Dorsett looked at Strouser and spread his hands disarmingly. "You neglected to eat your lunch, Gabe.
I can't allow you to leave hungry. You might get the idea that I'm inhospitable."
"You're crazy if you think you can intimidate me."
"I'm not going to intimidate you," Dorsett said with sadistic amusement. "I'm going to feed you."
Strouser looked lost. He shook his head in disgust and began an unequal struggle to break free of Boudicca's embrace.
At a nod of Dorsett's head, Boudicca manhandled Strouser back to the table, grasped him under the chin with one hand and bent his head backward, face up. Then Dorsett produced a large plastic funnel and stuffed the lower end between Strouser's lips and teeth. The expression in the diamond merchant's eyes transformed from rage to shock to bulging terror. His muffled cries were ignored as Boudicca tightened her hold around him.
"Ready, Daddy," she said, leering in cruel anticipation.
"Since you live and breathe diamonds, my old friend, you can eat them too," said Dorsett as he lifted a small canister shaped like a teapot that had been sitting on the table and began pouring a stream of flawless D-grade, one-carat diamonds down Strouser's throat while using one hand to pinch the nostrils of his victim shut. Strouser thrashed wildly, his legs kicking in the air, but his arms were locked as tightly as if he were trapped by a python.
Out of sheer terror, Strouser tried desperately to swallow the stones, but there were too many. Soon his throat could hold no more and his body's convulsions became less frantic as he choked for air and quickly suffocated.
The glaze of death froze his open eyes into an unseeing stare as the glittering stones slowly spilled from the corners of his mouth, rattled across the table and fell to the floor.
Two days off the sea and everyone felt as if raised from the dead. York's campsite was tidied up and every article and object inventoried. Maeve refused to go in the hut even after they buried Rodney York in a small ravine that was partially filled with sand. A tentlike shelter was built from the old Dacron sails found inside the hut, and they settled down to the day-to-day routine of existence.
To Giordino, the greatest prize was a toolbox. He immediately went to work on the radio and the generator but finally gave up in frustration after nearly six hours of futile labor.
"Too many parts broken or too badly corroded to repair. After sitting all these years, the batteries are deader than fossilized dinosaur dung. And without a generator to charge them, the radio-telephone, direction-finding set and wireless receiver are useless."
"Can replacements be fabricated with what we've got lying about?" asked Pitt.
Giordino shook his head. "General Electric's chief engineer couldn't fix that generator, and even if he could, the engine to turn it over is completely shot. There's a crack in the crankcase. York must not have seen it and run the engine after the oil leaked out, burning the bearings and freezing the pistons. It would take an automotive machine shop to put it back in running order."
Pin's first project as resident handyman was to find three small blocks of wood that were straight grained. These he split from a sideboard on the berth that had served as Rodney York's final resting place. Next, he made a template of everyone's forehead just above the eyebrows from the stiff paper jackets of novels he found on York's bookshelf. He marked the template lines on the edge of the wood blocks and trimmed accordingly, cutting out an arched slot for the nose. Holding the blocks tightly between his knees he gouged and smoothed hollows on the inner curl of the wood. Then he removed the excess outer wood and cut two horizontal slits in the hollowed walls. With oil from a can sitting beside the outboard engine, he stained the thinly curled finished product before cutting two holes in the ends and attaching nylon cord.
"There you are, ladies and gentlemen," he said, passing them out. "Colonel Thadeus Pitt's spectacular sun goggles, from a secret design revealed on the lips of a dying Eskimo just before he rode off across the Arctic Ocean on the back of a polar bear."
Maeve adjusted hers over her eyes and tied the cord behind her head. "How clever, they really shut out sun."
"Damned clever, those Inuits," said Giordino peering through the eye slits. "Can you make the slits a tad wider? I feel like I'm staring through a crack under a door."
Pitt smiled and handed Giordino his Swiss army knife. "You, may customize your goggles to your personal taste."
