Off Kilter (28 page)

The time lost proved critical. The leading edge of the hurricane was bearing down on him. Collin could tell by the erratic and powerful gusts of wind, howling like a hungry animal on the hunt.  Darkness was setting in.

He hunkered down, praying silently as he focused on following the course set by the GPS until the island was a just quarter mile away. Though it was reported by the Captain to be only twenty meters in length and eight meters wide, it provided a sliver of shelter from the torrent. In the shadow of the little spit of land, the waves were half as large and far less violent, allowing Collin to pick up much needed speed. He approached the island from the north and discovered a wall of rock, six feet high, as the Captain had said he would. He had to make his way around the east end to find the sandy, horseshoe-shaped lagoon where Captain Sewell told him to beach the boat. He pushed eastward, toward the storm, around the end of the rocky outcroppings. Turning to his right, the wall of rock continued. As he made the turn a ferocious wall of water greeted him, colliding with the island and amassing two meters above his head. He gunned the little engine full throttle and scaled the wave. The nose of the dinghy went airborne as he broke through the crest and sped down the back side, out of control. The sea pulled back and revealed in the fading twilight, an exposed shoal. He was headed straight for it. He throttled again and banked left, closing his eyes and bracing himself as he did.

He expected to catapult headfirst out of the boat and into the rocks. Or to topple over and tumble onto the jagged surface. Instead, he swung upward again, racing up the face of another giant wave. This repeated several times until an inlet appeared to his right. Veering hard right at the bottom of the next wave, he narrowly avoided another towering rock. He slipped past it into a semi-protected, crescent-shaped cove. A row of sentinel-like spires of rock poked out of the water from the shoals, forming a breakwater.

Collin cut the power to the motor as the water became shallow to avoid damaging the propeller on rock or sand. He slid into the water feet first over the bow, gathering the tie rope as he went. He landed chest-high in the water on a sandy bottom amid a powerful surge that thrust him and the dinghy to the shore, causing him to trip on an unseen rock. Scrambling on hands and knees, Collin dragged the little dinghy up the semi-sandy beach. Another surge pushed it several feet higher up the beach, which was pitched at a steep angle, washing over Collin’s head. He sputtered and grasped for a hold as the water receded, dragging him backward, across the sand. He struggled to get back on his hands and knees when another wave slammed into him, driving him face first up the beach. He held the rope tight, knowing the dinghy represented his salvation. Again, he scrambled to his knees and braced himself. The waves pushed him and the dinghy up the steep incline until he was able to grab hold of a football-sized rock. The waves continued to surge, but he was able to gain balance and traction and move up the beach, beyond the waves.  Collin tugged the dinghy until it also reached sand, completely out of the water.

The island was barren. Nothing but rocks and sand from what he could see silhouetted in the darkness. It stood maybe seven feet above the water at its peak and was half the size of a soccer field.

There was not a good place to tie the boat that he could see, except a fat, round rock that looked like a toilet bowl—wider at the top, narrower at the base. Collin tied the bow rope around the base and cinched it tight. That way even if the water rose, the rope should hold. He swung the stern of the boat as far up the beach as he could and tied the stern rope to another rock. The dinghy sat perpendicular to the direction of the waves, but several yards from their terminus, its propeller and outdrive, he hoped, would be spared the pounding against sand or rock.

As he scrambled up the beach toward a jumble of rocks in search of shelter, he remembered the sea bag and its precious contents. He turned toward the dinghy to retrieve it as a potent gust of wind hit him with such force it knocked him off his feet, hurling him toward the ground.

“Spit 3”, Gulf of Mexico

June 6

Collin felt the wind lift him off his feet. He was hurtling through the air, feeling minuscule and helpless. For the first time in his life, he feared being literally blown away, like a dry leaf. His imagination spun on that for a split second, wondering how far into oblivion the wind could actually carry him, afraid of being blown out to sea with no boat, no life jacket.

He landed on his back, several feet from where he had been walking, with such force that his breath was pushed out of him. His landing spot was a low, bumpy boulder, thinly covered with a layer of fine sand. The impact sent fresh flashes of pain through his ribs, shoulder, and back. His head slammed against the rock hard enough to make him see stars. He lay there dazed, half in shock, trying to regain his breath and wits while the rain peppered his body with more ferocity than he had ever experienced.

