Something inside him snapped. “I’ll be back,” he promised. He worked himself over to the companionway. He paused at the navigation station and found another pair of glasses. Then he hit the bilge-pump switch. Over the noise he heard a soft whirring sound. Or was it his imagination? Then he knew. The bilge pump was working.
Temptress
was not ready to give up, not yet.
And neither was he.
He hauled himself up the companionway and slammed the hatch shut in time to save the cabin from another inundation. Looking around, he saw the anchor he had dropped. It was hooked on a lifeline near the mast, and only a near miracle had kept it from being washed overboard. He snapped Jane’s tether to his harness and scooted forward on his hands and knees to retrieve it. Within moments he was back in the cockpit and had secured the anchor to a dock line. This time he tied the bitter end of the line to a cleat and dropped the anchor off the stern.
Almost immediately
Temptress
’s stern slewed into the waves. He grabbed the helm and felt the rudder respond. With the anchor and sixty feet of line acting as a drogue,
Temptress
slowed, and the waves went rushing past. The violent rocking motion eased, and they were coasting down the waves, not accelerating out of control. “I’ll be damned,” Stuart said to himself. “That worked.” A wave passed under them, and they rose up.
Then he saw the dark mass of a ship. For a moment he stared, not believing the sight. It disappeared as they went down a wave, still very much in control and stable. They rose up on the next wave, and again he saw the ship. Were they on a collision course? He forced himself to calm down. “I should see the navigation lights, red light on the left, green light on the right, with two white masthead lights. But I’m only seeing one white light. It’s gotta be the stern light. We’re behind you.”
He checked his watch. “How long have we been at this?” he asked himself. Suddenly the answer didn’t matter—he was going to gut it out no matter how long it took. He tried to start the diesel while he waited for the next wave to lift them up. The engine refused to start, and he gave up, saving the batteries. Then he saw the ship again. Were they overtaking it because the ship had slowed for the storm? He wasn’t sure.
He reached for the handheld VHF radio that was stowed in the steering pedestal and hailed the ship on Channel 16. There was no answer. Twice more he tried to raise the ship with the same lack of success. “Screw you,” he muttered.
His instincts told him to fly a little staysail to control their pitching. He pulled on the staysail sheet, unrolling about a fourth of the small jib. The boat stabilized and was more controllable, but again they were going too fast. “More drag,” he told himself. He reached into the locker under the cockpit seat and pulled out another dock line and a canvas bucket. He punched four large holes in the bottom of the bucket and tied it to the dock line. Then he cleated off the bitter end of the line and threw the bucket overboard.
Temptress
slowed.
“How ’bout that,” he announced to no one. He engaged the autopilot and allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction when it held. The combination of drag and slower speed was working. Satisfied that
Temptress
could take care of herself, he considered his next move. He went below to check on Jane. The bilge pump had drained the cabin, and he shut it off. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a water bottle, surprised at his thirst and hunger. He took a long swig and then worked his way forward to check on Jane. She was awake but still in pain.
He held the water bottle to her lips, and she drank greedily. Carefully he felt her shoulder, not sure what was wrong. She gasped. “It’s dislocated, happened before. Reset it.”
“I don’t know how,” he said.
“Feel it.”
His fingers moved over her shoulder, feeling the dislocation. “That’s it,” she said. “Pull out and push.” He did. At first nothing happened. “Pull harder.” Stuart pulled as hard as he could and felt something give. Then he pushed her shoulder back into place. She screamed in pain and then relaxed, tears in her eyes.
“I’m gonna get you to a doctor,” he said. It was a promise he meant to keep. He told her how he had set the drogues and staysail. He ended with “There’s a ship out there in front of us, and we’re getting pretty close to Cuba.”
“How close?”
“I saw land.”
“And the ship is headed for it?” Stuart nodded. “Check the GPS.”
He went to the nav station to check the Global Positioning System and verify their position. “It’s not working,” he told her.
“The antenna’s probably washed away,” she said. “I’m guessing that the ship is making for port. Follow it.”
Stuart went topside and checked on the ship. Much to his surprise, they were still behind it, going at the same speed. But it had turned to a new course, more to the northwest and parallel to the coast. He released the autopilot and turned to the new heading, surprised that
Temptress
was responding so well. He thought about the landmass he knew was out there in the dark. “You better know where you’re going,” he muttered. He tried to reset the autopilot, but it was dead. “Steer the boat,” he told himself as they dipped between waves, losing sight of the ship, before rising up so he could see it again.
