him until he could no longer function. At that stage of physical erosion, death was just around the corner. If a ship does eventually arrive and put a landing party on shore, they’ll find four skeletons instead of one. I strongly believe it is in our best interests to make every effort to push on while we’re still physically capable.”
“Dirk is right,” Giordino said to Maeve. “Our only chance at seeing city lights again is to leave the island.”
“Build a boat?” demanded Maeve. “With what materials?”
She stood, firmly, gracefully, her arms and legs slim and tan, the flesh taut and young, her head cocked like a wary lynx. Pitt was as captivated as he had been when they were together on board the Ice Hunter.
“A flotation tube from our boat here, the upper works from York’s boat there, throw in a few logs, and pretty soon you’ve got a vessel fit for an ocean voyage.”
“This I have to see,” said Maeve.
“As you wish,” Pitt replied airily. He began drawing a diagram in the sand. “The idea is to connect our boat’s buoyancy tubes under the deck cabin from York’s boat. Then we fashion a pair of beech tree trunks into outriggers for stability and we’ve got ourselves a trimaran.”
“Looks practical to me,” Giordino agreed.
“We need over 130 square meters of sail,” Pitt continued. “We have a mast and a rudder.”
Giordino pointed over to the tent. “York’s old Dacron sails are brittle and rotten with forty years of mildew. The first stiff breeze will crack and blow them into shreds.”
“I’ve considered that,” said Pitt. “The Polynesian mariners wove sails from palm fronds. I see no reason why we can’t weave fully leafed branches from the beech trees to accomplish the same purpose. And we have plenty of extra rigging from the sailboat for shrouds and to lash outriggers to the center hull.”
“How long will it take us to build your trimaran?” asked Maeve, doubt becoming replaced by growing interest.
“I figure we can knock together a vessel and shove oft in three days if we put in long hours.”
“That soon?”
“The construction is not complicated, and thanks to Rodney York, we have the tools to complete the job.”
“Do we continue sailing east or head northeast for Invercargill?” asked Giordino.
Pitt shook his head. “Neither. With Rodney’s navigational instruments and Admiralty charts, I see no reason why I can’t lay a reasonably accurate course for Gladiator Island.”
Maeve looked at him as if he had turned mad, her hands hanging limply at her sides. “That,” she said in bewilderment, “is the craziest notion you’ve come up with yet.”
“May be,” he said, his eyes set and fixed. “But I think it only appropriate that we finish what we set out to do ... rescue your boys.”
“Sounds good to me,” Giordino put in without hesitation. “I’d like a rematch with King Kong, or whatever your sister calls herself when she isn’t crushing car bodies at a salvage yard.”
“I’m indebted to you enough as it is. But—”
“No buts,” said Pitt. “As far as we’re concerned it’s a done deal. We build our hermaphrodite boat, sail it to Gladiator Island, snatch your boys and escape to the nearest port of safety.”
“Escape to safety! Can’t you understand?” Her voice was imploring, almost despairing. “Ninety percent of the island is surrounded by vertical cliffs and precipices impossible to climb. The only landing area is the beach circling the lagoon, and it’s heavily guarded. No one can cross through the reef without being shot. My father has built security defenses a well-armed assault force couldn’t penetrate. If you attempt it, you will surely die.”
“Nothing to be alarmed about,” Pitt said subtly. “Al and I flit on and off islands with the same finesse as we do in and out of ladies’ bedrooms. It’s all in selecting the right time and spot.”
“That and a lot of wrist action,” Giordino added.
“Father’s patrol boats will spot you long before you can enter the lagoon.”
Pitt shrugged. “Not to worry. I have a homespun remedy for dodging nasty old patrol boats that never fails.”
“And dare I ask what it is?”
“Simple. We drop in where they least expect us.”
“Both your brains were boiled by the sun.” She shook her head in defeat. “Do you expect Daddy to ask us in for tea?” Maeve had one remorseful moment of guilt. She saw clearly that she was responsible for the terrible dangers and torment inflicted on these two incredible men who were willing to give up their lives for her twin sons, Michael and Sean. She felt a wave of despondency sweep over her that quickly turned to resignation. She came over and knelt between Pitt and Giordino, placing an arm around each of their necks. “Thank you,” she murmured softly. “How could I be so lucky as to find men as wonderful as you?”
“We make a habit of helping maidens in distress.” Giordino saw the tears welling in her eyes and turned away, genuinely embarrassed.
Pitt kissed Maeve on the forehead. “It’s not as impossible as it sounds. Trust me.”
“If only I had met you what seems like a hundred years ago,” she whispered with a catch in her voice. She looked as if she were about to say more, rose to her feet and quickly walked away to be by herself.
Giordino stared at Pitt curiously. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you mind sharing how we’re going to get on and off the island once we arrive offshore?”
“We get on with a kite and a grappling hook I found among York’s gear.”
“And off again?” Giordino prompted, totally confused but unwilling to pursue the subject.
Pitt threw a dried beech log on the fire and watched the sparks swirl upward. “That,” he said, as relaxed as a boy waiting for his bobber to sink at a fishing hole, “that part of the plan I’ll worry about when the time comes.”
Their vessel to escape the island was built on a flat section of rock in a small valley protected from the breeze, thirty meters from the water. They laid out rail-like ways of beech logs to slide their weird creation into the relatively calm waters between the two islands. The demands were not cruel or exacting. They were in better condition than when they arrived and found themselves able to work through the nights, when the atmosphere was coldest, and rest for a few hours during the heat of the day, For the most part, construction went smoothly without major setbacks. The closer they got to completion, the more their fatigue fell away.
Maeve threw herself into weaving two sails from the leafy branches. For simplicity Pitt had decided to step the mast York had salvaged from his ketch, to take a spanker on the mizzen and a square sail on the mainmast. Maeve wove the larger sail for the mainmast first. The first few hours were spent experimenting, but by late afternoon she began to get the hang of it and could weave a square meter in thirty minutes. By the third day, she was down to twenty minutes. Her matting was so strong and tight, Pitt asked her to make a third sail, a triangular jib to set forward of the mainmast.
Together, Pitt and Giordino unbolted and lifted the ketch’s upper deckhouse and mounted it over the forward part of the steering cockpit. This abbreviated section of the ketch was then lashed on top of the buoyancy tubes from their little boat, which now served as the center hull. The next chore was to step the tall aluminum masts, which were reduced in height to compensate for the shorter hull and lack of a deep keel. Since no chain plates could be attached to the neoprene buoyancy tubes, the shrouds and stays to support the masts were slung under the hull and joined at a pair of turnbuckles. When finished, the hybrid craft had the appearance of a sailboat perched on a hovercraft.
The following day, Pitt reset the ketch’s rudder to ride higher in the water, rigging it to a long tiller, a more efficient system for steering a trimaran. Once the rudder was firmly in place and swung to his satisfaction, he attacked the forty-year-old outboard engine, cleaning the carburetor and fuel lines before overhauling the magneto.
Giordino went to work on the outriggers. He chopped down and trimmed two sturdy beech trees whose trunks curved near their tops. Next he placed the logs alongside the hull and extended them out with the curved sections facing forward like a pair of skis. The outriggers were then lashed to cross-member logs that ran laterally across the hull near the bow and just aft of the cockpit and were braced fore and aft. Giordino was quite pleased
