Superior Storm (Lake Superior Mysteries) (29 page)

“I need to use a radio, right away. Lives are at stake,” I shouted over the storm
and the rumble of the outboard.

The helmsman never took his eyes off the ship. “Is there someone else out there?”

“They are being held hostage.”

He shook his head, like he was clearing it of fog. “We’ll be on board in a minute. Sit tight.”

The three men in the rescue craft called out to several men who were at the rail above us. The helmsman idled the motor of the lifeboat, occasionally goosing it to keep us in position. Above us, cables were descending
from large steel davits
that loomed like a pair of overturned hooks.
The other men in our boat stationed themselves at bow and stern. First, the bow cable was snagged and clipped into position.
The men above allowed plenty of slack. The stern cable was trickier, but they managed it.

“Hold on,” said the man at the outboard. “We have to do this quick.”

I nodded. He
gave a signal to the men above
and killed the motor. Great winches took up the slack in the
cables;
careful to keep them evenly balanced, and then jerked us
suddenly
out of the water
into the air
, where we hung for a moment like four babies in a giant cradle. We rose higher, swaying with the motion of the ship. The rail slowly came to our eye level, and then we were above
it
. With a few minutes of shouting and grinding machinery, we were swung inboard.
Hands reached for me, and then I was standing on the solid steel deck of the
G
reat
L
akes freighter
, Superior
Rose
.

I had not often been so aware of my dependence upon the kindness and strength of others. I slumped a little against
the wall of the structure beside me.
I looked at the small circle of men around
me
. “It doesn’t seem adequate, not at all. But thank
s
. Thank you.”

“Can you walk?” asked the man who had handled the motor of the lifeboat.
I could see now that he was tall and thin, with brown skin and tight curly hair cropped short.
He looked about
thirty
, and car
ried his back and neck tight and straight.

“Sure,” I said.
“I need to get to a radio right away.”

“OK, sir, I heard you,” he said. “This way.”

We took a few steps and then went through a rectangular door with rounded corners and a twelve-inch lip. Inside
,
it was bright and warm and very loud. The black man was waiting for me. I stuck out my hand. “Jonah Borden,” I said. “Thank you again.”

He smiled kindly and took my hand. “No problem. Greg Iverson.”

Iverson led the way
under an overhang that opened out into a vast, deep
bay
or hold
.
He seemed to limp a little bit.
The bay
was like a giant square hole in the ship that rose two stories above us, and two below.
There were railings
and walkways
all the way around on every level
, enclosing the big space
. Pipes and dials and gauges seemed to sprout everywhere.
From the bottom of the open hold
,
the engine rumbled and roared.
Using my vast education, I deduced that w
e were in some kind of engine-room.
Iverson skirted the aft edge of the hold to
another doorway. We went through and shut the door behind us. The noise and temperature dropped considerably.
We were in a long narrow room. Benches lined the walls on either side, with foul-weather gear hanging on pegs above them. There was a telephone on the wall just inside the door. Iverson reached for it.

“I need the Coast Guard,” I said. “I came from a sailing yacht where two people are being held hostage at gunpoint. One of them has already been shot. The kidnappers are also bank robbers.”

Iverson replaced the phone and
swiveled
around to stare at me. “Say that again,” he said in a calm voice. I repeated it. “You don’t look crazy,” he muttered.

I pulled off my
life vest, then my jacket,
and showed him the bullet holes. “Bullet holes” I explained helpfully.

“Holes, anyway,” he said. He muttered under his breath and picked up the phone again,
punch
ing
a few buttons.

“Cap’
n?
Iverson here. Yes, I’ve got him.
Yes sir, just one, but he says…” He looked at me while he spoke. “I’d like to bring
him
up to see you, right away.” He listened a minute more. “Okay.” He hung up.

The door swung open and a sailor appea
red with a bundle under one arm
and a thermos. “Dry clothes and blankets,” he said, pushing the bundle at me. I stripped and rubbed myself with the wool blanket, not caring how it made me itch. The clothes didn’t fit exactly right, but
they were clean and serviceable, a pair of jeans, too big
in the waist, too short in the legs
, with a belt to keep them up, and a gray flannel shirt.

“Gear up,” said Iverson, pointing to the foul weather gear on a nearby hook. “We’re going up to the bridge. Better
accommodations
up there anyway.
” He looked at the sailor. “Hang his clothes out there,” he jerked his thumb at the door. “They’ll dry out pretty fast.” I dug in the pocket of my jacket for the GPS, and then handed the coat to the sailor.

“What you got?” asked Iverson.

“GPS
,” I said.

Iverson narrowed his eyes like maybe he might think about believing me after all. “Come on,” is all he said.

It was fully two
hundred yards between the stern superstructure and bridge superstructure up in the bow. We walked along the rail on the starboard side
,
out of the worst of the wind, but it still plucked
and howled
at us, and I held on
to
the safety line that had been rigged
along
the endless row of giant hatches that led to the belly of the boat. Three times on our trip, waves washed up over the railing to my right, soaking my new dry jeans up to the knees.
Walking behind Iverson, I could see now that he definitely had a limp.

