She gazed south through the window, and the crushing disappointment she was trying not to think about descended over her again. Due to weather delays and low ratings, they were bypassing the island that lay just beyond that horizon-bypassing the only reason Nell had tried out for this show in the first place.
For the past few hours, she had been trying not to remind the men on the bridge of the fact that they were closer than all but a handful of people had ever come to the place she had studied and theorized about for over nine years.
Instead of heading one day south and landing, they were heading west to Pitcairn Island, where the descendants of the
Nell gritted her teeth and caught her reflection scowling back at her. She turned and looked out the stern window.
She saw the mini-sub resting under a crane on the ship’s center pontoon. Underwater viewing ports were built into the port and starboard pontoons-Nell’s favorite lunch spots, where she had seen occasional blue-water fish like tuna, marlin, and sunfish drafting the ship’s wake.
The
On the poop deck below, she watched the ship’s marine biologist, Andy Beasley trying to teach the weather-beaten crew a lesson in sea life.
Raised by his beloved but alcoholic Aunt Althea in New Orleans, the gentle young scientist had grown up surrounded by aquariums, for he lived over his aunt’s seafood restaurant. Any specimens that came under his study were automatically spared the kettle.
He had gone on to live out Althea’s dream of becoming a marine biologist, e-mailing her every day from the moment he left home for college to the day he accepted his first research position.
Aunt Althea had passed away three months ago. After surviving Hurricane Katrina, she had succumbed to pancreatic cancer, leaving Andy more alone than he had thought possible after feeling so terribly alone all his life.
One month after her funeral, he had received a letter inviting him to audition for
Trident.
Andy fidgeted with the wireless mike pinned to his skinny yellow leather tie. He wore a Lacoste blue-white-orange-yellow-purple-and-green-striped shirt, which resembled Fruit Stripe gum. Paired with the vertically striped shirt, he wore Tommy Hilfiger boardshorts with horizontal blue, green, pink, red, orange, and yellow stripes. To set it all off, he wore green size-11 high-top sneakers.
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.
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
2:14 P.M.
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
that
Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.
SeaLife
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
“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
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
“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
“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.”
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
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
Nell did her best Cynthea impression:
“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
“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
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.
Glyn nodded. “If your theory holds up.”
The motors revved as the Turbosail rotated over the bridge.
As Nell’s eyes brimmed, the others wondered whether she was looking for more than a new flower on Henders Island.
They all cringed as a voice blasted from a speaker by the camera over the forward window:
“This is not a joke, Cynthea,” Captain Sol answered.
Captain Sol looked wearily at Warburton. “It’s probably just a derelict sailboat. But the beacon was activated, so we have to check it out.”
Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.