Impact (19 page)

“Hand me one end of the blanket! We’ll tie it around the boat, cover these holes!”

Abbey tossed the blanket overboard, and Jackie grabbed one end and swam under the boat, wrapping the blanket over the holes, and then came up the other side with the lines in hand. She surfaced, gasping. “Take these!”

Abbey tied the lines to the rails and hauled Jackie back on board. The
Marea
was beginning to list.

“Is that going to work?” Abbey said.

“Might buy us time. We’ll use Worth’s boat to tow and beach her on the nearest island,” said Jackie. “Follow me.” She leapt from the
Marea
to the
Old Salt
, which was still tied up, engine idling, and took the helm, Abbey following. Jackie thrust it into full throttle. The engine roared, the boat straining forward, pulling the nine-ton
Marea
alongside it, Jackie adjusting the rudder to compensate for the dead weight.

“Where are we going?” Abbey cried.

“Franklin. We’re going to run both boats right up on the beach. It’s the only way. Abbey, check those cleats—make sure they hold.”

While Abbey checked, Jackie pulled down the VHF and began broadcasting a mayday. “This is the
Marea
,
Marea
,
Marea
, position 43 50 north 69 23 west. My boat is sinking, we have a severely injured passenger. A second boat is on scene and towing. I require immediate assistance. Over.”

She stopped broadcasting and waited. A minute later the response came.

“
Marea
, this is the Coast Guard station Tenants Harbor, responding. The closest boat to your position is the lobster boat
Misty Sue
, south of Friendship Long Island, coming to your assistance at ten knots. The
Misty Sue
will communicate with you on channel six. Over.”

“There’s nobody closer?” Jackie screamed. “We’re sinking!”

“There aren’t many vessels out there,
Marea
. We’re sending out the Coast Guard RB-M
Admiral Fitch
from Tenants Harbor with a paramedic, over.”

“I’m going to try to beach it on Franklin,” Jackie said.

“
Marea
, what’s the nature of the injury?”

“He’s dead, I think. Head bashed in with a hammer.”

A silence. “Repeat that, please.”

“I said he’s
dead
. Randall Worth. He shot up our boat and boarded. Attempted robbery. So we killed him.”

A pause. “Is anyone else hurt?”

“Not really.”

“This is a crime scene, then, and should be treated as such. Please be advised . . .” The voice droned on. They were barely crawling along at three knots and slowing down as the
Marea
continued to take on water. Abbey checked below; the blanket had slowed the flow of water but hadn’t stopped it. Franklin was four miles away—at this speed more than an hour of travel time.

“Fuck!” Jackie said out loud, cutting off the Coast Guard and tuning to channel 6. “This is
Marea
, calling
Misty Sue
, what’s your position?”

“Just coming through the Allen Island passage. What’s happening?”

“I’m towing a sinking boat. I need more towing power. I’m looking to beach it on Franklin.”

“I should be there in . . . forty minutes.”

Worth’s boat struggled to make headway, hauling the sinking
Marea
alongside of it. The
Marea
was now listing badly and their boat was losing steerage due to the deadweight.

“We’ve got to cut it loose,” said Jackie. “When it sinks, it’ll capsize us, pull us under.”

“No!” Abbey said. “Please. We’ll uncleat it from the side and retie it to the stern—and drag it behind us. We’ll go faster that way.”

“Give it a try.”

Abbey untied the
Marea
and pulled ahead, attaching a cable from the anchor post to a stern cleat on Worth’s boat.

“That cleat’s not going to hold,” said Jackie.

“Better than the other one.”

Jackie eased up the throttle, letting the strain build gradually. The
Marea
was now listing so hard to port that water began pouring in one of the stern scuppers. Worth’s boat roared and strained, the cable taut as a violin string, but still they were barely moving.

“Abbey, for God’s sake it’s sinking! It’s going to pull us under!”

“No, please, it’s my father’s only boat! Just keep going!”

