Poseidon's Arrow

had to be Loren.

He kicked toward the surface, angling for the position of the speedboat. He spotted the anchor line and approached it, swimming hard, surfacing a few yards behind the boat. Loren was leaning over the transom, pounding a spare diver’s lead weight on the stern drive housing. Engrossed in her signaling, she didn’t notice him emerge.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted.

She looked up, and Pitt saw a desperate fear in her eyes. Lost for words, she simply pointed behind him. He spun his head around—and was engulfed in a massive shadow.

It was a ship, a massive bulk carrier, bearing down on them barely a hundred feet away. The speedboat bobbed in the direct path of the ship’s broad, high bow, which pushed an ominous mountain of white foamy water in front of it. Pitt cursed the fools on the bridge, who were either blind or asleep.

Without hesitation, he kicked and stroked furiously to the boat until he could reach an arm over the side.

“Should I start the motor?” Loren’s face was drawn. “I was afraid to try while you were underwater.”

Pitt saw the anchor line was still set, running up into a small locker on the bow. Behind him, he heard the deep rumble of the ship’s engines as its towering hulk advanced. It was too close. Any slip in cutting the anchor line or a delay in starting the motor and their boat would be smashed to bits, with them in it.

With the regulator back between his teeth, he shook his head at Loren and waved for her to come closer.

She hurried to the side and reached to help him aboard.

Instead he reached past her hand and hooked his arm around her waist.

Before she could react, she felt herself being jerked over the side. She yelped as her body hit the cold water. Kicking and floundering, she gasped for a last breath of air. The towering mountain of steel was now just yards away.

Then she was snatched like a rag doll and disappeared beneath the rippling surface.

5

THE FREIGHTER NEITHER SLOWED NOR TURNED. Its broad steel hull smacked into the speedboat, severing the anchor line before burying the tiny vessel in the bow’s wake. The small boat bounced along the ship’s hull and then remarkably popped to the surface, where it bobbed in the freighter’s receding wake, its port beam only slightly mangled.

Somewhere beneath the surface, Loren found herself clinging to her husband in a desperate plunge to the seafloor. Startled by the cold-water immersion, she nearly panicked when she felt Pitt yank her to the depths without air. Then she felt him force his regulator into her mouth while wedging her arm around his buoyancy compensator harness. Despite the cold, her nerves began to settle. She began to assist their progress by kicking as well, remembering to clear her ears as they descended deeper.

The shimmering light of the surface water grew dark as the black hull passed over them. Loren glanced up, feeling like she could reach out and touch the barnacle-encrusted plates only a few feet away.

Though they had escaped the mass of the hull, Pitt continued driving deeper with frantic kicks of his fins. His lungs felt like they would burst, which only made him push harder until they finally reached the seabed. Seeing a bus-sized rise of coral, he pulled Loren along its curved side. As their knees touched the hard bottom, he grabbed a nodule for leverage.

Loren realized her husband had not taken a breath of air for almost the entire descent. She quickly passed the regulator to his lips. Her pulse racing and her eyes wide, she peered into Pitt’s face mask. He gazed back at her calmly and winked, as if cheating death was a daily occurrence.

Pitt gratefully inhaled several deep breaths, then passed the regulator back to Loren and gazed upward. The hull was still sweeping past, while the main source of his fear, its churning bronze propeller, glinted as it drew near. Pitt threw his arms around Loren and gripped the coral mound with his gloved hands as the stern passed overhead. Even from thirty feet away, Pitt felt the suction from the enormous blades as they cut through the water. Sand swirled about them as they were tugged from the bottom. Then the ship passed, and a wash of sediment rained down upon them. Pitt released his grasp on the coral and kicked to the surface with Loren entwined around him. Their heads popped into the bright sunlight, and they eagerly inhaled the warm, fresh air.

“I thought for a second,” Loren said between gasps, “that you were going to kill me before the ship had the chance.”

“Ducking under seemed the more prudent tack.” Pitt gazed at the stern of the receding freighter noting its name, Tasmanian Star.

Loren pivoted in the opposite direction and scanned the sea as she treaded water beside him.

“They ran right over a sailboat,” she said, scanning the water for survivors. “It looked like an older couple. I could tell we were next in its path.”

“Quick thinking on your part saved us both, though your Morse code could use a little improvement.” Pitt joined her in searching the nearby waters, but neither spotted any debris.

“We can report it to the police once we get ashore,” Loren said. “They’ll catch up with the crew in Valparaiso.”

Pitt turned toward the coastline and was surprised to see their red speedboat bobbing a short distance away. A section of the port hull hung loose, and the boat sat low in the water, but it was still afloat. Pitt stroked over with Loren close behind. He bellied over the side, then pulled her aboard.

“Our clothes and lunch are gone,” she noted, shivering as the sun began to dry her body.

“My lobster, too,” Pitt said.

He stripped off his tank and wet suit, then stepped to the boat’s console. The key was still in the ignition, so he tried pushing the starter. The motor ground over several times, then sputtered to life, as the inboard compartment had remained mostly dry during the boat’s immersion. Easing the throttle forward, he glanced ahead at the fleeing freighter.

The Tasmanian Star was still proceeding on its same heading and apparent speed. Another mile or two ahead lay the harbor of Valparaiso, which curved to the west in the shape of an open bowl. The commercial port facilities were at the west end, yet the freighter was sailing toward the east. Pitt tensed as he tracked the ship’s path, then jammed the throttle to its stops.

With its bilge and cockpit filled with water, the speedboat faltered as it tried to accelerate, but it gradually surged forward, gaining speed.

Loren abandoned her efforts to bail water with a seat cushion and approached her husband. She saw a heightened intensity in his deep green eyes.

“Why aren’t we headed to shore?”

Pitt pointed at the freighter. “Look what’s ahead of her.”

Loren peered past the bulk carrier. The large white cruise ship was still anchored in the harbor—and lay exactly perpendicular to the oncoming freighter. If the Tasmanian Star didn’t change course, she would barrel right into the Sea Splendour.

“Dirk, there’s probably a thousand people aboard that ship.”

“If there’s something more than just a nearsighted helmsman driving the Tasmanian Star, hundreds could die.”

Loren grabbed Pitt’s shoulder as the speedboat lurched over a wave. The damaged boat surged and wallowed before finding its legs. The bilge pump caught up with the accumulated water, allowing the boat to rise higher as it gained speed. The damage was all above the waterline, so Pitt had no trouble controlling the boat as it bulled its way past twenty knots, quickly gaining on the freighter.

“Can we alert the cruise ship?” Loren yelled to be heard over the straining engine.

Pitt shook his head. “We have no radio. And the ship is anchored. There’s no way they can move in time.”

“At least we could warn the passengers.”

Pitt simply nodded. That would be a tall order in the scant time available.