For several long moments, Collin struggled to move. Every attempt caused a wave of pain that incapacitated him. He had to get out of the rain and wind, so he rolled to his good side and pushed up to his knees. Staying low to the ground, moving along the clutter of slick rock and sodden sand, his knees wobbly and head bleeding, Collin searched for some sort of refuge. He couldn’t see because of the rain and the fast-encroaching darkness and was deafened by the roaring wind and pounding surf, making rational thought impossible. In all his years living in California, he had never experienced rain or wind like this. It brought to mind images of fire hoses knocking down protesters, such was the force behind it. This was raw, natural, fearsome power.

Equally as powerful, though, was Collin’s will to survive.

Within a few yards, he stumbled into something promising: a refrigerator-sized rock lying against another, creating a triangular space similar in size to that found under a large desk. Collin squeezed himself in, gathering his legs and torso into a ball and maneuvering until he was sitting with his back against the supporting rock. Rain water dripped and ran into the space, but he was protected from the wind and the pelting. He sat on a jagged, but mostly dry, rock. That’s when he remembered the sea bag with his raincoat and the dry clothes he had intended to bring. It was too risky to retrieve it. Instead, he fumbled to remove his shirt so he could wring out as much water as possible before putting it back on. It wasn’t much, but it would help. When he was done, he pulled his legs close to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to conserve body heat. He placed his forehead against his knees, closed his eyes, and thanked God for helping him get here.

*              *              *              *

London, England

June 7

Nic stared blankly at his computer screen. He had just hung up the phone with Reggie Crabtree and was dreading the meeting that would soon be convened in his boss’s office, where he would have to explain that Collin Cook was missing at sea. According to Crabtree, the commander of the Navy ship that intercepted the sailboat suspected of harboring Cook interviewed its captain and crew after escorting the sailboat out of the danger zone. The ship’s captain explained when asked that he did not know his passenger’s origins or history. All he knew was that the man was a good-paying customer who asked to tour the Caribbean. Each crew member’s statement indicated that Cook had stolen the dinghy and headed south, toward the approaching hurricane. To a man, each reported that Cook seemed wild, crazed, and suicidal as he commandeered their dinghy and raced off into the storm.

The Navy and Coast Guard would suspend search efforts until morning, after the storm had passed, due to safety concerns.

Nic wasn’t convinced that Collin Cook was lost at sea. But he needed to persuade Alastair Montgomery that Cook was dead, or the pressure would never let up.

Like a two-day-old helium balloon, Nic’s spirit sagged. With Collin Cook, all hope of tracking down Pho Nam Penh and bringing him to justice for the world to see had disappeared. Wiped away by a Category Two hurricane named Abigail.

Nic knew he would not have his day of redemption, let alone fame and recognition. He would not be shown on
Sky News
, hauling Collin Cook, the international cyber terrorist, into a detention facility. He would not be interviewed by the London papers. He would not be patted on the shoulder by Director McCutchins. His rise through the ranks would be somewhat less than meteoric. He would go back to monotonous days on the phone, chasing down empty leads, filling out reports on mundane criminals and their mundane activities. Living an ordinary life. Having an ordinary career. The thought crushed him.

Nic blew out a breath he had been holding unconsciously, slapped the manila folder against his knees, and stood, pausing long enough to chase away the last lingering shadows of doubt. His twenty-meter walk of shame down the hallway, past the rows of cubicles, would be the longest of his career.

If Collin Cook resurfaced, he would pay for this humiliation.

*              *              *              *

“Spit 3”, Gulf of Mexico

June 7

When his eyes opened, they were greeted by blinding light. He lay on his side, curled like a fetus. His hands wedged in his armpits; his cheek pressed against wet sand. Rays of golden light sliced through puffy, purple-lined clouds, caressing his face and arms, infusing much needed warmth into his clammy, ashen skin. He didn’t remember falling asleep. The only thing he could recall was praying over and over that he would be spared as the surf pounded into the rocky shore, the wind roared, and the rain splattered all around him in an all-out assault on his senses. He imagined this was what it felt like to live through a massive bombing raid, never knowing when the one would drop that would snuff out his life.

