Sabotage (40 page)

Rove reentered the penthouse about an hour later. He stood on a couch to address the mustered passengers, seeing strength and fear and resilience, and prayed Clare had thus far met similar success with his side of the plan.

“Listen,” he said. He lowered his tone for emphasis. Against the hush of the shell-shocked group, his voice carried the power of a snare drum in crescendo. “We're going to move to deck seven and use the portside lifeboats. It's a long way down. You're going to have to stay absolutely silent as we go.” His audience watched him. “Every one of you should realize: If you come with me, you may die. I can't guarantee anything.” He felt reassured of the passengers' trust when no one questioned or interrupted. He had their attention. “I'll do everything I can to protect you. You'll have to be brave. There's a buddy of mine out there. A clever buddy. He's going to keep the bad guys distracted.”

*   *   *

Dr. Clare threw the sealed cans onto a corsair moored along the starboard side of the
Pearl Enchantress
. He grabbed a rope and swung from an overhang on deck six, nearly smashing an ear against the corsair's foremast, and landed against the cushion of the staysail. The grappling hook jangled against the cruise ship's gunwales, but held strong till he found solid footing aboard the neighboring vessel's quarterdeck. He uncapped the lids on the cans and began pouring systematically, scattering paint thinner across the weather deck, the helm, and inside the halyard locks so the hoisted sails would fall when their supporting ropes singed through. Clinging to the overhaul for balance, he doused both the jib and the mainsheet. From bow to stern he drenched the planks with gallons of liquid. When his work was finished, he stood on the stanchion and dropped a match. There was no sudden blast, no angry explosion; the liquid layer had spread and shallowed, causing instead a wall of flames to sprint across deck and sneak into the crannies he'd smothered. The sails caught, injecting pillars of smoke into the night air.

Clare dove headfirst into the Atlantic, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. The cold jarred his body into a state of shock that left him disoriented and gasping for breath. He thrashed, his muscles increasingly unresponsive. Bergs floated in these waters. Foolishly he wondered why he'd cast himself out of the blaze, which suddenly seemed so attractive. He collected his wits and headed for the nearest craft. Still weak from days of confinement and hunger, he managed to negotiate the swells using a breaststroke. Eventually he discovered a handhold on the hull of the nearest corsair. He turned backward, pleased with his work as with each passing moment the vessel more closely resembled a torch.

*   *   *

Panic sputtered through Ragnar's radio.

“Captain, come in! We have an emergency! Come in!”

The beleaguered sailor raised the device to his lips. “What?”

“Both prisoners have escaped. Malcolm Clare is no longer in the brig. He helped rescue the other American.”

Ragnar's hands might have snapped the rails. “Don't bother looking.”

“Why not?”

“It seems no one can finish his assigned duty. I'll do it myself.”

“Sir, that's not all. Our soldiers have a new task at hand: to salvage one of our corsairs. The
Baduhenna
is on fire!”

“I know,” said Ragnar. “I'm standing on the sundeck of the Pearl ship, watching the flames.”

*   *   *

Fifty passengers made the trek in a triple-file line, women and children taking the center while men flanked. Rove directed them, careful to safeguard the passengers at each pivot point as they descended the flights. His trigger finger was ready to joggle.

His following reached deck seven, where they proceeded around the top portside perimeter of the atrium. This racked nerves, particularly Rove's, as Ragnar's gunmen could have used any number of furniture pieces to conceal themselves. But the carpet beneath their feet muted their footsteps. If they were swift, they would attract little attention.

The three-story grand hall was dark, its chandelier a mere shadow. It was the passengers' first occasion to comprehend the entirety of the ship's blackout, and to experience the full effect of the ship's steep canting without stabilization by the gyroscopically controlled fins. Passengers had felt the sways of the swells, but never had these people tried to walk in a straight line for any distance with the rocking. The instability came as a surprise.

Rove held up a hand and mouthed the word “Stop.”

He peered over the rail down through the open space of the atrium, teetering on the horns of a dilemma. Two floors down on deck five, a Marauder patrolled the floor, oblivious to the evacuation taking place above him. Rove had two options: shoot to kill and risk the noise, or try to evade detection. He had a clear shot. It would be easy—but loud.

