Fragment

2:14 P.M.

“Looks like mutiny, Captain. I think we’re going to have to land at the first opportunity.”

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 SeaLife.

Tall, pale, thin, and very British, Glyn had sharp, handsome features, nearly black eyes, and his mother’s thick Welsh crown of black hair. The biologist was a tad too vain for Nell’s taste, but she may have felt that way simply because he never seemed to notice her (like that, anyway). He wore the stereotypical clothing of an English academic: Oxford shirts, corduroys, plain leather shoes, and even blue blazers on occasion. He now wore a blue Oxford shirt, khaki slacks, and Top-Siders without socks-about as casual as he was capable of dressing, even in the tropics. Nell suspected the Englishman would never be caught dead wearing shorts, a T-shirt, or, heaven forbid, sneakers.

She remembered how she had protested to Glyn a year ago that SeaLife would create a yearlong detour in her studies. When Glyn had mentioned that the expedition might come across the obscure little island she was always talking about, Nell knew instantly she might never get this chance again. Surprising herself, she tried out for the show and was actually chosen, along with Glyn.

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 Love Boat-style white uniform inflicted on the Trident’s professional staff. A wiry man of Egyptian extraction, Samir’s Australian accent surprised at first. “Holy Dooley the Turbosails are in the groove, eh, Captain? What are we making, just outta curiosity?”

“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 Calypso II. 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 Trident’s Turbosails and rotated the seams to catch the nor’easter.

The ship cruised due west at a nice clip, ten degrees south of the Tropic of Capricorn.

“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 SeaLife logo silk-screened on the breast pocket.

“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.”

“A scientific expedition to explore the most remote places on Earth!” 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 us off now,” Glyn mused. “Apparently the entire crew has already boffed each other.”

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 me up with ship’s surgeon Jennings,” Warburton said.

Nell did her best Cynthea impression: “Drama!”

A loud tone blared suddenly on the bridge, and everyone jumped.

“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 Balboa Bilbo. The owner’s name is Thad Pinkowski of Long Beach, California. OK, this is interesting: the registration on the beacon expired three years ago.”

“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 Trident came about. Captain Sol pointed to the left edge of the navigation monitor, where a small white circle rose on an arc toward the top of the screen.

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: “Tell me this is not a joke, please!”

“This is not a joke, Cynthea,” Captain Sol answered.

“You mean we actually got a distress signal?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Sol, you’re my hero! How bad is it?”

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.”

“God, that’s gold! Nell-tell me you’re excited!”

Nell looked up at the speaker over the window, surprised. “Yes, it’ll be nice to do a little actual scientific research.”

“Tell me more about the island, Glyn!” screeched the electronic voice.

“Well, according to Nell, it was discovered by a British sea captain in 1791. He landed but couldn’t find a way to the island’s interior. There’s no other record of anyone landing, and there are only three recorded sightings of it in the last 220-”

The starboard hatch slammed open and Cynthea Leeds power-walked onto the bridge wearing a fitted black Newport jumpsuit with white racing stripes.

Everyone froze.

“I like that. I like that a lot,” Cynthea announced. “Peach, did you get that? Great! Gentlemen-and lady-congratulations!”

Cynthea smiled wide, flashing her expensive teeth as she tossed back her bangs in girlish joy. A thin black wireless headset arched over her black hair, which was cut in a razor-sharp pageboy.

Cynthea was a dauntingly well-preserved woman, sexy at fifty. Her mother had insisted on strict ballet training from the age of five-the only thing she considered a kindness on her mother’s part. At five feet eleven inches without heels she still had the posture of a ballerina, though her imposing stature was better suited to the high-testosterone arena she had chosen to enter than to ballet.

Like a hermit crab out of its shell, Cynthea looked laughably out of place at sea, or even outside a city. But she couldn’t help noticing lately that she was being herded out to pasture in the youth-centric jungle she inhabited.

Cynthea had produced two number-one reality shows for MTV. But the cutthroat environment she lived in would not tolerate a single misstep. After her last network reality show, the misbegotten Butcher Shop, had cratered, her only offer was the job every other producer in town had passed on: a round-the-world sea voyage with none of the comforts of home.

