Fire And Ice Read online

  nav station and found the Sailing Directions and the Royal Navy's Ocean Passages for the World. He carried the books back into the berth, pored over the descriptions of the East China Sea, the Osumi Strait, and the section of the North Pacific between the Osumi Strait and Tokyo known as the Philippine Sea.

  The weather in December was dominated by China's winter monsoon—the cold dry winds generated by a vast high-pressure system over the Mongolian and East Siberian hinterlands. On the first leg, from Shanghai to the south tip of Japan, they could expect northeast and northwest winds. Twenty knots on the open sea, a good stiff force 5

  breeze—which could freshen at any moment to thirty-three knots, a moderate gale which would limit Veronica to a triple-reefed main and a staysail.

  But once they got through the Osumi Strait, the continental high would kick up violent west winds. Low pressure moving eastward would slow the monsoon ahead of the depression and leave gales behind. Storms were frequent.

  He turned on the radio for a new weather report. But long before he could chart it on the plastic cover sheet, he had passed out.

  When Sarah came below for a moment's respite from the cold, she removed the books and covered his huddled body with another blanket. While the kettle heated on the kerosene stove, she went forward and turned on the light in the forepeak. The waves resonated against the bow. Ronnie's little cave, her life-size dollhouse. The ceiling over her berth was plastered with pictures of cats and penguins and photographs, cut from People magazine, of her current heroine, Surya Bonaly, the black French Olympic skater. In a gimballed holder swung a flowerpot with a shriveled aloe plant. She brought water to the powdery soil, thinking, Scratch an African and you'll find a farmer.

  She felt as if the Dallas Belle carried a curse from God. The innocent were not immune.

  She tried to picture her child asleep in Mr. Jack's cabin. Or lying awake, terrified. Fear threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel it swelling. She looked back at Michael for strength. His face looked old.

  STONE AWAKENED IN SLOW STAGES, HIS BODY SORE, HIS MIND

  suffused, at first, with a sense of well-being. He was back on the boat, the water rushing past the hull, the familiar creak of the rudder stock filled with peaceful memories. She was beating to windward, her heavy, shapely hull driving effortlessly on one of her finest points of sail. Felt like seven and a half knots. The sea was choppy; occasionally the bow smacked a wave, but she drove right on through.

  Yet all wasn't right: she was carrying too much sail, heeling too hard, and actually losing speed when gusts angled her sharply. He looked at his watch. One o'clock. It must be broken. But when he held it to his ear it gave a steady ping. He sat up quickly, memory flooding back. Sarah had been on watch eight hours. He yanked on his boots. Tucked between the bed and the bulkhead was a thermos of coffee, with a note, DRINK ME.

  Sleeping like a rock, he hadn't heard her. The memory of Ronnie slammed into him, and he was suddenly wide awake. He carried the thermos up to the cockpit, climbing the companionway on aching legs.

  "I'm sorry," he called.

  Sarah was a shadow against the night. The sky was veiled with cloud and backlit by a faint glow—a halo cast by Shanghai, sixty miles astern. Whitecaps shone in the darkness around the boat.

  "I'm fine," she said. "So glad to be outside again."

  She had shaken out one of the reefs, but the wind was gusting over twenty knots now and the boat leaned hard. She was usually a more cautious sailor.

  "You must be beat." He poured her a cup of the coffee.

  "The self-steering won't hold. The water's too choppy." As she spoke she steered out of a deep trough and through a wave that threatened to brush Veronica off course. Cold spray flew over the dodger and stung their faces.

  "I think we're overpowered," said Stone.

  "The wind dropped."

  "Yeah, well, it's back. Head up a little."

  Sarah steered closer to the wind.

  Stone eased the mainsheet. "Want to haul down on the leech line when I give a yell?" He went forward, holding onto the lifelines, and released the boom yang. Then he tightened up the topping lift, working by feel among the familiar controls, and lowered the main halyard, feeling for a wire marker, cleated it, and pulled the slackened sail down and secured it to the gooseneck, then cranked up the halyard. "Haul the leech line!"