The guard looked tired and bored, but Rove knew he'd be foolish to dismiss any danger. The guard might have welcomed conflict if for no other reason than to break his tedium. Rove made the decision. With a finger to his lips, he motioned for everyone to crouch. They dropped to an uncomfortable squat.

The guard halted and turned on his heels. Rove held his breath. Little stopped him when it was his own life at stake. Now that he'd appointed himself leader of a civilian cohort, the stakes had changed. After a few moments of inactivity the guard began to move again. When he reached the other end of the floor, he did an about-face. Rove studied the man's pattern of walking.

The people looked to him for a report. He held up a cautionary finger and whispered, “Wait.”

After two more cycles, while the guard was facing away, Rove signaled for everyone to get up and move. The group inched their way across the carpet. Thirty seconds later, they crouched again, repeating the sequence until reaching safe harbor at the opposite end of the grand atrium.

Rove opened the door and checked the exterior walkway, a promenade that spanned several hundred yards. The portside was clear. He shepherded them outside.

“I need a pair of strong arms to help me lower the lifeboat,” he said. Two athletic men raised their hands and stepped forward. One was in his late thirties and carried a toddler. The other, wearing a flannel sweater, was a sandy-haired jock with a hockey build. “What're your names?”

“Howard.” He passed the child to her mother.

“Jordy.”

“Thanks for stepping up. On the other side of this ship is a burning vessel belonging to our hijackers. Once they get the fire under control—or after their vessel sinks—they'll scatter, and they'll be furious. Can't say you'll be a dot in the horizon by then, but hopefully you'll disappear in the fog.” Rove led them outside and began instructing them on how to untie the knots and use the rig of pulleys to manage the weight of the boat as they lowered it. “I've loaded your boat with guns. If they pursue, protect yourself.”

“Never fired a gun before,” Howard said.

“Hopefully you won't have to. If you do—ready, aim, fire.”

Jordy, too, looked doubtful. “You sure?”

He gave them a quick demonstration without actually firing.

“Just don't forget to remove the safety. In the boat you'll find emergency supplies, first aid, water, food, the works. The supply is limited, especially for so many people. Ration it out. You won't have a working motor. You'll have to row. The others can help with that. Bear northeast to find land. The nearest country is Iceland. Along the way, if a ship picks you up, radio for military assistance. You will drift quite a bit, so write down these coordinates. Got a pen?”

“I do,” Howard said. He used a dollar bill as paper and copied the numbers Rove dictated.

“That's an estimate of our current location,” Rove explained. He continued to unfasten rope. “Don't lose that bill.”

“I won't.”

Rove grunted as he made one final tweak to the gear, then rested a hand on the fiberglass hull. “Okay. She's ready for lowering. Let's get those passengers onboard.”

“What about you? Why aren't you going with us?”

“More lifeboats to fill. They need my help.”

“You can only create so many diversions.”

“I'll do my best.”

*   *   *

Clare collapsed in the library aboard the
Pearl Enchantress
. The climb up the rope ladder had proved arduous and slippery. Rather than ascend all the way to the lido deck, he'd alighted on deck eight and navigated the darkened corridors to an unpatrolled, windowed area without being discovered. With fresh mental stamina he gazed through the panels at the deep blue, finding hope amid a turbulent seascape.

The departure of a single lifeboat had triggered his optimism. He watched in admiration of Rove's work as the boat made contact with water, and passengers rowed away. There was also a somber note to his musings. Courageous as they were, these passengers had to know the possibility of rescue was slim. He shook aside his doubts. He trusted Rove. He trusted his daughter. After a while he succumbed to physical exhaustion. He began to float, no longer able to wage the battle against sleep.

Undaunted by wind or tempest, the lifeboat crept north.

 

FORTY-TWO

“I promise, we're noble thieves,” Victoria told the bearded Icelandic native as he surrendered his seaplane. His please-don't-shoot-me expression twisted into one of fresh mystification as she added, “If we return this in anything less than mint condition, I'll buy you a new one.”