"Speaking of taste," Maeve announced beside a small fire she had started with matches from Pitt's survival kit. "Come and get it. Tonight's menu is grilled mackerel with cockles I found buried in sand pockets below the tide line."
"Just when my stomach got used to eating fish raw," joked Giordino.
Maeve dished the steaming fish and cockles onto York's old plates. "Tomorrow night's fare, if there is a marksman in our little group, will be something on the wing."
"You want us to shoot defenseless little birds?" asked Giordino in mock horror.
"I counted at least twenty frigate birds, sitting on the rocks," she said, pointing to the north shore. "If you build a blind, they'll walk by close enough for you to hit them with your little popgun."
"Roasted bird sounds good to my shrinking stomach, I'll bring back tomorrow night's supper or you can hang me by the thumbs," Pitt promised.
"Can you pull any other tricks out of your hat besides the goggles?" asked Maeve whimsically.
Pitt lay back on the sand with his hands behind his head. "I'm glad you brought that up. After a strenuous afternoon of intense thought, I've arrived at the conclusion that we should move on to a more receptive climate."
Maeve gave" him a look of utter skepticism. "Move on?" She glanced at Giordino for moral support, but he gave her a you-never-learn look and continued nibbling on his mackerel. "We have two badly damaged boats that can't sail across a swimming pool. Just what do you suggest we use for our all-expenses-paid cruise to nowhere?"
"Elementary, my dear Fletcher," he said expansively. "We build a third boat."
"Build a boat," she said, her voice on the edged laughter.
Conversely, Giordino's expression was intense and serious. "You think there's a Chinaman's chance of repairing York's sailboat?"
"No. The hull is damaged beyond any possibility of repairing with our limited resources. York was an experienced sailor, and he obviously didn't see any way it could be refloated. But we can, however, utilize the upper deck."
"Why not make the best of it right here?" Maeve argued. "We're more resourceful than poor Rodney.
Our survival skills are far greater than his. We can catch enough fish and fowl to keep us going until a ship comes by."
"That's the problem," said Pitt. "We can't survive on what we can catch alone. If Rodney's missing teeth are any indication, he died from scurvy. A dietary lack of vitamin C and a dozen other nutrients I can think of weakened him until he could no longer function. At that stage of physical erosion, death was just around the corner. If a ship does eventually arrive and put a landing party on shore, they'll find four skeletons instead of one. I strongly believe it is in our best interests to make every effort to push on while we're still physically capable."
"Dirk is right," Giordino said to Maeve. "Our only chance at seeing city lights again is to leave the island."
"Build a boat?" demanded Maeve. "With what materials?"
She stood, firmly, gracefully, her arms and legs slim and tan, the flesh taut and young, her head cocked like a wary lynx. Pitt was as captivated as he had been when they were together on board the Ice Hunter.
"A flotation tube from our boat here, the upper works from York's boat there, throw in a few logs, and pretty soon you've got a vessel fit for an ocean voyage."
"This I have to see," said Maeve.
"As you wish," Pitt replied airily. He began drawing a diagram in the sand. "The idea is to connect our boat's buoyancy tubes under the deck cabin from York's boat. Then we fashion a pair of beech tree trunks into outriggers for stability and we
've got ourselves a trimaran."
"Looks practical to me," Giordino agreed.
"We need over 130 square meters of sail," Pitt continued. "We have a mast and a rudder."
Giordino pointed over to the tent. "York's old Dacron sails are brittle and rotten with forty years of mildew. The first stiff breeze will crack and blow them into shreds."
"I've considered that," said Pitt. "The Polynesian mariners wove sails from palm fronds. I see no reason why we can't weave fully leafed branches from the beech trees to accomplish the same purpose.
And we have plenty of extra rigging from the sailboat for shrouds and to lash outriggers to the center hull."
"How long will it take us to build your trimaran?" asked Maeve, doubt becoming replaced by growing interest.
I figure we can knock together a vessel and shove oft in three days if we put in long hours."
"That soon?"
