3 |

Unknown Location

 

Tosh groaned, his entire body racked with pain. His eyes fluttered open and he found himself in pitch darkness. It took him a moment to remember what had happened, and when he did, his heart raced.

“Mowery! You okay?”

There was no reply. He struggled to get up, and when he braced himself, his left arm buckled and he screamed in agony. It was broken. He eased back down on the deck, then performed a self-assessment. His arm was broken and his ribs were tender. He took a deep breath and gasped, the pain overwhelming, his breathing labored.

He needed immediate medical attention.

He listened, but heard nothing beyond his own wheezing, though with the door to the highly classified testing center closed, he wouldn’t expect to hear anything. It was then that he noticed the violent rocking of the boat was gone. It was now completely still, which didn’t make sense. Even on a calm sea there would be gentle movement.

His eyes shot wide as he realized what had happened.

We’re shipwrecked.

He had no idea how long he’d been passed out, but the closest landmass when he had hit his head was Cuba, the only country in the entire hemisphere they wouldn’t want to be shipwrecked on the shores of, beyond perhaps Venezuela, and there was no way he had been out that long. But if they were indeed on the shores of Cuba or some other landmass, he might not be the only one alive.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cellphone, and activated the flashlight feature. He played it around the room, the beam coming to rest on Mowery’s crumpled body. He dragged himself toward his friend, clutching his left arm to his side, his chest protesting with each jerking motion. He collapsed beside Mowery, exhausted, and struggled to take shallow breaths rather than the deep gasps his body demanded. His searing lungs finally settled, he reached over and gave Mowery a shake.

“Hey, buddy, you still with us?”

But there was no reply. He rolled his friend onto his back, then shined the light on Mowery’s face. His mouth filled with bile and he quickly twisted his wrist, redirecting the light so he couldn’t see the horror revealed—Mowery’s twisted and broken neck. The man was dead. The only comfort he could take from the discovery was the fact it had been instantaneous, and his friend hadn’t suffered.

He closed his eyes and took a brief moment to mourn the loss, then used the light to re-orient himself. He had to get out of this room. Dragging himself had been unbearably painful, and the door was on the other side of the room. There was no way he could manage that again, and besides, once he was past the door, it was a long way off the boat. He rolled to his knees, the pain in his chest overwhelming. He reached up and grabbed the railing that went around most of the room. He gripped it with his right hand then took as deep a breath as he could manage before hauling himself to his feet.

He roared in agony, his scream providing little relief, merely expending the valuable oxygen he needed for the effort. But it was worth it. He steadied himself against the console brimming with top-secret equipment that it was his duty to make certain didn’t fall into hostile hands. Yet there was no way he could fulfill that duty, not in his current condition, though perhaps there were others still alive who could.

He stumbled over to the door, the security panel dark. He smacked it and it briefly flickered to life. He entered his code and the panel beeped. He pushed against the door and it opened after some effort. A rush of fresh air greeted him along with dim emergency lighting, the batteries powering it slowly fading.

He leaned against the bulkhead, steadying his breathing, only then realizing how stale the air in the control room had been without its purifiers running. He checked both ends of the corridor and saw no one, though the faint sounds of waves lapping on a shore and seagulls squawking in the distance had replaced the deafening silence of the testing center.

He debated what to do. There were only six of them on board. Mowery was dead, and the last time he was on the bridge, two were there, and two were in the engine compartment. In his condition, there was no way he’d be able to climb the ladder to the bridge, but if he went out the stern of the boat, he could get on the deck and call to them. His decision made, he pushed along the bulkhead toward the far end of the corridor, then opened the rear hatch, pushing it aside.

Sunlight poured in, the humid salt air revitalizing, if only slightly. He climbed through the opening and out onto the tilted rear deck. He had a clear view of the ocean, marred only by the heavy clouds in the distance from the edge of the hurricane responsible for all this. He shuffled forward, turning to face the rest of the boat, then cursed as his assumption proved correct.

They had washed ashore.

From what he could observe, the boat seemed in good condition, though he had no way of knowing how the hull had fared. He dragged himself toward the open access door to the engine compartment and peered inside. Several feet of water had settled at the bottom, but Jake and Kathryn were no longer there. He headed for the bridge, hauling himself by the railing, then finally gave up, exhausted. He leaned against the rail, gasping for oxygen, his ribs in agony. Finally, he managed to regain control. “Is anyone up there?”

There was no reply.

“Captain Galitz! Are you guys okay?”

There was still no reply. He eyed the vertical ladder leading up to the bridge. There was no way he could climb it, not in his condition, yet he had to know. Several of the windows were smashed, and he was certain the boat had capsized, but he had found no evidence of significant flooding. The vessel was designed to right itself, and appeared to have done just that, though how many times they had flipped, and how long they had been violently tossed around while he was unconscious, he had no idea. Without engines, they would have been at the mercy of the sea all night. He had to hope they were merely injured like him, and not dead like Mowery.

He eyed the impossible bridge. Yesterday, he could yank himself up the ladder with his feet never touching a rung. Today, it might as well be the Empire State building.

Yet he had to know.

He shuffled from the railing and reached up, grabbing a rung with his good hand. He stepped up with his right foot then his left. He took another step up, pushing as much as he could with his legs rather than pulling, all in an attempt to avoid the strain on his broken ribs. But it wasn’t easy going. The boat was tipped hard to starboard, and attempting to hold on to the ladder with his right hand was challenging while gravity pulled his body weight to the right.

He pushed up another rung then let go with his right hand and jerked it up, grabbing on to the next rung. He heard something clatter and he cursed as his cellphone that had slipped out of his pocket from his precarious angle, skidded across the deck and over the side into the water below. A jolt of pain surged through his body and his strength waned. His head spun and his grip slowly loosened as he slipped off, slamming onto the deck, his head smacking once again against a hard surface, blissfully freeing him from his agony and the guilt that would have surely overwhelmed him at failing to fulfill his duty to his friends, his crewmates, and his country.