Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise (5 page)

“Columbus used three vessels to get to America and made it back to Spain with just one,” Murf explained.

“I trust the method,” Rock said. “We call it backup.”

At 12:15
P.M.
on the eighth day out, they heard the radar’s urgent warning buzzer.

“What is it?” asked Detroit. Murf went to the instrument panel and studied the readings. “Bad news, crew. It’s a big storm. We must head into it and ride it out—can’t outrun it.” The bronze sailor looked grim. “This will be a mega-storm, Rockson,” he said, drawing the Doomsday Warrior aside. “I don’t know if . . .”

Rockson, understanding his meaning, said, “Then let’s get to work to improve what chance we have. How long do we have before it hits?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Drop the spinnaker; get with it!” Knudson was yelling. As the crew did this, and a multitude of other emergency tasks, the sky became ominously grey. The dolphins that had been their ever-present escort dropped beneath the turgid sea.

Everyone quickly donned yellow rain slickers and hats.

The sky was broiling now with black sodden clouds; a burst of lightning rent the heavens. The storm began pouring a torrent of water down upon the craft and its awed human cargo. By the time the last hatch was battened down and secured by heavy ropes, the crew members had trouble seeing in the darkness and heavy rain.

Rockson had been through mega-storms on land before, but this one was the first he had ever encountered at sea, where there was no shelter! Soon the waves were building to fifty-, sixty-, and seventy-foot heights, and the
Muscle Beach
was tossing and rolling like a cork in a mad child’s bathwater.

No one could doubt that the very survival of the ship was doubtful. Life or watery death was now up to fate. Murf grabbed Rockson and screamed in his ear over the howling wind. “Someone has to watch the helm—the computer is set to always head directly at the winds. It’s sealed from the weather; but
if
it gets wet, it will short out, and the ship could turn sidewise to the waves. Then we’d capsize.”

“I’m your man,” Rock volunteered. Together, they locked arms, took some heavy rope and attached themselves to the mainmast. If the men were pulled from the depressed cockpit that held the helm, they could work themselves back to their place. This was a precaution that paid off three times in the ensuing hours.

The computer
did
short out when a titanic wave washed across the deck, submerging the entire vessel for some thirty seconds.

Murf was slammed so hard against the mast—though he wasn’t lost overboard thanks to the rope—that he was unable to manage the wheel. Rockson had been aiding Murf in his turning the helm, and now he had to direct the ship all by himself. The effort was too much for any one man—
except
the Doomsday Warrior. For hours he struggled until the barometer began rising and the sky was grey, not black, once more. Then Rockson, pummeled by wind and rain, utterly exhausted from twisting the wheel against its doom-desire, passed out.

Rock’s eyes opened slowly. He saw nothing but deep blue. Was he dead? If so, what was this rocking? He realized the blue was sky—clear sky—and that he was flat on his back. He tried to sit up, but his numb arms were lashed to a fallen mast. Next to him Detroit lay, facedown. The black Freefighter was also obviously alive. Rock could hear his intermittent coughing.
What happened?

Rock remembered now. He had collapsed at the helm as the storm was abating. Then why was he tied?

A shadow blotted out the blue sky while a smell of damp bearskin and muscled sweat filled the air. A big candy-eating grin surrounded by a tangle of red-and-black-streaked beard stood over Rock. “Archer!” Rockson exclaimed. “Did you—”

“MEE MAKE KNOTS GOOOOD!” the gentle giant boasted. He untied the Doomsday Warrior, then helped Detroit up.

Over cups of hot coffee, Chen related how, one by one, the crew, realizing Rockson was unconscious at the helm, had gone topside and attempted to reach the helm to assist. Archer had been the only one to reach Rockson against the wind. He had lashed him down and also tied all the fallen men he could to whatever was handy, so they couldn’t wash overboard. “I’m sorry to report that three men—George, Sammy and Alf—died. Washed overboard.”

Rock nodded, then looked around. The boat was listing; its masts had been snapped—but she
was
afloat.

“No sign of the
Surf City,”
Detroit said glumly, surveying the horizon in a 360-degree search.

Rockson continued to check the damage: no drinking water, and old Salty had a broken arm, which Chen had set already in a splint. The explosives, plus the ammo the Surfcombers had supplied, were lost.

