lightly on a petulant sea, the rubber
raiding craft was tossed about like dice in a crapshoot.
Captain Hanlon
watched through his binoculars as the crew of the inflatable struggled toward
their objective, the outboard motor humming. His eyes narrowed and his brows
drew down in concentration. It was difficult to see the guy as his orange
lifejacket bobbed in and out of sight with each rolling swell.
The man is a rag-doll, he
thought, recalling a childhood game where he and his siblings rolled and fell in
the back seat with every stop and turn of his parents' moving car. He must
be dead.
He watched the inflatable
slow. With a surging wave Maryland dipped into a trough and a large swell
blocked his view. He stared through his binoculars, training them back and
forth like a gun turret in an attempt to regain contact. A few moments later he
saw his men had already hauled their target from the sea and were fighting their
way back toward Maryland.
Captain Hanlon
lowered his binoculars. Maryland's doctor and two seamen stood nearby
with a stretcher and medical equipment, but he ignored them. He didn't feel
like talking. Maryland was at the precise coordinates where the submarine USS Scorpion sank in 1968, with the loss of all her crew. At the time there
were accusations of conspiracy and Soviet involvement. More recent evidence
supported a "cataclysmic event" and possible torpedo malfunction.
Naval investigation was inconclusive. Hanlon's jaw tightened. There was no
logical reason for him to feel uneasy. Why should any of this bother him? The Scorpion catastrophe was done and dusted years ago.
The back of Hanlon's
neck tingled. He had the urge to cross himself, but not in respect for the dead
man that would soon be brought aboard his boat. Bernard Shaw's poem came to
mind, "Mine will be a watery grave, I feel it in my bones. Men will me
in canvass sew, and weigh me down with stones." Here he was, plucking
a corpse from the sea, while Maryland was floating above a maritime
graveyard of ninety-nine lost souls. There was some sort of macabre irony there
somewhere.
The zodiac came
alongside and the petty officer in charge clambered up Maryland's side on
a steel rope ladder. His voice was loud over the sound of whistling wind and
waves as he shouted, "Captain! Sir...he's alive!"
The unconscious
man was brought up on deck and onto the waiting canvas stretcher. Naked except
for his life preserver, the man was thin and suffering from exposure -- but he
was breathing. Strands of wet hair lay in stark contrast, black against his
pale face. He seemed about thirty-five years old, perhaps younger, and had the
look of a fighter. His hardened grimace refused to give in, even to
unconsciousness. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once. Hanlon
registered these details without conscious thought. There would be time to
think of them later.
Corpsmen cut
away the lifejacket, covered the man with blankets, and strapped him in. They picked
up the stretcher and started to move. The doctor glanced at the captain in silent
query and Hanlon nodded. With almost no break in stride, the medical team
whisked their patient away, disappearing down the main hatch. The entire
operation had taken minutes.
Maryland seemed
empty once they were gone.
Hanlon squatted
down on the black deck and shook his head in disbelief. Not dead.
It was
incredible. He had just picked up a living man from the middle of nowhere, in
the cold water of an open ocean. He couldn't recall anything more unusual in
twenty-eight years at sea. He looked at the severed debris of the man's lifejacket,
the only remaining evidence of the fantastic events of the last few minutes. Reaching
over, he picked up the dusty orange-colored vest, attempting to get a firm grip
on what, in the space of moments, had become a tenuous reality.
Glancing at the
dripping material, Hanlon's pulse sped up and his hand went to his heart.
Oh my God!
For a moment he
stopped breathing. His hand
raiding craft was tossed about like dice in a crapshoot.
Captain Hanlon
watched through his binoculars as the crew of the inflatable struggled toward
their objective, the outboard motor humming. His eyes narrowed and his brows
drew down in concentration. It was difficult to see the guy as his orange
lifejacket bobbed in and out of sight with each rolling swell.
The man is a rag-doll, he
thought, recalling a childhood game where he and his siblings rolled and fell in
the back seat with every stop and turn of his parents' moving car. He must
be dead.
He watched the inflatable
slow. With a surging wave Maryland dipped into a trough and a large swell
blocked his view. He stared through his binoculars, training them back and
forth like a gun turret in an attempt to regain contact. A few moments later he
saw his men had already hauled their target from the sea and were fighting their
way back toward Maryland.
Captain Hanlon
lowered his binoculars. Maryland's doctor and two seamen stood nearby
with a stretcher and medical equipment, but he ignored them. He didn't feel
like talking. Maryland was at the precise coordinates where the submarine USS Scorpion sank in 1968, with the loss of all her crew. At the time there
were accusations of conspiracy and Soviet involvement. More recent evidence
supported a "cataclysmic event" and possible torpedo malfunction.
Naval investigation was inconclusive. Hanlon's jaw tightened. There was no
logical reason for him to feel uneasy. Why should any of this bother him? The Scorpion catastrophe was done and dusted years ago.
The back of Hanlon's
neck tingled. He had the urge to cross himself, but not in respect for the dead
man that would soon be brought aboard his boat. Bernard Shaw's poem came to
mind, "Mine will be a watery grave, I feel it in my bones. Men will me
in canvass sew, and weigh me down with stones." Here he was, plucking
a corpse from the sea, while Maryland was floating above a maritime
graveyard of ninety-nine lost souls. There was some sort of macabre irony there
somewhere.
The zodiac came
alongside and the petty officer in charge clambered up Maryland's side on
a steel rope ladder. His voice was loud over the sound of whistling wind and
waves as he shouted, "Captain! Sir...he's alive!"
The unconscious
man was brought up on deck and onto the waiting canvas stretcher. Naked except
for his life preserver, the man was thin and suffering from exposure -- but he
was breathing. Strands of wet hair lay in stark contrast, black against his
pale face. He seemed about thirty-five years old, perhaps younger, and had the
look of a fighter. His hardened grimace refused to give in, even to
unconsciousness. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once. Hanlon
registered these details without conscious thought. There would be time to
think of them later.
Corpsmen cut
away the lifejacket, covered the man with blankets, and strapped him in. They picked
up the stretcher and started to move. The doctor glanced at the captain in silent
query and Hanlon nodded. With almost no break in stride, the medical team
whisked their patient away, disappearing down the main hatch. The entire
operation had taken minutes.
Maryland seemed
empty once they were gone.
Hanlon squatted
down on the black deck and shook his head in disbelief. Not dead.
It was
incredible. He had just picked up a living man from the middle of nowhere, in
the cold water of an open ocean. He couldn't recall anything more unusual in
twenty-eight years at sea. He looked at the severed debris of the man's lifejacket,
the only remaining evidence of the fantastic events of the last few minutes. Reaching
over, he picked up the dusty orange-colored vest, attempting to get a firm grip
on what, in the space of moments, had become a tenuous reality.
Glancing at the
dripping material, Hanlon's pulse sped up and his hand went to his heart.
Oh my God!
For a moment he
stopped breathing. His hand
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