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Andy’s teaching props, a number of latex hand puppets of various sea creatures, lay scattered on the white deck before him. Beside him sat a panting, broad-nosed bull terrier with a miniature life vest strapped on his square chest.

Zero Monroe, the lead cameraman, changed the memory stick in his digital video camera. The previous one had blinked
FULL
in the middle of Andy’s lesson, something that had been planned, much to Zero’s chagrin, in order to start rattling Andy and get him primed for an eruption.

“Are we ready yet?” Andy asked, flustered but still trying to smile.

Zero raised the camera to his right eye and opened the other eye at Andy. “Yup,” he replied. The rangy cameraman used words sparingly, especially when he was unhappy. This job was making him unhappy.

His lean physique, wide aquamarine eyes, and deadpan humor lent Zero a vaguely Buster Keaton-like quality, though he was
six-two and broad at the shoulders. He wore a gray Boston Marathon T-shirt that he had earned three times over, and battered blue New Balance RXTerrain running shoes with orange laces and gel-injected soles. His faded brown Orvis cargo pants had fourteen pockets stuffed with memory sticks, lenses, lens filters, lens cleaners, mike filters, and a lot of batteries.

Zero had made his living and reputation photographing wildlife. He had mastered his trade in some of the most inhospitable environments in the world, taking assignments from the infested mangrove swamps of Panama (filming fiddler crabs) to the corrosive alkaline lakes in the Rift Valley of East Africa (filming flamingos). After the last three weeks, Zero was wondering which assignment was worse—this one, or standing in mud that ate through his wading boots while his blood was drained by swarming black flies.

“Let’s go, Gus,” Zero growled.

A grip clacked a plastic clapper in front of Andy’s face, startling him.
“SeaLife
, day fifty-two, camera three, stick two!”

“And…ACTION!” Jesse Jones shouted.

Jesse was the obligatory obnoxious member of the on-camera “crew.” The real crew wore uniforms and tried to stay off-camera as much as possible. Universally hated by both his shipmates and the viewers at home, Jesse Jones was delighted to play a starring role. Reality shows needed at least one cast member everyone could loathe with full enjoyment, one who caused crisis and conflict, one whom sailors in olden days would have called a “Jonah” and heaved overboard at the first opportunity.

Tanned and muscular, with heavily tattooed upper arms, Jesse wore his hair short, spiked, and bleached white. No one had taken advantage of the show’s legion of sponsors quite so much as he had. He was decked out in black thigh-low, ribs-high Bodyform wetsuit trunks, complete with a stitched-in blue codpiece, and over them a muscle Y-shirt printed with palms and flowers. On his feet were silver Nikes and on his nose rested five-hundred dollar silver-framed Matsuda sunglasses with pale turquoise lenses.

“Where were we, Zero?” Andy said, cranking up a smile.

“Copepods,” Zero prompted.

“Oh yes,” Andy said. “That’s right—Jesse?”

Jesse threw a rubber hand-puppet at Andy, who ducked too late. It bounced off his face.

Everyone laughed as Andy replaced his imitation tortoise-shell glasses and gave a crooked smile to the camera. He slipped his hand into the puppet and wiggled its single google-eye and two long antennae with his fingers. “So Copepod, here, gets his name from this microscopic sea creature.”

The banana-snouted dog barked once and resumed panting next to Andy’s leg.

“Poor Copey!” Dawn Kipke, the crew’s surf-punk siren, crooned. “Why would anyone name a dog after that ugly freaking thing?”

“Yeah, that’s uncool, dude,” Jesse shouted.

Andy lowered the puppet and frowned at Zero, who zoomed in on his face.

Andy’s face turned red and his eyes bulged as he threw the puppet down. “How can I
teach
anything if nobody ever LISTENS TO ME?” he raged.

He stormed off the deck and down the hatchway.

The crew turned to Zero.

“Hey, I’m not in charge, man,” Zero said, walking backwards as he shot. “Ask the guys upstairs!” He panned up to the bridge, where Nell stood looking down at them. She made hand-antlers at them in the window and stuck out her tongue.

“Looks like mutiny, Captain. I think we’re going to have to land at the first opportunity.”

Captain Sol gave Nell a sly look over his shoulder. A trim white beard framed his tanned face and sea-blue eyes. “Nice try, Nell.”

“I’m serious!”

Glyn Fields, the show’s biologist, stepped next to Nell to look
through the window. “She’s right, Captain. I really think the crew’s getting ready to storm the Bastille.”

Nell had met Glyn during her second year as an assistant professor teaching first-year botany at NYU. Glyn was teaching first-year biology, and his looks had caused quite a stir among the faculty 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 Top-Siders 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 a 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. “The vessel’s name is
Balboa Bilbo.
The owner’s name is Thad Pinkowski of Long Beach, California. OK, this is interesting: the registration on the beacon expired three years ago.”

“Ha!” Captain Sol grunted. “It’s a derelict.”

“Maybe the NOAA records are out of date?” Glyn suggested.

“Not likely.”

Samir held the satphone to his ear. “LUT reports that we’re the nearest vessel, Captain. Since it’s too far from an airstrip to get a search plane out here, they’re asking us to respond, if able.”

“How soon can we reach it, Carl?”

“Around fourteen hundred hours, tomorrow.”

“Bring her about, due south. Sam, let the LUT station know we’re responding.”

“Aye, sir!”

“And try hailing her on VHF.”

“On it!”

Captain Sol pushed a button and spoke into the ship’s intercom. “All hands, as you can see, we are now making a course adjustment. We will be landing sooner than planned, tomorrow afternoon, on an unexplored island. There will be a more detailed announcement at dinner. As you were!”

Faint cheers rose from the deck outside.

Captain Sol turned to Glyn. “Mutiny averted. That should hold them for a while. Well, Nell. It looks like the wind keeps blowing your way.”

The southern horizon swung into view in the wide windows as the
Trident
came about. Captain Sol pointed to the left edge of the navigation monitor, where a small white circle rose on an arc toward the top of the screen.

Warburton smiled. “There it is, Nell.”

Nell ran to see the plotting monitor as the men stepped to each side.

“If you want to find an untouched ecosystem, you certainly came to the right place,” Glyn conceded.

“It must be twelve hundred miles from the nearest speck of land, I reckon,” Samir said.

“Fourteen hundred.” Nell’s heart pounded so loudly she feared the others could hear it. “Every plant pollinated by insects on this island should be a new species,” she explained.