The Lost Island (13 page)

A
T THE HELM
of the
Horizonte
, Linda Cordray gripped the wheel with whitened knuckles. There they were—right where she wanted them. Her men would hold their fire, as she had instructed.

The ruse had worked perfectly. She had positioned the
Horizonte
in the lee of the cay, in a sheltered cove close enough to shore so their radar image would merge with that of the cay itself, causing them to look like just another rock.

As she stared at the
Turquesa
, now turning in an ineffectual attempt at escape, a white-hot rage lanced through her. In the cabin below, wrapped in a blood-soaked canvas, lay her husband’s lifeless body. He had bled to death, screaming and sobbing before lapsing into the final coma as they chased the
Turquesa
. Cordray told herself, yet again, that even had she headed straight to the nearest port, he never would have made it. Nothing she could have done would have saved him. She told herself that several times.

They’d shared a unique bond. Living outside the rules, two against the world. They were remarkably alike in their thirst for adventure, their loathing for the settled life. He was the velvet fist in her iron glove. They complemented each other perfectly. Ironically, the great physical difference between them just cemented the relationship.

Their dream of the past five years had been to find the wreck of the privateer
Compostela
, laden with the fabled Treasure of Coromandel. It had been sunk off the Guajira coast back in 1550, and they’d narrowed down the possible locations to the point where it was almost in their grasp. A few more weeks of sidescanning, and they would have it.

At first, they’d worried that the
Turquesa
was also looking for the Coromandel treasure. There had been others before—it was a celebrated treasure—and they had dealt with them. But during cocktails they realized the two, Mark and Amy, were instead looking for a different prize. A prize that was possibly even bigger than the Treasure of Coromandel.

Five tons of gold
.

She realized that they weren’t the usual treasure-hunting idiots, out there on a song and prayer, with a leaky boat and some flea-market map. Oh, they had a map, all right—and she knew it was genuine the moment she saw it. Fake maps always looked the same. This one had been unique. Totally unique.

Her man, her partner, was dead in his blood-soaked shroud, but she could still hear his quiet voice in her mind. Advising her what to do. Telling her what he wanted. And what he wanted most of all was to get the map to the Spanish treasure—and then kill Mark and Amy Johnson. In that order. If she merely killed them, sank their boat—which she could do right now if she wanted—he would not approve. More important, Cayo Jeyupsi was big enough that you could spend a year digging on it. She needed that map.

The
Horizonte
bulled through the swell, the deck heaving. Linda Cordray handled the helm smoothly, her instincts for the waves unerring, staring fiercely into the darkness ahead. The
Turquesa
had doused its lights, but she could still see it clearly on radar. It was eight hundred yards ahead, but they were going a lot slower than before. Engine trouble, perhaps—the vessel had taken some rounds.

She had her four men. They were young, strong, instinctual, and merciless. They would board her, take the boat, and incapacitate the Johnsons. She would take over, get the map—this time with no mistakes. And then those two would die. Horribly.

Seven hundred yards. She was close enough to blow them out of the water with the machine gun. But she wouldn’t deploy it yet. It wasn’t until her men had fired, willy-nilly, on that decoy launch and it went up in flames that she realized how much she needed that map. She’d had a bad moment then, realizing her mistake, thinking the map was gone. She was almost relieved to see it had been a ruse.

She called in the first mate, Manuel. She told him exactly what the plan was for ramming and boarding the
Turquesa
. Manuel listened in silence. His face was dark. He was ready to kill. She explained the stakes. If they pulled it off, if they got their hands on that map, it would make him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

And they would pull it off. They had the bigger boat, four tough men, and overwhelming firepower. While the
Turquesa
might have some small arms on board, the 50-caliber at short range could obliterate them.

She glanced at the radar. They had now closed to six hundred yards. Any idiot could see the Johnsons were doomed. They were no idiots. Cordray unhooked the VHF mike and turned it to channel 16. “
Turquesa
, this is
Horizonte
.”

Silence. She knew they must hear her—it was standard for cruising vessels to keep the emergency channel 16 live at all times.

“
Turquesa
, hove to, or we open fire.”

No answer.

“Hove to. We just want the map. Give us the map and no one will get hurt. Do you read?”

Again, no answer.

She gave the engines slightly more power, even though they were running close to the red.

The gap began closing more rapidly. The six hundred yards dwindled to five. A large wave bashed the side of the boat, surging up and over the decks. She had to fight to keep the boat on course. The sea was growing worse. The VHF weather channel had begun issuing a stream of bad news: a tropical storm, passing to the north, was gaining power and would soon be a hurricane. Seas were expected to grow to twenty feet or more.

Another shuddering wave swept over the foredeck, foaming gray-green as it surged through the railing. She couldn’t see the
Turquesa
, but she knew it had to be worse for them. The boat was shorter, narrower—and much lighter. It would be tossed around like a cork. It was amazing they were still afloat.