The hours dragged, and fatigue slowly drove Stuart down, demanding its price. Despair was on the verge of claiming him when the glow of dawn on the eastern horizon sent a jolt of hope through his body. Then, as they rode to the top of a wave, a flashing light winked at him. He counted the interval. “Six seconds,” he mumbled to himself. He watched as the ship headed straight for the light. “It’s got to be a harbor entrance.” The waves were closer together now and steeper as the bottom shallowed out. Without the diesel it was all Stuart could do to keep
Temptress
headed in the right direction.
The waves grew bigger, and he could hear the crashing of waves as the flashing beacon grew brighter. Ahead the ship rose up on the back of the wave, its bow high in the air. He shook his head in disbelief. The ship was much shorter than he had guessed and very wide, like a wedge or arrowhead. He watched in horror as a huge wave engulfed the ship and it disappeared from sight. Automatically he turned around to see what was overtaking them. Fear claimed him as the enormous wave rose up in the fading darkness, its mass rising well over sixty feet.
At that instant the hatch to the cabin slid open and Jane’s head appeared. She was looking directly at the wave. She pulled herself up and looked forward. Ahead she saw the flashing beacon and the ship’s navigation lights, now motionless in the calm waters of a harbor. “Cut the drogues!” she yelled. “We’re crossing a bar.” But he froze, worn down by fatigue and fear. “Do it!”
Stuart snapped out of it and quickly cut the two drogue lines.
Temptress
surged ahead as the gigantic wave started to break over them. Now they were accelerating and surfing down the face of the wave. He spun the wheel, shouting like a madman.
“Come on, Mama!”
They shot past the beacon, and the wave crashed behind them. Stuart was vaguely aware of a mass of black rocks on his port side as the wave pushed them into the harbor. He clutched the wheel as he wobbled, his inner gyros confused by the sudden calm.
For a brief moment a feeling of total elation swept over him. Then it was gone.
“Drop anchor over there,” Jane said, pointing to an open area well away from the ship. Stuart turned in the direction she had indicated, as
Temptress
coasted to a stop. He went forward to drop the anchor, still wobbling. They set the anchor on the first try, and he staggered back to the cockpit and clambered down the open companionway. Jane was in the galley, heating water.
He collapsed on the settee, instantly asleep.
The aroma of Malt-o-Meal filled the cabin, and for a moment Stuart was back in kindergarten on a cold winter morning. “Here,” Jane said, handing him a steaming bowl laced heavily with granola. He wolfed it down.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Hurts like hell,” she said. “But I’ll survive.” Her left arm was in a makeshift sling.
Stuart looked around. The cabin was clean and shipshape, a far cry from the chaos he remembered. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Nine hours.”
He finished the bowl and stuck his head out the companionway. They were anchored in a secure harbor. He gulped when he saw the narrow harbor entrance. How had he managed that? The wind was dying down, but waves were still crashing into the harbor entrance. “Being the skipper and all, I should know this. But where the hell are we?”
“Cienfuegos in Cuba.”
He smiled ruefully. “That’s gonna piss off a few people when I tell them. What about customs and immigration?”
“The port captain’s been and gone. No problems. Didn’t even stamp our passports. Gave us a temporary insert. Real friendly.”
“What happened to the other ship?”
“Left about noon.”
Stuart climbed into the cockpit and studied
Temptress
. The boat was none the worse for the storm. “She’s a good boat,” he allowed. No answer from Jane. Suddenly it was all back, the wind, the waves, the fear—all that he had fought against. He gave her a sad look. “I screwed up out there, didn’t I?”
“A little,” she allowed. “But you got your act together.”
“Sure. But I froze at the very last, coming over the bar.”
“Mike, you were tired. You did good. Real good.”
But he couldn’t accept the truth of it. “If you weren’t here…” His voice trailed off as he contemplated a watery grave.
“That was your first storm, the worst one I’ve ever seen. What did you expect?”
