Buried At Sea Read online

  "They?" Jim repeated, treading very carefully. In one of his recurring dreams, he is snatching three hundred pounds when the bar snaps, and the weights smash his feet.

  Shannon called it his "fear of trying" dream. But that's how he felt now, as he talked to Will. If he asked the wrong question, the old man would suddenly snap and fall to pieces before his eyes. Where would that leave him?

  "Do 'they' know that we're sailing to Rio de Janeiro?"

  "Good question." Will paused to reflect on what "they" knew. "Probably," he said. "

  Though maybe not—considering they planted that homing device on you—but I'm not taking the chance."

  "What do you mean?" Jim asked.

  "No way we're going to Brazil?'

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Africa."

  "Africa? What are you talking about? We're going to Brazil. My flight home leaves from Brazil."

  "I'll buy you a ticket from Lagos."

  "Nigeria? Isn't there a civil war going on there?" "No," said Will.

  "The Daily Show said the UN was sending slave ships to rescue West African refugees?'

  "That is cruel, crude, sophomoric—"

  "But they made it clear that it's dangerous?'

  "Not where we're going."

  "How far from here? How long are we talking about?" "Month or so. Depending on the wind."

  "Or so? Five weeks?"

  "Could be six or seven depending on conditions. We've got to get through the Doldrums, which can slow us down. We've got to sail the rest of the way across the Atlantic and pretty deep into the Gulf of Guinea?'

  "We had a deal, Will. We're going to Rio. Three more weeks, you said. Now you're talking six or seven."

  Will Spark scanned the darkening water behind them. "It's your watch. I've set her due east. I'll go below and work out an exact course. You keep an eye astern. Call me if you see any lights."

  "No, Will. We had a deal."

  "Don't blame me: it's you who brought them after us with that goddamned monitor."

  Jim started after him, then stopped and waited in the cockpit, trying to figure out a way to talk sense into Will. The trouble was when he took this job, he hadn't really known Will much better than any of the students who had taken his group spinning classes. He didn't know anything. In retrospect, Jim realized, he had been in a state of confusion since the night he'd landed in Barbados.

  Instead of picking him up at the airport, as promised, Will had sent a taxi driver who had Jim's name scrawled on a piece of paper and spoke with an accent he couldn't begin to understand. The taxi drove through dark villages to a wind-whipped cove where a small fishing boat was banging against a rickety dock.

  "Captain Spark" had left already, the fisherman explained in only slightly more intelligible pidgin English. He was trying to outdistance a weather front bearing down on the Caribbean island. The fishing boat headed to sea, pounding for hours through ink-black water, until Will's sailboat finally appeared in its searchlight.

  The seas were rough: the two boats scissored up and down, and Jim had nearly fallen between them in the transfer. As the fishing boat's motor faded he found himself as thoroughly disoriented as a kidnap victim who'd been bound and gagged in a car trunk. Will had greeted him with a cup of coffee and a doughnut, and before Jim knew it he was seasick.

  There was no way he was going to Africa.

  He went below, down the four-step companionway into the luxurious main salon. By day the rich, dark woodwork made the cabin a serene retreat from the harsh sun and the dazzling sky; now, little lamps cast a soft, golden glow. It reminded him of the fancy libraries in the Gold Coast mansion museums his mother used to drag him to.

  Will was in the galley, an elegant workspace of brushed stainless steel with a maple block countertop, a gimballed stove that swung level when the boat heeled, knives like razors, and spices Jim had never heard of. Will was braced against the sink as he peeled foil off the frozen leg of lamb:

  Jim stood by the chart table opposite the galley and stared at the chart, rehearsing what he had to say. He noticed that Will had penciled in their global positioning system fix.

  The chart showed that the water here was shallow, relatively speaking, a mile deep instead of three. There was a kind of shelf midocean on which sat Saint Paul's Rocks.

  "I probably saw these rocks."

  Will shook his head. "Doubt that."

  "I never really saw a ship. It could have been these rocks."

  "Was it white?"

  "What?"

  "Was what you saw white?"

  "No. Grayish."