The pursuit continued. They were now edging into the Barraquilla Basin, deep water hundreds of miles from shore. There was nothing out there—nothing.

Cordray didn’t care. Four hundred yards.

She picked up the mike. “
Turquesa
, this is
Horizonte
. I repeat: hove to or we will sink you. This is your final warning.”

Nothing. No answer. Three hundred yards.

She called Manual to her side. He had seen everything the sea could throw at a man, and he was still looking pale. “You and Paco, man the gun,” she told him in Spanish. “Be ready to fire at my signal. Focus your fire on the two. Keep it high, avoid holing the vessel.”

“
Sí, señora
.”

Two hundred yards. One hundred.

The VHF crackled. “Okay,
Horizonte
, you win. We’re hoving to.”

It was the woman. This was it: the endgame had arrived.

“Lights!” Linda Cordray cried.

The bank of lights atop of the
Horizonte
snapped on, throwing a brilliant glow across the heaving sea, blinding them. And there was the
Turquesa
, swinging around to face them.

The floodlights of the
Turquesa
went on in turn.

She scrabbled at the VHF mike, yanked it down. “Off! Turn those fucking lights off or—!”

The first shot punched through the pilothouse window, spraying plastic slivers across her face. Her brain was only starting to process what was happening when the second shot slammed into her brow, taking off the top of her head.

G
IDEON REMAINED PRONE
in the bow, switching the M4 to automatic and unleashing a blast at the two men manning the 50-caliber machine gun. He was well within range, but the heaving of the deck made it hard to aim, and the burst went wide. Still, it had an excellent effect: it sent both men diving to the deck. And Amy had scored big-time with the H&K sniper rifle.

Now Amy gunned the engine. The
Turquesa
headed straight for the
Horizonte
. Remaining prone on the deck, legs splayed, Gideon held his fire as they surged forward, narrowing the gap between the two boats in a matter of seconds. Confusion reigned on the
Horizonte
: the two men at the 50-caliber were still on the deck; there was consternation in the pilothouse, no one at the wheel, throttle at full speed. The bow turned in to a cresting wave that burst over the forecastle. The two men at the machine gun, clinging to the mount, temporarily vanished in a frothing mass of water.

The
Turquesa
was now just seconds from impact with the
Horizonte
. One of the gunners managed to get on his feet, pulling himself up by the handles of the 50-caliber, swinging the gun toward them.

Gideon fired again as the gunner, for his part, let fly a deafening burst; the brutal stream of fire raked the
Turquesa
, churning up the fiberglass deck like a chain saw as it swept past. The
Turquesa
checked its course at the last minute, blasting past the other vessel with only a few feet of separation and then swerving away. Gideon could see a grenade canister, tossed by Amy, tumbling into the rear cockpit of the
Horizonte
.

The man at the machine gun let loose another desperate blast, the rounds ripping through the aft section of the
Turquesa
—and then came a deafening explosion as the grenade detonated within the
Horizonte
. A ball of fire, orange and yellow and black all roiling together, punched up into the teeth of the storm, the sound of it booming across the water, along with a huge fountain of flaming debris. The initial blast was followed by a string of thunderous secondary explosions, lofting more wreckage into the air. Their fuel lines had ruptured. Within moments the entire superstructure of the
Horizonte
was splayed open, one long mass of fire. As Gideon watched—rooted in awe and horror—the boat wallowed in the foaming sea. There was another explosion, and a comber burst over the listing vessel, obscuring it as it fell into a trough. And as the swell rose again, all that could be seen was a great fiery slick, sprinkled with burning wreckage.

The
Horizonte
had utterly vanished.

A
S THE BURNING
swell subsided, Gideon struggled to his feet from his position at the bow and made his way aft, clutching at the rail to avoid being swept overboard. He found Amy at the helm. The lone working engine was making an ugly, coughing sound, and lights flickered. Each wave seemed to push the boat down farther, it rising ever more sluggishly.

“Check the forward bilge,” she cried over the roar of the sea.

Another wave slammed into the boat, pushing it sideways and almost knocking Gideon off his feet as he made his way down the companionway. The cabin was a total mess; the 50-caliber rounds had ripped through the foredeck, leaving gaping holes, shattering fiberglass and wood. The hatch to the bilge, he remembered, was located in the passageway to the head. He found the square piece covering the bilge access, pulled it up, unlatched the hatch, and raised it.

Water was sloshing around a mere inch below the cabin floor. Even as he watched, the boat was shoved sideways, the floor tilted, and water sloshed up and into the passageway. He tried to shut the hatch but the upwelling of water forced it open again.

The lights flickered again and the engine hacked and coughed. There was a strong smell of diesel fuel building in the enclosed space. He pulled out his walkie-talkie.

“The bilge is full, water’s at floor level and still rising. Also, a big fuel leak somewhere.”