He didn’t have an answer. But he did know what his father would have expected. And he didn’t meet the standard. “You know, all I ever wanted to do was get through the next eighteen months, retire from the Air Force, and go cruising. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Two days ago I would’ve agreed with you. But not now. Mike, you can do it.”
“Yeah, sure.” He stared out to sea.
Dallas, Texas
Ann Silton and Clarissa Jones sat in a corner of the large two-room suite in the Regency Hotel as the convention’s executive committee gathered for a late-afternoon meeting. Neither woman wanted to be at this particular meeting, and both had their arms and legs tightly crossed, sending an unmistakable signal. But they had no choice. Front Uni, the latest and largest coalition of environmentalist groups, was on a roll, growing daily in power and influence. The unbelievable success of the convention was a tribute to John Frobisher, the brains and organizing force behind Front Uni.
“I told John,” Ann said, “that we have no business talking to
her
just because
she
happens to be available.” Ann shot a hard look across the room and speared John Frobisher, hoping he would get the message. Clarissa, the younger of the two, followed Ann’s lead and tried to emulate her stare. But Clarissa only managed to look doe-eyed, sweet, and naïve, a reflection of her true nature.
“Why did we even hold the convention here?” Clarissa asked.
“Because John got an excellent deal and the hotel offered us the conference rooms free of charge. It was too good to turn down.”
Clarissa gave a pretty shake of her long blond hair. “Well,” she conceded, “the rooms are very nice. And I love the big bathroom with all the towels and free toiletries.”
“It’s too nice for what we’re paying,” Ann muttered, going even deeper into her mental defensive crouch. Another thought came to her. “I wonder if
she
had anything to do with all this?” They fell silent when the subject of their conversation walked in.
Although Ann and Clarissa had seen Lee Justine Ellis on TV, they were not prepared for the sheer physical presence of the woman. L.J., as she liked to be called, simply devoured a room by the force of pure charisma. For Ann it hurt even more. She and L.J. were both thirty-eight years old, but L.J. looked ten years younger. L.J. was tall, with a mass of naturally curly, dark-blond hair pulled into a loose bundle at the base of her neck. She was wearing a man’s white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, loose-fitting jeans that hinted at her trim figure, and cowboy boots that made her long legs seem even longer.
At first glance her shirt and jeans looked as if they came off the rack at some bargain-basement sale. In reality the custom-tailored shirt cost three hundred dollars and the jeans over six hundred dollars. A connoisseur of Western wear would have recognized her cowboy boots immediately and guessed their value at over fifteen hundred dollars. He would have been half right. Lee Justine Ellis was a masterpiece of the kind of casual, down-home understatement that only the very wealthy can afford and the very beautiful carry off. And with her blue eyes, high cheekbones, and perfect mouth, she was drop-dead gorgeous.
“She’s not wearing a bra,” Clarissa whispered. “Look at John. He’s all but stepping on his tongue.”
“It’s not his tongue he’s stepping on,” Ann said, feeling squat and dowdy.
John Frobisher introduced L.J. to the five other members of Front Uni’s executive committee. “I think you all know who Miss Ellis is.” The environmentalists nodded in unison. L.J. was the president and chairman of the board of RayTex Oil, a small but feisty oil company she had inherited upon the death of her father. Many environmentalists shared the belief—it was part of Ann and Clarissa’s private mantra—that any oil company was inherently evil and had to be destroyed to save the world. For the two women, Lee Justine Ellis was a beautiful incarnation of Lucifer himself.
L.J. gave Frobisher a warm look, studying his features. His shaggy, prematurely gray hair and pudgy body reminded her of the teddy bear she’d loved as a child. Like most women, she had an irresistible urge to cuddle him. But there was more to it. Like a good general, L.J. had scrutinized the opposition and dissected the environmentalist movement. John Frobisher was a political operative and on the upper end of the environmentalist food chain. He was a savvy lobbyist and wore a suit and tie. He also understood the process of change and believed in engaging the enemy in a constructive dialogue, which was why he had invited L.J. in the first place. Of the four groups that made up Front Uni, he represented the one faction L.J. feared. But at the same time she respected him for what he was. And there was that teddy bear image that touched a childhood memory.
Ann and Clarissa were from Greenpeace, the revenue-generating machine and propagandists of the movement. But Greenpeace was running out of steam and hadn’t had a win since the “Save the Whales” campaign. They desperately needed an issue that looked good on a bumper sticker and would rally the faithful—and shake loose their checkbooks.