With only rocks shielding him from the elements, he shook with cold all night. His wet cotton clothing did nothing to insulate him, so he continually tensed his muscles and rubbed his skin to generate what little heat he could.

As he awoke, he found it hard to move. Every muscle in his body was knotted and exhausted, a whole night of shivering and tensing taking its toll. After several attempts, Collin pushed up from the sand to a kneeling position and crawled out of his shelter, pausing to make sure the storm had really passed. The filtered sunlight beckoned him, almost pulling him from under the rock, eager to claim victory over Abigail.

Collin surveyed the tiny island that had saved him from the storm. His hole was along a rise that jutted no more than seven feet above sea level, littered with car-sized slabs of chocolate brown rock. He could see both ends of the island, which were only twenty yards apart.

Unable to straighten his half-frozen frame, Collin hobbled to a throne-like rock at the edge of the sand. The coffee colored stone had soaked up enough energy to feel warm to the touch, exactly what Collin wanted. He spread across it, making as much contact with the heated surface as possible. Gradually, his muscles unwound. Color replaced pallor. Hollowness gave way to gratitude. Motivation supplanted melancholy. He cried out toward the sky, thanking God for helping him and for sending the sun to chase the storm.

Time passed, though he had no idea how much. The sun broke free from the last of the clouds and poured on him full force. Steam rose from his shirt, patches of which had dried. His mind had thawed as well, and he remembered the sea bag in the dinghy and the dry clothes it contained.

Rising unsteadily from the bed of rock, he worked to loosen the muscles in his legs, back, and arms by flexing and stretching them. Every joint felt locked or rusted. Prying them loose hurt at first, but the movements felt almost as good as the warmth of the sun. To his relief, the dinghy remained tied to the rocks, though the ropes were stretched and frayed. It was full of water, but no worse for the wear. He pulled out the sea bag, grateful to the Captain for making him pack it with food and water. First, he downed a quart of water, gulping the clear, cool liquid. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was. Then he changed his clothes and wolfed some bread and fruit.

He was starting to feel alive again, like a functioning human. His mind replayed the events of the previous night, and he realized how significant and wondrous it was to be alive, to be functioning. It was a miracle. Miracles happened, he had heard, always as part of a grander design. In that moment, he knew there was a reason he survived, a purpose for his life. He planned to fulfill it. He gathered a lungful of fresh, tropical air, clinched his fists, and stretched them upward, more invigorated than he had been since his teenage years. Emboldened, empowered, preserved. Tears of gratitude and relief streamed down his cheeks as he dropped to his knees. Collin Cook knew his life still had meaning and that thought humbled him.

The silhouette from the Internet news story crossed his mind’s eye. The Asian man he had been photographed with in London just a few weeks ago. The man who had turned his existence upside down, disallowing Collin the chance to mourn the loss of his wife and children. The man he had been running from all this time. The man whose shadow had chased him across three continents.

It was now clear to him that his mission was to save other innocent people from the financial calamities Pho Nam Penh and his band of evil geniuses lay ready to unleash.

The thought brought him to his feet, back to the moment.

He had to get off the island. Most likely the Coast Guard or Navy would scour the area looking for him now that the storm had passed. Surely they knew about this tiny island and would come searching.

After checking the contents of the sea bag and determining that his computer and both phones still worked, Collin prepared to leave the protection of the island and take his chances once again on the open ocean in his twelve-foot dinghy. He tied down the sea bag and gas can under the front bench and checked the tubular walls all the way around. All were tight, holding air.  Another miracle.

Turning on the GPS, he scrolled through the favorites to determine which was closest and to calculate, as best he could, the feasibility of making it there. Dry Tortugas was closest—thirty-four miles away. He topped the tank, leaving the can half full. Judging from the amount of fuel he used the night before to cover roughly thirteen miles, he gauged it to be doable, especially on calmer seas. He pushed the “Go” button on the GPS, and a blinking red dot appeared with a gray line extending almost due south to Dry Tortugas. Wasting no time, he untied the ropes from around the two rocks and dragged the raft down the ravaged beach, into the now calm, but still murky, water of the lagoon.

As he started the motor, he gave the island a long, contemplative look. It was a bleak and barren spot of solid ground amidst miles of water. Not much more than a pile of rocks. One of thousands of such islands in this part of the world; but to him, it was beautiful and hallowed.