Magellan's Wake

By Peter Hodges

Magellan's Wake is a tale of intrigue, murder, and romance set against the glamour of London, Venice, Spain's Andalusia Province and Rio de Janeiro. It brings together a cast of rich and influential suspects, among them an Italian financier, Canio Grassi, and his partner, fashion designer Gina Barcelli, computer entrepreneur Ron Hunter, and legendary catamaran sailor Emile Boisard. All of them are passionately involved in winning the longest and most challenging race in yachting history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682228210

Book preview

Ladies

CHAPTER 1

With Evil Intent

37.6 N 70.8 W, April 10 — The last winter storm of the season crossed the northeastern United States depositing a foot of snow, snarling traffic, and closing schools. Racing offshore, the cold front reached Westward, homeward bound in the Gulf Stream.

The wind blew away a clammy mist surrounding the boat, grew stronger, punctuated with occasional gale strength gusts. The sea driven by wind and current built quickly, a white line of foam breaking along wave crests of dark water higher than a house.

The starboard lee rail awash the boat drove ahead with impressive speed throwing back spray from the bow all the way to the cockpit. Skipper Sandy Bergstrom turned to his watch captain, Billy Secceles. What’s she doing?

A steady twenty-four knots, touching up to twenty-eight on the down slope.

Westward was living up to her potential, upwind as well as down. Bergstrom watched a palm branch carried by the Gulf Stream all the way from Florida flash by, disappearing almost instantly in the white water of the wake streaming far astern.

The scudding dark clouds looked angrier by the moment with occasional swirls of dirty white illuminated by the early light. The waves were noticeably bigger, with spindrift breaking up wave crests and foam blowing in streaks across the boat. White water came rolling down the deck every time Westward sliced her bow into the waves.

Bergstrom leaned over to Secceles, raising his voice so to be heard over the noise made by the sea and the boat rushing through it. Wind speed?

Steady thirty-two knots, gusts just over forty.

Okay, no use pressing. Let’s reduce sail.

Secceles nodded and shouted to the crewmembers, clinging tenaciously to the windward side. The decision to reduce sail was too late.

Trouble came to them at one hundred and eighty-eight feet above the deck on the portside. The titanium casting anchoring the heavy wire supporting the upper mast came under greater strain from the wild motion of the boat. A tiny fissure formed on one side and raced across the face of the fitting as the boat rolled into another wave.

The crack of violently breaking metal reached Bergstrom over the fury of wind and water. He looked up, transfixed as the top of the shroud flew out into space. For an instant, the mast stood poised in place, then the top forty feet, leaned to starboard, gained speed and fell in an arc that brought it up with a crash against the lower mast.

As the deadly pendulum of the broken spar again crashed against the standing part of the mast, the boat came up into the wind, scrubbing off speed. The lines that raised and lowered the sails were jammed together at the break. The sails could not be lowered.

Navigator Jerry Coffin popped out of the main hatch, the off-watch crew pushing after him. What happened, Skipper?

The mast, Jerry. Keep everybody below unless we need them, okay?

Sure.

He put out his arms, blocking the man behind from coming on deck.

Send up two rolls of one-inch line, the Bosun’s chair, and bolt cutters. Bracing himself against the heavy roll of the boat, Bergstrom called to Secceles. Billy, get everybody here with me. We’ve got to save the rest of the rig.

Slipping and sliding, the on-deck crew huddled around Bergstrom. Okay, here’s what we do. You haul me up in the Bosun’s chair. I’ll attach a line to the end of the broken section. You’ll lead it forward and tie it off so it won’t dismast us. Then we’ll worry about getting the sails down.

Secceles looked up, wiping spray from his face, as the loose spar delivered another vicious blow to the upper rigging. He shook his head. Better pick someone lighter and younger than you.

Who?

Todd. He’s our best man aloft and you know it.

Okay. Todd, you willing to try?

Sure, Skipper.

All right, that’s it, he agreed reluctantly. Let’s do it.