"The construction is not complicated, and thanks to Rodney York, we have the tools to complete the job."
"Do we continue sailing east or head northeast for Invercargill?" asked Giordino.
Pitt shook his head. "Neither. With Rodney's navigational instruments and Admiralty charts, I see no reason why I can't lay a reasonably accurate course for Gladiator Island."
Maeve looked at him as if he had turned mad, her hands hanging limply at her sides. "That," she said in bewilderment, "is the craziest notion you've come up with yet."
"May be," he said, his eyes set and fixed. "But I think it only appropriate that we finish what we set out to do . . . rescue your boys."
"Sounds good to me," Giordino put in without hesitation. "I'd like a rematch with King Kong, or whatever your sister calls herself when she isn't crushing car bodies at a salvage yard."
"I'm indebted to you enough as it is. But--"
"No buts," said Pitt. "As far as we're concerned it's a done deal. We build our hermaphrodite boat, sail it to Gladiator Island, snatch your boys and escape to the nearest port of safety."
"Escape to safety! Can't you understand?" Her voice was imploring, almost despairing. "Ninety percent of the island is surrounded by vertical cliffs and precipices impossible to climb. The only landing area is the beach circling the lagoon, and it's heavily guarded. No one can cross through the reef without being shot. My father has built security defenses a well-armed assault force couldn't penetrate. If you attempt it, you will surely die."
"Nothing to be alarmed about," Pitt said subtly. " AI and I flit on and off islands with the same finesse as we do in and out of ladies' bedrooms. It's all in selecting the right time and spot."
"That and a lot of wrist action," Giordino added.
"Father's patrol boats will spot you long before you can enter the lagoon."
Pitt shrugged. "Not to worry. I have a homespun remedy for dodging nasty old patrol boats that never fails."
"And dare I ask what it is?"
"Simple. We drop in where they least expect us."
"Both your brains were boiled by the sun." She shook her head in defeat. "Do you expect Daddy to ask us in for tea?" Maeve had one remorseful moment of guilt. She saw clearly that she was responsible for the terrible dangers and torment inflicted on these two incredible men who were willing to give up their lives for her twin sons, Michael and Sean. She felt a wave of despondency sweep over her that quickly turned to resignation. She came over and knelt between Pitt and Giordino, placing an arm around each of their necks. "Thank you," she murmured softly. "How could I be so lucky as to find men as wonderful as you?"
"We make a habit of helping maidens in distress." Giordino saw the tears welling in her eyes and turned away, genuinely embarrassed.
Pitt kissed Maeve on the forehead. "It's not as impossible as it sounds. Trust me."
"If only I had met you what seems like a hundred years ago," she whispered with a catch in her voice.
She looked as if she were about to say more, rose to her feet and quickly walked away to be by herself.
Giordino stared at Pitt curiously. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Do you mind sharing how we're going to get on and off the island once we arrive offshore?"
"We get on with a kite and a grappling hook I found among York's gear."
"And off again?" Giordino prompted, totally confused but unwilling to pursue the subject.
Pitt threw a dried beech log on the fire and watched the sparks swirl upward. "That," he said, as relaxed as a boy waiting for his bobber to sink at a fishing hole, "that part of the plan I'll worry about when the time comes."
Their vessel to escape the island was built on a flat section of rock in a small valley protected from the breeze, thirty meters from the water. They laid out rail-like ways of beech logs to slide their weird creation into the relatively calm waters between the two islands. The demands were not cruel or exacting.
They were in better condition than when they arrived and found themselves able to work through the nights, when the atmosphere was coldest, and rest for a few hours during the heat of the day, For the most part, construction went smoothly without major setbacks. The closer they got to completion, the more their fatigue fell away.
Maeve threw herself into weaving two sails from the leafy branches. For simplicity Pitt had decided to step the mast York had salvaged from his ketch, to take a spanker on the mizzen and a square sail on the mainmast. Maeve wove the larger sail for the mainmast first. The first few hours were spent experimenting, but by late afternoon she began to get the hang of it and could weave a square meter in thirty minutes. By the third day, she was down to twenty minutes. Her matting was so strong and tight, Pitt asked her to make a third sail, a triangular jib to set forward of the mainmast.