  "Saint Paul's are white as snow. Covered with bird crap." "The sun was behind the clouds. It could have been white."

  Will laid the lamb in the sink, crossed the narrow space between the galley and the nav station, and reached past Jim to lift a fat green volume from the bookshelf.

  "Nathaniel Bowditch, American Practical Navigator."

  He flipped pages to an article titled "Distance Off."

  "Bowditch is the bible. And the bible says here that the distance you can see in miles is about one and one-seventh times the square root of your height. Figure when you're standing in the cockpit your eye is about nine feet above the water."

  "I was on the bike, up on the deck."

  "Okay," said Will. "So figure your eye was eleven feet above the water." If your eye is eleven feet high, the distance you can see to the horizon is about 3.8 miles. Now, the ing Directions say"—he pulled down the blue-jacketed Sailing Directions for East Coast of South America and showed

  Jim an article titled "Off-Lying Islands and Rocks"—"that the tallest of Saint Paul's Rocks are twenty meters, or sixty-five feet, out of the sea. So you add to the distance you can see the square root of sixty-five times one and one-seventh, which equals . . ." He picked up the calculator, punched in a slew of numbers, and showed Jim the screen. "

  That increases the distance you could see Saint Paul's to 12.7 miles. But according to the GPS we are fifty miles from Saint Paul's Rocks. So, sorry, you didn't see rocks. You saw a ship hunting us."

  "Maybe I saw a ship. But I didn't see a ship hunting us." He looked around the main cabin. Nothing he saw gave him hope. The polished teak aglow in the soft golden light of the brass lamps, the dark mahogany cabinets, the leather-bound books, the banks of expensive electronics were all vivid reminders that Will Spark was a very wealthy man who was accustomed to getting his own way. While Jim Leighton was a lopsided cross between employee and guest with less say in important matters than a house pet.

  "Look, Will. A deal is a deal."

  "I thought you were on watch." He went back to the sink and resumed pulling foil, and the plastic wrap under it, from the frozen lamb.

  "You can't just change everything like this. I have a right to be dropped off where you promised."

  "I told you. That is no longer possible."

  "Will, I don't want to be hard-assed about this. Don't make me force you to turn the boat around."

  "Force?" Will Spark looked up from the sink. He dropped the leg of lamb and moved quickly toward him.

  Jim backed up, startled.

  "You may be younger and stronger, sonny. But suburban college boys don't learn street fighting in health clubs."

  Jim had wondered about the scar tissue on Will's fists and the boxer's white ridges over his brow, and the time-bleached U.S. Marine Corps Semper fi tattoo on his biceps, none of which fit the Yale-man image. What was new was the suddenly implacable expression on his face. Well, fuck

  him. Jim was younger. Lots younger. And much stronger. Health clubs taught kickboxing, and the places he worked in now featured the Brazilian martial art capoeira.

  Will seemed to read his mind. He stepped closer and tapped his chest, hard. "You have muscles like a pocket Schwarzenegger. But you're really a little guy. You have lousy bones. You're built too light in your knees and your wrists and your ank
les. It must have taken twice the work to bulk up like that. What kind of problem drove you to put on all that muscle?"

  "It comes in handy. At times like this."

  "Go ahead. Take your best shot."

  "Come on, Will."

  "Makes me wonder what a bright kid like you is avoiding to shift all that effort into bodybuilding."

  "Turn the boat around."

  "Or what?" Will shot back. "Even if you could take me, how will you sleep? You going to watch me twenty-four hours a day? What's to stop me from bashing your head in when you close your eyes?"

  "Come on, Will," Jim said. But he couldn't help glancing at the pilot berth where he usually slept between watches. The weird thing was, he could almost see it in his mind: Will creeping down the companionway with one of the heavy chrome winch handles.

  "You could always tie me to my bunk," Will mocked. "Except, how are you going to sail home alone?"

  "All I'm saying is I want to go to Rio like you promised."