Sensing that she had to adapt or go extinct, and in the midst of an acute panic attack, she told her manager to take the offer.

She knew she had won the SeaLife gig because of her talent for spicing up a show’s content, which the show’s producers were painfully aware could be a problem if the science stuff got dull. Over the last three weeks, however, her efforts to get seasick scientists to mate had been a gruesome debacle.

If this show was killed, she was convinced it would be the end of her career. No husband, no kids, and no career: all of her mother’s prophecies checked off. Which would be much easier to bear if Cynthea’s mother were dead, but she wasn’t-not by a long shot.

Cynthea pressed her hands together in a gesture of thanks to the powers-that-be. “This could not have come at a better time, people! I think we would have killed and eaten each other before we ever got to Pitcairn. Tell me more about this island, Glyn!”

“Well, it’s never actually been explored, is the neat thing. According to Nell-”

“When can we land?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Glyn answered. “If we can find a place to put ashore. And if the captain grants permission to go ashore, of course…”

“You mean we can shoot our landing on an unexplored island for the anything-can-happen segment of tomorrow’s broadcast at five-fifty? Glyn, you will be my superhero if you say yes!”

“It’s possible, I should think, providing the captain agrees.” The Englishman shrugged. “Yes-”

“Glyn, Glyn, Glyn!” Cynthea actually jumped for joy. “What was it you were saying about a British sea captain?”

“The island was discovered in 1791 by Captain Ambrose Spencer Henders…”

Nell was amused to see Glyn’s vanity flattered by Cynthea’s spotlight.

Glyn looked at Nell. “However, Nell is the one who-”

“That’s just gold, Glyn! Do me a favor and make the announcement to the crew?” Cynthea interrupted. “At sunset-right after dinner-and really build it up? Oh, pretty, pretty please?”

Glyn looked apologetically at Nell. She nodded, relieved to have him do the honors. “Well, all right.”

“You know Dawn? The tan, leggy brunette with the tattoo?” Cynthea gestured in the vicinity of her tailbone. “Yes? She was just remarking to me how she thought British scientists were the sexiest men alive.” Cynthea leaned forward and crooned in Glyn’s ear: “I think she was talking about YOU!”

Glyn’s eyes widened as Cynthea turned to Captain Sol. “Captain Sol, can we land?” She jumped up and down like a little girl pleading with her grandfather. “Can we, can we, can we?”

“Yes, we can land, Cynthea. After we check out the beacon.”

“Thank you, Captain Sol! You know ship’s surgeon Jennings is just crazy about you?”

Warburton shook his head.

“Now if we could only find someone for Nell,” the producer persisted. “What about it, sweetie? What is your type, anyway?”

Nell saw Glyn looking out the window at Dawn, who was performing yoga stretches on the mezzanine deck below. Hard-bodied and sporting buzzed black hair, Dawn wore a midriff-baring mustard mini-T over her imposingly toned core. A purple and yellow sun tattoo peeked over the rear of her black bikini bottoms. “I don’t have a ‘type,’ Cynthea,” she said. “And I wouldn’t want to be anyone’s ‘type,’ either.”

“Always the loner, eh, Nell?” Cynthea said. “You have to know what you’re looking for to find him, darling.”

Nell looked Cynthea in the eyes. “I’ll know him when I see him.”

“Well, maybe you’ll find a new rosebud or something to name tomorrow, eh? Give us some drama, if you do, Nell! Pretty please?”

Cynthea turned and loped out the hatch.

Nell looked back down at the plotting monitor, watching the island as it moved down in tiny steps from the top of the screen. As the sight overwhelmed her, she almost forgot to breathe.

Captain Sol looked at Nell with fatherly affection. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’d say it was destiny, Nell, if I believed in that sort of thing.”

She looked at him with bright eyes and impulsively squeezed his big, tanned hand.

“Still no response on the emergency frequencies, Captain,” Warburton said.

Nell traced a fingertip from their position over the blue plasma screen to the white circle above tiny white letters: