Дэвид Балдаччи - The Forgotten

Puller didn’t answer. He was looking up ahead.

“Go sit down, General.”

“What?” She looked up ahead, but couldn’t make out what he could.

“Julie, go sit down. Now! And hold on. Tell the others. Quick.”

Carson scurried to do this.

She had just heard something in Puller’s voice she thought she never would.

Fear.

It was not a giant wave heading at them.

Maybe it would have been better if it were.

It was a boat. No, boats were small.

This was not small. This was a ship. An ocean-going vessel of immense proportions.

A horn sounded from somewhere, deep and penetrating.

Puller did not even bother hitting his horn. It would not have been heard over the sounds of the storm or the engine noise from the approaching vessel.

Puller had an immediate problem. He had to keep taking the approaching waves at roughly a forty-five-degree angle. As even sailors with limited experience knew, hitting waves at that angle cut their power sharply and also lessened the height the water would send a boat to.

Head-on at ninety degrees would ensure that you would receive every ounce of kinetic energy the oncoming liquid hammer could provide.

And you might very well climb a wave only to find yourself capsizing when a vertical point of no return was reached. Once your bow was straight up in the air, you were done. Flipping over backwards was pretty much inevitable. And for the passengers on board, you’d either be crushed by the boat or thrown out into the water to drown.

The problem was that for Puller to veer away from the path of the oncoming ship, he would have to hit the waves nearly directly on. The oncoming vessel was big enough, and with a deep V hull made of steel, it was strong enough to take the waves head-on. In fact, the ship was creating vast banks of rolling seas as it churned through the water at about twelve knots, pushing millions of gallons of already frothing Gulf water ahead and to the sides of it like a shovel does snow.

At the last possible instant, with the ship’s horns ringing in his ears, Puller cut the wheel sharply to the left. He not only had to avoid the ship, he had to avoid its wake, which could easily capsize the bow rider.

In order to achieve that he had to cut a wide arc around the ship and move away quickly.

To do that he had to increase his speed.

That was not easily accomplished in seas like this. In fact it was nearly impossible. Half the time his prop was completely out of the water, spinning uselessly in the open air with no water around it for traction.

He did not entirely achieve his goal.

Puller yelled, “Everybody hold on.”

They didn’t hit the ship. But they did hit something else.

The leading edges of the ship’s wake broadsided them. The boat’s port side tipped down and the starboard side lurched up, probably far beyond the manufacturer’s recommendation.

Carson and Landry slid across the deck and hit the port gunwale.

Carson would have gone into the water except that Mecho, one big hand wrapped around a handrail inside the boat, grabbed her leg in a crushing grip.

Landry managed to hold on to the gunwale, but her legs were dangling over the side before she regained her equilibrium and fell back inside the boat.

Diaz had slid back to front and ended up entangled with Puller’s legs. One hand firmly on the wheel, Puller grabbed her with the other and lifted her up.

Unfortunately, the wall of water thrown off from the trailing edge of the ship’s wake hit them just as the boat righted itself.

Gagging on saltwater, Puller managed to call out, “We’re getting swamped.”

They all grabbed buckets that Mecho found under a seat and started bailing. The drains on the boat helped, but they were overwhelmed with the volume of seawater.

Puller watched as the sides of the boat started lowering into the ocean.

Using two buckets, Mecho bailed like a machine with inexhaustible fuel. Puller gave the wheel to Diaz and grabbed a bucket.

Soon, as first Landry and then Carson grew exhausted and slumped down into the water collected inside the boat, it was just the two men standing nearly side by side in the boat throwing water out a little quicker than it was coming in. Puller’s painkiller was wearing off and his wound began to throb. But he didn’t stop.

“We’re coming back up,” shouted Diaz. “Keep bailing.”

Renewed by this, Carson and Landry jumped back in and started to bail simply using their hands. The tide began to turn in earnest.

Forty minutes later, the drains and bilge pump took over and the interior of the boat became relatively dry.

It was only then that Carson and Landry hung their heads over the side of the boat and threw up the seawater that had collected in their stomachs.

Puller upchucked over the side as well and then took over the wheel from Diaz and continued his fight through the leading edge of Danielle.

Mecho dropped the buckets and stood there, soaked, his big arms at his side, breathing hard and looking up ahead.

It was if he could sense something coming.

At the helm Puller eyed the fuel gauge. He had filled the tank before they had left from cans that Diaz had had on board. But the pounding waters had caused the engine to suck a lot more fuel than normal to keep its forward progress.

Puller performed a quick calculation in his head.

The answer was unmistakable. And deeply disturbing.

We’re not going to have enough gas to get back.

He looked over at Mecho, who still stood, braced against the stem seats. Mecho was watching him. It seemed the big man had read Puller’s mind as he had studied the dials in front of him.

Then he looked over Puller’s shoulder and slowly pointed up ahead.

Puller turned back and looked at where he was pointing.

A huge structure suddenly became visible in the middle of the storm’s fury.

Neptune’s Seat was dead ahead.

They had reached the battlefield, exhausted and nearly drowned.

And now the real fight was about to begin.

Nearly two hundred people were clustered in cages meant to hold half that number.

Diego and Mateo crouched in a corner of one cage. Both were seasick from the journey out here. There were many others who were in the same condition. Pools of vomit lay everywhere. The stench made more people sick to their stomachs, which only added to the vileness of the cages.

Diego gripped Mateo’s hand and looked around.

The guards were everywhere but they didn’t look as confident now.

Perhaps it was because there were far more prisoners than normal.

Perhaps it was because they all could feel the battering effects of the angry ocean against the steel frame of the oil platform. The room they were in shook with every wave.

Mateo’s eyes were big as he watched the ceiling, and his fingers tightened around Diego’s every time a wave slammed into them.

Diego dipped his lips to Mateo’s ear. “It will be okay, Mateo. We’ll be okay.”

Mateo said nothing. He just kept looking at the ceiling, kept tightening his grip.

Diego looked down at his finger. Where the ring had been.

He had dropped it at the place where they had been held. He hoped someone would find it. Someone other than these people.

He kept a brave face for Mateo. But their odds of getting out of this were dwindling. If the storm did not kill them, Diego had no idea what would happen to them or where they would end up.

With this thought, a feeling of terror seized him and he tightened his grip around Mateo’s hand.

Perhaps sensing this, Mateo put his mouth to Diego’s ear and whispered, “It’ll be okay, Diego. We’ll be okay.”