifty yards aft, a yacht paced us, tossing a majestic bow wave. I didn’t know much about luxury yachts, but the magnificent white boat looked like a hundred million dollars of splendor. The word ‘Amnesia’ was painted on the starboard side.
The living sea was a constant threat to destroy us. The San Antonio rose on a deep green swell and the yacht dropped below, almost straight down, and then we crested and went over the apex and now the yacht was above us and racing down the wall of foam. Samantha screamed in delight, her body’s thirst for danger fully satisfied.
“Sir, this won’t work-” Cody roared but the ocean swept in, flooding the bay and drowning us. Cory scrambled after our duffle bags. Katie treaded water, keeping her phone out of the consuming wash.
We ascended another wave and the water sluiced out. Thirty seconds later we leveled. The water rushed in like a tide and so did the yacht. The luxury liner’s bow barely fit into our bay. Amnesia plunged recklessly inside the San Antonio, burrowing her bow (nose) until the two boats wedged tight, nearly crushing us. Metal screamed. Fiberglass splintered. The yacht was obscene and alien and enormous in the tight space. The two vessels were now attached, nose to stern.
“We’ve got ten seconds,” I shouted and Threw Katie over my head, onto the bow of the yacht. She climbed under metal safety rails that bent from the San Antonio impact. Cory and I tossed duffle bags after her and then I raised him. He grasped desperately and scrambled up.
The San Antonio began rising on another mammoth wave. Amnesia heaved backwards and bucked loose, drawing free before the Navy’s larger, stronger warship sheered off her nose. Samantha swarmed up Amnesia’s side. I Leapt over the chasm of sea and landed aboard the yacht, slipping on the fiberglass.
All four of us held fast to handholds, exposed and tossed in the raging elements. The yacht roared powerfully and began pulling away from the San Antonio, which consumed the horizon directly ahead.
I slid beside Katie. “We need to call Tank! Let him know we’re gone!”
“Look!” Cory cried, clinging for dear life and green all over.
Through curtains of rain, silhouetted by distant bolts of lightning, Tank stood like an angry sea god at the break of the helipad. The strength of his gaze and hate struck like thunder.
Samantha snatched the pistol from her belt and fumbled it.
Tank got a three-step running start, and he jumped the distance. He hung in the air, Thor himself descending from above, bringing storm and fury. I struggled to stand, wetly grasping for the Thunder Stick shoved down my back. The ship tilted and rocked and I fell.
Tank’s arms rotated wildly, trying to pull our boat closer, balancing himself midair. He splashed like a four hundred pound cannon ball three feet short of our hull, lost in the surf. Our yacht surged forward, strong propellors churning, and we chased the waves. If Tank rose, he’d slam into our keel.
Samantha and I slipped and tripped and slid our way aft, holding onto the lifelines. This boat was huge!
We reached the stern (back of the boat).
So did Tank. The rear-mounted swim ladder hadn’t been secured and it bounced on the surface; Tank snagged it before the engines could shoot him into the creaming wake. He glared malevolently at us, his face still twisted with severe burns. He tried to shout but swallowed gallons of salt water. Even so he managed to get a foot onto the swim platform.
I Crushed the ladder with the Thunder Stick. The mechanism exploded and came free, along with chunks of the boat. Tank’s fingers broke.
Tank fell helplessly into the Pacific Ocean, grasping at nothing. He went under, lost in the rolling mountain range of waves. We plunged northward at thirty knots and soon Tank was left far, far behind.
We panted, hands on knees, streaming with rain, watching the water flood past, not daring to feel relief.
Above us, exposed and beautiful in the convertible cockpit, a woman piloted Amnesia with confidence and abandon, smiling at us. Her long gray hair whipped in the gale like a flag. She howled in laughter and delirium, and she bore us on to safety.
Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday, February 6. 2019
The storm lasted two more days. The yacht, named Amnesia, churned north to avoid the worst. Cory and Katie remained in their cabins and hugged the toilet. I stayed with Katie until she physically shoved me out.
“You’re wonderful. But I’m tired of being aware how gross I must look,” she groaned and slammed the door.
Samantha and I sat at the forward rail (bent from the rescue) and took the shattered rain and bow waves directly into our faces. This had to be what cocaine was like. I felt happy and high on subconscious levels traveling all the way back to my childhood. The yacht surged and heaved beneath us, and every motion triggered a positive emotional response. I left the bow for food and rest only. Samantha did not. She slept with her feet dangling, soaked with most of the ocean and smiling pleasantly in her sleep.
We still hadn’t met our captain. Pacific never left the wheel. She waved at us a couple times, her brilliant smile piercing the deluge, and screamed in delight when her boat went up and over aggressive waves. She had two stewards, polite middle-aged men, who helped us stow our bags and find food. But even these two felt the storm’s effects and they stayed below.
Only Infected were insane enough to brave this storm, apparently.
The seas leveled the second day, and our captain finally relented. She handed the cockpit over to a steward and disappeared, indulging in a much-deserved slumber. The waves calmed and so did our emotional high, returning us to normalcy. I was shaky and weak after so many hours of throbbing adrenaline, emotionally drained. I slept.
