Nelson DeMille - Plum Island

Beth called out, "We're not moving! Let's swim for it!"

"No! Stay with the boat. Wait for the perfect wave."

And we waited, watching the shoreline get closer, then receding for about six wave cycles. I looked behind me and watched the swells forming. Finally, I saw a huge wave forming behind us, and I threw the nearly swamped Formula into neutral. The boat pitched backwards a little and caught the wave just below its mounting crest. I called out, "Get down and hold on!"

Beth dropped down and clung to the base of her chair.

The wave propelled us like a surfboard on its hanging crest with such force that the eight-thousand-pound Formula, filled with thousands more pounds of water, acted like a reed basket caught in a raging river. I had anticipated an amphibian-type landing, but this was going to be an airborne drop.

As we hurtled toward the beach, I had the presence of mind to switch off the engines so that if we actually survived the landing, the Formula wouldn't explode, assuming there was any fuel left. I was also concerned about the twin props chopping our heads off. "Hold on!" I yelled.

"No shit!" she replied.

We came down bow first onto the wave-washed beach. The Formula rolled to the side, and we both jumped clear of the boat, just as another wave came crashing in. I found a rock outcropping and wrapped my arm around it as my free hand found Beth's wrist. The wave broke and receded, and we stood and ran like hell for the higher ground, Beth holding her side where she'd been hit.

We came to the face of an eroded bluff and began scrambling up it, the wet sand, clay, and iron oxide falling away in great chunks. Beth said, "Welcome to Plum Island."

"Thank you." Somehow, we got to the top of the bluff and collapsed on the high ground. We lay in the grass for a full minute. Then I sat up and looked down at the beach. The Formula was capsized, and I could see that its white hull was split open. The boat rolled again as the backwash took it out to sea, and then it righted itself for a minute, then capsized again and another wave took it toward the beach. I said to Beth, "I wouldn't want to be in that boat."

She replied, "No, and I also don't want to be on this island."

"Out of the fire," I said, "and into the frying pan."

"You bug me," she replied.

"There's an idea for a T-shirt," I suggested. "I got bugged on Plum Island. Get it?"

"Would you mind shutting up for about five minutes?"

"Not at all."

In fact, I welcomed the relative silence after hours of wind, rain, and ship's engines. I could actually hear my heart thumping, the blood pounding in my ears, and my lung wheezing. I could also hear a little voice in my head saying, "Beware of little men with big rifles."

We sat in the grass, sort of collecting ourselves and catching our breaths. I was wet, tired, cold, and banged up, plus my punctured lung ached. I'd lost my boating shoes, and I noticed that Beth, too, was barefoot. On the positive side, we were alive, and I still had my.38 in my shoulder holster. I drew the revolver and made sure the one remaining round was next in line to fire. Beth was patting her pockets and she announced, "Okay… got mine."

We still had on our slickers and life vests, but I noticed that Beth had lost the binoculars around her neck.

We watched the sea and the eerie swirling of the towering clouds around the eye of the storm. It was still raining, but it wasn't a hard, driving rain. When you're drenched to the bones, a little rain is no big deal. My concern was hypothermia if we sat still too long.

I looked at Beth and asked, "How's that cut on your forehead?"

"It's okay." She added, "I soaked it in saltwater."

"Good. How about your bullet wound?"

"It's just terrific, John."

"And all your other cuts and bruises?"

"Every one of them is feeling great."

I thought I detected a touch of sarcasm in her voice. I stood and felt very wobbly.

Beth asked me, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I reached down, and she took my hand and pulled herself to her feet. "Well," I said, mixing cliches, "we're out of the frying pan, but not out of the woods."

She said to me in a serious tone, "I think Tom and Judy Gordon would be proud of your seamanship."

I didn't reply. There was another unspoken sentence hanging there, and it was something like, "Emma would be pleased and flattered to see what you've done for her."

Beth said, "I think we should head back in the direction of the Gut and find the main lab."

I didn't reply.

She continued, "We can't miss the lights. We'll get the Plum Island security force to help us. I'll put in a telephone call or radio call to my office."

Again, I didn't reply.

She looked at me. "John?"

I said, "I did not come this far to run to Paul Stevens for help."

"John, we're not in great shape, and we have about five bullets between us and no shoes. Time to call the cops."

"You can go to the main building if you want. I'm going to find Tobin." I turned and began walking east along the bluff, toward where we'd seen Tobin's boat anchored about a half mile farther down the beach.

She didn't call after me, but a minute later, she was walking beside me. We continued on in silence. We kept our life vests on, partly for warmth, partly, I guess, because you just never know when you're going to wind up back in the drink.

The trees came right up to the eroded bluff and the underbrush was thick. Without shoes, we stepped gingerly and were not making good time.

The wind was calm in the eye of the storm, and the air was very still. I could actually hear birds chirping. I knew that the air pressure was extremely low here in the eye, and though I'm not usually barometer sensitive, I did feel sort of… edgy, I guess, maybe a bit cranky, too. In fact, maybe pissed off and murderous was what I felt.

Beth spoke to me in a sort of hushed tone and asked, "Do you have a plan?"

"Of course."

"What's the plan, John?"

"The plan is to stay loose."

"Great plan."

"Right." There was some moonlight coming through the smoky clouds, and we could see about ten feet in front of us. Despite that, walking along the edge of the bluff was a little treacherous because of the erosion, so we cut inland and found the gravel road that Paul Stevens' tour bus had taken to the east end of the island. The narrow road was clogged with uprooted trees and fallen limbs, so we didn't have to worry about a motor patrol surprising us.

We rested on a fallen tree trunk. I could see our breaths fogging in the damp air. I took off my life vest and slicker, then my shoulder holster and polo shirt. I managed to rip the polo shirt in half, and I wrapped both pieces around Beth's feet. I said, "I'm taking off my undershorts. Don't peek."

"I won't peek. Mind if I stare?"

I got my tight, wet jeans off, then my shorts, which I ripped in two.

Beth said, "Boxers? I took you for a jockey guy."

Ms. Penrose seemed in a playful mood for some reason. Post-trauma survivor euphoria, I guess. I tied the pieces of cloth around my feet.

Beth said, "I'd donate my panties, but they were so wet when I changed on the boat, I didn't bother to put them back on. Do you want my shirt?"

"No, thanks. This is okay." I pulled my jeans back on, then the shoulder holster against my bare skin, then the slicker, then the life vest. I was so cold now, I was starting to shiver.

We checked Beth's bullet wound, which was seeping some blood, but otherwise seemed all right.

We continued on along the dirt road. The sky was darkening again, and I knew the eye was traveling north and we'd soon be in the back end of the storm, which would be as violent as the leading edge had been. I whispered to Beth, "This is about where Tobin anchored. Careful and quiet from here on."