secret affairs was still raw after five years. Nevertheless, being overly suspicious wasn’t a good thing.
Harvey stuck her head in. “You still here?”
“Ted asked about the email hacking. He also wanted to know about the genetics of my eye color.”
“That’s so t—um, so telling. I mean, that he’s a scientist. You do have gorgeous eyes, Mara. With long auburn hair? Killer combination.”
She scurried off.
I was sure Harvey was about to say “that’s so Ted”, which meant she knew him pretty well. Much as I appreciated her high regard, the comment about my physical features seemed like an intentional digression.
Back out on deck, I itched to check out the CTD data, but the weather was deteriorating fast. As Intrepid pitched from side to side, I made my way to the railing to inspect the sea state. Twice, I nearly tripped on a cable.
I grabbed for the railing and gasped. Row after row of steep-sided gray-green waves threw angry spray at the leaden sky.
Damn. Out in the brisk air, I felt okay. But straining to read numbers on a swaying monitor would not be wise.
Still, I really wanted to see temperature data. Just a peek. Legs wide for balance, I duck-walked to the lab, plopped in front of a monitor, and logged on.
I quickly found CTD data. My heart sped up as graphs appeared on the screen. Sliding side to side in the tethered chair, I leaned forward and squinted to make out the black temperature line. What was the scale? A ten—?
That was it. I’d crossed the Rubicon. In an instant, I felt dreadful—cold, clammy, faint. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I rushed out of the lab, sat down on a cable box, and drank in cold air.
Down in the mess, everyone else ate lunch and chatted away. Alone in a corner booth, I sipped hot tea and nibbled dry toast. First Mate Ryan walked up. Usually full of blarney, he touched my shoulder and spoke softly. “Dr. Tusconi. Can I get you anything? More tea?”
I looked up. In the shadow of his tweed cap, Ryan’s blue eyes were all worry. “I’m okay, thanks. Hey, tomorrow I want to hear about your family’s farm in Ireland.”
Ryan wasn’t gone a minute when Peter slid into the bench across from me. “You don’t look so great.”
“My patch isn’t doing the trick today.” I didn’t want to admit it was my fault for trying to read CTD graphs.
“Maybe it’s something you ate,” he said. “For this afternoon’s deployment, I can take your place, no problem.”
I blew out a breath and looked down at my hands. While accepting Peter’s offer made sense, he didn’t understand possible consequences. Of the twenty scientists and crew on board, Harvey and I were the only women. Others—Seymour, maybe even Ted—might think I was a girl who couldn’t cut it. On the other hand, in my present state my reflexes would be slow. I’d be responsible for a halfton instrument on a shifting deck with people around.
I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Peter, that’d be terrific. Buy you a beer when we get back.”
“You’re on.”
When we reached the next station, the weather was worse and sea rougher. Clearly, I’d made the right decision. I felt better in fresh air than anyplace else. So even though I couldn’t supervise the deployment, I could join the others and watch it.
Out on deck, I found a good viewing spot under the winch platform. Above me, Ryan operated the winch that hoisted buoys up and dropped them into the water.
The angry sea made deployment tricky. Peter and the crew struggled to keep their feet under them, and communication was a challenge. Above the growing howl, Ryan and Peter shouted back and forth. Finally, Peter signaled he was ready. With a groan and a high whine, the winch came to life. Cable slowly peeled off the reel. As if waking from deep sleep, the buoy shuddered. Ryan played the winch so the hydro-wire tugged at the dead weight and inched the massive buoy up off the deck to ninety degrees.
The buoy was almost upright when Peter halted the operation. Reels droned down and stopped. Three guys in orange jumpsuits, legs wide, held guy wires tight and fought to keep the buoy steady as the ship did her best to topple them. Peter peered at the instruments one last time, then backed way. He signaled for the winch to slide the buoy to the open stern. Ryan powered up the reels and shifted gears.
Braced against the ladder, I was snug in my jumpsuit, wool hat, and fleece-lined boots. The wind’s bite on my face, wet with sea spray and rain, faded as I fixed on the buoy’s ride from ship to sea.
The taut hydro-wire held the buoy steady as Ryan slowly advanced it toward the stern. Peter yelled “Halt!” and Ryan slid the gear to neutral. Peter squinted at the buoy and frowned. Something about that buoy troubled him.
Peter signaled Ryan to power the winch once more.
What happened in seconds was slow motion to me. In frame one, the hydro-boom held the buoy upright, seaward of the stern. In the next, the ship pitched up. Like an enormous pendulum, the buoy swung back toward Peter.
PETER SAW IT COMING. HE stretched out his arms as if he could deflect the tonnage, but his legs stayed glued to the deck. The bottom of the buoy hit Peter squarely in the chest. He fell backward and the entire thing rolled on top of him.
Peter’s screams tore through the squall like a jagged knife through flesh. The captain sounded the alarm call. Frantic crew and scientists scrambled toward Peter, but there was nothing they could do. Ryan wrestled with the stuck winch, swearing a black streak like the Irish sailor he was.
It seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute before the winch kicked in and lifted the buoy up and off Peter. He’d stopped screaming, and his leg below the hip was twisted at a sickening angle. Blood had undoubtedly pooled inside his jacket and pants, but only rain mixed with ocean spray ran across the ship’s deck.
Two medics ran to Peter’s side. Deckhands dropped to their knees and made a colorful semicircle around the stricken scientist. They waited while the captain and medical crew checked Peter’s vitals. Peter looked peaceful, like he was asleep on the tossing deck.
Stunned, I held on to the ladder.
“He wants to talk to someone named Mara before we lift him up!” Coast Guard search and rescue hollered over the helicopter’s roar sixty feet above. I scampered behind the man and knelt beside the rescue basket.
Shrouded and strapped, only Peter’s head was exposed. In tight curls, his sandy hair was wet. The day after we got back, Peter was going to get a haircut, he’d said.
I bent over, my mouth next to his ear. “I’m here, Peter.”
Peter’s eyes fluttered open. I leaned closer. His words were slurred, halting, urgent.
“Not your fault, Mara. Not your fault.”
Before I could respond, his eyes closed, and the strain around them faded as he slid into unconsciousness.
“Not
