“Doesn’t sound like water,” Bray said.
Joliet started up the stairs. “That’s because it’s not just water. The ocean is full of a million floating projectiles.”
Hawkins realized that they were in a very precarious situation. At two hundred seventy-four feet in length, the Magellan wasn’t a small ship, but the right storm could sink even the largest vessel. Worse, they seemed to be out of control and the ocean was full of debris, some of it rock solid. Rescue in the middle of the Pacific was fairly unlikely on a good day, but surrounded by endless miles of garbage, they’d never be found.
He kept his thoughts to himself as he motioned for Bray to follow Joliet up the stairs. Halfway to the top, the ship shook from a massive impact. A loud bang from the top of the stairwell was followed by a swirling torrent of sea water.
6.
The roiling water carried a slick of worn plastic chips past Hawkins’s feet with enough force to sweep them out from under him. If not for the railings he clutched by both hands, he would have toppled down the stairs. He felt thankful that Joliet and Bray had been holding the railings, as well, or they would have all fallen together.
As the ship canted in the other direction, the flow of water stopped. We’re not sinking, Hawkins told himself, a wave just found a way inside.
“Mark!” Joliet shouted from above. She’d reached the top of the stairs on the main deck and fought to stay upright on the sharply tilting, very wet floor. “A door is open!”
Hawkins reached the top of the stairs right behind Bray. Nearly horizontal rain whipped into the hallway, stinging his face. Had Joliet lost her balance and fallen, she’d have been tossed out the open door, over the rail of the main deck, and into the torrid ocean. As the ship tilted, pushing them away from the open door, a flash of lightning lit the scene outside the door.
A cresting twenty-five-foot wave laden with garbage reached out for them like a giant. They were about to be pulverized. Hawkins struggled to climb the steepening floor, hoping to reach the door before the wave.
“Take my arm!” Bray shouted. He held onto the stairway railing with one hand and stretched out the other to Hawkins. “We’ll both pull.”
Understanding what the man had in mind, Hawkins reached forward and took Bray’s hand. They pulled in unison, accelerating Hawkins up the incline. He’d covered half the distance when his speed dropped quickly. The ship was still listing. Desperation fueled his leap and he caught hold of the open metal door with the tips of his fingers.
Thunder boomed through the opening door, so close that it made his ears ring. But it didn’t slow him because he knew the next boom would be the wave striking the ship. He pulled himself up the door, found his footing, and pushed against the heavy metal. His progress felt impossibly slow, but he managed to get the watertight door closed. The first drops of the descending wave hissed against the hull as Hawkins took hold of the locking wheel and gave it a spin.
The door’s locking pins snapped into place, securing the hatch and keeping the water at bay, but it did little to spare the ship, or Hawkins, against the force of the wave. The impact pushed the ship to a forty-five-degree angle and tossed Hawkins away from the door as though it had exploded.
Hawkins shouted as he fell toward the other side of the ship. But his topple was cut short as something snagged his shirt. He swung to the side and struck the wall hard, but not nearly as hard as he would have struck the far wall. When Bray shouted a strained “Yearg!” Hawkins knew that it was the big man who had caught him. And likely saved his life.
When the ship righted itself, Bray let go of Hawkins’s now stretched-out T-shirt and rubbed his shoulder.
“You okay?” Hawkins asked.
Bray rolled his shoulder around. “You owe me one.”
“I’ll give you one of the beers Joliet already owes me,” Hawkins said with a grin and gave Bray a pat on the shoulder, causing the man to wince.
“Let’s go!” Joliet shouted as she started up the next staircase. They were still three flights below the bridge.
With no more open hatches along the way, the ascent went more smoothly, though they were still tossed back and forth. Beaten and bruised, they staggered up the last flight of stairs only to find the door leading to the wheelhouse locked.
Joliet wasted no time hammering the door with her fist.
Peter Blok, the ship’s first mate, unlatched the door quickly, shouting, “Cahill, where the hell have you—?” Blok looked like he’d been slapped in the face when he realized who was at the door. His eyes were wide behind his wire-rim glasses, but his eyebrows were furrowed in frustration. “What are you three—you’re supposed to be confined to quarters!”