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Day 9: 31°87'N, 75°25'W. Winds SSE 15–20, gusts to 30. Skies clear. Seas running 5–7 feet.
A horrible night. The storm hit just before sunset—huge seas, high winds, driving rain. Everyone was up all night working the bailers. Blown way off course, and the self-steerer is shot. We’ve taken on water, but the hull seems tight. Running reefed in heavy air, no jib.
Day 12: 36°75'N, 74°33'W. Winds NNE 5–10. Patchy clouds. Seas running 2–3 feet.
We have decided to head west for the coast. Everyone is exhausted and needs to rest. On the bright side, Lish seems to have turned a corner. Her back is the issue; she’s still in a lot of pain and can barely bend at all. My turn with the needle. Lish seemed to have a little fun with that. “Oh, buck up, Circuit,” she said. “A girl’s got to eat. Maybe your blood will make me smarter.”
Day 13: 36°56'N, 76°27'W. Winds NNE 3–5. Seas running 1–2 feet.
Lying at anchor at the mouth of the James River. Fantastic wreckage everywhere—huge naval vessels, tankers, even a submarine. Lish’s mood has improved. At sunset she asked us to bring her up on deck.
A beautiful starlit night.
Day 15: 38°03'N, 74°50'W. Winds light and variable. Seas 2–3 feet.
Under way again with fair winds. Running at 6 knots. Everyone feels it—we are getting closer.
Day 17: 39°63'N, 75°52'W. Winds SSE 5–10. Seas 3–5 feet.
Tomorrow we reach New York.
* * *
80
The four of them sat in the cockpit in the gathering dusk. They were lying at anchor; off the port bow, a long sandy line. The southern edge of Staten Island, once populated by a dense humanity, now exposed, swept clean, a wilderness.
“So, we’re all in agreement?” Peter said, scanning the group. “Michael?”
Seated by the tiller, he was fingering a pocketknife, opening and closing the blade. His face had been crisped by salt and wind; through his beard, the color of sand, his teeth shone white. “I told you before. If you say that’s the plan, then that’s the plan.”
Peter turned to Alicia. “Last chance to weigh in here.”
“Even if I said no, you wouldn’t listen.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not good enough.”
She looked at him guardedly. “He’s not going to just surrender, you know. ‘I’m sorry, I guess I was wrong after all.’ Not really the man’s style.”
“That’s why I need you in the tunnel with Michael.”
“I belong in the station with you.”
Peter looked at her pointedly. “You can’t kill him—you said so yourself. You can barely walk. I know you’re angry and you don’t want to hear this. But you need to put your feelings aside and leave that part to me and Amy. You’d only slow us down, and I need you to protect Michael. Fanning’s virals won’t attack you. You can give him cover.”
Peter could see that his words had stung. Alicia glanced away, then back, her eyes narrowed with warning. “You realize that he knows we’re coming. I seriously doubt any of this has escaped his attention. Waltzing into the station plays straight into his hands.”
“That’s the idea.”
“And if this doesn’t work?”
“Then we all die and Fanning wins. I’m willing to hear a better idea. You’re the expert on the man. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll listen.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know it’s not.”
A brief silence passed. Alicia sighed in surrender. “Fine, I can’t. You win.”
Peter looked toward Amy. After two weeks at sea, her hair had grown out somewhat, softening her features while also making them seem clearer somehow, sturdier and more defined. “I think it all depends on what Fanning wants,” she said.
“From you, you mean.”
“Maybe he just intends to kill me, and if so, there’s not a lot to stop him. But he’s gone to a lot of trouble to get me here if that’s all he has in mind.”
“What do you think he wants?”
The light was nearly gone; from the shore, the long shushing of waves.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I agree with Lish, though. The man has something to prove. Beyond that…” She trailed off, then continued: “The important thing is to make sure he’s in that station. Get him there and keep him there. We shouldn’t wait for Michael. We need to be there when the water hits. That’s our moment.”