Murf, once recovered, had gone below. Now he came upstairs. “We’ve stopped taking on water. We’ll stay afloat. The gyro-compass still works, Rock, and the helm responds, if a bit sluggishly. If we can rig one mast, we can use wind power.”

“Where are we?” Rock asked.

“Miles off course,” probably,” Murf said. “We should find out.”

Soon Rock was taking a compass reading and checking the charts. He was not pleased with his results.

“We’re five hundred miles off course—and the nearest island with fresh water is a hundred more miles off course, due east.”

“But we’ve got line and tackle,” Murf said. “We’ll get fish oil to drink, and we’ll eat.”

They held a small service for their three lost seamen. Then they silently prayed for the crew of the
Surf City.
Rock wanted to believe they, too, were alive.

“We won’t find out until we reach—
if
we reach our destination,” Knudson said.

Rock nodded. The odds were against the
Surf City.
The
Muscle Beach
had barely made it through the storm.

“Archer, remind me to sponsor you for Century City’s first maritime heroism medal,” Rock said, after the service.

Archer’s chest swelled.

“Nothing,”
he said, clearly and softly, “Me
friend.”

Five

U
sing only the patched sail of the restored foremast, they made slow but steady time, heading for an island marked on the old chart only as “F-2:
uninhabited, contains fresh water.”

They had rationed their supplies carefully in case they were becalmed, but the westerly winds held, and they were closing on F-2 by the afternoon of the second day post-mega-storm.

The lookout, Scheranksy, called out from the bowsprit. “Ship ahoy, Captain.”

“What?”
Knudson was incredulous. “Is it the
Surf City?”

“Nyet.
It’s—well,
come look!”

The captain and the Doomsday Warrior walked up the leaning deck. Rock took the telescope from the Russian’s outstretched hand. Once he had the object in question in the lens, he whistled. The unexpected ship was a three-master. “An ancient sailing vessel,” Rockson exclaimed, “in very bad repair. The sails are torn; it’s listing badly to port and covered with some sort of green vines.”

“I didn’t believe my own eyes,” Scheranksy said, McCaughlin cursed loudly. He had been taking depth readings, dropping the plumb line and calling out the fathoms. Now, suddenly, he had trouble pulling up the sinker. Rockson turned and saw the man yanking with all his might and pulling up to deck a swarm of tangled seaweed. It was like coil springs, thick and pungent. Flopping out of the tangle were small fish and crabs.

“FOOOODDDDD,” Archer said proudly, picking up a crab by a claw and dangling it in Rockson’s face.

“Never mind that, we’ll get trapped in this seaweed like that old ship!” He turned and yelled to Murf, “Astern at full speed.”

The
Muscle Beach
slowed to a standstill, then started veering about; yet perhaps it was too late. “If the rudder gets caught in that stuff,” Rock uttered, “we’re finished.”

Murf tied the helm, then came over, leaning over the side alongside Rock. They beheld a green carpet, undulating like a living thing. The
Muscle Beach
suddenly jerked to a halt. A buzzer sounded, and the Surfcomber said grimly, “That means the propellor is fouled. Looks like we’re in it pretty bad.”

Rock agreed, “This stuff is like a floating flytrap for ships.” They both stared at the tangle of vinelike seaweed.

Scheranksy had been sweeping his telescope around from the bowsprit and shouted, “Rock, there are
other
ships out there, too. An old aluminum-hulled cabin cruiser, a battered steamship—and they’re all slowly rotating clockwise in this tangle.”

“It’s like the
Sargasso sea,”
Murf gasped. “If we don’t get out now, the ship will be drawn into the vortex!”

“Sargasso sea?” Rock asked. “What’s that?”

“A cemetery, a trap for ships. I though it was just a tall tale, a legend.”

The crew worked like mad to free the
Muscle Beach
for the next forty minutes, but to no avail. Helplessly they drifted into the spiralling seaweed trap.

“The ships don’t seem to be moving anymore,” Scheranksy stated after climbing down from his perch.

“Don’t feel too cheery about that,” Murf said, “because it means we’re rotating in the vortex
with them.
It will take a lot more than sail power to pull out of it now! Even if we
can
cut free of the weeds.”