Fighting a pitching boat, waves continually sweeping along the deck, and constant spray, they rigged the Bosun’s chair. Todd Weaver, carefully snapping his safety harness to the supporting sling, was ready to go.

Bergstrom leaned toward him. Don’t take your eyes off that swinging bastard for a second, and don’t get between it and the mast.

Todd grinned. Believe it, Skipper.

Okay. Go.

As the slack was taken up on the halyard winch, Weaver’s feet left the deck and he swung out over the sea to starboard. Up near the bow, the strongest man in the crew, Knuckles Jackson, pulled Weaver back over the boat with a guideline attached to the bottom of the chair. Several times as the chair rose up the rigging, Jackson disappeared under a wave. Half blinded, he continued to let out the line by feel.

Weaver was hoisted just above the first spreader, reached out for the bottom of the dangling spar, and missed. He pointed toward the mast. Jackson tightened the line and Weaver came in further over the boat and tried again. The broken mast top swung back again, right at the crewman, forcefully striking his outstretched hand. With a start, he pulled it back quickly looking down to check for damage.

The spar moved away, stopped and then, driven by the boat’s lift on a big wave, came back at increased speed. Watch it Todd, Bergstrom shouted, but Weaver never looked up as hundreds of pounds of carbon fiber and metal struck him full force above the waist.

As the Bosun’s chair flew violently backward, Weaver hung limply in his safety harness. Get him down, Billy, quick! Bergstrom ordered as he slid forward over the cabin top with an icy knot in his stomach, reaching the mast in time to catch the descending sling. Todd’s head lolled forward, covered in blood.

Secceles and two of his men had reached them. Billy, he looks bad. Take him below and have Jerry call the Coast Guard. See if they can get something out to us. Todd’s going to need a hospital quick. I’ll be down as soon as I have this mess under control.

The watch captain pressed his finger against Weaver’s neck, a stricken look on his face. Skipper, Todd’s dead.

******

LONDON, April 24 — The British Airways Boeing 767 touched down at Heathrow slowed and turned towards the Terminal. Francis Bacon straightened the printouts he’d been reading and slipped them into his slim attaché case. As the Fasten Your Seatbelt sign winked off, he stood up. At five-foot-six, it was a bit of a stretch to pull down his suit coat, laptop case, and travel bag from the spacious first-class overhead, but certainly less of a hassle than in coach where he usually traveled.

With flight attendants giving preference to first-class passengers, Bacon was quickly on the boarding ramp and moving through the terminal to customs. He handed over his American passport, dropping his bags on the counter. The female inspector, comparing the passport photo with the man before her, noted the same angular face, intent green eyes, and unfashionably long hair. Checking the name, she looked up surprised. Bacon smiled, Funny name for a Yank isn’t it? No relation to the philosopher, or the painter either.

Right, sir. Is your visit business or pleasure?

Business, and I don’t have anything to declare.

Have a good stay, the inspector said routinely, turning to the next person in line. As Bacon hefted his bags, Sir John’s driver, who he’d met on his previous visit, was by his side.

Welcome to England, sir. Let me take your luggage.

Good to see you again, Hobson.

And you too, sir.

Just outside, a black Jaguar was being watched over by an airport security officer. No parking lot for Sir John’s car, Bacon thought. You could easily get used to the perks of this position.

Hobson placed the bag in the boot, then quickly opened the rear door. Are we going to the office?

No, sir. Sir John asked me to bring you to the residence.

The car pulled away, soon merging with the main artery to London. With a glass partition between the front and back seats, conversation with the driver was difficult, so Bacon leaned back to consider possible answers to the puzzle that had eluded him in his flight across the Atlantic.

Why did Sir John Hetherington need him so urgently after three years? Their talk on the phone had been brief and uninformative, as had been the printouts Bacon had run after receiving the call from London. Copies of news clippings told him only that Sir John had turned over the job as Managing Director of his firm, Sargasso Trading Ltd., to one of his sons. More than a year before, he had agreed to serve as Committee Chairman for the upcoming Magellan Around-the-World Race. There was little else except for some stories about the preparations for the event.