We finally made it to the superstructure in the bow, and Iverson led me through another steel water
-t
ight door.
“Nice little blow,”
he
commented once the door was shut behind us
.

“I
t’s OK, I
guess,” I said. “If you like that sort of thing.” Iverson looked carefully at me and then smiled widely. “You might be all right, Mr
.
Borden.”

“Call me Jonah,” I said.

“Sure thing
,
Jonah,” said Iverson. “Most folks around here call me
‘
First
’
to my face and
‘
Navy
’
behind my back. I like both names. I’m the first officer here.”

“
And you ca
me out
of
the Navy?”

“Yeah. Honorable discharge,
o
n account of my injured knee here.” He pointed at his right knee. “I get around just fine, but I am no longer the perfect physical specimen required by Uncle Sam.”

He led me up three flights of stairs, which he seemed to manage just fine. Better than me in fact, in my exhausted state. “Outside again, real short,” he said. We stepped out and I found
we
were on a brief railed deck, high above the turbulent water
. This high, the
movement of the great ship
was
exaggerated
. Iverson led us aft a few feet, and then we climbed a very short stair up to the bridge level. Without pause, he opened the door and led me into the enclosed bridge.

It was spacious and bright and lined with windows looking forward. Two great wheels stood in the middle of the area, about five feet apart, but no one was using them to steer.
There were two people looking at banks of instruments, and then out through the windows into the black night. A third man stood with his hands behind his back, swaying with the ship, watching us expectantly.

“Here he is
,
Cap’n,” said Iverson, speaking to the man who stood off by himself.

None of the sailors I had seen so far wore any kind of uniform. The captain’s only concession to uniform was a blue peaked cap, much battered and worn, but braided with gold.
It looked like maybe it was an old Navy officer’s top.
He was probably in his mid-fifties, with steel-gray hair under the cap, kept short and military style. His back was ramrod straight, and his eyes were almost the same color as his hair.

“
Thank you, First,” he said. He stretched out a solid
,
callused hand to me. “
Captain
Andrew Dillon,” he said.

“Jonah Borden,” I said, taking his hand. “I’m extremely gratef
ul to you and your crew
,
C
aptain. W
e have an emergency situation here. I came from a sailboat where two people are being held hostage by violent criminals. We need to contact the Coast Guard immediately.”

Dillon looked at Iverson, and then back at me.

“I know it sounds crazy
,
Captain, but you’ve stumbled across a one-in-a-million situation. The criminals are the bank robbers who have been operating on the North Shore for the past three months. One of the hostages is an FBI agent who was on the boat, undercover. The other is…” I faltered. “She is the love of my life.”

Dillon continued to stare. “What were
you
doing on the boat?”

“We don’t have time for all that,” I said. “I’ll fill you in afterward. You can listen when I talk to the Coast
G
uard. But we’ve got to bring them in right away.”

“Is the vessel sinking?” asked the captain.

“No,” I said. “But who knows what they will do when they find out I’m gone. And I have a bad feeling about their plans.
One of the robbers is a killer
,
and she’s already shot and wounded the FBI man.
”

“
She?
” said Iverson. The other two sailors had turned around and were looking at me too.

“Please,” I sa
id. “The Coast Guard? This is life or death.
”

“Okay,” said Dillon. “But if you are screwing with me…”

“That’s right,” I said. “I jumped into a zodiac with a ten horse motor and came thirty-five miles from the nearest land in the biggest storm this year, on the off chance that you would pick me up so I could screw with you.”

“He’s got a point,” said Iverson.

The captain grunted and turned to one of the other sailors. “Get me the Coasties.”

It took a few minutes of patching and things I didn’t really understand until we heard a female voice on the radio loudspeaker say, “This is
E
nsign Brock of the U
.
S
.
Coast
G
uard. Who am I speaking to
, over
?” There was a lot of static and fuzz.

“Ensign, this is
Captain
Dillon of the freighter
Superior Rose
. My crew and I just picked up an individual in a lifeboat who says he needs to speak to you.
Over.
” Dillon handed me the mic.

“Hello,” I said, feeling a little foolish about not knowing how to address these people. “My name is Jonah Borden. I came off the sailing yacht
Tiny Dancer
. The vessel is not sinking but there are five people on board. Three of them are criminals who are holding the other two hostage. One of the hostages is an FBI agent who has been shot.”

Iverson touched my arm. “You say, ‘over’ so that the other side knows you are done talking, and you don’t talk at the same time as each other.”

“Oh,” I said. I clicked the mic. “Over.” The rest of the conversation was so punctuated with “overs” that fairly quickly, I stopped noticing them, even when I said it.

“
Repeat please,
over
” said Ensign Brock in
a
metallic, static-filled voice.
I wondered why everyone said that. I repeated.

“Hold on,” she said.