  "And I'm saying I apologize for disappointing you, and I also apologize for dragging you into this mess. But the fact is, you're with me, so you're in it. I've got no choice but to run. So you've got no choice but to run with me. Remember, if they catch me, they've caught you too. Lotsa luck explaining that you're just along for the ride:'

  " 'They' are in your head, Will. There is no 'they.' I'll prove it to you. Let's look on the radar."

  "We can't chance using the radar."

  "Why not?"

  "What if they have ECM?"

  "Excuse me, what's ECM?"

  "Electronic countermeasures. I can't take a chance they wouldn't lock onto my radar pulse."

  "Just for a second. We'll just turn it on, look, and turn it off."

  "They'd have our bearing and range in a microsecond?' Jim slipped into the leather bench built into the bulkhead beside the nav table. "One quick look."

  "No."

  The electric panel had a triple array of switches. Running lights, work lights, interior lights, stereo, TV, VCR, microwave, washing machine, three radios, sat phone, electronic autopilot, water pumps, bilge pumps, fire pump, fuel pump, electric windlass, freezer, global positioning system, computer, radar. As Jim groped for the right one, Will reached past him and flicked a toggle marked "Master Switch." The cabin went dark.

  "You're out of your element, Jim."

  "Will?"

  "Trust me on this."

  "

  "What?"

  "If the ship is hunting us—"

  "If?"

  "If it is hunting us," Jim asked, "why doesn't it see us on its radar?"

  "It can't."

  "Why not?"

  "We're invisible," said Will, and again Jim felt fear. Not only was he trapped aboard a boat he couldn't sail, he was trapped with a crazy man who had already threatened to kill him in his sleep.

  "Oh, Will. Come on."

  Will Spark laughed and slapped Jim's shoulder. Jim recoiled. Will laughed again and turned the lights back on.

  "Relax, kid. I'm not crazy. What I mean is, we are invisible to radar. Mostly. Because we present a very small signature. There's not much on the boat to return a strong echo.

  Her hull's fiberglass, her spars are carbon fiber, the wheel's

  wood. Soon as we lowered the bikes into the cockpit, about the only steel above the waterline was her winches.

  "The only way those bastards can see us is to eyeball us—that's why I struck the sails.

  Our hull lies too low on the water to be seen from any distance, but the sails stand out like a bull's-eye. . . . Any more questions?"

  Jim shook his head. He didn't believe Will, but even if Will had lost his mind, this was his scene, his turf, and he had an endless store of answers to fit every doubt Jim raised.

  Another thing was clear: Will Spark wasn't so scared anymore. He wore the content expression of a man at peace with a big decision. Back in charge, the rich guy on his yacht. Unlike his clueless deckhand, caught like a bug swirling down a drain.

  "Would you feel better," Will asked gently, "if you e-mailed Shannon? Tell her you'll be a little late, not to worry. Tell her we got shoved east by heavy weather and the boat's beat up, so we're heading into the Cape Verde Islands for repairs!'

  "She'll know it's a lie. She's following the weather on the Internet. Why don't I just tell her you freaked out when you saw a ship and you're acting crazy?"

  "Tell her what you want, just don't mention Nigeria in case they're breaking into our email."

  Jim looked at him in disbelief.

  "You never heard of a computer program called Carnivore?" Will asked.

  "But the FBI uses Carnivore to scan e-mail. Not some—wait a minute, please don't tell me 'they' are the FBI."

  "I'll tell you this, sonny: when these folks go head-tohead with the FBI, the FBI blinks!"

  Jim gave up. What could he say about demons with a longer reach than the FBI's?

  Will said, "I'll flashmail it along with my stuff?'

  Will's ThinkPad was connected to a satellite transceiver antenna attached to the stem rail.

  If the boat wasn't rocking too hard to beam up, the communications satellite above the equator relayed their messages to ground teleports that were telephone-wired into the Internet.

  But it wasn't private, because to send flashmail on Will's system, Jim had to log on as Will. For total privacy, he had to go on-line using the SSB radio, which didn't always work.

  Guess what? I'm going to be away a little longer than we thought. Will's changing course, but I'll get home as soon as I can. I'm really sorry. I miss you.