  Sarah used a winch to pull down the back of the sail, then trimmed the mainsheet. Stone released the topping lift and pulled the boom down with the yang. Then he ran some light line through the grommets in the sail and around the boom, gathering the loose cloth between the newly secured front and back.

  At Stone's request the sailmaker had added a third line of cringles and grommets for another reef, but the second was sufficient for now. The Swan had straightened up. "

  Eight knots!" Sarah called. She welcomed him back to the cockpit with the coffee.

  Stone drank it quickly and took the wheel. "Got it."

  "Oh-nine-three," she said, indicating the red-lit corn-pass. The speedometer was jumping between 7.9 and 8.1 knots. The sonar read forty-five meters. They had passed the southern fringe of the Yangtze Bank and the chop should be smoothing down some in the deeper water.

  "Where's the GPS?"

  "Ronnie has it."

  No sweat. If the sky didn't clear, he could radio a pass-

  ing ship for a position; and in the meantime there was nothing to run into between here and Japan for the next three days.

  "Get some sleep," he said, anxious to work the sails. "Have you eaten?"

  "Just the coffee. I'm fine."

  "I'll bring you something."

  "That's okay."

  "I'll bring you something." She touched his face as she had earlier, as if looking with her fingers in the dark. "Punishing your body won't get her back."

  She left him a flashlight, fresh from the charger, and he shone it on the sails to see how they were drawing. Damned near perfect. The helm felt like the boat was well balanced, but if the wind rose any more, he'd fly a smaller jib and raise the inner forestay sail.

  He was not a racer by nature, but--chased across three oceans in Veronica—he had learned how to make a Swan fly. With her taller mast and the Technora main, she was even faster today. He was smarter too, more experienced. But he no longer had the body he could demand so much of; his hands had been losing strength for years, and now his legs were going. And he worried about his spirit: fleeing pursuit, he had been fueled by fear. Would love be as powerful?

  The answer would come with a thousand small tests: the willingness to change a sail two minutes after he had just changed it; or, drugged by exhaustion, the energy to stand up and crank a winch half a turn when instinct said it might help make the boat go faster, but the mind groaned, Why bother?

  When Sarah came up with oatmeal and honey, she panicked. The cockpit was empty.

  Whirling around, she saw him at the mast, working a winch, lost in the boat. For the first time since Ronnie had been taken, she felt relief. He was master of the Swan again, back in his element. For a fleeting instant she wondered what would happen to him if they went to Africa. He returned to the cockpit in a low, easy crouch, his hands brushing a jack line he had

  rigged along the cabin top. His face was alight. "Beautiful sail. Pulling like a rocket."

  "Will you shake out that reef?"

  "No. Wind's really honking. Jesus, that smells good. . . . Delicious. Here, you have some, too. Help you sleep . . ."

  Ronnie stared at her breakfast, lips tight, ears shut to Ah Lee's pleas that she eat—that she hadn't eaten lunch the day before or dinner and had left uneaten the late-night pizza the ship's cook had run up especially for his favorite crew member.

  She was starving, her stomach an empty pit. At first, after Moss grabbed her, she couldn't eat, but now she was hungry and it took a massive concentration on her mother and father to keep from cramming a whole blueberry muffin into her mouth.

  Ah Lee sta
rted up again, switching randomly between Shanghainese and English. She pushed the plate away.

  The Chinese steward bent closer and whispered in her ear, "If you don't eat, Mr. Moss will hit me."

  "He's bluffing," said Ronnie. But she couldn't ignore the bruises from the last time, the stitches her mother had just removed from his cheek, and the fear in his eyes. "Truth?"

  she whispered back.

  "Very truth."

  "Very true, Ah Lee. Or 'truth.' But not 'very truth.' "You eat, please. Please."

  "Okay. Okay."

  He folded his arms, and watched her down both muffins and her milk. "Now eggs, missy."

  "Don't call me missy."

  "Yes, Miss Ronnie."

  "Don't call me Miss Ronnie. I told you, a million times. Ronnie. Ronnie. Ronnie."

  "Yes, Ronnie. Thank you for eating."

