11
Banda Sea
43 Nautical Miles Northeast of Moluccas
The bullet-shaped escape pod barrel-rolls inside the monster's churning stomach, globs of molten brownish-gray whale blubber slapping against the fogging Lexan glass.
As Jonas watches in horror, another object passes through the mini-sub's exterior beam of light . . . a human torso.
Jonas screams . . . as his vessel slips backward into oblivion.
"Ahhhh!"
Jonas sits up, his pulse racing, his tee-shirt soaked with sweat. He looks around, desperate and disoriented.
He is alone in his cabin aboard the Neptune, the hammock swaying beneath him, its knots creaking in unison with the motions of the ocean.
"Okay . . . you're okay."
Jonas rolls painfully out of the hammock, his aching lower back stiff and swollen, in desperate need of a chiropractor. He checks his watch. Four-thirty . . . but is it a.m. or p.m.? He glances at the view port, the late afternoon gray on the other side of the window confirming he's slept all day.
He grabs a bottle of water, staggers to the rinse bucket, and brushes his teeth. Slipping on his tennis shoes, he exits his cabin and heads forward, in search of the community bathroom.
The term ‘head’ adopted into the mariner language, originates from a design first incorporated into the Spanish galleon when the crews' toilets were fitted into the forward space at the front of the ship's forecastle, extending underneath the bowsprit.
Ten minutes later, Jonas climbs up on deck, butterflies in his stomach as he tries to psyche himself up for his new career. He waves to Captain Robertson, who ignores him, too absorbed in directing his crew to lower the forward sails.
The sky is heavy with ominous cumulonimbus clouds, which form a line of white, anvil-shaped towers, their flat bottoms dark and gray.
Andrew Fox calls out to Jonas from the upper walkway. "Afternoon, sleeping beauty."
"Hey, I'm still on California time. Why are we heading for the squall line?"
"Show's about to begin. There are two teams of Daredevils preparing to board, one from below, the other from above." He points to a plane, circling at 5,000 feet. "The team in the plane directed us to the squall line two hours ago. God knows what they're waiting for."
"Lovely." Jonas glances astern. Trailing behind Neptune is the Coelacanth.
The Abeking & Rasmusen super yacht is 188 feet long, with a 35-foot beam and 11.5-foot draft. Navy blue, with white upper decks and trim, she is a sleek, luxurious fortress of fiberglass and steel, her twin 1400 horsepower engines able to propel her through the choppy seas at an easy twelve knots.
Jonas whistles. "I'm with Dani, I'd rather ride on board that."
"Jonas, where in the hell have you been?" Erik Hollander waves frantically at him from the deck below. "Come on, you should have been in makeup an hour ago."
Andrew winks. "Be sure to have them work on those crow's feet."
"Makeup?" Jonas rolls his eyes. "Andrew, that cage of yours is beginning to look good."
"Jonas, please!"
He hustles down the companionway. "Sorry, got a late start."
Erik signals to a makeup woman, who begins dabbing his face with flesh-tone powder. "Charlotte will do most of the talking, just comment as you see fit. We're live, but still on tape, so we can reshoot or dub in later. Any questions?"
"Yeah. Who's Charlotte?"
"Who's Charlotte? Only the host for this season's show. Haven't you met her yet? She boarded by chopper about three hours ago . . . wait, there she is." Erik points to the bow where a cocoa-brown African-American woman in a white thong bikini is posing before a photographer and two cameramen.
"Not much of an actress, but who cares, she makes—"
"I know, great eye-candy."
"Absolutely. Girl's been on the cover of Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue twice in the last three years."
"Three minutes!" A woman in her early forties yells over a megaphone, her heavy New York accent crackling across the deck. "Come on, people, let's move, we're losing the light."
She approaches Jonas and Erik, swapping the megaphone for a walkie-talkie as she speaks. " . . . hand have the Coelacanth stay back another hundred yards, last thing we need is that yacht appearing in the background." She stows the walkie-talkie in her belt, then thrusts her free hand at Jonas. "Susan Ferraris, director. Next time you're late, I'm waking you with a cattle prod up your—"
"Susan, easy, it's his first day."
"Don't fuck with me, Erik, I'm two cameramen short and I've got menstrual cramps that would drop a grizzly. You, enough with the makeup, he already looks like a goddamn mannequin." She grabs Jonas by the arm, half-dragging him to the chalked red "X" by the starboard rail. "There's your mark, now where's your mike? Goddamn it, can somebody get a remote on him!"
