Micro. Michael Crichton
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Название: Micro
Автор: Michael Crichton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9780007384358
isbn:
He stared at the message. Was this a joke? Had something happened? He typed back:
He watched the screen, but there was no answer. After a few minutes, he dialed Eric’s number in Hawaii, but got his voice mail. “Eric, it’s Peter. What’s up? Call me.”
From the kitchen, Erika said, “Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody. Just trying to get my brother.”
He scrolled to the message from his brother. It had come in at 9:49 p.m. So it had arrived last night! Which had been afternoon in Hawaii.
Peter dialed his brother again, but again got voice mail. He hung up.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Erika said.
He brought the phone to the table, set it beside his plate. Erika wrinkled her nose; she didn’t like phones at meals. She was scooping eggs onto his plate, saying, “I followed my grandmother’s recipe, with milk and flour—”
The phone rang.
He grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Peter?” A woman’s voice. “Peter Jansen?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“It’s Alyson Bender,” she said. “From Nanigen.” He had an image of the blond woman with her arm around Eric’s waist. “Listen,” she said, “how soon can you get over here to Hawaii?”
“We’re scheduled to fly tomorrow,” he said.
“Can you come today?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“It’s important.”
“Well, I can check the flights—”
“Actually, I took the liberty of booking you on one that leaves in two hours. Can you make it?”
“Yes, I think—what’s this about?”
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Peter.” She paused. “It’s about your brother.”
“What about him?”
“He’s missing.”
“Missing?” He felt dazed; he didn’t understand. “What do you mean, missing?”
“Since yesterday,” Alyson said. “There was a boating accident. I don’t know if he told you that he bought a boat, a Boston Whaler? Anyway, he did, and he was out yesterday, on the north side of the island, and he had mechanical difficulties…there was big surf, crashing against the cliffs. The engines lost power, the boat drifted in…”
Peter felt light-headed. He pushed the plate of eggs away. Erika was watching him, her face pale. “How do you know this?” he said.
“There were people on the cliffs, they saw the whole thing.”
“And what happened to Eric?”
“He tried to start the engines. He couldn’t. The surf was high, the boat was going to be smashed on the cliffs. He dived into the ocean and swam…for shore. But the currents…he never made it to shore…” She took a breath. “I’m very sorry, Peter.”
“Eric’s a good swimmer,” Peter said. “Strong swimmer.”
“I know. And that’s why we continue to hope he’ll return,” she said. “But, uh, the police have told us that, well…The police would like to talk to you, and go over everything with you, as soon as you get here.”
“I’m leaving now,” he said, and hung up. Erika had gone to the bedroom and brought his bag, already packed for the following day.
“We’d better go,” she said, “if you’re going to make that flight.” She put her arm around his shoulder, and they headed downstairs to the car.
Makapu‘u Point, Oahu
27 October, 4:00 p.m.
It was said to be a tourist spot: Makapu‘u Point, high cliffs on the northeastern tip of Oahu, with a spectacular view of the ocean in all directions. But once there, Peter was not prepared for the barren desolation of the place. A harsh wind whipped the scrubby green brush at his feet, and tugged at his clothes, forcing him to lean forward as he walked. He had to speak loudly: “Is it always like this?”
The policeman beside him, Dan Watanabe, said, “No, sometimes it’s very pleasant. But the trades kicked up last night.” Watanabe wore Ray-Bans. He pointed to a lighthouse off to the right. “That’s Makapu‘u Lighthouse,” he said. “Automated years ago. Nobody lives there anymore.”
Directly ahead, they looked down the black lava cliffs at surging ocean two hundred feet below. The surf boomed, smashing against the rocks. Peter said, “Is this where it happened?”
“Yes,” Watanabe said. “The boat ran aground over there—” he pointed to the left—“but the Coast Guard got it off the rocks this morning, before it broke up in the surf.”
“So his boat was somewhere offshore when it got into trouble?” Peter looked out at the ocean, which was rough, high swells and whitecaps.
“Yes. He was drifting in the water for a while, witnesses said.”
“Trying to start the engine…”
“Yes. And drifting toward the surf.”
“And what was the mechanical difficulty?” Peter said. “I understand it was a new boat.”
“Yes. Couple of weeks old.”
“My brother was experienced with boats,” Peter said. “My family always had a boat on Long Island Sound, we were out there every summer.”
“These waters are different,” Watanabe said. “You’re looking at deep ocean.” He pointed. “Nearest land out there is three thousand miles away, the mainland. But that’s not the point. It’s pretty clear what got your brother in trouble was ethanol.”
“Ethanol?” Peter said.
“State of Hawaii puts ten percent ethanol into all the gas that’s sold here, but the ethanol screws up small engines. There’s cut-rate gas dealers who put way too much ethanol in their gas—up to thirty percent. It clogs fuel lines, and anything rubber or neoprene can turn to gunk. It’s caused a hell of a mess on boats. People have to put in new steel fuel tanks and lines. Anyway, we think that’s what happened to your brother. The carburetors were clogged, the fuel pump might have failed. Whatever it was exactly, he couldn’t restart the engines in time.”
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