My cellphone buzzed and woke me at one thirty.
>> the freak storm passed, right?
>> u guys alive??
Yes, I replied. This boat’s amazing. Thanks for finding it.
>> yw
>> puck rules
>> b careful with pacific tho
>> she’s infected
>> and old
>> which means kinda nuts
>> an sometimes she likes to cause trouble
I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again, homie.
Katie ventured out an hour later, appearing five pounds lighter. Cory emerged too, looking like he lost fifty. Katie and I held hands and explored the exquisite boat, which now basked and steamed in pouring sunlight. It measured over half a football field, and the uppermost deck was four stories above the water. Chairs and cushions and polished wooden tables and pools decorated the many sundecks. Inside the superstructure, all was opulence. We discovered a saloon, formal dining room, gourmet galley, living room with overstuffed couches, a full bar, and on and on. She gasped every time we turned a corner until she eventually collapsed on the lower aft sundeck shaded by a large blue Bimini.
“Amnesia was built five years ago,” Pacific announced suddenly, descending the stern staircase. We were sitting on dry cushions in wooden deck chairs, and Cory and Katie were sipping juice experimentally. Pacific wore a white sundress, and Ray-Bans pushed her long, thick gray hair back. She looked sixty-five, which indicated an actual age closer to a hundred and fifty, and she was quite attractive. She was thin and erect, her skin glowed golden, and her arms and legs were strong. “I ground my previous boat, the Vagabond,
down to rust and salt. Amnesia is a Benetti too. The Italians build the best yachts, don’t you agree? This one required two years to build and cost seventy-five million dollars.” She spread her hands wide to indicate her world. “Worth every penny.”
“Seventy-five million…” Cory mumbled in shock. I bet he was wishing he’d cleaned his bathroom a little more thoroughly.
Pacific walked barefoot to Samantha, who stood to meet her. Pacific took her hands and kissed her forehead and said, “Samantha Gear, Shooter, sweetheart, I’m honored to meet you at last. You’re as pretty as a seabird.”
Samantha’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “You never mentioned that you’re hot, Pacific.”
“All of us sickos are, to some extent. My name is Minnie Elizabeth McClure. Call me Minnie.”
“Sweet ride, Minnie. Thanks for the lift.”
“Hmmmm.” Pacific pulled Samantha closer and leaned in slightly. Samantha responded by arching backwards warily. “Can you feel it, Samantha? Can you feel our illness colliding? We’re like tectonic plates, you and I, honey, scraping against one another.”
“I feel it, Minnie,” Samantha said through gritted teeth.
Minnie’s voice was pleasant but soft. “We stay together too long, there’ll be an earthquake.”
“Then maybe you ought let go of my hands.”
“Isn’t it funny. You and I have more in common with each other than anyone else on earth. And yet, soon as you came aboard, I’m spooked. You’re a shark in the water, Samantha, making my senses buzz. A beautiful great white.”
“You’re a shark too, Pacific,” she replied, twisting and tugging her hands.
“Mmhm,” Minnie nodded and her eyes closed for a moment. “One of the biggest, and we’re sensing each others vibrations and electricity. It’s called electroreception, sugar. It’s one reason I live in the middle of an ocean. And it’s the reason you can stay here a couple days, and that’s all. After that…well, sharks aren’t tame, are they?”
“No ma’am.”
“Until that time,” she said and she pulled Samantha into an embrace, “you are welcome. And you are my beloved sister.”
“Thank you, Pacific.”
Cory was agape, stupefied, watching this bizarre exchange like he’d study an unsolvable calculus problem. I understood some of it, but still. The two women had a complex bond, far beyond words, not all of it good. The disease did weird things to us.
“But you,” Pacific said, turning to me. “From you I only sense…unbridled power. I could get a tan off you, boy.”
I stood up and was immediately embraced. Her body was harder than it appeared. “Minnie, we are in your debt.”
“Nonsense, honey. I appreciated the adventure. And I get to meet the fabled Outlaw.” She took my face in both her hands and peered long into my eyes. Her gaze was probing and confident. And unhinged. “Why doesn’t my body respond to yours in the same way as it does hers?” she whispered so quietly the others had to strain. “I am not repelled by you, boy. He told me you were this way.”
“He?”
“This is why he wants you.” More whispers. “This is why he seeks you above all else. You are…pulling me. My whole being. You could pull his entire army behind you.” She startled me by pulling our mouths together. She kissed me. It wasn’t a romantic kiss. Or even affectionate. It was…experimental. It was curious, and it was brief.
“You’re referring to the Chemist,” I said when she released me. Better pretend it hadn’t happened. My girlfriend watched, after all.
“To Martin. Yes.”
“You speak to him?”
She said simply, “He’s my husband.”
I was too thunderstruck to reply. So was Samantha.
“What’s his is mine. So do not fret, I have no need of his reward money. Make yourselves at home, my loves,” Pacific said on her way to the stairs. She stopped beside Katie, who was groping for words. She touched Katie’s face. “You are pretty. You have a face worth launching ships. I wish your story could have a happier ending.” Then she turned to Cory and smiled politely. “I’m sorry. You’re not important. You understand. Dinner is at sundown.”