A soundman appears, clipping a microphone onto Jonas's buttondown collar. He feeds the wire down his shirt and out the back, where he reconnects the pronged end to a transmitter. "Shove this in your back pocket and say something."
"Hi, my name is Jonas Taylor and I'm—"
"He's set."
"Charlotte, I need you here, dear." Susan's walkie-talkie squawks to life. "What?"
"Susan, it's Brian. The Makos say they're still not ready."
"Not ready? Do these crazies understand we're losing the light?"
"I doubt they care. But we just heard from the Waller. The Hammerheads will be in position in ten minutes. Suggest we shoot them first."
"Agreed." She shuts off the two-way radio. "All right, people, change of plans. We'll shoot the opening segment, then move right into the Hammerheads' entrance."
"Susan, the TelePrompTer's not working?"
"Wonderful. What else can go wrong?"
A look of panic comes over Charlotte's primped face. "No TelePrompTer? What do you expect me to do? Memorize everything?"
"It's just the intro, dear. You've done it a thousand times in rehearsal."
Camera crews hustle into position, two teams aiming their lenses off the starboard rail, a third setting up to film Jonas and Charlotte. The supermodel's eyes are closed, her lips moving silently as she hastily rehearses her lines.
"Susan, we're ready here."
"Quiet on the set."
"Lights."
Jonas squints against the hot reflection, wishing he'd made another quick stop at the head.
"Sound . . . speed—"
"Five seconds. Four . . . three . . ."
Charlotte's eyes flashed open, igniting a false smile.
Jonas grinds his teeth into a grin.
The director signals silently. Two . . . one—
"Welcome to Daredevils II: South Pacific Challenge. I'm Charlotte Lockhart, your host for this season's show, and with me is legendary Daredevil and former deep-sea submersible pilot, James Taylor."
Jonas's face cracks into a half-smile. "Actually, it's Jonas. James is the singer."
"Cut!" Susan Ferris charges him like a mad bull. "Never . . . ever correct the host while we're rolling . . . Jesus." She turns to her crew. "Reset. And Charlotte, sugarplum, for God's sake, it's Jonas, you know, like Jonas and the whale."
Actually, that was Jonah. My name is—"
"Rolling!"
"Speed."
Susan signals.
The supermodel reanimates. "Welcome to Daredevils II: South Pacific Challenge. I'm Charlotte Lockhart, your host for this season's show, and with me is legendary Daredevil and former deep-sea submersible pilot, Jonah Taylor."
"Uh, thank you Charlotte, it's great to be here."
"Great having you here, Jonah. Now let's review the rules. As you know, Daredevils airs twice each week, allowing our viewing audience a few days to cast their vote on our official Web site to determine our winning stunt. Our Daredevils have been randomly divided into two teams of five. During each taped segment of our show, the two teams will compete head to head by coordinating a live death-defying stunt, placing at least one member of their party in jeopardy. You, our viewing audience, will then have two days to vote for the winning stunt. At the start of each new show, the losing team from the last show will have to vote one member off their squad. During our third week, we'll combine the remaining members of both squads into one team and continue the elimination process, one by one, until we have our winner. How's that sound, Jonah?"
"Sounds exciting, Sharon."
The supermodel's false smile momentarily flickers. "Right. And now, let's meet this season's Daredevils!"
"And cut." Blue eyes blazing, Susan is about to engage Jonas when the first drops of cold rain splatter on deck. Cursing aloud, she grabs her walkie-talkie as dozens of golf umbrellas simultaneously open to shelter the equipment. "Brian, it's raining. What's happening on the Makos?"
"Still circling and waiting."
"Waiting for what? A rainbow?"
"I don't know, boss."
"Radio the Hammerheads. Tell them to get their team in the water." She calls out to the captain. "We're changing the sequence of shots. Shift this ship of yours into neutral."
"It's not a car, ma'am," Robertson mumbles, turning the Neptune 's prow into the wind. The massive mainsail flaps above his head, the ship slowing.
"Susan, we're set here."
"Roll film." She yells into her walkie-talkie, "Brian, signal the Hammerheads."
Jonas and the rest of the crew watch in amazement as a moving wake appears off the starboard bow, followed by the steel sail of a Collins-class submarine. The Australian boat continues rising, its hull plowing the sea—
—along with five surfacing water-skiers, three men and two women, each being towed by ropes attached to the ship's bow planes.
Michael Coffey, team captain of the Hammerheads, releases his pony-bottle of air as his head breaks the surface thirty feet behind the submarine's propeller. Gripping the guide rope tightly in both hands, he glances to his right.
