The Ark - Страница 6

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“All right, Grant goes,” Finn said. “I’ll send Jimmy Markson with you. We can’t pull the boat back up again, you know. Not in this weather. Our crane might snap.”

This is getting better by the minute, Locke thought. “We’ll use the personnel basket,” he said. The basket was a six-person rig used to lift people from ships to the platform.

“I’ll tell the other two to meet you down at the lifeboats. Get a survival suit along the way, just in case. I don’t want to lose anyone if one of you guys goes in the water.”

That sounded like a fine idea to Locke. “I know where the locker is.”

Finn snatched up a phone, but Locke didn’t stay to hear the call. After grabbing a survival suit from an emergency station, he followed the lifeboat evacuation signs, bounding down the stairs two at a time.

On the lowest deck, where the lifeboats were perched, Locke dropped his bomber jacket onto the grating and donned his suit while he waited for Grant and Markson. Each of the five boats was painted a bright orange so they could be spotted easily at sea. They were streamlined like bullets, and the only windows were rectangular portholes in a cupola at the rear where the helmsman sat. The portholes were made of super-strong polycarbonate — the same material used to make bulletproof windows — instead of glass so that they would withstand the impact of the fall. The sole opening was an aluminum hatch at the aft end.

The boats pointed down at the ocean and rested on rails that would guide them when released. At the end of the rails, it was a 75-foot plunge to the water where the boat would dive under and then surface 300 feet away, propelled to 10 knots by the momentum from the fall. A powerful diesel could drive the boat at up to 20 knots once it resurfaced.

With his suit secured, Locke flung open the hatch of the first lifeboat and peered inside. Instead of a flat aisle down the center of the boat, stairs led down past seats that faced backward. The only seat facing forward was for the helmsman, and that wouldn’t be occupied until after the drop was complete. Two levers on either side of the boat’s interior had to be pulled simultaneously to initiate the drop, so that a panicked crewman couldn’t single-handedly launch the boat before it was filled with evacuees. Safety devices ensured that the rear hatch was closed before it could drop. If the hatch were left open, when the lifeboat went under after the initial drop, water would flood in, and the boat might never resurface.

Locke heard a clatter behind him. Two men hurried down the stairs. Both were black, but that’s where the similarities ended. The one in the lead had an ebony complexion and was a couple of inches taller than Locke, but he was lanky and the survival suit hung from him like a coat hanger. That must have been Markson. He was in his forties, and his face was smudged with oil that did nothing to cover his apprehension.

The second man, who had a shaved head and mocha skin, struggled with the zipper on his survival suit. Grant Westfield was four inches shorter and 15 years younger than Markson, but he still had the muscular 240-pound frame of the wrestler he used to be. He must have picked a size too small. Locke smiled in spite of himself.

“Need some help there, tiger?” Locke said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Maybe you need to lose a few.”

Grant zipped the suit to the top and scoffed. “These things weren’t built for someone with my impressive physique.”

“Just don’t flex too hard and rip it. Wouldn’t make a great fashion statement.”

Grant pursed his lips. “I’ll have you know that torn survival suits are the latest rage in Milan.”

Locke heard Markson chuckle uneasily. The joking probably sounded out of place to him, but Locke liked it. It had been the way he and Grant lightened the mood in hairy situations ever since their Army days.

“Glad you could join the party,” Locke said.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss one of your crazy stunts. They tell me you’re raring to launch one of these babies.” Grant seemed a lot more enthusiastic about this than Locke was.

“‘Raring’ may be too strong a word, but somebody’s got to do it. Might as well be us.”

“You got that right,” Grant said, eagerly eyeing the massive lifeboats. “I haven’t ridden a rollercoaster in months.”

Locke turned to the other man and held out his hand. “And you’re Markson?”

“That’s right, Dr. Locke.”

“Call me Tyler.”

They shook hands. “I’m a diver and welder. I’m fully qualified on the lifeboats.” He was a tough guy, but there was a slight quaver in his voice.

“Glad to have you along,” Locke said. He gestured at the open hatch. “Shall we?”