Detroit said glumly, “Don’t count on that. The seaweed stuff is coming up like vines toward the deck—like Rocky Mountain creepers! We’re being sealed in.”

“What’s that over there?” McCaughlin was pointing to the south. “Looks like an island.”

Rock took the scope from Scheranksy and focused in. “No, it’s another ship. But it has a flat top—and some rusty stuff on deck . . .
Good God,
there are planes on the deck! It’s an old aircraft carrier.”

“A carrier?” Scheranksy blurted. “Is it—Soviet?”

“No, relax, it’s a derelict. Vintage Third World War, I suspect. I can’t quite make out the name on the stern. U.S.S.
Nim
—something . . .”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Rock?” Chen asked.

“If you mean there might be supplies—some more explosives, even canned food and water on the carrier—the answer is
yes.”

“Fine idea,” Detroit chided, “but how do we get there?”

The Russian provided the answer. While the others were talking, he had climbed down the side and had gingerly taken a first step onto the hard-packed bed of floating seaweed. “Rock,” he shouted now, “the seaweed’s so thick, you can walk on it!”

“
Careful,
Scheranksy,” Detroit cautioned, “we’d never find your Russian ass if you fell through that stuff.”

“Get back up here, on the double!” Rock commanded.

The Russian clambered back aboard, sheepishly saying, “Sorry Rock, I just thought . . .”

“Well, I guess you proved we could actually
walk
to the carrier—if we’re careful. And we can explore the other craft, too,” Rockson added hopefully. “We might find a more seaworthy vessel than the
Muscle Beach
out there.”

Detroit objected. “You really think we can follow Scheranksy’s dumb example and simply walk across the seaweed?”

“Yes—with some sort of safety platform along, just in case the slimy mass gives way. We’ll fashion some sort of raft, carry it with us. If we start to sink in, we’ll get on it, quick.”

“That is a good idea,” said Scheranksy. “I’m glad you thought of it. We did that on the Moscow River one fall, when the ice was not yet firm! I remember—”

“Later
with the reminisces, Ivan,” said Murf, “let’s figure out how to build that raft.”

In an hour, four of the intrepid American explorers—Rockson, Archer, Murf and Detroit—had walked on the carpet of seaweed far from the
Muscle Beach,
five hundred yards at least. They carried a lightly constructed, six-by-six plank raft between them, one American at each corner. It had been built from the loose deck boards of the
Muscle Beach.
Rock didn’t like damaging her further, but it was necessary.

Rock turned to look back. Their pathetic, little ship’s stubby mast could hardly be seen above the green rolling seaweed carpet they were traversing. They moved onward across the surreal seascape. Though there were few holes in the sea carpet, once they were in the thick of it, Rock cautioned, “Don’t walk in step. We can start a wave motion, and the ground—if I can call it that—will start undulating.”

Their first target was not the carrier, but the closest wreck—the
Sally Ann
according to the weathered name on its stern. It was a twentieth century luxury yacht.

When the men set their safety platform down on the weed bed and started climbing her, a flock of sea birds nesting in the rotting superstructure took flight.

On the deck, they beheld crumbling skeletons. One had a captain’s hat on its skull—the hat’s cloth nearly gone, but its plastic brim intact as new. Some of the other skeletons had small seabirds’ nests in their round, chalk-white, eye sockets.

“There’s lots of good aluminum plating here to repair the
Muscle Beach,”
Murf exclaimed, pleased at this early result of the journey.

“Funny,” Detroit noted, “I don’t see why the hell the skeletons didn’t rot away. This vessel is about a hundred years old, judging by the design.”

“Maybe the air here is full of minerals,” Rock offered. “The bones are calcified.”

They pushed aside a crumbling door and lit a flash to check the engine room. The engine was a pile of rust—once a gleaming diesel engine, but now of no use. In a few minutes Detroit had noted all that was useful on the craft, and they were on to the next destination—the three-masted sailing ship.

As they approached the brooding hulk, Murf said, “It—seems evil. I don’t know why.” He was not the only uneasy one. Rock had an eerie forboding but kept it to himself.

An old hemp-rope ladder was dangling invitingly from her aft, and testing it and finding it sound, first Rockson and then the others went up to the ghostly ship’s deck.

“It’s in remarkably good shape—too good,” Murf commented as they headed for the bridge, across creaking deckslats.