Cory, who had been rising to greet her, fell back into his chair. We all did.
* * *
From: Jean Francois de la Barre
Date: Tuesday, Feb 2nd. 22:19
Subject: The gentleman Andrew
Duval de Soicourt,
Pontious,
I declare Andrew Babington convicted of having taught to sing and sung impious, execrable and blasphemous songs against ME; of having profaned ME in making blessings accompanied by foul words which modesty does not permit repeating; of having knowingly refused the signs of respect to ME; and having shown these signs of adoration to YOU.
What say you?
Pro patria mori
“He’s insane,” Katie remarked. Her voice sounded tight with repressed grief. We lay on the bed in her cabin, scanning the Chemist’s email. It was now several days old. The Chemist had attached a photograph of Andy Babington lying unconscious on a table, surrounded by grisly surgical instruments. “Poor Andy.”
I shook my head in frustration and glared at the screen. “Does any of this make sense to you?”
“A little, yes. La Barre was a French martyr, killed for his religious beliefs. I think the body of the email is a translation of the court’s decision against La Barre.”
I sucked at my teeth in thought. “So the Chemist is calling himself a martyr.”
“Yes.”
Puck spoke up from my speakerphone. “He refers to you as Duval do Soicourt. I looked him up. Duval is the judge that condemned Le Barre to death.”
I made a Pfft noise. “The Chemist thinks I’m the one persecuting him?”
“That’s how the email reads,” Puck said. “But the dumb-ass condemns Andy with La Barre’s court decision. So he’s getting his martyrs confused.”
“In this email, the Chemist is both the judge and the victim,” said Katie. “It’s either clever, or he’s insane.”
“Puck, you can’t tell where he sent this from?”
“No. It has zero digital signatures, a very impressive feat.”
“Would sending the email to the FBI help? Could they find something?”
“…for the sake of our friendship, Puck will pretend you did not ask that.”
“What does Pro Patria Mori mean?”
Katie replied, “A rough translation is, ‘It is good to die for one’s country.’ That’s his one clear advantage over you. He’s a zealot. He’s willing to die for his cause.”
“I’m not willing to die for Andy. Right? Should I be?”
“I don’t know.” She rested her head on my shoulder and stroked my arm. “Maybe not?”
“Self-discipline,” I said. “I won’t throw my life away on a small battlefield.”
“Is an innocent human life a small battlefield?”
“Unless you are the innocent human life, it’s tiny.”
She shook her head minutely, tears leaking onto my arm. “You’ve got to stop thinking that way. I’m your weakness.” She caught a sob before it escaped her lungs, and she rolled over, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “This is lunacy. I miss English class. I should be getting ready for the spring Model UN competition. I was totally going to win this year. Instead, my boyfriend I are debating whether he should die or not.”
“Like our own private debate club.”
“That’s not funny,” Katie sniffed. “I miss my debate club too. I was the captain of our team. And I was going to be valedictorian!” She pounded the bed with her fists. Her tiny, perfect, nerdy fists. She shouted at the ceiling, “I already had half my speech composed!”
“You had half your speech written in December?”
“Of course!” She went to the bathroom, which Samantha called ‘the head’, and blew her nose.
“Puck, write him back. Ask what it would take for him to release Andy.”
“Sure homie,” he replied. “Although maybe you could just ask his wife.”
“Did you know they were married?”
“Hell no! I about fell out of my chair.”
We ate dinner on the forward sun deck and watched twilight advance across the ocean. Minnie’s stewards served fresh caught salmon and salads and lemonade.
“I exaggerated,” Pacific admitted, shrugging and swirling her glass of wine. The wind came cold from the north and whisked her hair. She’d given Katie a heavy blue, long-sleeved nightshirt to wear. “Martin and I are not married. We are lovers and friends and confidantes. And have been for over half a century, so I figure I’ve earned the title. He purchased this boat, a surprise birthday present. He used to propose once a year or so, when he’d stop by.” She smiled, delightful and longing at the memory. “I could never be faithful, however. Too many skippers in the sea. But when I think of Martin, I think of him as my husband.”
Katie asked, “Too many skippers in the sea?”
“Why do you think Amnesia was allowed to approach your Navy? It is strictly forbidden.” Another smile. “The American commodore, an Admiral from North Carolina originally, is an…amoureux of mine. He visits as often as time and tide allows. I have many such affectionate arrangements. It’s simply not practical for Martin and me to marry. We both carry the illness. And I cannot leave the water.”
“Cannot?” I asked.
“Cannot. The illness broke my mind. I was certifiably insane and shipped off to an Australian penal colony, just before the American civil war. The only restraints strong enough were anchor chains and thick hawsers. The voyage was my first experience on the water, and I was cured by the third day. Something about the motion.”
“We feel it too.”
“So does Martin, though to a lesser extent. He’s a land mammal. So I talked my way out of the chains, killed our captors, took the convicts as my crew…” She shrugged again. “And I’ve been at sea since. When I step ashore for provisions, which I do personally once a decade and then only out of necessity, I feel the instability in my mind. I’d be dead in days.”