“Get a life preserver and bring me one.”

Gideon pulled out two life jackets from a locker, donned his, and carried the other to the pilothouse. Amy was still at the helm, calmly working the controls with her left hand while broadcasting an SOS on the mike with her right.

“Activate the EPIRB,” she said. “Instructions printed on the outside.”

Gideon exited the pilothouse and located the emergency position indicating radio beacon in its compartment on the outer wall—completely shot to pieces. He raised his walkie-talkie again. “EPIRB’s destroyed. Do we have a backup?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I’m calling Glinn. We need a rescue.” Gideon leaned in toward the sat phone, flipped on the switch.

Nothing. A closer inspection revealed a bullet hole that bored straight through the phone’s innards.

“
Shit!
” He pounded the dead device with his fist.

Amy grabbed his arm. “Listen to me. Get some drysacks, fill them with water, food, matches, a knife, two headlamps, portable sat phone, briefing book, two handguns, ammo, food, rescue dye, binoculars, shark repellent, medical kit, quarter-inch line. Pull out as many life preservers as you can, bring them on deck, tie them together, and tie the drysacks on.”

“It’s done.” Gideon stumbled below again. The water was now up to his calves, covered with floating debris and trash. The boat was sinking fast. He grabbed two drysacks and began wading about, filling them as quickly as he could. The boat was getting heavier, lower in the water, totally at the mercy of the thunderous sea. Each swell pounded the hull, threatening to shake it apart. Cabinets were crashing down; light fixtures had come loose and were swinging from their wires.

And then the lights went out. Simultaneously the engine quit with a strong shudder.

Gideon put on one of the headlamps and kept collecting gear. The boat spun wildly, throwing him into the water. He struggled up, clinging to whatever he could, trying to keep the open drysacks above water. Throwing open the gun cabinet, he pulled out some ammo to match the handguns they were already carrying, and tossed in a couple of grenades for good measure. In went the briefing book, some line, two fixed-blade knives with sheaths, half a dozen liters of water, several boxes of granola bars.

The water was now past his knees.

The boat shook as an exceptionally powerful wave struck the hull. He heard cracking and a sudden spray of water, more cabinets tumbling down.

He sealed the drysacks. Now for the life jackets. He pulled out a mass of them from an emergency compartment and, looping a rope through their armholes, tied them together and dragged them up the companionway.

Another massive wave hit the boat, tilting it sideways. It did not swing back. The vessel wasn’t recovering. It was about to go under.

“On deck now!” he heard Amy cry.

Water was surging over the deckrail and pouring into the cockpit as the boat canted. Gideon struggled up the now cockeyed stair, against a rush of water, hauling the bundle of life preservers and the drysacks.

The
Turquesa
began to slide down into the sea sideways. The rush of water through the pilothouse door became a Niagara. It was perhaps the most sickening feeling Gideon had ever experienced. They really were going down.

“
On deck!
” screamed Amy.

Struggling with his burdens, he rammed them through the companionway door and, falling sideways as the deck became vertical, scrambled along the pilothouse windows. The boat had rotated and was lying on its beam-ends, going down by the stern, the bow rising higher and higher as water continued to surge through the door, the stern now completely underwater.

A great wave slammed the boat, throwing Gideon into the rising water. He struggled to find his footing. He couldn’t see Amy in the howling darkness, but he could hear her voice.

“
Get out now!
”

But the pilothouse door was completely underwater, the stern sinking fast and the boat vertical, its bow pointing straight up. He was trapped in the pilothouse, a row of sealed windows above him. There was no way he could swim underwater and out the door—not with the life preservers and drysacks.

Where was Amy?

He heard a deafening crash and a flash of light, then another and another. The far pilothouse window exploded into fragments of Plexiglas and in the flashes he could see Amy astraddle the mooring post, .45 in hand, firing through the windows to create an escape route.

The air rushed out of the gaping windows with a sigh and the water rose still farther, carrying him upward. He maneuvered the bundle of life preservers to the hole, where, with another great sigh, the rising water forced them through, pushing him underwater at the same time. He followed them up and a moment later found himself on the surface of the water, clinging to the mass of preservers.

Seconds later the bow of the
Turquesa
vanished beneath the waves. As he watched, the bottom of its hull appeared like a rolling whale, upside down.

“Amy—?” he began to call.

“Right here.”

He could see her dark outline bobbing in the water. A few strokes brought her over to the makeshift float. A great hissing wave rose over them, the comber at its top sweeping over their heads, pushing the float under for a moment. They rose again, shedding water. Gideon took a gasp of air, sputtering.

“Thank you,” he managed to say.

Another great wave towered above them, and they were buried again under the foaming crest.

Gideon clung to the makeshift raft for dear life, gasping for air. The only thought going through his mind was:
One hundred and sixty miles from land
.