Grant got in first and belted himself into one of the seats. The four-point seat belts barely stretched over his huge frame. Locke followed him in, and then Markson closed and dogged the hatch behind him. Locke chose the seat next to the port release lever and cinched his own belts tight.

“We’re set for launch,” Markson said. “Are you guys ready?”

“Ready,” Locke said.

“Oh yeah!” Grant shouted, pumping himself up just like he did in his wrestling days. “Let’s see what this baby can do!”

Markson gripped the lever in his hand and Locke did the same. Then he yelled, “Three…two…one…launch!” Locke yanked his lever down. A red light glowed, indicating that the release mechanism had been activated, and he felt a clunk as the hydraulic clamps sprang open. There was no turning back now, so Locke forced himself into mission mode, just like when he was in the Army. Precision, decisiveness, and calm were his watchwords from now on.

The boat began its slide down the rails. The movement was anticlimactic. It was as if the boat was being lowered at a lakeside boat ramp off its trailer. Then the lifeboat bow dipped downward, and Locke’s stomach leapt into his mouth.

With some goading from Grant, Locke had gone bungee-jumping one time, so the feeling was familiar. His entire body floated out of the contoured seat. The weightlessness seemed to last forever. Then the impact came.

The crash of fiberglass splashing into the water boomed from all directions. It felt like the lifeboat hit concrete. Locke’s head slammed backward against the cushioned headrest. The sense of weightlessness was replaced by the crush of deceleration. The angle of his seat changed drastically as he saw water wash over the helmsman’s portholes.

Locke was thrown against his seatbelt and rocked side to side as the lifeboat made for the surface. Water streamed down the cupola window, and he could see the gray sky out of the window. The lifeboat leveled out. Grant whooped in delight from behind him, but Locke was just glad they had made it down in one piece.

“Woohoo!” Grant yelled, laughing. “Can we do that again?”

“Not with me, you’re not,” Locke said, unbuckling himself.

“Oh, you know you loved it.”

“Tell that to my stomach. It’s still back on the oil rig.”

Markson took the helmsman’s seat. Although the waves pummeled them, the lifeboat was as seaworthy as a cork. But anyone swimming in that would be fighting for their lives. Locke flashed again to the memory of Dilara’s photo and pictured her struggling to stay afloat. Markson fired up the diesel, and Locke pointed him in the direction of the crash. With the fog getting thicker by the minute, they had to hurry. Their chances of rescuing the survivors were quickly dropping toward zero.

SIX

Dilara Kenner struggled to keep the unconscious helicopter pilot’s head completely out of the water, but the waves crashing over them made that impossible. At least the survival suits were buoyant. The best she could hope to do was make sure that he didn’t float away. The copilot, a baby-faced blond named Logan, tried to help, but his arm was broken, so it was all he could do to keep from inhaling seawater.

She had lost sight of the other passengers, four men who looked like they were oil workers on their way out for a three-week stint on the rig. They had been swept away by the waves, so she wouldn’t be getting aid from them, either. Before she and Logan stopped talking to conserve their energy and to avoid swallowing more seawater, the copilot had told her that the oil platform had no helicopter. The nearest one was two hours away in St John’s.

It seemed hopeless, but Dilara had thought the same thing when she ran the Los Angeles marathon. The idea of running 26 miles without stopping was too daunting, an apparently impossible task. But if she focused on putting that next foot down, she eventually reached the end.

So she focused her mind not on waiting for the helicopter to arrive in two hours, but instead on keeping herself alive for the next minute. The most pressing problem distracting her was the water that was seeping into her survival suit, which had snagged on a jagged piece of metal as she escaped the sinking helicopter. She could feel her limbs starting to numb.

“I’m getting tired,” Logan said after ten minutes of being pummeled by the waves. “I think my suit’s losing flotation.”

Dilara was on the ragged edge herself, but she knew that giving up was death. “You’re going to make it, Logan. Don’t waste your breath talking. Just keep your head up.”

“Fog’s coming in. Won’t see us.”

“I don’t care. They’ll find us.”

“My legs are cramping.”

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