Fragment. Warren Fahy
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when he arrived. It was Glyn who had persuaded her to try out for SeaLife.
Tall, pale, thin, and very British, Glyn had sharp, handsome features, nearly black eyes, and his mother’s thick Welsh crown of black hair. The biologist was a tad too vain for Nell’s taste, but she may have felt that way simply because he never seemed to notice her (like that, anyway). He wore the stereotypical clothing of an English academic: Oxford shirts, corduroys, plain leather shoes, and even blue blazers on occasion. He now wore a blue Oxford shirt, khaki slacks, and topsiders without socks–about as casual as he was capable of dressing, even in the tropics. Nell suspected the Englishman would never be caught dead wearing shorts, a T-shirt, or, heaven forbid, sneakers.
She remembered how she had protested to Glyn a year ago that SeaLife would create a yearlong detour in her studies. When Glyn had mentioned that the expedition might come across the obscure little island she was always talking about, Nell knew instantly she might never get this chance again. Surprising herself, she tried out for the show and was actually chosen, along with Glyn.
Now, as he saw Nell’s hopes dashed, Glyn obviously felt a twinge of guilt. ‘Maybe a quick landing would be good for morale, Captain.’
Second Mate Samir El-Ashwah entered through the starboard hatchway, dressed in the full Love Boat-style white uniform inflicted on the Trident’s professional staff. A wiry man of Egyptian extraction, Samir’s Australian accent surprised at first. ‘Holy Dooley, the Turbosails are in the groove, eh, Captain? What are we making, just outta curiosity?’
‘Fourteen knots, Sam,’ Captain Sol said.
‘That’s getting it done, I reckon!’
‘I’d say.’ Captain Sol laughed, scratching the coral atoll of white hair around his bald head.
Nell peered up toward the skylight at the ninety-three foot Turbosail, one of two that towered over the bridge like cruise-ship’s smokestacks grafted onto the research vessel. The massive cylindrical shaft passed through the center of the bridge, housed inside a wide column that was smothered in notices and photos. Nell heard motors whirring inside the column as the sail turned above.
Turbosails were pioneered by Jacques Cousteau in the eighties for scientific exploration vessels, including his own Calypso II. Ideal for long-range research vessels, the tubular sail used small fans to draw air inside a vertical seam, as wind passing around it produced a much higher leeward surface speed than any traditional sail. Now that the storm had passed, the crew had raised both of the Trident’s Turbosails and rotated the seams to catch the nor’easter.
The ship cruised due west at a nice clip, ten degrees south of the Tropic of Capricorn.
‘Captain Sol, we’ll never get this close again!’ Nell said.
‘The storm did blow us pretty far south,’ Glyn said. ‘And while as a biologist, I have to say Nell’s little island is pretty intriguing, the thought of solid ground is even more appealing right now, Captain. It sure would feel good to stretch our legs.’
‘Why can’t we go?’ Nell whined.
Sol Meyers frowned. He looked like Santa Claus on vacation in his extra-large orange T-shirt with a white SeaLife logo silk-screened on the breast pocket.
‘I’m sorry, Nell. We have two days to make up if we’re going to make Pitcairn in time for the celebration they’re planning for us. We just can’t do it.’
‘A scientific expedition to explore the most remote places on Earth!’ Nell quoted the show’s opening tagline with naked scorn.
‘More like a floating soap opera that ran out of bubbles,’ Glyn muttered.
‘I’m sorry, Nelly,’ Captain Sol repeated. ‘But this is Cynthea’s charter. She’s the producer. I have to go where she wants, barring some emergency.’
‘I think Cynthea’s trying to pair us off now,’ Glyn mused. ‘Apparently the entire crew has already boffed each other.’
Nell laughed and squeezed Glyn’s shoulder.
The biologist flinched and rubbed his triceps as if she had bruised him. ‘You’re the most touchy-feely woman I’ve ever met, Nell,’ he snipped, fussing with his shirt where she had touched him.
Nell realized they were all getting irritable. ‘Sorry, Glyn. Maybe I’m part Bonobo chimp–they use physical contact to give members of their group a sense of security.’
‘Well, we British have the opposite reaction.’ Glyn pouted.
‘Hey, I don’t mind, Nell,’ said Carl Warburton. The ship’s first mate had a TV actor’s tanned handsomeness, black wavy hair frosted gray at the temples, and a late-night deejay’s voice to go along with his droll sense of humor–all of which made him irresistible. ‘Consider me a Bonobo,’ Warburton said, and he scratched his ribs and stuck out his tongue at Nell charmingly.
Captain Sol glanced up at the bridge camera mounted over the forward window. Cynthea Leeds, the show’s producer, watched everyone through cameras like this one, which were positioned throughout the ship. Each week’s show was cut from footage collected by these cameras, as well as what was captured by the ship’s three roving cameramen.
Captain Sol hid his lips with his hand and whispered, ‘I think Cynthea’s trying to set me up with ship’s surgeon Jennings.’
‘She’s trying to set me up with ship’s surgeon Jennings,’ Warburton said.
Nell did her best Cynthea impression: ‘Drama!’
A loud tone blared suddenly on the bridge, and everyone jumped.
‘Captain,’ Samir said. He checked the instrumentation. ‘We’re picking up an EPIRB, sir!’
‘Christ, I thought it was Cynthea,’ Captain Sol sighed.
‘An EPIRB?’ Warburton asked. ‘Out here?’
‘Double-check it, Sam,’ Captain Sol instructed.
‘What’s an EPIRB?’ Nell asked.
‘An Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon.’ Warburton was moving quickly to Samir’s side.
‘Got a position?’ Captain Sol asked.
‘We should after the next satellite sweep…’ said Samir.
‘Here it comes.’ Warburton glanced over his shoulder at Nell.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You’ll never believe it.’
Samir turned to her. Surprise lit his round face and a smile revealed his beautiful teeth. ‘According to these coordinates, it’s coming from your island, mate.’
Nell felt her heart pound as they confirmed the signal.
‘Hold on–wait–we’re losing it,’ Warburton warned.
Captain Sol stepped around Samir and squinted at the navigation screen. ‘That’s strange…’
Warburton nodded.
Nell moved a little closer. ‘What’s strange?’
‘You don’t fire off an EPIRB unless you mean business,’ the captain answered. ‘And if you do, the lithium battery should last forty-eight hours, minimum. This signal’s fading.’
‘There it goes,’ Samir reported as the next data update wiped it off the screen.
‘Sam, you better hail the nearest LUT station. And check the beacon’s NOAA registration, Carl.’
Warburton was already scanning the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration database. ‘The beacon’s registered. Oh man…it’s a thirty-foot sailboat!’
‘What the hell is it doing out here?’ Captain Sol scowled.
Warburton scanned the information on file.