Jackie pushed the throttle all the way forward. The engine screamed with the strain, there was a crack like a shotgun blast and the cleat snapped out, taking a piece of the stern with it. Worth’s boat leapt forward, the strain gone. Jackie threw the helm hard aport and brought the boat back around toward the
Marea
. But it was too late. With a sigh, the lobster boat settled onto its side, air rushing out. Then it slipped under the waves and vanished, leaving an oil slick behind.

“Oh my God,” said Jackie. “Worth was still on board.”

Abbey stared in horror, not quite able to grasp the awfulness of what had just happened. “My father’s boat . . . it just
sank
.”

36

The peppercan buoy at the mouth of Round Pond Harbor loomed out of the drizzle, rolling back and forth in the rising swell. Abbey stood at the wheel of Worth’s boat, following the Coast Guard boat
Admiral Fitch
into the harbor. It had caught up with them about a mile out—too late to be of any use—and the Coast Guard were now having a grand time “escorting” them back in. The fog had mostly lifted, leaving the world in a damp, depressing twilight. As the piers loomed into view, Abbey could see a mass of flashing lights in the parking lot above the waterfront.

“Looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee.”

Inside the harbor, she throttled down and glanced over at Jackie. She looked terrible, her damp hair hanging down limp and dirty, dark circles under her eyes, her hands, face, and clothes covered with mud.

“What do we tell them?” Jackie asked.

“Everything except the meteorite. We were looking for Dixie Bull’s treasure. Just like they think.”

“Um, why not tell them about the meteorite?”

“There still may be a way to make money on this.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Gimme time to work it out.”

A long silence. “Maybe they can raise my father’s boat,” said Abbey, “and get it running again.”

“Of course they’ll raise it,” Jackie said. “It’s a crime scene and there’s a body on board. But it’s totaled, Abbey. It sank in a hundred feet of water. I’m sorry.”

Abbey glanced at her friend and saw she was crying. “Hey, Jackie. Hey . . . You tried your best to save it.” She put her arm around her. “God, I’m sorry I dragged you out on this wild-goose chase. It’s like all the other crazy things I’ve gotten you into. I don’t know why you stay my friend.”

“I don’t either,” said Jackie.

“I love you, Jackie. You saved my life.”

“And you saved mine and I love you, too.”

Abbey wiped away a tear herself. “Aw, fuck it, we’ll get through this.”

As the docks loomed into view, Abbey could see at least a dozen cop cars had converged in the parking lot, parked willy-nilly, their light bars going. And behind them, on the lawn of the Anchor Inn, it seemed like half the town had turned out to watch them come in. Along with news crews and television cameras.

“Oh my God, will you look at all those people?” said Jackie, wiping her face and blowing her nose. “I look like shit.”

“Get ready for your fifteen minutes of fame.”

She could now hear the hubbub coming over the water, the murmuring crowd, the shouting cops, the hiss of police radios. Even the volunteer fire department was there, Samoset No. 1, with their brand-new fire truck. They were all decked out in slickers and carrying Pulaskis. Everyone was having a grand old time.

“RBM
Fitch
to
Old Salt
, come in,” the officious voice hissed over the VHF.

“
Old Salt
here.” It made Abbey almost sick to even speak the name of Worth’s shit-can of a boat.

“
Old Salt
, the state police have requested you berth in position one at the commercial dock and immediately leave the boat, taking nothing. Don’t shut off the engine or tie up. Law enforcement will board and take over.”

“Got it.”

“RBM
Fitch
over.”

The
Fitch
eased up to the public dock, the Coast Guard fellows hopping out in their crisp uniforms and tying up with drill-like efficiency. Abbey brought the
Old Salt
up behind it. The state police were swarming the dock and they immediately hopped aboard, securing the boat. Abbey stepped off, Jackie by her side. An officer came up, holding a clipboard. “Miss Abbey Straw and Miss Jacqueline Spann?”

