didn’t matter anymore, none of it. They could all go to hell.
Woods cleared his throat nervously. “Captain, what about Foster’s idea? We can reach the eye . . . Captain?”
Everton stared out at the ocean, the massive swells whipped into foam by the winds, torn apart and then rising again, endlessly. After a while he heard Woods make the changes that would take them to the eye, and that didn’t matter, either.
. . . gone, gone, gone . . .
He stood there for a very long time, Captain Everton and the sea.
• 4 •
“I t’s comin’ in faster than it’s goin’ out,” said Squeaky, and Steve sighed and nodded. Even with the pumps on full, the level in the engine room wasn’t dropping. It had been hip-deep an hour ago and now it sloshed against Steve’s navel. Water shot out of the open deck hatch, the hum of the pumps’ generator the only mechanical sound in the eerie quiet of Leiah’s bizarre, unblinking eye.
They’d made it just before dawn, broken through the eye wall in a final, frantic push and been received by a strange and unreal calm. When the sun had come up, Steve had taken five and gone out on deck for a long look; he’d never seen anything like it.
The Sea Star floated gently a few miles in front of a solid bank of fog, thick and swirling. The fog extended out and around in a curve, blocking much of the eye from view; beyond was the storm itself, impossibly tall walls of dark and solid driving rain. The sea pitched mildly beneath the tug, under a ragged but distinctly circular patch of clear morning sky overhead. They were in the vacuum caused by the wildest of the gusting winds, the eye wall; Leiah raged on, but the Sea Star was in a soundless, pressurized pocket, only the lap of water against the hull and the soft noises of human beings at work in the still, moist air.
Steve was exhausted and frustrated and extremely goddamn cranky. Having his balls immersed in murky salt water was certainly helping to keep him awake, but did nothing for his state of mind. The engine room was flooded, the marine diesel shut down and half submerged, along with him and Squeak—and the pumps weren’t enough, not anymore. The Sea Star had taken too much damage as she’d made her thrashing way through the storm; tiny holes in the hull had been battered into rips and tears that seeped unseen. Already she sat too low in the water.
All thanks to the good captain . . .
Foster had given Steve an earful when they’d gotten below, away from that crazy fuck; he was still fuming.
Squeaky was already gathering his scuba gear for an outside look, sloshing through the room to pick up a tank. Steve shook his head, wondering if the others had any idea how bad it really was; they were screwed, no two ways about it. If they couldn’t patch it over, the ship would sink.
“How could we be so stupid to sign up with this guy again?”
Squeaky shrugged. “The fucker pulled a gun on you? I’da decked him.”
Steve wished he had. “The bastard had us pullin’ five hundred tons of steel and lumber, uninsured, a hundred miles from any normal shipping lane in a typhoon. Our helmsman’s a weasel, our navigator’s a . . .”
Squeaky grinned and muttered something in Spanish; Steve only picked up “hot” from the Cuban vernacular.
Steve scowled. “Ah, she got drummed out of the navy for striking a superior officer—”
He broke off, realizing that he’d just been thinking about doing pretty much the same thing. He looked around and shook his head again, not wanting to talk about Foster anymore.
“I can’t believe this,” he said, and hoped that Squeaky wouldn’t notice the change of direction; he kind of liked Foster, or at least didn’t dislike her, and Squeaky would tease him mercilessly if he knew it.
Squeaky was still smiling. “So Foster has a problem with authority; you’re not the coolest cucumber either, Steve.” He picked up his tank and heaved it out of the hatch as he spoke. “But I’ll tell
Woods cleared his throat nervously. “Captain, what about Foster’s idea? We can reach the eye . . . Captain?”
Everton stared out at the ocean, the massive swells whipped into foam by the winds, torn apart and then rising again, endlessly. After a while he heard Woods make the changes that would take them to the eye, and that didn’t matter, either.
. . . gone, gone, gone . . .
He stood there for a very long time, Captain Everton and the sea.
• 4 •
“I t’s comin’ in faster than it’s goin’ out,” said Squeaky, and Steve sighed and nodded. Even with the pumps on full, the level in the engine room wasn’t dropping. It had been hip-deep an hour ago and now it sloshed against Steve’s navel. Water shot out of the open deck hatch, the hum of the pumps’ generator the only mechanical sound in the eerie quiet of Leiah’s bizarre, unblinking eye.
They’d made it just before dawn, broken through the eye wall in a final, frantic push and been received by a strange and unreal calm. When the sun had come up, Steve had taken five and gone out on deck for a long look; he’d never seen anything like it.
The Sea Star floated gently a few miles in front of a solid bank of fog, thick and swirling. The fog extended out and around in a curve, blocking much of the eye from view; beyond was the storm itself, impossibly tall walls of dark and solid driving rain. The sea pitched mildly beneath the tug, under a ragged but distinctly circular patch of clear morning sky overhead. They were in the vacuum caused by the wildest of the gusting winds, the eye wall; Leiah raged on, but the Sea Star was in a soundless, pressurized pocket, only the lap of water against the hull and the soft noises of human beings at work in the still, moist air.
Steve was exhausted and frustrated and extremely goddamn cranky. Having his balls immersed in murky salt water was certainly helping to keep him awake, but did nothing for his state of mind. The engine room was flooded, the marine diesel shut down and half submerged, along with him and Squeak—and the pumps weren’t enough, not anymore. The Sea Star had taken too much damage as she’d made her thrashing way through the storm; tiny holes in the hull had been battered into rips and tears that seeped unseen. Already she sat too low in the water.
All thanks to the good captain . . .
Foster had given Steve an earful when they’d gotten below, away from that crazy fuck; he was still fuming.
Squeaky was already gathering his scuba gear for an outside look, sloshing through the room to pick up a tank. Steve shook his head, wondering if the others had any idea how bad it really was; they were screwed, no two ways about it. If they couldn’t patch it over, the ship would sink.
“How could we be so stupid to sign up with this guy again?”
Squeaky shrugged. “The fucker pulled a gun on you? I’da decked him.”
Steve wished he had. “The bastard had us pullin’ five hundred tons of steel and lumber, uninsured, a hundred miles from any normal shipping lane in a typhoon. Our helmsman’s a weasel, our navigator’s a . . .”
Squeaky grinned and muttered something in Spanish; Steve only picked up “hot” from the Cuban vernacular.
Steve scowled. “Ah, she got drummed out of the navy for striking a superior officer—”
He broke off, realizing that he’d just been thinking about doing pretty much the same thing. He looked around and shook his head again, not wanting to talk about Foster anymore.
“I can’t believe this,” he said, and hoped that Squeaky wouldn’t notice the change of direction; he kind of liked Foster, or at least didn’t dislike her, and Squeaky would tease him mercilessly if he knew it.
Squeaky was still smiling. “So Foster has a problem with authority; you’re not the coolest cucumber either, Steve.” He picked up his tank and heaved it out of the hatch as he spoke. “But I’ll tell
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