by Glen Robins
It took him five attempts and all of his breath, but finally he met success and surfaced with the knife clutched in his fingers.
Collin worked his way back into the galley and again perched atop the underside of the counter, balancing himself with the other foot on the bottom of a cabinet which was normally above the sink.
Setting himself as best he could, Collin first removed the blade from the sheath and grasped the handle. A wave struck the boat, tipping Collin sideways. As he caught his balance, using his outstretched elbows, Collin felt a fiery streak along the underside of his forearm. He’d cut himself with the sharp serrated edge of the knife. Blood trailed through the water like a red ribbon in the breeze. Something he’d learned about sharks being able to detect blood in the water from a mile away caused a shiver to run through him.
Shutting out the rising pain in his arm, Collin concentrated on regaining his balance, keeping his head above the waterline, and continuing to saw at the thin, strong bands around his wrists. Another wave struck, but this time the knife was pointing away from his body. Collin recovered and resumed, trying to find the notch he’d started. He got three or four more short, sawing strokes on it when another surge came. This time he was prepared and braced himself for it, not wanting to lose valuable time recovering after each surge.
The ever-shifting watery environment, coupled with the awkward angle and lack of leverage, combined to make it a difficult, if not delicate, operation to cut through the tougher than expected plastic restraints. After two more waves, the plastic snapped. At last, Collin’s hands were free. As he moved them, he was struck first by the stiffness of his shoulder muscles and second by the flapping of his own skin from the tear in his left forearm as it moved through the water. Blood streamed out from the open wound, but he didn’t have time to think about that—or sharks—right now.
Collin dove down again and quickly found what he was looking for: one of the Captain’s shirts among the clutter below him. He tore it with the knife, creating a long, thick strip of cloth. He wrapped the strip around the wound several times, tied it off, and continued to think through his exit strategy as the boat shuddered with each new wave and his air supply dwindled.
****
Even from two hundred yards away, the Captain and his crew could hear the ocean beating on the side of the Admiral Risty. With the concussion from each successive wave came an additional cracking or snapping or banging sound; a glugging noise, followed by a whoosh, followed by a little less of the boat’s bottom showing above the surf in the diminishing twilight. Their attempts to swim toward their ocean-bound home were futile. With the Captain drifting in and out of lucidity and in need of help keeping his head above water, they had no capacity to rescue anyone else. It required the combined strength of the three remaining crewmen and the buoyancy of their life jackets to keep the Captain from sinking under the billowing surge. Add to that the wind and the force of the current dragging them westward, away from the boat and the rocks, and they didn’t stand a chance of swimming back to the boat, although Miguel and Jaime tried. With the Admiral sinking, there was nothing they could do to help anyhow.
The Captain, despite his hazy mental state, kept asking about Collin. Rojas assured him that they were doing all they could to help. His fellow crewmates looked at him with mixed expressions of sorrow, helplessness, frustration, and desperation. The three sailors knew they were lucky to have survived, as was their Captain.
“Did Collin make it out?” asked the Captain again, straining his voice above the wind and waves. “I need to know. Where is he?”
“He will be OK,” said Rojas, staring longingly at the sinking Admiral. “That man knows how to survive.” After waiting for another swell to crest and move past them, he added, “And God is with him.”
“But do you see him?” the Captain asked again, determined to keep trying.
“It’s too dark, Captain. Can’t see anything,” said Rojas.
“We need to find him. He has to survive,” pleaded the Captain.
“We can’t, sir,” said Rojas. “The current is too strong. We can’t swim back.”
The Captain turned toward the whitish reflection from the hull of his boat, which now was nothing more than a crescent-shaped hunk of flotsam, rising and falling in the six-foot swells. He bit his lip as he watched, hoping to see Collin surface or to hear him call out. As the distance between the men and their boat grew wider, he lowered his head. “God help him,” mumbled Captain Sewell, barely audible.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Huntington Beach Hospital, Huntington Beach, California
June 15, 7:07 p.m. Pacific Time
Rob, Megan, and Richard were having a conversation in the car while Rob drove. He was turning into the parking lot of the Huntington Beach Hospital where Henry was reportedly very eager to get out when Rob’s phone buzzed, and a Linkin Park tune rang out. Lukas’s ring tone. “Hang on, let me park the car,” he said. Looking at Richard and Megan in turn, he said, “Why don’t you guys go get your dad while I take this call? I’ll wait right here.” They both nodded and climbed out of the car.
Rob returned to the call. “What’s up, buddy?”
“Listen, Rob. We’ve got problems,” came Lukas’s hurried voice.
Plugging his ear to hear, Rob replied, “What kind of problems?”
“Collin’s phone stopped,” said Lukas, keys tapping relentlessly in the background.
“Dead battery, maybe.”
“No, it’s still transmitting, but it is no longer moving.”
“Maybe they’ve arrived at a safe place.”