  Mr. Jack shuffled into the lounge wearing his robe and slippers. Ronnie's face closed like stone. He took the coffee cup that Ah Lee hurried to him, drank some with a slurping sound, and peered across the table. "Cheer up,

  kid. Big day coming. Going to show you something that'll knock your eyes out."

  Ronnie stared at her plate. She felt very confused by Mr. Jack—betrayed. And a little frightened. She could never tell when he would suddenly start yelling, and now, without her mother to intervene, what would happen if he exploded?

  "What's the matter, for crissake?"

  "I want to go home."

  "You're goin' home. Told you. Christmas Eve. Bang-up holiday with the folks." He winked, his wrinkles doubling, and broke into a raspy-voiced song, " 'I'll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. . . Oh for crissake don't start crying."

  "I'm not crying," she said, though her throat was swelling and she could feel her mouth tremble in a way she couldn't stop.

  "It's not my goddammed fault they ran off without you."

  "You scared them."

  Mr. Jack stared. His face got hard like metal. Then he laughed. "Well goddammit, kid, if they're scaredy-cats, don't blame me. . . . Now come on, cheer up. I'm going to show you something great today. And tomorrow you talk to them on the radio. Remember?"

  "Noon. Of course I remember."

  "That's right. Noon tomorrow. Nice long talk on the radio. 'Cept, of course, you gotta be careful what you say—you don't want to talk about me or Shanghai or anything. Just about you and them and how you'll have a great time at Christmas." He shuffled over to the tree and flicked on the colored lights. "If we hit Tokyo a little early, maybe I'll take you Christmas shopping in the Ginza. Get something for your mom and dad. So, you want to know what's goin' to happen today?"

  She didn't. But her mother, she recalled, had been very careful to tell Mr. Jack whatever he wanted to hear, so she said, "What's happening?"

  "What's happening? Come on. Go get dressed while I eat some breakfast and I'll get dressed and then you'll see what's happening."

  When he came back out bundled in a big down coat, he had another for her, bright red, which fit perfectly. In the pocket were mittens embroidered with dinosaurs, and a red knit watchcap with a gold tassel. "Cold out. Button up."

  He bounded up the stairs to the bridge deck. "Move it. Double time."

  She ran after him, up the corridor and through the curtain to the bridge. It was cool and quiet, the big windows admitting the gray light through the hole the fire had burned in the shed roof.

  Daddy's fire. She hid a smile. Mr. Jack had really yelled about the fire, called Daddy a "

  vicious bastard" and a bunch of other names that she had learned from American cruiser kids in Samoa.

  "Come here!"

  She followed him onto the cold bridge wing. Far away on the bow were hundreds of workmen, staring up at the cranes arching over their heads. Mr. Jack passed her the binoculars.

  "No thank you. I don't need them."

  She could see clearly; binoculars always closed in the view and she sensed that something big was going to happen and she wanted to see it all at once.

  Mr. Jack picked up a telephone. "Ready when you are, C.B."

  A whistle blew and all the workmen drew to attention, grabbing tools and bracing themselves.

  "Oh, wow!"

  Four gantry cranes—two to the starboard side of the gas ship and two to the port side of the cruise liner—moved in unison. She could hear their engines thundering, the note deepening as they took the load—like Veronica's motor lowering from burp-burp-burp to chug-chug-chug when they engaged the propeller. Cables tightened and the entire front of the cruise ship's superstructure—the front cabins and the bridge on top—began to rise.

  Ronnie held her breath.

  The section the cranes were lifting looked about half the length of Veronica and was as wide as the ship. The

  cranes raised it higher and higher. Then they began to maneuver it like a piece of Lego toward the right. "Wow."

  "Wait for it, kid." Mr. Jack chuckled.

  Slowly the cranes shifted the front of the superstructure over the side of the cruise ship, across the water between the two vessels, and over the gas carrier. The workmen, she saw, were holding onto lines, like spinnaker guys. Hundreds of them, struggling to keep the piece from swinging.

  She started to say, "Oh, wow," again but realized she was repeating herself. "Son of a bitch."

  "Whoa!" said Mr. Jack. "Mum's away, the kid'll play. Who taught you that? Daddy?"

  "Mr. Jack, what are they doing?"

  "They're playing erector set."

  "I don't know what that means."

