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Excerpt 1
That was when it all began.
With no warning the boat bucked like a rodeo bull coming out of the
gate, as if pushed from underneath, the keel rising above the surface
of the ocean. Coming down, it smashed hard against the water.
From the unexpected displacement and the shock of hitting the water,
the passengers were taken by surprise. Their bodies bounced
against the deck, rolling uncontrollably.
“Copy that,” the voice said in their earpiece. “Foxtrot Bravo, you’re
clear on radar. Any visual?”
No one heard the query.
The first wave, like a tsunami, washed the deck clean of all hands
except for the squad leader who reached out and grabbed hold of a
rope. He pulled himself toward the main mast, as his body slid and
turned across the wet see-sawing deck.
The ship was being hit by waves over twenty feet high, coming from
different directions. It yawed to port, then to starboard, then to port
again.
In a sudden motion, the bow lifted. For a moment, the ship looked like
it was going to stand straight up on its rudder housing. Then the hull
came crashing back down into a canyon of titanic waves.
All that could have been seen then was the top of the main mast and
its crossbar where an array of antennae and a miniature parabolic
satellite-link once commanded the view. All that stuff had been
washed away by the pounding waves. The only communication
equipment still working on the boat was the automatic beacon signal
buried deep into the main cabin wall below.
The squad leader had his arms wrapped around the mast, holding on
for dear life. His head was raised, facing a cloudless sky. The sails
were flapping wildly, sounding like a train coming down the track. With
his interlaced fingers, he looked as if he was in deep prayer, begging
for a miracle. His eyes were forced shut against the stinging salt
water, a rancid, salty sensation permeating through his nostrils.
After the initial shock, his training kicked in. He just couldn’t figure out
what had hit them. Maybe it was a tornado, he thought. But, there had
been no warning of that. With his eyes still closed against his will, he
tried to evaluate his surroundings. He felt as if the mast that he had
been holding had just moved independently of the deck. The boat
simply was not designed to withstand that kind of treatment.
The mast sleeve must have cracked when the hull hit the water that
last time, he thought, as the waves kept on sweeping the deck.
He strained to open his eyes and scan the ship deck. He knew then
that his squad had been wiped out. He thought of his prime directive.
He was to save the Deputy Cultural Attaché. He tried to remember the
last place that he had seen his target. He turned his ear to the port
side of the sloop, then toward the aft section.
Aside from the incessant crashing of the waves and the flapping sails,
there were no other distinguishable sounds.
Then, just over the swooshing and banging of the waves, he began to
hear the voice of his target. The man was bawling like a new born pup.
"It’s him. He’s alive. It’s got to be him. I have to get to him."
He tried to think of how he’d be able to move toward the sound of the
man’s voice. But there wasn’t much that he could do in this situation.
The G-forces from the maelstrom wouldn’t let him move a muscle. He
knew that if he should let go of the mast to attempt anything at all, he’d
be washed overboard. Besides, he couldn’t get a definite fix on the
man’s location, not while they were on this carnival ride from hell.
With no warning the boat bucked like a rodeo bull coming out of the
gate, as if pushed from underneath, the keel rising above the surface
of the ocean. Coming down, it smashed hard against the water.
From the unexpected displacement and the shock of hitting the water,
the passengers were taken by surprise. Their bodies bounced
against the deck, rolling uncontrollably.
“Copy that,” the voice said in their earpiece. “Foxtrot Bravo, you’re
clear on radar. Any visual?”
No one heard the query.
The first wave, like a tsunami, washed the deck clean of all hands
except for the squad leader who reached out and grabbed hold of a
rope. He pulled himself toward the main mast, as his body slid and
turned across the wet see-sawing deck.
The ship was being hit by waves over twenty feet high, coming from
different directions. It yawed to port, then to starboard, then to port
again.
In a sudden motion, the bow lifted. For a moment, the ship looked like
it was going to stand straight up on its rudder housing. Then the hull
came crashing back down into a canyon of titanic waves.
All that could have been seen then was the top of the main mast and
its crossbar where an array of antennae and a miniature parabolic
satellite-link once commanded the view. All that stuff had been
washed away by the pounding waves. The only communication
equipment still working on the boat was the automatic beacon signal
buried deep into the main cabin wall below.
The squad leader had his arms wrapped around the mast, holding on
for dear life. His head was raised, facing a cloudless sky. The sails
were flapping wildly, sounding like a train coming down the track. With
his interlaced fingers, he looked as if he was in deep prayer, begging
for a miracle. His eyes were forced shut against the stinging salt
water, a rancid, salty sensation permeating through his nostrils.
After the initial shock, his training kicked in. He just couldn’t figure out
what had hit them. Maybe it was a tornado, he thought. But, there had
been no warning of that. With his eyes still closed against his will, he
tried to evaluate his surroundings. He felt as if the mast that he had
been holding had just moved independently of the deck. The boat
simply was not designed to withstand that kind of treatment.
The mast sleeve must have cracked when the hull hit the water that
last time, he thought, as the waves kept on sweeping the deck.
He strained to open his eyes and scan the ship deck. He knew then
that his squad had been wiped out. He thought of his prime directive.
He was to save the Deputy Cultural Attaché. He tried to remember the
last place that he had seen his target. He turned his ear to the port
side of the sloop, then toward the aft section.
Aside from the incessant crashing of the waves and the flapping sails,
there were no other distinguishable sounds.
Then, just over the swooshing and banging of the waves, he began to
hear the voice of his target. The man was bawling like a new born pup.
"It’s him. He’s alive. It’s got to be him. I have to get to him."
He tried to think of how he’d be able to move toward the sound of the
man’s voice. But there wasn’t much that he could do in this situation.
The G-forces from the maelstrom wouldn’t let him move a muscle. He
knew that if he should let go of the mast to attempt anything at all, he’d
be washed overboard. Besides, he couldn’t get a definite fix on the
man’s location, not while they were on this carnival ride from hell.
The Excerpts