Riptide

The increased speed seemed to give the boat a little more stability. It ploughed ahead, plunging, surging upward, then plunging again. With the window out and the searchlight dead, he had trouble navigating in those brief moments of vision at the top of the swells. He realized, dimly, that it might be wise to throttle back, just in case the—

There was a stunning crash as the boat bottomed itself against the reef. Clay was thrown violently forward into the wheel, breaking his nose; then he was tossed back against the far wall of the pilothouse. Surf, surging over the reef, slewed the boat sideways, then a second roller spun the boat full broadside. Clay fought his way back to the wheel, snorting blood and brine, trying to clear his head. Then a third wave slammed the boat over on its beam ends, and he was thrown free of the deck into a perfect chaos of water and wind.

Chapter 46

Hatch swung the nose of the Plain Jane into the channel. Behind came a rattling symphony of lines slapping masts as the boats bobbed hysterically at their moorings. The wind was cold, the sky thick with water. He took a taste: as much salt as it was fresh. He'd seen seas like this before in his childhood. But he'd never been foolhardy enough to venture out in them.

He took one final look back at the shore, then turned to sea and throttled up. They passed the floating 5 MPH and NO WAKE signs, so thrashed by the sea that they hung sideways, as if admitting defeat.

Bonterre came up beside him, clinging to the instrument housing with both hands.

'Well?' she screamed in his ear.

'Isobel, I've been a damn fool,' he shouted back. 'I've seen those same basic symptoms a thousand times. It was staring me right in the face. Anyone who's ever undergone radiation treatment for cancer knows what it's all about.'

'Radiation treatment?'

'Yes. What happens to those patients? They get nauseated. They lose their energy. Their hair. White cell counts go through the floor. Among all the weird ailments I've seen this last week, every one had those points in common.'

Bonterre hesitated, eyes wide despite the blinding surf.

'St. Michael's Sword is radioactive. Think about it. Long-term exposure to radioactivity kills your bone marrow cells, basically stops cell division. It cripples the immune system, makes you an easy mark. That's why the Thalassa crew had all those exotic diseases that kept distracting me. But the lack of cell division also stops the healing process, causes hair loss. Look at how my own hand has been so slow to heal. Severe exposure leads to osteoporosis and loss of teeth. Symptoms similar to scurvy.'

'And it might also explain the computer problems.'

'What do you mean?'

'Stray radiation causes havoc with microelectronics.' Bonterre squinted at him, rain and seawater streaming across her face. 'But why go out in this murderous storm?'

'We know the sword is radioactive. But that's all we know about it. The thing's been shut up in a lead box, and yet it's still killed everyone who's come in contact with it over the last seven hundred years. God only knows what would happen if Neidelman took it out of the casket. We can't allow that to happen.'

As the boat came out of the lee of Burnt Head, the sea slammed into the Plain Jane's hull with brutal ferocity. Hatch shut up abruptly and spun the wheel, trying to take the heading sea at a diagonal. The air around the boat was filled with pulverized water and spindrift. He checked the binnacle, corrected course, and scanned the loran.

Bonterre gripped the rails with both hands, lowering her head against the driving rain. 'But what is the sword, then?'

'God only knows. Whatever it is, it's hot as hell. I for one don't want to—'

He fell silent abruptly, staring ahead. A white line loomed out of the murk, towering over the top of the boat. For a moment, he wondered if it was a large ship.

'Jesus,' he muttered, distantly surprised by the matter-of-fact tone in his own voice. 'Look at that.'

It was no ship. He realized, with horror, that it was the breaking top of a massive wave. 'Help me hold the wheel!' he yelled.

Leaning forward, Bonterre clapped both hands on the wheel while he worked desperately at the throttle. The boat rose along the almost vertical face while Hatch gingerly increased the throttle, trying to keep the boat aligned. As the breaking top of the comber struck, there was an explosion of white and a tremendous hollow roar; he braced himself against the mass of water and held his breath.

The boat seemed suspended for a moment inside the wave; then it suddenly broke free and tipped over the crest with a violent corkscrew motion. He quickly eased up on the throttle and the boat sank into the following trough at a sickening speed. There was a moment of perverse, eerie calm as the boat was protected from the wind in the hollow between the waves. Then the next great face of green water, honeycombed with foam, rose up out of the dark before them.

'It'll get even worse beyond Wreck Island,' he yelled.

Bonterre didn't bother to answer, clinging to the wheel as the boat lurched toward another crest with a jarring crash.

Glancing at the loran screen, Hatch saw the boat was being carried southeastward by a riptide at a good four knots. He corrected course to compensate, one hand on the throttle and the other on the wheel. Bonterre helped steady the helm through the dips.

'The professor was right,' Hatch shouted. 'I couldn't have done this without you.'

The spray and wind had pulled Bonterre's long hair loose from her sou'wester, and it streamed behind her in a ravishing tangle of black. Her face was flushed, whether from fear or excitement he could not tell.