It was still dark out, an hour before dawn. The air was biting, their newly bought parkas scuffing each other as the duo exited the flight shop and sprinted down a jetty. At the end floated their aircraft, its checkered nose, red propeller, and black circles on the wings all reminiscent of an RAF Supermarine Spitfire. It was called the
King Otter
. They were not deceived; this seaplane was no dogfighting machine or high-performance interceptor, but a pacific amphibian used for touristic joyrides. It would do. They clambered into the two-passenger cockpit, and Victoria took the helm.

“At this rate, we'll soon have earned an international reputation,” Austin said. “This makes the second piece of expensive equipment we've ‘borrowed' at gunpoint in two days.”

“Three, if you count the limo from Bruges.”

She began navigating the waterway.

“How'd you learn to fly?” Austin asked.

The floatplane droned as it traced a semicircle and taxied toward an open channel, the garbled whirr unbecoming of an aircraft dressed as a WWII fighter.

“Dad taught me.” She angled the plane out to sea. “It's been a while, though, and I've never actually flown a seaplane.”

“Uh-huh.” Spotting her devil-may-care grin, Austin purged his mind of worry. “I'm not falling for it. You look fully competent.”

His last words were shaved off by the roar of the radial engines as she reached overhead, toggled a switch, and drew the yoke into her breast. She jammed the twin throttles full forward, throwing Austin back in his seat. For a period of sixty long seconds he believed the ocean might actually prevail. Transfixed by the zooming whitecaps, he wondered how the body would ever break its connection with the sea. The underbelly dragged, hardly breaking a rock-throwing velocity. Yet soon the craft was slicing through the water, attaining speeds worthy of a WaveRunner, the pontoons lifting, and the previously sputtering amphibian rose out of its own salty spray. A jarring
thump-thump-thump
rattled the cabin as their skis slapped the wave tops. Austin realized this had to be the transition from floating to gliding. The bumps lasted only a few seconds before they climbed into a smooth sail.

The propellers continued to murmur as Victoria let the aircraft yaw at will. Abruptly, Austin clutched the pilot by her shoulder.

“Look out!” he cried.

Victoria pitched left, their wing nearly scraping a swell as she reacted to avoid colliding with a flock of pink-footed geese. The waterfowls had veered in a crosswind, and she nearly lost control before catching a draft and sailing over the birds.

“Sorry about that.” She was calm. “Avian traffic.”

“Reckless flyers,” said Austin. “Don't they know right-of-way?”

“A goose wouldn't,” she quipped, “but perhaps a more intelligent bird would know to wait its …
arctic tern.
”

The engine groaned as she circled toward a coastal cliff. The
King Otter
banked southwest and stalled. Victoria cut power and they went into a gentle dive, and for a moment Austin thought they might pancake into the choppy seas. Then she gunned it, and the seaplane leveled out.

“You're having too much fun,” Austin said.

*   *   *

They'd long since departed the southern Icelandic shores, and the sun cast its rays on a small archipelago ahead. The Westman Isles, they were called, or Vestmannaeyjar in the native tongue. The fishermen who had discovered the cays in 1963 upon noticing smoke rising in the horizon could never have conceived a more explosive history for the islands, which had known blood feud, slavery, abduction, retribution, and volcanic eruptions. Soon after Ingólfur Arnarson, first permanent settler of Iceland, sailed from Norway and created his homestead in Reykjavik, he learned that a host of Irish slaves had murdered his kinsman, Hjörleifur. Enraged, Ingólfur tracked the slaves to the isles. The archipelago was later named after the Irish slaves who died there. In later centuries the Westman Isles would see kidnapping, raids, and other acts of barbarism from Turkish pirates.

“Check those out,” Austin said, pointing to two craggy, cone-shaped landmasses rising from an island.

“Volcanoes,” Victoria said. “Helgafell and Eldfell, the latter of which means ‘mountain of fire' in Icelandic. An eruption in 1973 nearly caused a complete evacuation of the island. Ash destroyed a great many homes, and a river of lava nearly closed off the harbor. Since fishing's their main source of income, you might say the inhabitants were worried by the crisis.”