Evan Stewart and Jason Massett, skiing along the starboard side of the sub's wake, offer thumbs-up.
Coffey turns to his left. Dee Hatcher and Mia Durante are on the opposite side of the submarine, facing the Neptune. Both women are scantily clad in yellow thong bikinis.
The HMAS Waller cruises around the drifting Spanish galleon in a wide circle. As the submarine passes the Neptune 's stern, it begins to dive—
—hauling the five Daredevils with it.
Jonas stares at the sea, his heart pounding, his ego wondering if he could have pulled off the maneuver. Thirty seconds pass, then a minute. The cameras continue to roll, focusing on the foamy surface.
Holding his own breath, Jonas watches and waits.
Ninety seconds . . . and then a head appears, then another. Five hands raise out of the water in unison to rousing applause.
Charlotte Lockhart smiles at the camera, her open right hand pointing at the sea. "Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Hammerheads. Say hello to Dee Hatcher—"
A thirty-ish brunette with slate blue eyes scales the cargo net and climbs on board. She flings her hair back with the attitude of a goddess, then poses, fists on shapely hips, waiting for the rest of her team to join her.
"Evan Stewart."
The marine biologist from Miami is next up the makeshift rope ladder, the rugged man sporting a fourteen-inch half-moon-shaped scar over his midsection.
"Mia Durante."
The dark-haired, olive-skinned Italian-Filipino swings a well-muscled leg over the side, offers her own sultry pose, then give a martial arts bow to the camera.
"From Massapequa, Jason Massett."
The brown-haired, well-built former lacrosse player with the piercing hazel eyes flashes a crooked smile, then takes his place beside his teammates.
"And back for another season, last year's overall winner and the captain of the Hammerheads . . . Michael Coffey!"
The senior member of the group somersaults over the rail and onto the main deck, then slaps high-fives with the rest of his team.
Susan Ferraris allows the cameras to roll several more minutes before yelling cut. "One down, one to go." She yells into her walkie-talkie. "Brian, what the hell's going on with team two?"
* * * * *
Five thousand feet above the Spanish galleon, the cargo plane continues to circle beneath the ceiling of dark cumulonimbus clouds.
Wayne John Ferguson peers out the open cargo hatch at the lead-gray sea.
"Fergie, give it up already," argues Barry Struhl, a linebacker-size man with short, wavy dark hair and goatee. "It's been an hour since we saw the last spout and we're running out of fuel."
"Barry's right," says Lexy Piatek. "You can't control the weather. Let's just do the jump as planned and make the best of it."
"It's boring." Fergies spits out the open hatch. "What do you think, Doc?"
John Shinto, a thirty-three-year-old dentist from Virginia, scratches his short-cropped dark blond hair. "Lexy's right, we can't control the weather. Jennie's up front, if she can't find a spout, then no one can. I think we've got about as much chance of pulling this one off as pushing shit uphill."
The plane shakes beneath them, nearly tossing Fergie head-first out the open hatch. That's when he sees it.
"Thar she blows, I told you! Two o'clock, Jennie—hey Jennie!"
Jennie calls back from the co-pilot's seat. "We see it. Gear up, we're radioing the Neptune."
The plane changes course, banking to the west.
* * * * *
Captain Robertson turns the ship hard to port, refilling the main sheets. The Neptune comes to life, bounding over the six foot seas, tacking parallel to the edge of the squall line.
Jonas hangs onto the starboard rail with one hand, wiping a fine mist of seawater from his face with the other. The late afternoon sky has taken on a new appearance, the strong tropical convection currents forming an ominous, triangular white object that seems to be growing from beneath a darkening cumulonimbus cloud.
Dani sidles up to her father. "Dad . . . what is that?"
As they watch, a white funnel cloud reaches down from the heavens and kisses the ocean, uplifting a massive churning vortex of sea spray less than two miles off the Neptune 's starboard bow.
"Jesus, there's a waterspout." Jonas glances down at her. "Why aren't you wearing a life preserver?"
"Duh, because no one else is."
"Get one on."
"Come on, Dad—"
"Now!"
Michael Coffey wipes mist from his face, his gaze focused on the base of the ocean-born twister, now a tightly spinning mass of spray. "Okay, Fergie, you crazy bastard, you got what you were waiting for, now let's see what you do with it."
* * * * *
The cargo place circles just beneath the cloud bank, offering the five members of the Mako team a bird's-eye view of the fully formed waterspout.
"Looks like fun," Fergie says. "What do you think, Jen? Three in the drink and two in the rodeo."