Well, I’ll know soon enough, he thought, looking out the window to check their progress. The car had left the main highway and was inching along through heavy city traffic, dotted with numerous two-decker, red London buses. They turned off Oxford Street into Park Lane and then right into the fashionable side streets a few blocks away from the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square.

The car stopped in front of an immaculate Regency-style building. As he stepped out, Bacon looked up and admired the design: Four stories of pleasantly weathered brick, tall white-trimmed windows, and just enough hand-carved molding created the harmonious picture that was the hallmark of the best of Britain’s classic architecture.

As Bacon walked up the steps, Hobson followed with the bag. The butler, Jennings, opened the door.

Please come in, sir.

Thank you, Mister Jennings.

Just Jennings, sir, if you please.

Bacon smiled at the correction. I see not everything has changed in England since I was here last.

Thank goodness, sir. Now if you will please follow me, Sir John is waiting. The butler opened a door near the back of the hall. Mister Bacon, sir, he said, standing aside.

Bacon caught a fleeting impression of book-lined walls, pictures of large cargo ships, and oriental rugs before Sir John’s massive form blocked his view.

Francis, how good of you to come. Before we get into why I asked you over, may I offer you some refreshment?

No thank you. I’d rather have my curiosity satisfied.

Good. Then let’s sit down, he said, leading his visitor to two large embroidered wing chairs by the windows looking out on a traditional English garden.

Sir John’s six-and-a-half foot frame and neatly three hundred pounds of girth filled his chair to capacity, while Bacon’s feet barely touched the ground.

Bacon knew his host was nearly eighty. It was still easy to see the tough ship captain, who had worked and fought his way to create a fleet of vessels rivaling such well-known competitors as Aristotle Onassis.

You may have heard I retired.

Yes, although I’m not sure I believe it; and you’ve taken up managing yacht racing.

Precisely. The Magellan Around-the-World. Know anything about it?

Beyond the fact there are ten competitors and you leaving from Spain on the same day Magellan sailed, next to nothing.

Then some background is in order. Four years ago at the America’s Cups Races, I was talking with several boat owners and designers over a few beers. After a while, the old argument started up about ratings systems and handicaps. Do they hinder the advance of boat design technology, or not? Well, a fairly large and vocal minority, myself among them, think they did.

Bacon smiled. He had seen Sir John arguing a point and it was an impressive sight.

It was probably the beers, but a group of us decided to see if we could interest anyone in the idea of an unrestricted design boat-to-boat race. Obviously the idea caught on, and here we are.

No restrictions on design? Bacon asked.

Just one. Overall boat length cannot exceed thirty-six meters. We didn’t want anyone to enter something the size of the QE2. Otherwise, carte blanche.

That’s about a hundred and twenty feet.

Just over a hundred and eighteen actually. We wanted the boats to be big enough to stage a fair test of how fast you can go under sail.

That should make for a good deal of variety.

Oh, it has. The French are sticking to a catamaran where they have a great deal of experience. There are several radically different monohulls, and one boat from California is testing hydrofoils.

Aren’t you afraid you’ll get one or two super boats and a bunch of duds?

We don’t think so. Everyone knows they need a boat that can do thirty knots or slightly better in moderate wind and seas; which is what they will experience over most of the course. With tank testing and computer modeling, we should get some very competitive boats.

Other than glory, what are they racing for?

Not money, although if you are the designer, sailmaker, or builder of the winning boat, it shouldn’t hurt your business. The only prize will be the Victoria Cup.

Named after the Queen?

No, Magellan’s ship. You may recall that he was killed in the Philippines after forming an ill-advised alliance with a local sultan. His ship, however, completed the trip led by Sebastian El Cano. We would like our boats to share the experience of the ship and not the expedition’s commander. Also, Victoria is ‘victory’ in Spanish, which seems to be a nice touch.

I imagine the trophy is pretty spectacular.