Of the three other men, two were scientists. They did the real work of the movement and dealt in the truth, which would never translate to a bumper sticker. Because they were complex, rational, and legitimate thinkers, they were never mentioned by the media. The last man was from Earth First. He was a true believer and an ecoterrorist not above spiking trees in old-growth forests or sabotaging oil refineries.
“I hope you’re enjoying Dallas,” L.J. said. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to the two women. The four men hurried to join her, forming a tight but casual circle in one corner of the room. L.J. crossed her legs and leaned forward. She clasped her hands and gave a little smile that was both timorous and half apologetic. “It is nice of you to take the time to see me.” Her voice had a soft, barely discernible Texas accent. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“Miss Ellis,” Ann said. She paused to take a deep breath.
“Please, I do prefer L.J.”
Ann frowned. “Drop the phony act and cut to the chase.” L.J. gave Ann a knowing look, taking her measure. Like John Frobisher, Ann Silton was a person L.J. could respect, and under the right circumstances might even like. But they were adversaries about to engage in mortal combat. L.J. gave a little nod, accepting the challenge. Ann had no idea what she had started. “I’m not the enemy,” L.J. said. “In fact, we share many points of common interest.”
“Why do I doubt that?” Ann shot back.
“Please,” Frobisher said. “At least we can listen to what L.J. has to say.” Ann gave a tiny snort and fell silent.
Again the little nod from L.J. “I feel like Marc Antony at Caesar’s funeral.” She paused for effect. The allusion to the famous speech from Shakespeare’s play was not lost on the environmentalists. Like Antony, L.J. was facing a very hostile audience, many of whom would be glad to see her quick demise, preferably in a public and humiliating manner. She started to speak, her words matter-of-fact, her tone friendly. “Oil is the world’s biggest business because it’s the linchpin of our civilization. Petroleum pervades our life, and we are, whether we like it or not, a hydrocarbon society. Oil is so critical that in the twentieth century it meant money, power, and mastery.”
“Honey,” Ann said, her voice dripping with sweetness, “this is the twenty-first century. Things change.”
L.J. gave her a smile and the little nod. “Have they? Petroleum has changed every aspect of our civilization, and I don’t see us getting along without it.”
“And I don’t see how we can live with it,” Ann said, her voice calm and reasoned. “Oil is the great polluter. It’s killing the environment.”
“I agree,” L.J. said. The silence in the room was absolute, surprise on every face. “Unfortunately I don’t see Hydrocarbon Man giving up his cars and suburban way of life.”
L.J.’s ready agreement startled Ann. “You got the ‘man’ part right.”
“There’s no need for us to fight,” L.J. said.
Frobisher sensed that it was time to intervene. “There are two issues on which there is no compromise.”
L.J. turned to look at him, her blue eyes full of understanding. “Oil spills and air pollution.”
“Correct,” he said. “And I repeat, there is no compromise.”
“In both of these areas we have many points of common agreement where we can work together to make things better.”
“Why?” Ann asked, genuinely interested but still doubtful.
“It’s complicated,” L.J. replied, “and I can’t explain it in ten seconds. But in a nutshell, it’s in my economic self-interest to do so.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.” This from the ecoterrorist. “A lot better.” His face was granite hard, a perfect reflection of his voice.
L.J. pulled off the gloves. “The environmentalist movement is laboring under the illusion that environmental improvement is basically ‘free,’ a matter of regulation, and there is no price tag, no bill to be paid. That’s totally wrong.” The two scientists nodded in agreement. “Oil is so integral to our economy,” L.J. continued, “that any change will involve money, massive amounts of it. Also, I know change is coming, and I want to be part of it.”
The ecoterrorist was the type of alpha male Ann Silton detested, and she liked the way L.J. stood up to him. Ann repeated her question, the hostility in her voice gone. “You still haven’t answered why.”
“Because,” L.J. answered, “I’m going to make money when the bill is paid. Lots of it. But there’s another reason, and whether you believe it or not, I am an environmentalist and I care.”
Ann wanted to believe her, but there was still so much between them. “You are one conflicted woman if you believe all that.”
L.J.’s laugh filled the room with music. “My father claimed I’m part Southern belle and part feminist. How much more conflicted can you get than that?”
