Sea of Fire

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The yacht began to sink toward the stern. Kannaday stumbled back against the bed as the floor tilted. The incoming water was settling in the aft section. The captain heard the clatter of boxes and loose equipment below as the vessel shifted.

The crawl space, he thought suddenly.

Kannaday leaned on the wall. He braced himself with both hands as he stood. The far end of the storage area was directly below the cabin. If he could pry up the floorboards, he might be able to squeeze through.

The captain bolted toward the desk and pulled out the drawer. He did not have a letter opener or knife, but the drawer was held in by runners. He yanked it free, tossed it aside, and looked at the screws. A nail file would work. He went into the bathroom and got his nail clippers from the medicine chest. He flipped out the nail file and used it to work out the screws. There were two in each runner. The first one came free quickly. That was all he would need.

The runner was shaped like a squared-off C. Kannaday went back to the bathroom, unscrewed the metal spray head from the shower, and laid the end of the runner on the desk. Holding the showerhead in his fist, he used it to pound the end of the runner flat.

He had his lever.

Grabbing the runner, the nail file, and the showerhead, he dropped to his knees near the door. The floorboards were epoxy-coated mahogany. He wedged the nail file between two of the planks and dug a small hole between them. He inserted the flattened edge of the runner. Rising on the sloping floor, he used the showerhead to pound the runner down. He did it firmly enough to push the metal in, but softly enough to keep it from bending. It took just four whacks to put the runner through. Kannaday repeated the process along the entire side of the narrow plank. As he worked, the boat continued to shift. First it leveled, then it dipped to port, then the aft dropped again. Kannaday tried not to think about going under. Hawke would have taken them several miles out to sea. The water was an average of two hundred feet deep here. Once the Hosannah went down, Peter Kannaday would not be coming back up.

The captain had gone around most of the first plank when he stood and stomped on it. The plank split from the one beside it and dropped into the crawl space. Kannaday got back on his knees and worked on the ends of the plank beside it. When he had punched through those, he put the runner down, put his fingers into the opening left by the first plank, and pulled on the second. With three sides free, it came up easily.

Kannaday could hear the water rushing in. He did not stop. The batteries were in a watertight compartment, but he did not know how long they would last. If they died, he would be in the dark.

He managed to get the third plank up. Kannaday needed to remove at least six before he could think of trying to get in. As he watched the water rise, he realized that there would not be time to continue this way. Reaching behind him, he pulled his pillowcase from the bed. He wrapped it around his hands. Crouching, he reached into the hole he had made and pulled up on the next plank. He grasped the edge of the wood. The pillowcase prevented him from slipping on the moist mahogany. The wood refused to budge. He screamed in frustration and looked around. There was nothing.

Just then he realized that the contents of the crawl space were settling toward the stern. Swearing at his own stupidity, he got a flashlight from his desk, dropped to his belly, and shone the light in the opening he had made.

He saw the tool kit. It was banging around in the area just beyond the door of his cabin.

Reaching in, Kannaday stretched his arm in that direction. He could not quite reach it. He took the runner, bent the end into a hook, stuck it into the opening, and fished for the metal chest.

He snagged it.

Pulling it inside, Kannaday opened the large box and took out a hammer. Getting on his knees, he slammed it repeatedly into the planks. It took two blows each to crack them, one more to send them tumbling into the crawl space. As the water started to flood his cabin, Kannaday realized that he would have to go in headfirst. The yacht settled again slightly. This might be as level as the vessel got before going down. Taking the flashlight in his left hand, Kannaday lay down, took a long breath, then slid into the crawl space.

There was only about twenty-five feet to the opening cut by the crew. But it seemed much farther because of the debris that blocked Kannaday's way. There was no room for vertical or lateral movement. He could not shove the flotsam around, under, or behind him. He had to push the containers, equipment, shards of wood, and other objects ahead as he wriggled forward. It was like moving against a dam that grew thicker by the instant. He was finally forced to let go of the flashlight and use both hands. Fortunately, the crew had left the trapdoor open to facilitate the flow of water. The hall lights filtered through the opening in the deck. Kannaday used both hands to shove on the objects clustered in the crawl space. The captain was literally knee-walking forward as the algae-thick water rolled through the crawl space and lower deck.

The Hosannah continued to tilt and pitch. The geyser of seawater batted the debris back. He did not think he would be able to get much farther ahead. Kannaday's arms and chest hurt from the beating, and the exertion strained his lungs. Even though his brain knew it would kill him, his lungs insisted that he inhale. The captain had to fight that impulse. He was less than four feet from the trapdoor. It was like being under the ice-covered surface of a pond. Kannaday was close to freedom yet not quite there.

His temples were pulsing hard, and his vision was beginning to swirl. He did not have much time. The way the debris had piled up in front of him, there was only enough room to extend his right arm. Turning onto his back, he stuck his hand toward the trapdoor, turned his palm up, and grabbed the near side of the opening. He pulled hard. The edges of metal boxes, tools, and the other gear cut into him as he dragged himself up. It would not be enough to get to the opening. It was already underwater. He had to get through it and out of the crawl space.

He needed to breathe. In a few moments he was going to breathe, even if he took in only seawater. He worked his left arm past the pile of equipment, ripping his sleeve and rending his flesh as he stretched it toward the opening. He grabbed the edge and pulled with both hands now. He moved slowly up the side of the mountain of debris. His forehead was near the opening. It went through. His shoulders followed. Now he was pushing on the edge instead of pulling. He was in the water-filled corridor. He bent at the waist, drew his feet out, flipped over, and scrambled ahead.

He half-swam, half-jumped to his feet and gasped at the same time. He took in air. It was salvation, the common made uncommon. All other fears and considerations dwarfed in comparison. He splashed back down and felt for a wall. He found one on the starboard side. It was at a slight angle, tilting away from him. He leaned against it and got his feet under him. He rose, his shoulders rounded, water running from them.

Blood from his fresh wounds mixed with the seawater. The salt in the water stung, but it was not like the pain of the beating. He had earned these wounds by deed. He felt reborn.

Kannaday was just forward of the radio room. The water came up to his waist. At this rate, the boat would be underwater in about a half hour.

Suddenly, there was a snap like a dry twig breaking. The water must have reached the batteries. The lights went out.

The captain turned back toward the trapdoor. He looked down into the crawl space. His flashlight was still on, twisting in the rushing water. He waded back to get it. Now that Kannaday was no longer pushing the debris, it had begun to slide back into the aft depths of the crawl space. It knocked the flashlight around, but he managed to grab it before it drifted away. He turned and balanced himself against the sloping wall as he slogged through the water. There was something he needed. Something he was sure that murderers in the night would not take.

Kannaday entered the radio room. Most of the wrecked equipment was underwater. Smaller pieces, mostly wires and microchips, were floating on the shifting waters. But the box he wanted was still bracketed shoulder-high to the inner wall. The captain knew that Hawke and Marcus would not have bothered with it.

The box was bright red and the size of a lunch pail. Kannaday reached up, flipped the lid, and removed the contents. As the yacht moaned and lurched, he made his way quickly toward the stairs and freedom.