The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (23 page)

T
he
Learjet came in fast and low on half flaps, just the tiniest puff of tire smoke
as it made contact with the runway at São Pedro. Penny stood on the viewing
balcony in the airport’s other terminal, one reserved for VIPs, military and,
in recent times, top-secret transit flights. She watched as the first four
passengers disembarked – burly males dressed in black T-shirts, desert boots
and beige fatigue pants, the kind of garb worn by private military contractors
the world over – followed by a male and female in their thirties wearing smart
causal clothes, and a white-haired man in a suit and an overcoat, despite the
high heat. The group climbed into a people carrier with tinted glass, which,
having been loaded with a large amount of luggage and plastic containers, made
its way toward the arrivals area. She hurried down the stairs to greet them,
wondering if life could get any crazier or this was all a dream.

The elderly gent spoke a few words to the immigration
official, who waved them all through without so much a check of their
passports.

Penny brazened herself and walked forward.

“My dear Penny.” The man held out a bony hand blemished with
liver spots. “I’m Innes. How are the sleeping arrangements?”

“Oh, you know. We all need to rough it now and again.”

“Exactly!”

Their laughter broke the tension.

In front of the terminal they transferred some of the gear to
the hotel’s Mercedes to make room in the people carrier for Penny, Edridge
wishing to make use of every second of her presence to add to the intelligence
portfolio.

“Oh, before I forget.” Muttley reached inside his jacket. “This
is for you.” He handed her a crisp new passport. “Courtesy of the consulate general
in Boston.”

Although impressed with the speed and thoroughness of the
operation, Penny worried this meant the Concern believed the yacht had gone
down, taking her belongings with it.

Sensing her thoughts: “Don’t worry, Penny. We’re just
covering our bases should we need to move somewhere fast.”

As Penny stowed the travel document in her daypack, it
occurred to her she hadn’t provided and signed the required paperwork. The UK Passport
Office must have authorized its issue immediately, supplying her signature and
photograph held on file.

On the ensuing journey Penny learned that four of the men were
former Navy SEALs, two of them having served with Hans, and that the
nondescript man and woman were a surgeon and a medic. Between them the group
spoke a number of languages, including Arabic, Portuguese and French.

“Nothing to be concerned about, my dear.” Edridge could tell
the personnel and equipment took Penny aback. He pulled on his shirt cuffs to
square them. “But as we used to say in the Boy Scouts back in Scotland, it’s
best to be prepared.”

Penny nodded vaguely.

“Don’t worry, honey.” One of the former SEALS, Phipps,
gripped her shoulder with a gorilla-sized black hand. “If they’re out there, we
will
find them.”

Penny smiled and said thank you, her thoughts lingering on
the latter statement.

Upon arrival at the Grande Verde, the team wasted no time in
setting up laptops and other communication equipment to serve as a command
center. What with the modern décor and bank of computer screens, Penny had a
brief vision of the Starship
Enterprise
.

Edridge – “Muttley” – spent time on the telephone talking to
the United States Africa Command. Clearly frustrated, he held his head down and
gripped the folds in his immaculately pressed suit pants with a veiny hand.
Having terminated the call, he whispered something to Phipps, who pursed his
lips, shook his head and went back to scanning the grainy satellite images on
his screen, downloaded at considerable expense from a private French company.

“Code Purple,” Muttley muttered as he led Penny into another
room for a second debrief.

“Purple?” She wondered if this was a good thing.

“Yes . . .” For the first time since they’d met, Muttley
didn’t look her in the eye. “Someone’s putting pressure on the Pentagon to
block our request for US military intervention. Code Purple means that for
reasons of national security, no explanation need be offered.”

Penny thought back to her conversation with Hans on board
Future
two nights previous following their fire on the beach. Hadn’t he said something
about an undesirable in Washington? She kept quiet and was sure she heard Muttley
swear under his breath.

By midafternoon the team had established communications with
all the necessary agencies. They arranged for the printing of flyers and their distribution
to yacht crews throughout the island group and shipping entering and leaving
port, offering a reward of two hundred fifty thousand dollars for any
information leading to the rescue of
Future
’s crew. Skippers of small
craft joining the search would receive a thousand dollars an hour, five
thousand for commercial vessels and the pilots of private aircraft.

Not surprisingly a veritable flotilla headed for the search
area, along with a flight of twenty-plus planes, all coordinated by Phipps and
his men over the radio and plotted on charts pasted to the command center’s
walls. The coastguard’s plane now refueled a fourth time in preparation for
another sortie, their patrol vessel continuing to sail a crisscross pattern.
The British Lynx helicopter was down for routine maintenance but would be up
flying again within the hour.