“No, it stopped about two miles from a harbor on the west side of the island of Providencia, in the middle of a shallow, rocky channel.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying this doesn’t look good and I don’t know what to do. It appears their boat sank or it’s grounded or something. Apparently, someone high up in Interpol has somehow convinced someone high up in the Colombian Coast Guard to go against their protocol and hightail it to the spot now. They’ve decided it’s a top-priority international search and rescue operation. There’s talk of apprehending terrorists, including a high-value American target. Looks like they’ll arrive within half an hour.”
“A rescue is a good thing, though, right?”
“Not if you’re Collin, it’s not. The last thing he needs is to be thrown in a Colombian prison awaiting extradition to the US. Plus, I’d be willing to bet that Penh will have someone combing the wreckage, assuming that’s what happened, within a day. Two at the most.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he knows Collin has everything on the hard drive of his computer—all the account information, routing numbers, PINs, and balances. He’s figured out by now that he couldn’t replicate the entire hard drive. I’m sure he ran into the registry which pulls data from the second, separate drive—the one they would not have been able to see or copy. So now he knows there’s more information hidden there, and he needs to physically access the rest of the data from the original drive. If he gets that computer, he gets more than just the money. He wins and Collin dies.”
“Not necessarily. Collin can still hide and live to fight another day.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“How so?”
“I would assume that Collin hid his phone as well. With that phone, Penh would also be able to track you and me. Once he hacks into that phone and the computer’s hard drive, he’ll know of my involvement and yours. He’ll be able to hunt us, too. More importantly, he would likely figure out how to worm his way into the NSA computer network. That would allow him to wreak all sorts of havoc within the United States. He could potentially get into some very sensitive national security info . . .” Lukas blew out a long breath between his teeth.
“Why would he be able to do all that?” Rob asked, not quite following Lukas’s high-speed train of thought.
“I set up
that computer for Collin to be able to IM me, right?”
“Right.”
“The security protocols it runs basically tap into the government’s secure network and allow the two of us to communicate in the blind. No one else can see it or interfere with it,” Lukas explained.
“So, what’s the worry?”
“I never worried about Collin going beyond the firewalls and virtual private network I set up for the two of us, and because I never worried, I didn’t make it hack-proof. It’s secure, but someone like Penh could blow through it eventually and enter the NSA’s network and troll around undetected from there. He could unlock all sorts of doors,” Lukas groaned. “I shouldn’t have been so lazy.”
“Lazy? You’re far from lazy, man,” said Rob, trying to console him. “Remember, you only had a few hours with him to put that whole thing together and teach him what he needed to know about it.”
“That’s true, but still, if that computer gets hacked, we’re all in trouble.”
Without hesitation, Rob asked, “What do you need me to do?”
****
Western Caribbean Sea, 2 miles north-northwest of Providencia Island
June 15, 8:18 p.m. Caribbean Time
The three crew members and Captain Sewell were being swept through another channel between rocky islets by a powerful current. Rather than expend precious energy in a vain attempt to reach the shore of one of the islets, they huddled together in silence. Dark thoughts traced their way through the empty spaces within and between this tight-knit team. The absence of Tog and Collin tugging at their insides the way the current pulled at their collective mass.
Unspoken horrors threatened to swallow the men each time they felt a bump from below or looked back toward the floundering Admiral or surveyed the brooding horizon in any direction. The growing unease weaving its way deeper into each man’s thought processes was if or when they would be rescued—and by whom.
The winds had calmed but were still blowing at twenty-five–to–thirty knots. The tail end of the storm was passing overhead. They were four men with three life jackets tossed about by a vast, angry ocean, unsure where the currents might take them. Curling white-capped waves continually washed over them. The constant effort required to keep themselves and the Captain above water zapped their energy and their morale. How long they could last was the unspoken question. Light rain continued to fall intermittently.
The Captain began to stir and come around. He tried to engage his men in conversation, but no one was in the mood to talk. When it grew quiet, he dug out an orange device from his pocket and began pushing buttons. It was his waterproof GPS unit. Jaime asked what he was doing.
“I’m checking our position,” he replied.
“What does it matter?” Jaime asked dismissively.
“It’s always good to know where you are. And I’m marking the spot where we went down.”
“Why?”
“So we can go back.”
“Why would we go back?”
“We must find his phone,” said the Captain.
“Why is that important?” asked Jaime. “Why risk it to get a phone?”
“If Collin is dead, we must return him to his home,” said the Captain resolutely. “His family’s number will be on the phone.”
Jaime nodded his head in the murky starlight.
“I must call his mother. She needs to know,” the Captain said grimly. He patted at the pockets of his coat. With a sigh of relief, he produced his satellite phone in its compressed waterproof bag. He crammed it back in the pocket.
Silence. Long minutes passed with no sound other than the lapping of the swells, the pattering of the rain, and the breathing of four men struggling to find a bright spot, a reason to propel them through the unknowns lurking in their future, altered as it would be.
At last, Rojas muttered, “That’s the right thing.”