“Maybe,” Frobisher allowed, “there are areas where we
can
work together.”
L.J. gave him a look that made his knees go weak. “Oh, I hope so. Now, where do we begin?”
At exactly nine o’clock the next morning, Lloyd Marsten, the CEO of RayTex Oil, entered the company’s executive offices on the top floor of the Fountain Plaza Building. As always, he moved with a measured, purposeful dignity, and nothing betrayed his impatience. His secretary, Mrs. Shugy Jenkins, sprang from her seat and held open the door to the CEO’s corner office. “Good morning, Mr. Marsten. Tea?” She was a prim, childless, birdlike woman in her mid-forties, a Southern Baptist whose faith was the only thing that flourished on her parent’s hardscrabble farm in west Texas.
“That would be nice, thank you.” Marsten’s British accent matched his outward appearance. He was tall, gray-headed, slightly stooped, and impeccably attired in a Savile Row suit, not the regulation Brooks Brothers ensemble worn by his fellow CEOs. The suit helped highlight the differences between him and his American contemporaries. He was the epitome of the European oil man—suave, cultured, intelligent, technically competent, and aristocratic. But underneath the smooth and urbane exterior lurked a shark, a very hungry predator. “Is Miss Ellis in yet?”
Shugy worked hard not to frown at the mention of L.J. “Not yet.” She couldn’t help herself. “Her chauffeur dropped her off at the Dallas Regency yesterday afternoon for the meeting with the environmentalists. He never picked her up.”
“Ah,” Marsten said, not missing a beat. “Perhaps she was offered another way home.”
If she went home,
Shugy thought, hurrying to get Marsten’s tea. She worshipped the very ground Marsten walked on and considered L. J. Ellis a Jezebel.
Marsten settled into his chair and gazed out the window. It was an unbelievably clear day for September, and Fort Worth’s skyline etched the far horizon. But he didn’t really see it as his stomach churned with anxiety. The door opened, and Shugy wheeled in a tea cart. L.J. was right behind her, still wearing the same clothes as the day before. The secretary poured two cups of tea and stirred in the right amount of milk and sugar for Marsten. “Thank you, Shugy,” Marsten said, sending her on her way.
L.J. sipped her tea and waited for the door to close. “Is Shugy her real name?”
“I believe it is,” Marsten replied. “A diminutive derived from the word ‘sugar.’”
“She reminds me of my old spinster aunt. The poor thing believed if you enjoyed something, it was sinful. But she did like her soap operas.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve often wondered what you Texas ladies enjoyed.”
“I enjoyed last night,” she replied.
“Were there, ah, developments?”
“No, I did not sleep with John Frobisher. But he thinks we might.” She considered the possibility, recalling the teddy-bear image and the urge to cuddle him.
“‘A promise made is a debt unpaid,’” Marsten quoted.
“‘And the trail has its own stern code,’” L.J. added. She laughed, and as always, he was enchanted. It helped calm his growing apprehension. “‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ When did you start reading Robert Service?”
“I am trying to understand you colonials.” Again he arched an eyebrow, still waiting for a full report on the night’s activities. If it were germane to RayTex Oil, she would tell him.
“I had to tame the two women on the executive committee. The older one, Ann Silton, has a brain and isn’t afraid to use it.”
“Which you like in a woman,” Marsten added.
“We do have a lot in common,” L.J. said. “She’s aggressive and wants to make a difference. The younger one, Clarissa Jones, is in need of an ego. We sat up most of the night talking about women’s issues. It turned into a girl’s slumber party.” She thought for a moment, a sadness in her eyes. “Have ARA check them out.” ARA, or Action Research Associates, was the firm of private investigators RayTex Oil used. Like the CIA, ARA had global reach; however, there was one big difference. ARA was very good at what they did.
Again the expressive eyebrow from Marsten.
“No, I did not sleep with either of them.”
“A promise made…”
“I’m not that kind of girl,” L.J. said.
“Do they know we’re picking up the tab at the Regency?”
“No. But it would have been cheap at ten times the price.”
“Your search for allies is admirable,” Marsten said. “I just hope it isn’t misguided.”
“Change is coming, Lloyd. We can’t stop it. But we can delay. For that we need friends at court.”