“I love you, son. You make me very proud.”

He climbed the ladder to join the others on the deck. Rand and Lore began to crank the winch. The Nautilus rose from her cradle and swung over the side. With a soft splash, the boat settled into the water.

“Okay, hold us there!” Michael called up.

They used their knives to cut the net. It passed beneath their stern, half-floating, then was dragged under the surface by its weight. Peter and Amy attached the guy wires while Michael set the lines that would pull the mast erect. They had begun to drift away from the Bergensfjord. When everything was ready, Michael commenced turning the winch. The mast rose into position; he locked it in place and unstrapped the sail from the boom. The distance to the Bergensfjord had increased to fifty yards. The air was warming, with a gentle breeze. The great ship’s engines had come on. A new sound emerged, one of chains. Beneath the Bergensfjord’s bow, the anchor appeared, water streaming as it ascended. The ship’s rail was lined with faces; people were watching them. Some began to wave.

“Okay, we’re ready,” Michael said.

They raised the mainsail. It flapped emptily, but then Michael pulled the tiller to one side and the bow veered slowly off the wind. With a pop, the canvas filled.

“We’ll raise the jib once we’re clear,” said Michael.

Their velocity was, to Peter, quite startling. The boat, heeling slightly, possessed a stable feel, the point of its bow slicing cleanly through the water. The Bergensfjord receded behind them. The sky seemed infinitely deep.

It happened gradually, then all at once: they were alone.

79

Log of the Nautilus

Day 4: 27°95'N, 83°99'W. Wind SSE 10–15, gusts to 20. Skies clear, seas running 3–4 feet.

After three days of light air, we are finally making decent headway, running at 6–8 knots. I expect we will reach Florida’s west coast by nightfall, just north of Tampa. Peter seems to be finally getting his sea legs. After three days vomiting over the side, he announced today that he was hungry. From Lish, not very much; she sleeps most of the time and has said virtually nothing. Everyone is worried about her.

Day 6: 26°15'N, 79°43'W. Wind SSE 5–10, shifting. Partly cloudy. Seas running 1–2 feet.

We have rounded the Florida peninsula and turned north. From here we will leave the coast behind and make a straight shot for the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Heavy clouds all night but no rain. Lish is still very weak. Amy finally talked her into eating, and Peter and I drew straws. He was the winner, though I guess it depends on how you look at it. I was a little nervous about Sara’s instructions and I’m no good with needles, so Amy took over. One pint. We’ll see if it helps.

Day 9: 31°87'N, 75°25'W. Winds SSE 15–20, gusts to 30. Skies clear. Seas running 5–7 feet.

A horrible night. The storm hit just before sunset—huge seas, high winds, driving rain. Everyone was up all night working the bailers. Blown way off course, and the self-steerer is shot. We’ve taken on water, but the hull seems tight. Running reefed in heavy air, no jib.

Day 12: 36°75'N, 74°33'W. Winds NNE 5–10. Patchy clouds. Seas running 2–3 feet.

We have decided to head west for the coast. Everyone is exhausted and needs to rest. On the bright side, Lish seems to have turned a corner. Her back is the issue; she’s still in a lot of pain and can barely bend at all. My turn with the needle. Lish seemed to have a little fun with that. “Oh, buck up, Circuit,” she said. “A girl’s got to eat. Maybe your blood will make me smarter.”

Day 13: 36°56'N, 76°27'W. Winds NNE 3–5. Seas running 1–2 feet.

Lying at anchor at the mouth of the James River. Fantastic wreckage everywhere—huge naval vessels, tankers, even a submarine. Lish’s mood has improved. At sunset she asked us to bring her up on deck.

A beautiful starlit night.

Day 15: 38°03'N, 74°50'W. Winds light and variable. Seas 2–3 feet.

Under way again with fair winds. Running at 6 knots. Everyone feels it—we are getting closer.

Day 17: 39°63'N, 75°52'W. Winds SSE 5–10. Seas 3–5 feet.

Tomorrow we reach New York.

* * *

80

The four of them sat in the cockpit in the gathering dusk. They were lying at anchor; off the port bow, a long sandy line. The southern edge of Staten Island, once populated by a dense humanity, now exposed, swept clean, a wilderness.

“So, we’re all in agreement?” Peter said, scanning the group. “Michael?”

Seated by the tiller, he was fingering a pocketknife, opening and closing the blade. His face had been crisped by salt and wind; through his beard, the color of sand, his teeth shone white. “I told you before. If you say that’s the plan, then that’s the plan.”

Peter turned to Alicia. “Last chance to weigh in here.”

“Even if I said no, you wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not good enough.”

She looked at him guardedly. “He’s not going to just surrender, you know. ‘I’m sorry, I guess I was wrong after all.’ Not really the man’s style.”

“That’s why I need you in the tunnel with Michael.”

“I belong in the station with you.”

Peter looked at her pointedly. “You can’t kill him—you said so yourself. You can barely walk. I know you’re angry and you don’t want to hear this. But you need to put your feelings aside and leave that part to me and Amy. You’d only slow us down, and I need you to protect Michael. Fanning’s virals won’t attack you. You can give him cover.”