Douglas Preston - Riptide

The Plain Jane came to rest on its side and began to sink rapidly, too full of water to right itself. Hatch looked rearward. The dinghy had also shipped a quantity of water, but was still afloat.

Bonterre followed Hatch's eyes and nodded. Clinging to the side, up to their waists in roiling water, they began working their way toward the stern. Hatch knew that a freakish wave was usually followed by a series of smaller ones. They had two minutes, maybe three, to get into the dinghy and free of the Plain Jane before she dragged them down with her.

Clinging to the railing, Hatch held his breath as the water surged over them, first once, then a second time. He felt his hand grasp the stern rail. Already, the eyebolt was too deep underwater to reach. Fumbling about in the chill sea, he located the painter. Letting go of the rail, he reeled in the rope, kicking frantically against the tug of the water until he felt himself bump the dinghy's bow. He scrambled in, falling heavily to the bottom, then rose and looked back for Bonterre.

She was clinging to the stern, the Plain Jane now almost under. He grabbed the painter and began pulling the dinghy in toward the eyebolt. Another great wave lifted him up, smothering him with briny foam. He leaned down and grasped Bonterre under the arms, pulling her into the dinghy. As the wave subsided, the Plain Jane turned bottom up and began to sink in a flurry of bubbles.

"We've got to cut loose!" Hatch shouted. He dug into his pocket for his knife and sawed desperately through the painter. The dinghy fell back into the swell as the Plain Jane turned its stern toward the inky sky and disappeared with a great sigh of air.

Without hesitation, Bonterre grabbed the bailer, working fast to lighten the dinghy's bottom. Moving aft, Hatch gave the outboard a tug, then another. There was a cough, a snort, then a tinny rasp above the scream of the ocean. Engine idling, Hatch quickly began working the second bailer. But it was no use: with the Plain Jane gone, the little dinghy was bearing the full brunt of the storm. More water was crashing over the side than could be bailed out.

"We need to be turned against the sea," said Bonterre. "You bail. I will manage the boat."

"But—"

"Do it!"

Crawling aft, Bonterre threw the little engine into forward and jammed the throttle open, swinging the boat broadside to the sea as she did so.

"For Chrissake, what are you doing?" Hatch howled.

"Bail!" she yelled in return. The boat sagged backward and upward, the water in its bottom flowing aft. Just as a great comber bore down, she gave the throttle a sudden twist, lifting it up and over. Immediately, she turned the boat again, surfing down the wave's backside, almost parallel to the sea.

This was in direct opposition to everything Hatch had ever learned about boats. In terror, he dropped the bailer and clung to the gunwale as they gathered speed.

"Keep bailing!" Bonterre reached back and pulled the stopcock in the stern. Water drained out as the boat picked up even more speed.

"You're going to kill us!" Hatch yelled.

"I have done this before!" Bonterre shouted. "I surfed the waves as a kid."

"Not waves like this!"

The dinghy skimmed down the middle of the trough, the propeller clearing the water with a nasty whine as they began to climb the leading side of the next wave. Sprawled in the bottom and clutching both gunwales, Hatch guessed their speed at twenty knots.

"Hold on!" Bonterre yelled. The little boat skidded sideways and skipped over the foaming crest. As Hatch watched in mingled horror and disbelief, the dinghy became airborne for a sickening moment before slamming down on the far side of the wave. It leveled out, shooting down the following edge.

"Can't you slow down?"

"It does not work if one slows down! The boat needs to be planing!"

Hatch peered over the bows. "But we're heading in the wrong direction!"

"Do not worry. In a few minutes I will come about."

Hatch sat up in the bow. He could see that Bonterre was staying as long as possible in the glassy troughs, where the wind and chop didn't reach, violating the cardinal rule that you never bring your boat broadside to a heavy sea. And yet the high speed of the boat kept it stable, allowing her to look for the best place to cross each wave.

As he watched, another wave crested before them. With a deliberate jerk, Bonterre jammed the engine handle around. The dinghy skipped over the top of the crest, reversing direction as it came hurtling down into the next trough.

"Sweet Jesus!" Hatch cried, scrabbling desperately at the bow seat.

The wind dropped a little as they came into the lee of the island. Here there was no regular swell, and it became far more difficult for the little boat to ride the confused sea.

"Turn back!" Hatch cried. "The riptide's going to sweep us past the island!"

Bonterre began to reply. Then she stopped.

"Lights!" she cried.

Emerging from the storm was the Cerberus, perhaps three hundred yards off, the powerful lights on its bridge and forward deck cutting through the dark. Now it was turning toward them, a saving vision in white, almost serene in the howling storm. Perhaps it had seen them, Hatch thought—no, it had seen them. It must have picked up the Plain Jane on its scope and been coming to its rescue.

"Over here!" Bonterre yelled, waving her arms.

The Cerberus slowed, presenting its port side to the dinghy. They came to an uneasy rest as the great bulk of the ship cut them off from wind and waves.

"Open the boarding hatch!" Hatch yelled.

They bobbed for a moment, waiting, as the Cerberus remained silent and still.

"Vas-y, vas-y!" Bonterre cried impatiently. "We are freezing!"

Staring up at the white superstructure, Hatch heard the high whine of an electric motor. He glanced toward the boarding hatch, expecting to see it open. Yet it remained closed and motionless.

Twisted lightning seared the sky. Far above, Hatch thought he could see a single figure reflected against the light of the bridge instrumentation, looking down at them.

The whine continued. Then he noticed the harpoon gun on the forward deck, swiveling slowly in their direction.

Bonterre was staring at it also, puzzled. "Grande merde du noire," she muttered.

"Turn the boat!" Hatch yelled.

Bonterre threw the throttle hard to starboard and the little craft spun around. Above, Hatch saw a peripheral glow, a blue flash. There was a sharp hissing noise, then a loud splash ahead of them. A thunderous whump followed, and a tower of water rose twenty feet off their port bow, its base lit an ugly orange.

"Explosive harpoon!" Hatch cried.

There was another flash and explosion, frighteningly close. The little dinghy pitched sharply, then heaved to one side. As they cleared the side of the Cerberus, wild water took them once again. There was an explosion ahead as another harpoon hit the water. Spray stung Hatch's face as they fell backward, nearly foundering.

Without a word, Bonterre spun the boat again, throttled up, and headed straight for the Cerberus. Hatch turned to yell out a warning, then realized what she was doing. At the last moment she turned the boat sideways, slamming hard against the huge vessel. They were under the pitch of the hull, too close for the harpoon gun.

"We'll make a dash by the stern!" Bonterre cried.

As Hatch leaned forward to bail, he saw a strange sight: a narrow line in the water, sputtering and snapping, heading toward them. Curious, he paused to watch. Then the line reached the bow in front of him, and with a tearing sound the nose of the dinghy vanished in a cloud of sawdust and wood smoke. Falling into the stern, glancing up, Hatch could see Streeter leaning over the ship's rail, an ugly weapon he recognized as a flechette aimed directly at them.