The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

“We will,” Kurt insisted, feeling confident.

He reached into the locker and pulled out the flares, which he stuffed into his breast pocket next to the binoculars. He grabbed the life jacket and handed it to Leilani.

“Put this on,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s just a precaution.”

Next he pulled out the anchor—a fifteen-pound fluke anchor hooked to an anchor rope by a large carabiner. He detached the anchor from the rope and hooked it onto the cord that bound the prisoner’s feet. The man looked up at Kurt in terror.

“Also just a precaution,” Kurt told him.

The man’s face showed little faith in that statement.

Kurt pulled the gag off the man’s face. “I know you understand when we talk,” he said. “Do you speak English as well?”

The man nodded. “I speak … some.”

“I don’t suppose you know the story of the little Dutch boy?”

The man stared at him blankly.

“This boat is sinking,” Kurt explained, “losing air. I can either throw you overboard to lighten our load or you can help us.”

“I’ll help,” the man said. “Yes, yes, I definite want to help.”

“The anchor is on your feet to keep you from trying anything stupid,” Kurt explained, and then he pointed to the forward section. “I need you to cover up these two holes and keep the air in.”

The man nodded. “I can do that. Definite, big-time.”

“Good,” Kurt said. “’Cause if you don’t, you’re going to hit the bottom of the sea faster than the rest of us.”

Kurt loosened the ropes around the man’s wrists and pulled them free. “What’s your name?”

“I am called Ishmael,” the man said.

“Great,” Kurt mumbled. “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about. Let’s hope we don’t encounter an angry white whale.”

With his legs still tied together and hooked to the anchor, Ishmael twisted and slithered a foot or so until he reached the prow of the boat. He placed his hands on the two leaks Kurt had pointed out.

“Press and hold,” Kurt said.

Ishmael pressed his fingers on the two spots and held them down. After a few seconds, he looked back, smiling.

“Perfect.”

“What about the other leaks?” Leilani asked.

“I’ll take first shift,” Kurt said, trying to spread his fingers like a piano player, “you keep us pointed west.”

Kurt and Leilani switched positions twice in the next three hours, but the rear chamber continued to deflate and the boat began to list to starboard and the aft corner settled. From time to time seawater washed over the top, soaking whoever was trying to stem the leak and weighing them down even further.

Fortunately, the Indian Ocean was the calmest of the world’s major seas and the swell was very small, only a foot at most. Kurt found that lower speeds kept the breaches to a minimum and he backed off the throttle just a bit.

As noon approached, they still hadn’t encountered anything resembling help, not even a trail of smoke on the horizon. With the sun high overhead, the outboard began to sputter and Kurt had no choice but to shut it off.

“Out of gas,” Leilani guessed.

“We have a gallon or so in the reserve tank,” he said, pointing to a stopcock on the fuel line that could be turned to access the reserve. “But we need to save that.”

“Save it for what?”