A website and Facebook page were set up to draw attention to,
and share information about, the missing yacht, aimed at crews and shipping in
the area and amateur radio enthusiasts. One such operator had already made
contact to say he picked up a brief transmission of coordinates he believed to
be from
Future
– quickly ruled out by the team, since the position was
too far out into the Atlantic to correspond with the yacht’s top speed.

Over the coming days messages offering well wishes and
support bombarded the website. A psychic in Ireland saw the yacht knocked down
by a rogue wave and its crew taking refuge on a tiny atoll. In view of there
being no reefs remotely near
Future
’s last known position, and
attempting to keep things in perspective, Muttley reminded her to be realistic,
but it was yet another niggle in her overtired mind.

A leading public relations consultant in the US – “One of
our own,” Muttley said, winking – initiated a media campaign to raise the
profile of the search, specifically targeting Cape Verde’s news outlets and
those in the Caribbean. Penny’s jaw dropped when later in the day a report from
RTC – Cape Verde’s primary TV station – flashed up photographs of the missing
crew that, although bearing a resemblance, were not the father and daughter she
knew.

“You don’t think we’re going to show the face of one of our foremost
agents to the world, do you, Penny?’ said Muttley. ‘It’s a yacht or a life raft
we’re encouraging people to look out for. The identity of the crew is
irrelevant.”

An anonymous contributor to the website reported seeing Hans
and Jessica in a restaurant in Guinea-Bissau. Phipps was right on the case,
tracking the user’s IP address to find it scrambled via a proxy server. It
initiated yet another grave and hushed discussion between him and Muttley.

When
Yachting Life
ran a column detailing how a local
fishing boat witnessed
Future
’s gas tank exploding, but was unable to
provide a source for the information, Muttley took Penny to one side.

“Penny, it could well be that someone is attempting to
sabotage our efforts. There’s no logical explanation for a gas leak leading to
an explosion in the galley. Hans doesn’t smoke, and it’s not as if he would be
cooking a meal while single-handedly sailing the yacht, especially when they
were due back in port in two hours. As for the sighting in Guinea Bissau, if
Hans decided to disappear off into the sunset without informing anyone – which
there is no evidence to suggest – then it would be for good reason. A reason
known only to Orion.”

“But, but . . .” Penny felt as though she had a million
counter explanations, though attempting to formulate a coherent argument she
realized they just weren’t there.

Penny offered to undergo the harrowing task of contacting Hans’
younger brother, Carl, in the States. They had not spoken before, bar friendly
hellos yelled in the background of the brothers’ cell phone conversations, but
she figured such awful news better come from her rather than a complete
stranger.

Carl remained surprisingly upbeat, thanking Penny profusely
and stating firmly that “nothing will happen to
my
brother!” He offered
to fly out right away, but Muttley suggested it was better Carl stayed in the
US should either a rescued Hans or a concerned other party attempt to make
contact.

“We’ve got weather!”

Clayton, one of the former SEALS, fixated on his laptop
screen. A sophisticated map from an online company used by aircraft and
shipping showed a full-color satellite image of the North Atlantic and, in
particular, a ruddy-brown whirl indicating an area of low pressure sweeping in
from Central Africa.

“Looks like a Cape Verde hurricane.”

Penny ended the call and looked out of the window to see the
palm fronds lining the Grande’s immaculate boulevard swaying in the building
gusts, the sky darkening and a metallic aura imbuing the atmosphere as lightning
threatened and rain began to fall. She saw Muttley on another line at the far
end of the room. Again, he shook his head, drumming his fingers on the
tabletop, until all movement stopped and he sat looking at the floor.

He replaced the receiver slowly and, his stare unwavering,
said, “Penny, shall we go for a walk?”

A banshee’s wail built in the pit of her stomach. “Wh-wh-why
. . . ?” she stammered.

“Oh, dear Penny! So sorry. I just thought you could do with
some fresh air.”

He picked up his overcoat and umbrella and, with one of his
ever-gracious smiles, ushered her toward the door.

A
wave slammed into the back of the raft, tilting it forward and sending its
occupants tumbling across the floor.

Grabbing the webbing strap for support, Hans looked out to
see black clouds building above an increasingly angry sea. Worse still, the
raft had spun around, and the doorway now faced the approaching swell.

“It’s okay!”

He attempted to zip up the entrance but was too late. The
next wave surged up over the tubes to send gallons of water flooding into their
recently dried home.

“No!”

Hans lunged for his daughter as the exiting sea attempted to
suck her and their equipment bags into the cauldron. As the raft righted itself,
stemming the outpour, he drew up the zippers to prevent further deluge.