Together, Pitt and Giordino unbolted and lifted the ketch's upper deckhouse and mounted it over the forward part of the steering cockpit. This abbreviated section of the ketch was then lashed on top of the buoyancy tubes from their little boat, which now served as the center hull. The next chore was to step the tall aluminum masts, which were reduced in height to compensate for the shorter hull and lack of a deep keel. Since no chain plates could be attached to the neoprene buoyancy tubes, the shrouds and stays to support the masts were slung under the hull and joined at a pair of turnbuckles. When finished, the hybrid craft had the appearance of a sailboat perched on a hovercraft.
The following day, Pitt reset the ketch's rudder to ride higher in the water, rigging it to a long tiller, a more efficient system for steering a trimaran. Once the rudder was firmly in place and swung to his satisfaction, he attacked the forty-year-old outboard engine, cleaning the carburetor and fuel lines before overhauling the magneto.
Giordino went to work on the outriggers. He chopped down and trimmed two sturdy beech trees whose trunks curved near their tops. Next he placed the logs alongside the hull and extended them out with the curved sections facing forward like a pair of skis. The outriggers were then lashed to cross-member logs that ran laterally across the hull near the bow and just aft of the cockpit and were braced fore and aft. Giordino was quite pleased with himself, after he put a shoulder against the outriggers and heaved mightily, proclaiming them solid and rigid with no indication of give.
As they sat around the fire at dawn, warding off the early morning chill of the southern latitudes, Pitt pored over York's navigational and plotting charts. At noon he took sights of the sun with the sextant, and later, at night, he shot several stars. Then with the aid of the nautical almanac and the "Short Method"
tables that cut trigonometry calculations to bare bones, he practiced fixing his position until his figures accurately matched the known latitude and longitude of the Misery Islands on the chart.
"Think you can hit Gladiator Island on the nose?" Maeve asked him over dinner on the second evening before the launch.
"If not the nose, then the chin," Pitt said cheerfully. "Which reminds me, I'll need a detailed map of the island."
"How detailed?"
"Every building, every path and road, and I'd like it all to scale."
"I'll draw you a map from memory as accurately as I can," Maeve promised.
Giordino chewed on a small thigh from a frigate bird Pitt had managed to shoot with his miniature automatic pistol. "What do you make the distance?"
"Precisely 478 kilometers as the crow flies."
"Then it's closer than Invercargill."
"That's the beauty of it."
"How many days will it take to arrive?" asked Maeve.
"Impossible to say," answered Pitt. "The first leg of the voyage will be the hardest, tacking to windward until we pick up friendly currents and easterly breezes blowing off New Zealand. With no keel to carve the water and prevent them being blown sideways, trimarans are notoriously inept when it comes to sailing into the wind. The real challenge will come after we set off. Without a shakedown cruise we're in the dark as to her sailing qualities. She may not tack to windward at all, and we may end up being blown back toward South America."
"Not a comforting thought," said Maeve, her mind clouded with the appalling implications of a ninety-day endurance trial. "When I think about it, I'd just as soon remain on dry land and end up like Rodney York."
The day before the launch was one of feverish activity. Final preparations included the manufacture of Pitt's mystery kite, which was folded and stowed in the deckhouse along with 150 meters of light nylon line from York's boat that had retained its integral strength. Then their meager supplies of foodstuffs were loaded on board along with the navigational instruments, charts and books. Cheers erupted over the barren rocks when the outboard motor coughed to life after four decades and nearly forty pulls on the starter rope by Pitt, who felt as if his arm was about to fall off.
"You did it!" Maeve shouted delightedly.
Pitt spread his hands in a modest gesture. "Child's play for somebody who restores antique and classic automobiles. The main problems were a clogged fuel line and a gummed-up carburetor."