Yes, quite a nice piece of hardware, not excluding the fact that nearly a thousand ounces of gold went into it. As I recall, the total bill came to just over four hundred thousand pounds.

Certainly worth some effort.

"Not from a monetary point of view. The campaign cost per boat is somewhere in the twenty-to-thirty-million dollar range. Our British entry, City Light, is raising about fifteen million pounds."

Where’s the money coming from to organize the race?

From the competitors. Each team has deposited a million and-a-half dollars with the Race Committee. After expenses, any remaining funds will be divided equally among the teams.

Sounds fine so far. What’s the problem?

"About two weeks ago, one of the American boats, the Westward, suffered an accident that resulted in the death of one of the crew."

I saw the news story. Will it keep the boat out of the race?

No, but the designer, Harrison Chance, called me with some disturbing news. The accident involved the loss of the top of the mast and when the builders investigated, they found a fitting anchoring a masthead shroud had given way.

Been known to happen.

Yes, but the fitting looked suspicious and they determined there had been a flaw in the original casting. When they contacted the hardware manufacturer, the company’s president said a flaw like that could never have passed their testing procedures.

Anything is possible.

"That’s not all. When we reported this to the other teams, several ran x-ray tests on their hardware from the same company. The Zinger team in San Francisco turned up a similar casting problem on two keel bolt nuts."

Sabotage?

"Very possible, and clever enough that the consequences were not likely to be discovered until well into the race. It was only by a fluke that Westward encountered the exact conditions for failure during her shakedown."

So who might be behind this?

Assuming it was deliberate, which we can’t be sure of yet. Anyone who has a major stake in winning the race.

Any thoughts who that might be?

None that will help.

So, what job do you have in mind for me?

Look into whether this was a deliberate act and, if so, who is behind it.

Why not just turn this over to the authorities?

Who would we go to? There are too many jurisdictions and really none at all in international waters.

Sir John, I’m not a detective.

My boy, after our experience together in Hong Kong, I’ve become a firm believer in what you call your ‘practical psychology’. Do what you can, and we’ll back you with all the resources you need. We promise not to ask for miracles.

I’d be working directly for you?

The Race Committee will be your official employer, but yes, we will share this problem. You’ll have the committee’s authority to go where you want and talk to anyone you choose. Keep me posted on a weekly basis if you can, but call for help any time you need it. What do you say?

Bacon glanced out at the garden, the pale greens of new spring foliage creating an appealing aura of peace. Why am I even considering this? he thought. His skills were in business negotiations, not solving crimes. Accepting would lead him into some very deep water indeed. He smiled at the unintended analogy. Still, it could prove interesting and he’d probably regret not trying.

All right, I’ll do it, Bacon responded, wondering if he would regret his decision.

Excellent. This calls for a small celebration. Sir John stood up and went to a sideboard, where a decanter and several crystal stemware glasses stood on a silver tray. Returning with a glass in each hand, he handed one to his guest. Cheers, he said, holding up his glass. I hope you like sherry. This was a present from our operations manager, Condesa Nina de Recalde. Her family has been bottling it for close to six hundred years.

Very fine, although I’m hardly an expert. How does a countess happen to be working for you?

Nina’s been with Sargasso Trading for five years, since I snatched her out of the London School of Economics. Two years ago we elected her to the Board.

So she’s working for the committee in her spare time.

Actually, we borrowed her for the duration of the race. My son’s not very happy, but he finally agreed I needed someone to look out for me at my advanced age. Bacon’s host looked up as Jennings opened the door.

The Condesa de Recalde, sir.

The young woman strode quickly past the butler, as the two men stood up. Bacon had a fleeting impression of a small trim figure in a stylish black suit, before it was blocked by their host’s bulk.

Hello, Sir John.

Good afternoon, Nina. Let me introduce you two, he said, stepping aside. The small smile the woman had given Sir John changed immediately to a look of cool appraisal as she turned a pair of piercing dark eyes on Bacon.

