CHAPTER 8

Aboard the Bitter Harvest

Atlantic Ocean

November

MOST CITY-DWELLERS HAVE NO concept of what the night sky really looks like, as much of the sea of stars and planets above is obscured to the point of invisibility by the lights and distractions of civilization. On a cloudless night in the middle of the Atlantic, the light show was spectacular. Reece had always been fascinated with the heavens, particularly the fact that tens of thousands of years ago, humans would have looked up with the same sense of wonder. Through centuries of change and progress, the skies were a constant. He’d told his daughter Lucy to look at the sky at night and pick out the brightest star when he was away, telling her he would be looking at the same one so they would always be together. He looked up toward Sirius, the brightest in a brilliant array of stars that spanned the sky from horizon to horizon. Daddy’s here, baby girl.

He wondered about Liz, whether she’d taken the escape plan he’d set up for her. He hoped she had but also knew that she might be stubborn enough to stick it out in the States. Liz wasn’t the running-away type. He knew Marco was fine; guys like Marco find a way to dance between the raindrops. He assumed that Katie’s status as a journalist, along with the hard evidence he’d given her, would keep her out of jail, though he was still worried about her. She had come into his life like a guardian angel sent by his father. In another time, under different circumstances, he would have liked to know her better. Too bad he was a grieving widower, too bad he was a domestic terrorist, too bad he was terminally ill.

Reece’s thoughts were broken by a set of bright lights on the horizon. The object was on an angular path that brought it closer and closer to the boat; whatever it was looked massive and was lit up like something out of a space movie. With his binoculars, Reece confirmed it was a cruise ship—hundreds of passengers enjoying a break from reality. Wonder where they are going?

Sailing solo across the open ocean was an incredibly lonely experience, only compounded by the turmoil and loss of the previous few months. In spite of the circumstances, Reece also felt an undeniable sense of freedom. In this moment, fueled by the wind and guided by the stars, he could command his own destiny. There were no schedules; there was no destination; he had no responsibilities to anyone. For the first time in as long as he could remember, there was no mission.

Though it was liberating to not have a plan of any kind, he couldn’t just bob around in the ocean forever under the specter of impending death. With the end of his life looming, he still felt compelled to keep moving forward. Frogmen don’t quit. Never ring the bell.

Well, where to then, Reece?

There was a place, though the odds of making it there were slim. It would at least give him something to do while he waited to pass over to Valhalla. Reece had never paid much attention to the odds. Why start now?

It was a destination that was about as far off the grid as a human could venture—a leftover culture, a human time capsule, from a time and place that the West had long since moved past. An embarrassing relic of what Europe used to be, excommunicated like a relative who’d committed an unspeakable crime. No one would think to search for him there.

What’s the worst that can happen? You could die. You’re already dead, Reece.

He went below to the small bookshelf in the boat’s salon and took down a copy of World Cruising Routes, by Jimmy Cornell. Spreading the boat’s charts on the table, he began studying possible routes and grinned to himself when he read that the best time to make this journey was between May and June. It was November. So much for good timing.

According to his GPS, he was currently halfway between Bermuda and the Azores on what was listed as route AN125. At five knots it should take an average sailor just over eighteen days to reach the Azores. A professional could push the Beneteau at an ideal wind angle of eleven knots. Reece considered himself more of a wayward mariner than a sailor, but he was learning quickly. How long had he been at sea? He’d lost track in the storms and emotions after departing Fishers. Was it possible he’d only been at sea for two weeks? Depending on the weather and his ever-improving skills, he estimated he would reach landfall in ten to twelve days. The Azores would allow him to rest up, make any necessary repairs to the boat, and, in an emergency, possibly even resupply.

The dilemma was what route to take after the Azores. He could catch the winds to Gibraltar, enter the Med, and eventually head down the Suez Canal and into the Indian Ocean. That would be the most direct route, but it would leave him the most exposed to immigration and customs agencies from legitimate governments, many of which had close ties to the security apparatus of the United States. Gibraltar was covered with British intelligence assets and the U. S. enjoyed close relations with nearly every country that touched the Med, save for Libya, which was a country in name only at this point. Reece had no idea what kind of screening took place at the mouth of the Suez, but he had to assume they didn’t just wave boats through such a strategically important waterway.

No, the direct route wouldn’t do at all. He’d have to take it the long way around the continent. It was summer below the equator, which meant the winds were mostly favorable. From his reading, it was actually the ideal time of year to make that journey, but it was a long way to sail solo. It would be tough but not impossible. Besides, it would give him an objective to focus on, something that always helped him make it through hard times. The key was to keep your eye on the ball and take it one event, one day, one run at a time. Just make it to breakfast. Then to lunch. Keep moving forward.

Reece’s study of the Routes book established he had already erred by taking too far south a course. Though he missed out on more favorable winds by steering the course he chose, he did have better weather. The temperatures were relatively warm and the high-pressure system gave him clear skies. He found himself using the motor more than he would have liked, thanks to intermittent headwinds and calms, but he was confident that he’d have sufficient fuel to make it through this stretch of ocean.

Don’t get too comfortable, Reece. You’ll probably die en route anyway.

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