  "Too young. What they're doing is transferring the superstructure of that old cruise ship onto my ship." "What for?"

  "So we can go cruising."

  "What?"

  "It's a joke, kid."

  "But why?"

  "Why not?"

  He stared ahead, gloating like the happiest man alive, as the gigantic six-story piece of steel moved slowly over the gas carrier's foredeck. The whistle blew. The cranes stopped, the piece swinging gently. When the men with the guy ropes had stopped the swinging, the whistle blew again and the piece began to descend. Ronnie saw that a sort of steel foundation had been laid, and as she watched, the cranes jockeyed sideways, lining it up.

  "Laser guided," said Mr. Jack. "You know how that works?"

  "Sure."

  "Here comes the tricky part."

  The piece touched with a hollow boom, and Ronnie felt the deck move under her feet.

  Again, a boom. Now the crane cables slackened and workmen swarmed with chattering pneumatic drills.

  In minutes, the cranes were swinging back over the

  cruise ship, lining up the next piece. She saw now that the full length of the superstructure had been cut every twenty feet and that they were going to move it piece by piece onto Mr. Jack's ship.

  "So what do you think?"

  She tumbled the ship in her head to see how it would look head-on. Dazzled by the sight, she spoke without thinking, "It's like a mask."

  "What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

  "When it's facing you, it will look like it put on a mask."

  The old man chuckled. The kid was something else. He nodded toward the cranes, which were shifting a second six-story section of steel superstructure. "From the side, too."

  "Why?"

  "You figure it out, smarty-pants."

  He watched her closely. She didn't get it, yet. Not yet. Smart kid, though. She would. Her eyes were everywhere. But she shrugged. "Are Mummy and Daddy really calling tomorrow?"

  "We'll call them."

  "I can't wait."

  Moss hurried out onto the bridge wing, his breath steaming in the cold. He nodded at the kid.

  Mr. Jack said, "Ronnie, run inside. I'll call you in a second."

  She edged past Moss.

  Moss handed him an E-mail printout. "From the bean counters," he said, using their phrase for the executives who ran Mr. Jack's enterprises in his absence.

  "I told you
no communication."

  "Sorry, Mr. Jack. I had to set up an emergency link in case something went wrong. The bean counters thought this was an emergency. I think so, too."

  Mr. Jack put on his glasses and read the one line: Inquiries received from Hong Kong and Australia. "That son of a bitchin' doctor."

  Jack Powell felt old, for the first time in his seventy-eight years. Why, he wondered, had he let the parents go?

  Roused by bells and whistles from deep sleep after raising hell all night with the generals, he had been disoriented—admit it, frightened—frightened by the fire. He had recovered pretty fast, that was for damned sure. But then the goddammed fireboats threw him again.

  He knew the ropes in Shanghai—knew the ones to yank—but bureaucrats were bureaucrats, whether they were in Washington, Houston, Lagos, or China, and he had suddenly seen the whole scam fly out of control.

  Reports were being filed by the hundreds: unauthorized construction; a gas ship where it had no business being on the Huangpu; the safety of the city; et cetera, et-goddammed-cetera.

  It was being handled. Bureaucrats could be made to feel terror, if you could find the right ones, and his old friends were good at finding the right ones. But in the noise of battle all he'd been able to think was how in hell was he going to explain the black-and-white doctors screaming for their kid.

  Face it, if the doctors had jumped onto a fireboat in the chaos—or if a fireboat commander had seen Moss shoot the sons of bitches or drop the grenade he had ready in their goddammed sailboat, there'd have been unexplainable hell to pay. And while it was being paid and explained, some busybody bureaucrat would have slapped a restraining order on the Dallas Belle and they'd be stuck in Shanghai for a year.

  Now, looking at Ronnie's sad brown face about to melt into tears for Mummy and Daddy, he wished he had nailed them on the spot and bulled through it. Hell, the fire was a big thing. The Chinese were as panicked as he had been in those first seconds.

  Son of a bitch doctor knew what he was doing. It would take more than one burning valve to breach her heavily-insulated tanks. She was built to survive fire, grounding, even collision. To blow her up, you had to crack her open with shaped charges.