Douglas Preston - Riptide

He goosed the engine and made a passing swipe at the dock, pleased to see Bonterre leap aboard with a seaman's agility despite the bulky clothing. She strapped on the life jacket Hatch tossed her, then tucked her hair under the sou'wester. Hatch checked the binnacle and turned his gaze seaward, toward the two light buoys midchannel and the peppercan bell buoy at the mouth of the bay.

"When we hit the open ocean," he said, "I'm going to head diagonally into the sea at half throttle. It's going to buck like hell, so keep hold of something. Stay close by, in case I need your help with the wheel."

"You are foolish," said Bonterre, nerves turning her good humor testy. "Do you think storms are found only off Maine? What I want to know is what this insane trip is all about."

"I'll tell you," Hatch said, staring out to sea. "But you're not going to like it."

Chapter 45

Clay peered through the screaming murk, gripping the wheel with aching arms. The boat struck each towering wave with a crashing shudder, water bursting over the bows, wind tearing foam from the crests. Every wave smothered the pilothouse windows in white as the dragger tipped and began its sickening descent into the trough. For a moment there would be sudden, windless silence; then the craft would lift with, a sickening lurch and begin the cycle over again.

Ten minutes earlier, when he'd tried the forward searchlight, he learned the boat had blown some fuses and lost most of its electrical power. The backup batteries were dead, too—he hadn't checked them, as he knew he should. But he'd been busy with other things: Earlier, without warning, the Cerberus had raised anchor and gotten underway, ignoring his horn, the vast white bulk moving inexorably into the black, lashing sea. Alone, violently tossed, he had followed it for a time, fruitlessly hailing, until it disappeared into the furious darkness.

He looked around the cabin, trying to assess the situation. It had been a serious mistake to follow the Cerberus, he realized that now. If they had not heeded him before, they certainly would not stop to heed him now. Besides, out of the lee of Ragged Island, the ocean was literally boiling: the eastbound swell was beating against the outbound tide, creating a viciously steep cross-sea. The Loran was dead, leaving him with the compass in the binnacle as his only navigational tool. He was trying to steer by the compass, using dead reckoning. But Clay knew he was no navigator, and with no light he could read the compass only by lightning flashes. There was a flashlight in his pocket, but Clay desperately needed both hands to steer.

Burnt Head Light was socked in, and the screaming wind and surf were so loud he'd practically have to run over the bell buoy to hear it. Clay wrapped both elbows around the wheel and leaned against it, trying desperately to think. The island was less than a half mile away. Clay knew even a superb mariner would have a difficult job bringing the boat in through the reefs to Thalassa's dock in this weather. But—even if his fierce determination to land on Ragged Island had wavered—it would have been more difficult still to cross the six miles of hell to Stormhaven.

Twice, he thought he heard the deep-throated sound of the Cerberus's engines. But it made no sense: first it was heading east, later heading west, as if searching—or waiting—for something.

He checked the compass in a flash of lightning, holding the wheel with weakening arms, while the boat sagged into yet another trough. He made a slight correction to his course, heading now almost directly into the sea. The boat shuddered its way into another comber and a sheer wall of black-and-gray water rose off the bows, higher and higher, and he realized that the correction was in fact a mistake. As the wave toppled back down upon the pilothouse, the entire boat was jammed downward with a wrenching twist. The tremendous force of the water popped one of the windows from its frame and seawater slammed into Clay. He had just enough time to brace against the wheel and cling with all his might against the blast.

The boat shuddered, pressing lower and lower into the boiling sea, and just when he thought she would founder he again felt the grateful surge of buoyancy. The boat rose until the seas parted and rolled off the deck. As the boat crested and the lightning flashed, he had a brief glimpse of a heaving, storm-flecked ocean. Ahead lay a shadow of calmer water: the lee of Ragged Island.

Clay looked up into the black sky and a few words escaped his lips: Oh Lord, if it be Thy will —and then he was fighting the sea again, turning the boat diagonally and leaning against the wheel as another surge of water came crashing through the open window. He rode the swell down, the boat shuddering as it slid into calmer water.

Before Clay had time to draw a relieved breath, he realized that the water was calm only in comparison to the tempest that raged beyond. A heavy swell warped around the island from both sides, making a confused sea, but at least now he could turn directly toward the mooring. He pushed the throttle up a tick and listened to the responding rumble of the engine.

The increased speed seemed to give the boat a little more stability. It ploughed ahead, plunging, surging upward, then plunging again. With the window out and the searchlight dead, he had trouble navigating in those brief moments of vision at the top of the swells. He realized, dimly, that it might be wise to throttle back, just in case the—

There was a stunning crash as the boat bottomed itself against the reef. Clay was thrown violently forward into the wheel, breaking his nose; then he was tossed back against the far wall of the pilothouse. Surf, surging over the reef, slewed the boat sideways, then a second roller spun the boat full broadside. Clay fought his way back to the wheel, snorting blood and brine, trying to clear his head. Then a third wave slammed the boat over on its beam ends, and he was thrown free of the deck into a perfect chaos of water and wind.

Chapter 46

Hatch swung the nose of the Plain Jane into the channel. Behind came a rattling symphony of lines slapping masts as the boats bobbed hysterically at their moorings. The wind was cold, the sky thick with water. He took a taste: as much salt as it was fresh. He'd seen seas like this before in his childhood. But he'd never been foolhardy enough to venture out in them.

He took one final look back at the shore, then turned to sea and throttled up. They passed the floating 5 MPH and NO WAKE signs, so thrashed by the sea that they hung sideways, as if admitting defeat.

Bonterre came up beside him, clinging to the instrument housing with both hands.

"Well?" she screamed in his ear.

"Isobel, I've been a damn fool," he shouted back. "I've seen those same basic symptoms a thousand times. It was staring me right in the face. Anyone who's ever undergone radiation treatment for cancer knows what it's all about."

"Radiation treatment?"

"Yes. What happens to those patients? They get nauseated. They lose their energy. Their hair. White cell counts go through the floor. Among all the weird ailments I've seen this last week, every one had those points in common."

Bonterre hesitated, eyes wide despite the blinding surf.

"St. Michael's Sword is radioactive. Think about it. Long-term exposure to radioactivity kills your bone marrow cells, basically stops cell division. It cripples the immune system, makes you an easy mark. That's why the Thalassa crew had all those exotic diseases that kept distracting me. But the lack of cell division also stops the healing process, causes hair loss. Look at how my own hand has been so slow to heal. Severe exposure leads to osteoporosis and loss of teeth. Symptoms similar to scurvy."