Warren Fahy: Fragment

The ship cruised due west at a nice clip, ten degrees south of the Tropic of Capricorn.

“Captain Sol, we’ll never get this close again!” Nell said.

“The storm did blow us pretty far south,” Glyn said. “And while as a biologist, I have to say Nell’s little island is pretty intriguing, the thought of solid ground is even more appealing right now, Captain. It sure would feel good to stretch our legs.”

“Why can’t we go?” Nell whined.

Sol Meyers frowned. He looked like Santa Claus on vacation in his extra-large orange T-shirt with a white SeaLife logo silk-screened on the breast pocket.

“I’m sorry, Nell. We have two days to make up if we’re going to make Pitcairn in time for the celebration they’re planning for us. We just can’t do it.”

“A scientific expedition to explore the most remote places on Earth!” Nell quoted the show’s opening tagline with naked scorn.

“More like a floating soap opera that ran out of bubbles,” Glyn muttered.

“I’m sorry, Nelly,” Captain Sol repeated. “But this is Cynthea’s charter. She’s the producer. I have to go where she wants, barring some emergency.”

“I think Cynthea’s trying to pair us off now,” Glyn mused. “Apparently the entire crew has already boffed each other.”

Nell laughed and squeezed Glyn’s shoulder.

The biologist flinched and rubbed his triceps as if she had bruised him. “You’re the most touchy-feely woman I’ve ever met, Nell,” he snipped, fussing with his shirt where she had touched him.

Nell realized they were all getting irritable. “Sorry, Glyn. Maybe I’m part bonobo chimp-they use physical contact to give members of their group a sense of security.”

“Well, we British have the opposite reaction.” Glyn pouted.

“Hey, I don’t mind, Nell,” said Carl Warburton. The ship’s first mate had a TV actor’s tanned handsomeness, black wavy hair frosted gray at the temples, and a late-night deejay’s voice to go along with his droll sense of humor-all of which made him irresistible. “Consider me a bonobo,” Warburton said, and he scratched his ribs and stuck out his tongue at Nell charmingly.

Captain Sol glanced up at the bridge camera mounted over the forward window. Cynthea Leeds, the show’s producer, watched everyone through cameras like this one, which were positioned throughout the ship. Each week’s show was cut from footage collected by these cameras, as well as what was captured by the ship’s three roving cameramen.

Captain Sol hid his lips with his hand and whispered, “I think Cynthea’s trying to set me up with ship’s surgeon Jennings.”

“She’s trying to set me up with ship’s surgeon Jennings,” Warburton said.

Nell did her best Cynthea impression: “Drama!”

A loud tone blared suddenly on the bridge, and everyone jumped.

“Captain,” Samir said. He checked the instrumentation. “We’re picking up an EPIRB, sir!”

“Christ, I thought it was Cynthea,” Captain Sol sighed.

“An EPIRB?” Warburton asked. “Out here?”

“Double-check it, Sam,” Captain Sol instructed.

“What’s an EPIRB?” Nell asked.

“An Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon.” Warburton was moving quickly to Samir’s side.

“Got a position?” Captain Sol asked.

“We should after the next satellite sweep…” said Samir.

“Here it comes.” Warburton glanced over his shoulder at Nell.

“What?” she asked.

“You’ll never believe it.”

Samir turned to her. Surprise lit his round face and a smile revealed his beautiful teeth. “According to these coordinates, it’s coming from your island, mate.”

Nell felt her heart pound as they confirmed the signal.

“Hold on-wait-we’re losing it,” Warburton warned.

Captain Sol stepped around Samir and squinted at the navigation screen. “That’s strange…”

Warburton nodded.

Nell moved a little closer. “What’s strange?”

“You don’t fire off an EPIRB unless you mean business,” the captain answered. “And if you do, the lithium battery should last forty-eight hours, minimum. This signal’s fading.”

“There it goes,” Samir reported as the next data update wiped it off the screen.

“Sam, you better hail the nearest LUT station. And check the beacon’s NOAA registration, Carl.”

Warburton was already scanning the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration database. “The beacon’s registered. Oh man… it’s a thirty-foot sailboat!”

“What the hell is it doing out here?” Captain Sol scowled.

Warburton scanned the information on file. “The vessel’s name is Balboa Bilbo. The owner’s name is Thad Pinkowski of Long Beach, California. OK, this is interesting: the registration on the beacon expired three years ago.”

“Ha!” Captain Sol grunted. “It’s a derelict.”

“Maybe the NOAA records are out of date?” Glyn suggested.

“Not likely.”

Samir held the satphone to his ear. “LUT reports that we’re the nearest vessel, Captain. Since it’s too far from an airstrip to get a search plane out here, they’re asking us to respond, if able.”

“How soon can we reach it, Carl?”

“Around fourteen hundred hours, tomorrow.”

“Bring her about, due south. Sam, let the LUT station know we’re responding.”

“Aye, sir!”

“And try hailing her on VHF.”

“On it!”

Captain Sol pushed a button and spoke into the ship’s intercom. “All hands, as you can see, we are now making a course adjustment. We will be landing sooner than planned, tomorrow afternoon, on an unexplored island. There will be a more detailed announcement at dinner. As you were!”

Faint cheers rose from the deck outside.

Captain Sol turned to Glyn. “Mutiny averted. That should hold them for a while. Well, Nell. It looks like the wind keeps blowing your way.”

The southern horizon swung into view in the wide windows as the Trident came about. Captain Sol pointed to the left edge of the navigation monitor, where a small white circle rose on an arc toward the top of the screen.

Warburton smiled. “There it is, Nell.”

Nell ran to see the plotting monitor as the men stepped to each side.

“If you want to find an untouched ecosystem, you certainly came to the right place,” Glyn conceded.

“It must be twelve hundred miles from the nearest speck of land, I reckon,” Samir said.

“Fourteen hundred.” Nell’s heart pounded so loudly she feared the others could hear it. “Every plant pollinated by insects on this island should be a new species,” she explained.

Glyn nodded. “If your theory holds up.”

The motors revved as the Turbosail rotated over the bridge.

As Nell’s eyes brimmed, the others wondered whether she was looking for more than a new flower on Henders Island.

They all cringed as a voice blasted from a speaker by the camera over the forward window: “Tell me this is not a joke, please!”

“This is not a joke, Cynthea,” Captain Sol answered.

“You mean we actually got a distress signal?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Sol, you’re my hero! How bad is it?”

Captain Sol looked wearily at Warburton. “It’s probably just a derelict sailboat. But the beacon was activated, so we have to check it out.”

“God, that’s gold! Nell-tell me you’re excited!”

Nell looked up at the speaker over the window, surprised. “Yes, it’ll be nice to do a little actual scientific research.”

“Tell me more about the island, Glyn!” screeched the electronic voice.

“Well, according to Nell, it was discovered by a British sea captain in 1791. He landed but couldn’t find a way to the island’s interior. There’s no other record of anyone landing, and there are only three recorded sightings of it in the last 220-”