Echo of War

26

Once over the rail, he felt a sudden wave of vertigo. He couldn’t tell up from down, right from left. He was vaguely aware of gunshots. He spun, trying to right himself. He glimpsed the sheen of moonlight on water and curled himself into a ball.

He hit the water nearly flat. The impact expelled the air from his lungs. Fighting the urge to surface, he flipped onto his back and opened his eyes. Above him he could just make out the curved outline of the Sorgia’s stern. Blurred figures leaned over the railing. Muzzles flashed. He heard the swish-hiss of bullets slicing into the water.

He flipped over again and kicked downward, aiming for the stern. His eyesight dimmed, sparkled. Don’t think … swim! He stretched out his hands until he touched steel, then walked his palms upward until certain he’d found the spot he was looking for. He kicked hard, broke the surface, and gulped air. After half a dozen breaths, his vision brightened. He looked around.

He was inside what was known as the “rudder hutch,” the cave where the curve of the ship’s stem met the rudder post. He ducked under, groped until he felt the propeller shaft, then crawled onto it and resurfaced. His foot brushed against something hard — one of the propeller blades. Above, he could hear the thumping of feet on the deck.

Now what? He was alive, but in serious trouble. First, the ropes.

He took several deep breaths, then slipped off his perch and ducked underwater. Using the propeller shaft as his guide, he kicked until his hands touched the rudder post. He felt along it until he found a barnacle large enough for his purposes. He began sawing at the ropes. Thirty seconds passed. His lungs began to burn. With a muted snap, the ropes parted. He swam back to the rudder shed.

He heard the distant buzzing of an outboard motor. Had the launch that ferried Jurgen returned? If so, perhaps he could work his stowaway ruse one more time. He cocked his head, listening. No, this wasn’t the launch, he decided. The pitch was too high. What then?

He slipped under again and followed the curve of the hull until his head broke the surface. Above him, a figure stood at the railing shining a flashlight over the water astern. Had they assumed he was swimming for it?

“See anything, Gunter?” a voice called in German.

“Nein. He’s dead. We hit him, I know it. He’s fish food.”

Gunter began playing the flashlight closer toward the ship. Tanner ducked back under, waited for the beam to pass over him, then resurfaced. From the starboard side he heard the buzzing of the motor. The pitch intensified. A spotlight cut through the darkness, followed moments later by the bulbous nose of a Zodiac raft. Kneeling in the bow, rifle in hand, was Litzman. As the Zodiac drew even with the stern, it banked suddenly and cut toward Tanner. Briggs snatched a breath and ducked under.

Trailing a wake of foam, the Zodiac passed overhead, then turned and headed forward along the hull, spotlight skimming over the surface. Tanner ducked back into the rudder shed.

For the next twenty minutes he listened to the droning of the Zodiac as it searched the water around the Sorgia. Every few minutes the motor would go quiet and voices would call to one another: “Anything?” “No, nothing.”

Finally the Zodiac’s engine died and didn’t resume. Tanner counted sixty seconds, then swam out and surfaced beneath the stern. He sidestroked around the curve of the hull. At midships, Litzman was climbing up the accommodation ladder as two crewmen hauled the Zodiac onto the platform.

Tanner pressed himself against the hull and waited. Five minutes passed. He felt the hull shudder, then heard a rumble. Beneath him the water began boiling as the propeller turned over.

He took a deep breath, flipped over, and dove. He swam hard for thirty seconds, resurfaced, snatched a breath, dove again. When he’d covered what he guessed was three hundred yards, he surfaced again and glanced back. The Sorgia’s stern light was fading into the darkness. He watched until he could no longer make out the curve of her stern, then turned toward shore.

The lights along the coastline seemed close, but he knew better. At best, he had a ten-mile swim ahead of him. On the plus side, the water was warm, the current negligible. If he paced himself and kept his bearings, he could make it in four or five hours.

Which way, then? He was somewhere off the coast of Spain’s border with France. Unless his geography was off, Saint Sebastian was the biggest city in the area.

He picked out the two biggest clusters of lights. The one to his northeast would be the French resort town of Biarritz, so the one south of him must be Saint Sebastian. Of the two, he preferred the latter. He had to assume the French authorities were still looking for him and Cahil. If the worst happened, he’d rather face the questions of the Spanish police. Saint Sebastian, then.

He started swimming.

Time passed smoothly, if slowly, as he fell into an easy sidestroke that steadily ate up the distance to shore. Every half hour he would stop, take another bearing on Saint Sebastian, then allow himself a few minutes’ rest before resuming.

Twice he felt a curious surge in the water beneath him, followed each time by the fleeting brush of something against his leg. Heart pounding, he stopped swimming, tucked himself into a ball, and went still. He stayed that way, hovering motionless as his imagination conjured up images of ghostly gray shapes circling in the darkness beneath him. Was he bleeding? Had he cut himself on one of the barnacles and not realized it? No. If he were bleeding, sharks would have found him long before now — and they wouldn’t have announced their presence with a brush. You’re not bleeding; you’re okay; it was nothing.

He lowered his legs and began treading water. His every sense was piqued, waiting for another brush, a bump, anything. Nothing came. After another five minutes he started out again.

Four miles from shore he spotted a piece of driftwood and swam to it. It was roughly twice the length of his body and shaped like an outrigger for a canoe. Using it as a kickboard, he continued on.

Two miles from shore, exhaustion overtook him. Each stroke became a monumental effort, as though his arms were encased in lead and he was paddling through oil. His head began to ache, dully at first and then more sharply, spreading outward from the point where the rifle butt had struck him. Worried he’d suffered a concussion and might slip into unconsciousness, he took a few minutes to use his belt to lash his shoulders to the driftwood before swimming on.

After a time he heard the distant rush of waves. He lifted his head. Ahead he could see a faint line of churned water. Breakers … the beach. He dragged himself belly-first across the driftwood until he was astride it and began paddling.

After another ten minutes, a wave rose beneath him, lifted him onto its crest, and broke. He tumbled end over end into the shallows. Dragging the driftwood behind him, he crawled forward until his hands touched dry sand.

Mindful of Dawn’s approach, Tanner allowed himself five minutes to catch his breath, then unhooked himself from the driftwood, struggled to his feet, and headed inland.

At the top of the beach stood a chest-high stone wall and a set of stone steps. To his left was a sign. It took several seconds for his brain to register the words: “Accueillir à Corniche, Population 1,936.” He blinked, read the sign again.

“Accueillir à …?” Briggs murmured. The words were French. Welcome to … Oh no.

Whether from exhaustion, the concussion, unseen currents, or simply bad navigation, he’d missed Saint Sebastian altogether. He’d come ashore in Corniche. He was still in France.