****
Collin struggled to maintain his balance as he attempted to catch his breath. Even after taking several desperate gulps of air, his head was not feeling any better. That’s when the burning in his throat reminded him of his dire thirst. The irony was thick: surrounded by water, but he was dying of thirst. He needed a drink. There had to be some more bottled water somewhere on this boat. Where did Stinky find that water? He dove down and tore frantically through the refrigerator, the cabinets, and closets, all of which were mostly emptied. No water bottles. Then he remembered the hatch under the kitchen floor, which was now above him. He resurfaced and pulled on the metal loop, twisted it and jumped back as a bevy of packaged food flooded out the trapdoor. Canned fruit, beans, and chili; packets of ramen noodles; bags of dried fruit and nuts; and bottles of water still bunched together in a tight plastic cocoon. Along with the food, two large mesh bags dropped through the opening—a red one and a yellow one.
Collin dove down and, in the ghostly light, found the nearest cluster of water bottles and ripped into it. He emerged with a bottle in each hand. After draining both bottles, he went back down and stuffed two more into his pockets. He came back up toting the two mesh bags. He yanked open the draw string of the first and rummaged through the contents. Perfect. A full complement of scuba gear: mask, fins, snorkel, and dive octopus, which included an air regulator for breathing air off a tank as well as a depth gauge, compass, and dive computer. The second bag had neoprene dive booties, gloves, and an underwater watch in a clear plastic cube. He had already attached the Captain’s knife to his leg using the straps on the sheath. These items completed the set-up he would need to escape.
The last item at the bottom of the bag was as important as any of the others: a dive light. This wasn’t the cheap kind that he had once owned. No, this was the good stuff. Two ultra-high-density LEDs boasted 825 lumins in a dual-reflector system to optimize the brightness and power of the beam. It had a high and low setting to save battery power when needed. He switched it on and let out a yelp of elation when it worked. The whole cabin lit up as the high-powered beam shone through the turquoise water.
Everything he needed for a successful dive was either in the bags or in the mess below, except an air tank.
Collin’s joy was short lived. No sooner had he turned on the light than a terrible jolt rocked the entire hull of the Admiral. Collin realized that something had given way and the boat had slammed against rock. Terrifying scrapes, snaps, and groans shook everything around him. His whole environment shifted, and the clutter below rolled and bounced to one side. The wave action was more violent now as each wave pushed the boat against the unforgiving rocks.
Time was short. Collin knew the boat could not stay intact much longer. He knew he had to get out—and soon. The thought crossed his mind that rescuers would likely appear at some point in the near future. This sent a cold chill through him. There would be too many unexplainables, too many complications, and too many risks to his freedom and, therefore, his loved ones. He had to stay free if he was to have any hope of stopping Pho Nam Penh from carrying out his murderous plans. No, he mustn’t let anyone rescue him and he mustn’t let them see him, either. His survival would have to be on his own terms in order to save his family and Emily.
That meant he had to fetch the rest of the dive equipment he would need so he could remain unseen underwater and find his way to one of the nearby islands. From there he could contact Lukas. He’d know what to do next.
Collin dove into the Captain’s quarters and began gathering the other items he knew he needed, like the buoyancy compensator and lead weights. The last item necessary was a tank, but he had no idea if there was one onboard or where to find it. As quickly as he could move, he searched everywhere in the Captain’s stateroom, shining the powerful beam of light into every corner, cabinet, and drawer. Nothing left in the closets or under the bed.
The pounding of the waves and the banging of the hull against the rocks and the groans and cracks continued as Collin frantically searched, impeding his progress.
As he rummaged for an ai
r tank, he grabbed food items and pushed them into the yellow mesh bag. Things like cans of chili and fruit and water bottles.
When he surfaced in the galley, his air pocket was all but gone. There was only enough space to press his face against the floor to draw in a few lungfuls of air while trying to steady himself. Panic crept closer. The cramped space. The sound of the hull breaking and crunching. The absence of air. The boat teetering on the rocks as the waves continued to beat on it. His breathing rate escalated, fueled by the panic, as all of these variables raced through the narrowing field of his mind. It felt like everything was closing in, including his own doom.
Pushing away the fear that threatened to paralyze him, Collin tried to slow his breathing. He had to stop the panic by thinking logically about saving himself. He went through a checklist of the items he had gathered: regulator—check; mask, fins, and snorkel—check; knife—check; compass and dive computer—check; buoyancy compensator—check; weights—check; air tank—still unchecked.
Drawing in one long breath, Collin dove down to where his gathered items lay more or less together. He shoved all the items he had into the red mesh bag, except the vest that was the buoyancy compensator, which could be blown up to help a diver float. This he wrestled on, pushing his arms into the armholes so he wore it as it was intended, almost. With the red mesh bag cinched tight, he attached it to a clip on the shoulder of the vest to keep his hands free. The yellow mesh bag with the food in it he attached to a similar clip on the other side of the vest.
Collin pushed up to the air pocket one last time, knowing he needed as much oxygen as he could get while he thought through his action plan.
With his lungs full of air, he used the dive light strapped to his wrist to fill the watery space with its intense light. Thinking and hunting, Collin began to work his way through the cabin, unsure of what he’d discover, but hoping he would find an air tank.