  He promises it won't take us much longer. I didn't get much say in this. Sorry.

  Wait a minute, Jim thought. What the fuck am I doing? She doesn't care if I'm gone another month.

  The boat rolled abysmally and the air was close belowdecks. He felt the seasickness coming back, licking tentatively at his throat. A cloying mix of diesel exhaust and fiberglass gel coat clogged his mouth and nose.

  He punched Delete and wrote,

  I'm going to be away longer than I thought. Will's changing course. Looks like my big adventure's getting bigger. Love,

  Jim

  then fled for fresh air in the cockpit.

  When it was fully dark, they raised the sails, which steadied the boat considerably. The wind and the weight of the lead keel, Will explained, counteracted the wave action simultaneously from top and bottom. "As if you extended your arms on a balance bar."

  He studied the horizon behind them with his night glasses. Then he went below to cook dinner. Jim continued his watch in the cockpit, which for him meant keeping his eyes open and calling Will if he was in doubt about anything.

  Will kept the diesel running for the hot water, the freezer, and the electricity to thaw the lamb in the microwave, and he

  left it running until he had established contact with the Inmarsat satellite and flashmailed Jim's message to Shannon.

  At their next watch change, midnight, Will noted their miles run with satisfaction, made some minor adjustments to the sails, and again swept the blackness astern with the night glasses. "We're doing pretty good."

  He cast an eye skyward, where the stars shone weakly through the haze, then took the wheel, overriding the auto-helm. "I'll see if I can get some more miles under the keel.

  Just pray we don't lose the wind."

  That didn't seem likely to Jim. The northeast trade wind had been blowing like a machine for two weeks straight since the storm off Barbados.

  "Better catch some sleep, Jim. See you at oh-threehundred."

  They were standing watches: three hours on, three hours off. It was good manners, Will had explained, to arrive on deck five minutes before your time, ready to go. Jim set his wrist alarm for ten to three, then lay awake listening to the water rub past the hull a couple of inches from his face.

  Suddenly, Will was shaking him awake. He handed Jim a mug of coffee. He'd slept through his alarm.

>   "Sorry," mumbled Jim. He struggled into his running shoes and followed Will up the companionway. Blearily, he repeated their compass course. The clouds had peeled back, revealing thousands of stars so bright that Jim could see the sea's rolling surface by their light.

  Will suggested that he shut off the auto-helm and practice his steering. He showed him a star to steer by. "It's good for fifteen minutes, then find yourself another. When in doubt look over your shoulder. See those three? Orion's belt. It's settling toward the west; just keep it right behind you. But as soon as you get tired, put her back on the auto-helm; we don't want to lose any time. I'm going to get some shuteye." He started to go below. "

  Oh, by the way, Shannon

  wrote back. I left it on the screen. You can read it after your watch."

  "What did she say?'

  "It doesn't sound to me like an extra month'll hurt. Quote: 'Adventures should not run on schedule. Have a ball.' End quote."

  It sounded to Jim like she didn't care, and he felt, anew, the sting of rejection. Have a nice time; give me a ring when you get back?

  "Shannon wanted me to do this trip," he blurted. "why?"

  "She's done a lot of exciting things in her life. She used to be very adventurous. Much more than I am. I think she's trying to save me from feeling trapped or regretful about being tied down—in the future."

  "Why do I get the impression that Shannon does the thinking for both of you?"

  "No, Hiked the idea. I just probably wouldn't have come if she hadn't pushed me. She found subs to cover my classes, reserved my plane ticket."

  If he allowed himself to get really paranoid he would think she had seized on the voyage as an opportunity to start easing him out of her life even before he asked her to many him. . . . No. . . . She had seemed genuinely surprised. By the time he proposed, he had already accepted Will's invitation and even had his plane ticket. . . . Funny thought: Had he proposed marriage partly out of fear of going away?

  "She bought me that awesome Helly Hansen foul-weather gear."

  Will put on his "me hearties" voice: "Aye, ya looked ready for Cape Horn, matey." Jim couldn't help but laugh.

  "Her parents chipped in—hoping I'd just keep sailing around the world?'