"Who are the two?"
"Not me," Doc Shinto says. "Assuming I survived, my wife and kids would never speak to me again."
"Barry?"
"Hey, I'm a big wave surfer, dude, not a skydiver."
"What about you, Lexy? Care to ‘ave a go?"
The petite twenty-two-year-old stares below at the churning column of wind. "I'm with Barry. The sea's more my specialty."
"Which leaves the beautiful Jedi Jennie?"
She bites her lip. "I'm in."
"You sure?"
"Right. Barry, I want you, Doc, and Lexy off this plane like a bride's nightie before this bird blows itself away. Tail's whipping to the southwest, so stay east before you disperse, then radio us when you're in the drink."
Doc Shinto nods. "How close you planning to be?"
"Don't know, never done this before. Jennie and I will circle once and see how she feels. If you see us flying bare arsed in the wind, then assume we pushed it too close.
* * * * *
The Neptune slows, the captain once more changing course, positioning his vessel a half-mile to the east of the churning white tornado.
Susan Ferraris is calling out commands, her camera crews continuing to shoot footage. To the southwest, the super yacht, Coelacanth, has moved into position to film the waterspout with the Neptune in the background.
One by one, the there Yamaha 7091 Wave Raider personal water craft are secured to a mobile winch and lowered over the side. Michael Coffey climbs down a cargo net and straddles one machine, Evan and Jason the other two.
Although Coffey despises Wayne Ferguson, the unwritten law of adrenaline junkies is that no one is ever alone against the elements. As such, Coffey will risk his own life to save Ferguson, though he secretly harbors hope that the man will be torn apart by the funnel of wind long before his carcass ever hits the sea.
"There!" Evan points to three parachutists who have just emerged from the plane.
"Spotters. We'll each take one, then pick up the pieces from the other two."
Claiming the first parachute down, Coffey accelerates his Wave Raider away from the ship, the souped-up dual carburetor big bore jet-skis capable of reaching speeds in excess of 58 miles an hour.
* * * * *
Wind and sea spray whip across Doc Shinto's face, blurring his goggles as he floats awkwardly toward a patch of Mediterranean-green surface. Fifteen feet from contact, he releases the chute and drops feet-first into the sea, sinking like a brick.
Inflating his life preserver, he rockets back to the surface, distancing himself from his parachute.
The sea is surprisingly warm, the waves a bit rough. Removing his goggles, Shinto takes a quick look around. He has landed 125 yards southeast of the waterspout's tail. For a long moment he can only stare at the howling white column of wind.
The upper and lower portion of the waterspout are moving at different speeds, causing the funnel to angle slightly to the west. Less powerful than its land-based cousin, the waterspout still generates wind speeds of 80 to 100 miles an hour, making it quite dangerous.
Shinto verifies the tail is moving away from his location, then checks in with the circling cargo plane. "Fergie, it's Doc, I'm in position. Fergie, can you read me? Fergie—"
* * * * *
The plane bucks beneath them, momentarily losing altitude.
"Storm could hit any time," the pilot calls back. "It's now or never."
Jennie presses her hands against her helmet. "I can hear Doc, he's in the drink."
"Pilot's right, if we're going to do this, we need to do it now, before that tail goes snaking all over the place like a madwoman's custard."
Jennie laughs, then stares at him, her eyes wide with adrenaline, her heart pumping faster. "First one down owns bragging rights!" She leaps out of the plane—
—Fergie right behind her.
Wind blasts his face and howls in his ears as he free-falls toward the bolt of white wind that lances down from the heavens as if thrown by Zeus.
Pulling his arms back, Fergie soars past Jennie, flying headfirst at the beast at a 30-degree down angle, the heart of the clockwise-spinning shaft becoming less visible as he nears.
And then the wind blasts into his body as it grabs him, sucking him deep into its powerful vortex, the brackish air howling in his brain as his entire existence is narrowed down to this one single, precious, intense moment of time. His mind screams at him to pull his chute even as his ego commands he continue to body-surf the monster, the sensation too excruciatingly real to abandon, the centrifugal force stretching his vertebrae while it tears at his flesh, his jumpsuit peeling away as he is flung around the shaft of wind like a cowboy tied to a bucking bronco—
—and suddenly he is flung free, the ungodly G-force catapulting him backward into deafening silence.
A fleeting millisecond of self-preservation as he expels his parachute, and then the blackness overcomes him, escorting him back to earth like a warm blanket as the sea reaches up to reclaim her clay.