“That’s us.”

Abbey glanced across the parking lot. It seemed like the entire town was staring down at her from behind a cordon of police. And to one side, cameras were rolling. She heard a shout, a struggle. “That’s my daughter, you idiot! Abbey!
Abbey!
”

It was her father. Home early.

“Let go of me!”

He came running down the grassy hill, checked shirt untucked, beard flapping, pounded down the wooden stairs, past the bait shed, and down the pier. He got to the top of the ramp and, gripping both rails, came charging down at her, hair wild.

“Dad—”

The officer stepped back as he ran to her. He wrapped her in his arms, a big sob wrenched from his broad chest. “Abbey! They say he tried to kill you!”

“Dad . . .” She wiggled a little but he wasn’t letting go. He hugged her again, and then again, while she stood there, feeling awkward, mortified.
What a show in front of the whole town.

He held her by her shoulders and stood back. “I was so
worried
. Look—your tooth! And your lip is cut. Did that scumbag—?”

“Dad . . .
Forget
the tooth . . . Your boat sank.”

He stared at her, thunderstruck.

She hung her head and began to cry. “I’m sorry.”

A long silence, and then he swallowed, or at least tried to, his Adam’s apple bobbing. After a moment he put his arms around her again. “Ah, well. A boat’s just a boat.”

A ragged cheer went up from the town.

PART 2

37

Ford entered the office to find Lockwood seated at his desk. A brigadier general with grizzled hair in a rumpled field uniform stood next to him, whom Ford recognized as the Pentagon liaison to the Office of Science and Technology Policy.

“Wyman,” Lockwood said rising, “you know Lieutenant General Jack Mickelson, USAF, deputy director of the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. He’s in charge of all GEOINT.”

Ford extended his hand to the general, who rose as well. “Good to see you again, sir,” he said, with a certain amount of coldness.

“Very good to see you, too, Mr. Ford.”

He shook the general’s hand, which was soft, not the usual rock-hard grip of the military man forever seeking to prove his manhood. Ford remembered liking that about Mickelson. He wasn’t so sure he liked the man now.

Lockwood came around his desk and gestured toward the sitting area of his office. “Shall we?”

Ford sat down; the general took the seat opposite and Lockwood took the sofa.

“I asked General Mickelson to join us because I know you respect him, Wyman, and I was hoping we could resolve these issues quickly.”

“Good. Then let’s cut to the chase,” said Ford, facing Lockwood. “You lied to me, Stanton. You sent me on a dangerous mission, you misled me as to the purpose of that mission, and you withheld information.”

“What we’re about to discuss is classified,” said Lockwood.

“You know damn well you don’t need to tell me that.”

Mickelson leaned forward on his elbows. “Wyman . . . if I may? You can call me Jack.”

“With all due respect, General, no apologies and no chitchat. Just explanations.”

“Very well.” His voice had just the right note of gravel, his blue eyes friendly, his excellent sense of self-possession softened by the casual uniform and easy manner. Ford felt a rising irritation at the snow job to come.

“As you may know, we maintain a network of seismic sensors around the world for the purpose of detecting clandestine nuclear tests. On April fourteenth, at nine-forty-four
P.M
., our network detected a possible underground nuclear test in the mountains of Cambodia. So we investigated. We quickly proved the event was a meteoroid impact, and we found the crater. At about the same time, a meteor was seen over the coast of Maine, falling in the ocean. Two simultaneous strikes. Our scientists explained that it was most likely a small asteroid that had broken into two pieces in space and drifted far enough apart that they landed in widely separate locations. I’m told it’s a common occurrence.”

He stopped as a soft alarm chime went off on Lockwood’s desk, and a moment later the coffee came in, the steward pushing the little coffee cart with the silver pot, tiny cups, and sugar lumps in a blue glass dish. Ford poured a cup and drank it black. Dark, powerful, fresh-brewed. Mickelson abstained.