He took back his regulator to take a quick breath before again feeding it to Tory. A third diver joined them. A knot was forming on her head from where she’d struck it against something, most likely when the ship rotated, and a fine feather of blood stained the water around the welt. He had the spare tanks and a dive helmet. Juan placed it over Tory’s head and gave her sternum a sharp rap. Tory coughed into the helmet, a small amount of water pooling around her neck. Her eyes fluttered open, and she retched again. Juan used his regulator to purge the water from her helmet and kept his eyes locked on hers as she slowly came back. He knew she was going to be okay when she realized a stranger had his hand down her pants.

Other divers appeared. They guided Tory and Juan out of the room. One checked Cabrillo’s tanks. He’d been down the longest and working the hardest. He was okay for now but would need fresh tanks during the decompression. Once they had swum far enough from the dangling survey ship, one of the men sent word to the Oregon that they could release the doomed vessel. A moment later, her slow downward plunge turned into a runaway plummet, and the Avalon slipped from view. The severed ends of cable trailed behind her like steel tentacles.

The team ascended in a tight group centered around Tory and Juan. The dive master shaved as much time as he dared from their stops, but it was still ten minutes before the freshest divers could guide Tory up into the moon pool and another fifteen before Juan and the others allowed deckhands to drag them onto the metal deck plating.

Juan stripped off his mask and dive hood, taking great gulps of air. The moon pool smelled of machinery oil and metal but tasted as sweet as a clear mountain morning. Max appeared at Juan’s side, handing over a mug of steaming coffee. “Sorry, old friend, no booze until all the nitrogen has dissolved out of your blood.”

Cabrillo was about to tell Hanley he would risk it for the worst case of bends in history, but he tasted the coffee and savored the sting of Scotch Max had laced it with.

He let Max help him out of his gear. Then he tried to get to his feet. “How is she?” he asked, his voice weak and thin from the cold.

Max put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “She’s with Julia. We’ll know for sure soon, but I think she’s going to be okay.”

Juan sagged back against an equipment rack with a tired and satisfied smile. At least they’d snatched one of the pirates’ victims from certain death. Then he noticed several deckhands eating premium ice cream from pint containers. He knew why. Julia needed room in the big freezer for the victims they were too late to save.

8

CONSCIOUSNESS slowly congealed for Tory Ballinger through the haze of pain. She first became aware that every inch of her body ached, but it was a shin and her head where the agony appeared centered. The rest was low-grade throbbing. She levered open her eyes, blinking rapidly to clear them of sleep. Above her a fluorescent light shone with indifferent intensity. More light streamed through a nearby porthole. Three people were leaning over her. She didn’t recognize them but somehow knew they were not a threat. The woman wore a doctor’s white coat, and her dark eyes were filled with compassion and competence. One of the men was older, early sixties, and looked kindly. His features were weathered, and his bald head was blotchy, as though he’d spent a great deal of time outdoors. The unlit pipe at the corner of his mouth reminded her of her grandfather, Seamus. It was the second man who held her attention. The lines etched into the corners of his eyes and along his wide mouth weren’t the inevitable effects of age. They had been chiseled into his skin by hard-won experience. They were the marks of someone who had struggled with life, someone who treated it as a day-to-day battle. Then she noted his eyes, blue and bottomless, with just a hint of humor, and she knew he won more of life’s battles than he lost.

She felt as though she knew the man or should know who he was. He wasn’t an actor. Perhaps he was one of those billionaire adventurers who flew hot-air balloons around the world or paid to be launched into space. He certainly had that roguish presence about him, a confidence born out by a history of success.

“Welcome back,” the female doctor said. She was American. “How do you feel?”

Tory tried to speak and managed only a hoarse croak. The older gentleman produced a cup and tenderly held the straw to her lips. The water soaked into her tongue like the first rain on a desert. She sucked greedily, relishing at how the liquid sluiced away the sticky coating in her mouth.

“I think —” Tory began but started to cough. When she was finished, she cleared her throat. “I think I’m okay. Just cold.”

For the first time she realized she was under a mound of blankets, and the one closest to her body was electrically warmed. It made her skin prick.

“When you were brought here, your core temperature was about two degrees colder than the charts say you can survive. You’re very lucky.”

Tory looked around.

“This is a shipboard infirmary,” the doctor answered her unasked question. “My name is Julia Huxley. This is Max Hanley and our captain, Juan Cabrillo.” Again Tory felt she knew the man. His name seemed so familiar. “It was the captain who rescued you.”

“Rescued?”

“Do you remember what happened?” the man named Hanley asked.

Tory thought hard. “There was an attack. I was asleep. I heard gunfire. That’s what woke me. I remember hiding in my cabin. Then I…” She lapsed into frustrated silence.

“It’s okay,” Captain Cabrillo said. “Take your time. You’ve been through a hell of an experience.”

“I remember wandering around the ship after the attack.” Tory suddenly buried her face in her hands, sobbing. The captain placed a hand on her shoulder. It steadied her. “Bodies. I remember seeing bodies. The whole crew was dead. I don’t recall anything after that.”

“It’s not surprising,” Dr. Huxley said. “The mind has defensive mechanisms that act to protect us from trauma.”

The captain spoke. “After your ship was attacked, the pirates scuttled it. We happened along before it sank too deeply for us to rescue you.”

“It was a near thing,” Max Hanley added. “A couple of days had passed since the attack. Your vessel was held steady in a highly saline band of water.”

“Days?” Tory exclaimed.

“Think of yourself as Jonah,” Juan Cabrillo said with a warm smile. “Only we had to rescue you from the whale’s belly.”

Tory’s eyes widened. “I remember you now! I saw you in my porthole. You swam down to get me.”

Cabrillo made a self-deprecating gesture as if to say it was no big deal.

“It was you who told me to go to the aft hatchway and close the watertight doors. And it must have been you who drilled holes into the hatch. I thought you were going to kill me, and I almost ran back to my cabin before I realized you had to equalize the pressure so you could get me out. That was the worst. The water level rising inch by inch. I climbed the steps up to the bridge deck to stay out of it for as long as I could, but then there was no place to go.” She paused as if feeling the agony of the freezing water all over again. “I waded in when it was already up to my chest. It took forever. God, I’ve never been so cold in my life. I’m surprised my teeth didn’t shatter from chattering so hard.” She looked up at the trio standing around her bed. “The next thing I knew was just now, waking up here.”