Jessica stayed remarkably calm, floating around in what was
now a foot-deep paddling pool. Ironically, the additional ballast gave the raft
more stability, but the increased resistance meant the next wave crashing down
on them would likely rip its seams apart. Fighting panic, Hans retrieved the
drogue from one of the mesh compartments. When streamed underwater on its
fifty-foot line, the device would create drag and reduce the risk of capsize.

The problem was he needed to secure it to the back of the
raft to keep the entrance away from the oncoming sea. He considered dropping into
the water and working his way aft while holding on to the exterior handline, but
that could lead to catastrophe. The next big wave might wrench the raft from
his grasp, sending it spinning away across the churning ocean.

What about the portal?

An air vent in the rear of the canopy doubled as an
observation port. It had a drooping drawstring neck like an upturned duffel
bag. Hans released the cord lock and pried the opening apart. He managed to force
his head and one arm through, only to see another foaming behemoth bear down on
the struggling craft.

Rather than withdraw inside, leaving a gaping hole for the
ocean to exploit, Hans drew a deep breath. The seething mass broke upon them,
collapsing the canopy and crushing Hans’ torso into the top tube. Air spilled
from his lungs, his head plunging underwater, until the muffled hiss of the raft’s
safety valves drowned out the noise of the building storm.

Silence.

Despite being seconds from unconsciousness, Hans felt his anxiety
evaporating, leaving him with a surreal feeling of calm. He was tempted to suck
in a lungful of the Atlantic, to reunite with his wife and son, but the image
of his daughter alone in the raft spurred him on.

When the raft broke the surface, Hans wriggled back inside
and, having checked Jessica was okay, undid the Velcro fastener on the neatly
folded drogue and shoved it through the opening, making sure to keep a hold of
the tether. Hans thrust both arms out of the portal, his bodyweight crumpling
the canopy, and lashed a hitch around the exterior handline. With his face
pressed up against the nylon, blocking his vision, it may not have been the neatest
knot ever tied but it would do for now. With a sigh of relief, he slid the quick
fastener up the portal’s drawcord, gathering the material and shutting out the
elements.

The raft had an arched entrance, with two zippers meeting at
its apex like a dome camping tent. Hans pulled them down a few inches to create
a football-shaped gap and set about bailing out the raft with the Disney mug.
He considered emptying the flares from their Poly Bottle container and using it
to speed up the process, but even though the pyrotechnics were supposedly
waterproof, he did not want to risk them getting wet. Remembering the foldout
basin, he retrieved it from the equipment bag and began heaving out the
unwelcome liquid a gallon at a time – no easy task, the ocean buffeting them
incessantly.

“Fishing time?”

“Not now.”

“Painting?”

“Later.”

Finally, the tether paid out to full length and the drogue
flared, its function as a sea anchor preventing the raft from surfing down the
face of the waves at breakneck speed. Yet it did nothing to lessen the impact
of the rogue breakers slamming into tubes every few seconds, buckling them
inwards and catapulting the two of them across the floor.

In the murky interior, the stench of rubber, talc and glue
combined with body odor and salt to create a miasma of suffocating proportions,
nausea worsened by the relentless motion of the raft. Had Hans the energy, he
would have thrown up. Instead he retrieved two seasickness pills from the
equipment bag and held them out to Jessica. She stared at them, void of emotion,
as they dissolved in his clammy palm.

All day and night Mother Nature ran her course, testing a
resolve that waned by the second. Howling gusts slammed sheeting rain and spray
against the irrelevant orange pod, as deafening as a fusillade of machine guns
in the thirty-foot swell.

Clinging to the webbing strap, Hans did not know what was
worse – anticipating the thunder of the next roller to bury them, or the chaos
ensuing when it did. He desperately worried the raft’s adhesive would split and
its seams come apart. Should that happen they stood no chance without survival
suits and life jackets. If the surface spray didn’t suffocate them, the
resulting fatigue, combined with eventual hypothermia, would dull the will to
live in no time at all, leaving apathy and indifference in its place.

Often the sets hit in close succession, seeing Hans fight
for their lives as he redistributed his weight, bailed out the raft and
reassured Jessica. Other times minutes would pass, the action exchanged for growing
dread as he contemplated the enormity of their situation. Never did he allow
himself to consider the storm might be abating – it was too much of a blow to
morale when the next monster reared its unwelcome head and attempted to devour
them.

A random wave broke under the raft, flipping it up on its
edge and leaving them suspended in purgatory, until the drogue line tightened
and yanked the inflatable back down. It seemed no matter what the conditions
threw at the faithful craft, it buoyed triumphant every time. Only now did Hans
yield to a glimmer of optimism, one burning brighter as dawn’s long-awaited
fingers clawed across the saturnine sky. Truly biblical, a gemstone sparkled
through the dissipating cloud bank, unfurling a citrine carpet across the ocean
toward them. Tumult morphed into calm as hope replaced fear.