This is Francis Bacon, my dear. Francis, Condesa Nina de Recalde.

Mister Bacon, she said, favoring him with a slight tilt of her head.

Condesa, nice to meet you.

I prefer ‘Miss de Recalde’ in Britain, Mister Bacon.

Sir John smiled at this exchange. If you will both sit down, we can take care of business before lunch, he said, moving toward his usual chair.

As Bacon turned toward the windows, the Condesa glided by him, seated herself in the other wing chair, deposited an extremely large tote bag on the floor and artfully crossed her legs, ready to begin. Outflanked, Bacon pulled up a straight chair from along the wall and joined them, noting the obvious amusement on his host’s face. Nina, I’ve given Francis the basics of our arrangements and outlined the reasons for our concern. I am leaving the details to you.

Bacon watched as she gracefully reached down to open her tote bag. As she leaned over, Bacon noticed that her hair, as black as her suit, was combed back into an artful twist. From her oval face to her slightly pointed nose, she was the picture of a classic Spanish beauty. Looking at her, Bacon sensed she was surrounded by an aristocratic force field keeping the peasants at arm’s length.

Mister Bacon, here are your briefing papers, she said, coming up with two large binders. The blue one will give you the detail about... each team including vitas on all the owners, designers, managers, and crew members. It contains nothing confidential. Copies have been distributed to the yachting press for publicity purposes. She passed the binder to him. "The red one covers all arrangements made by the committee for hotels, docking space, hospitality suites, medical help, radio frequencies, and similar matters. These are given only to the teams. Your copy also contains a section on security measures, which Sir John felt should be available only those reporting directly to the Committee.

This is your badge. It will let you into secured areas, such as our participating yacht clubs, boatyards, and the buffets that will be available to the teams at each port they are required to visit.

Bacon took the last two items from her, noting his picture as well as his name on the laminated card. Seeming to read his mind, she said: The picture has been in our files since you last worked for the firm. It seems satisfactory, she said, looking at him as if daring him to express a contrary view. Do you have any initial questions?

"Just a couple. Do you think what happened to the Westward and Zinger was deliberate or carelessness?"

Given the reputation of the firm that made the hardware, it is unlikely they were accidental.

Agreed. Have you made any additional security arrangements since the problems came up?

Our Chief of Security, Neville Smith, is in America now tracing the faulty marine hardware.

He’s a former Naval Intelligence officer, Sir John added. We recruited him and six others to keep a watch on the boats while they are in port, and deal with any problems the crews may create with the authorities.

Anything else?

Precautions against pirates in the western Pacific. Nina and Smith have arranged for naval protection through the islands, but I believe there are some gaps in our coverage, isn’t that right? He looked at Nina.

Yes, Sir John. The Philippines are cooperating fully. Australian naval units connected with the United Nations peacekeeping force on Timor will escort our boats through the Sava and Timor Seas, until they are well out in the Indian Ocean. The problem is the Malukas, the Spice Islands in Magellan’s time. They belong to Indonesia, and even with the help of Sargasso’s agent in Jakarta we haven’t been able to get any promises of help.

Are pirates much of a problem there? Bacon asked.

There were two hundred and twelve reported attacks last year from India to New Guinea, with nearly a third in the Maluka area. Yes, I would say they are a problem, she said, looking at Bacon coolly.

What about weather-related accidents?

The highest risk will be in the Straits of Magellan and off South Africa. Local naval authorities will be prepared to help if necessary. Everywhere else, the crews will have to rely on the other boats and any ships in the area.

Impressive planning.

And hard work, Sir John said. Nina’s been round the world twice making arrangements. In between, she’s been in Spain keeping an eye on the hotel and marina going up to host the race.

Part of the responsibility of the Race Committee?

Actually, no. The owners will be a partnership of two American and Japanese hotel chains. A Sargasso Trading subsidiary is supervising construction and Nina is supervising them. He chuckled.

The library door opened as Jennings announced lunch. Walking beside Nina to the dining room, Bacon noticed her eyes were level with his; a nice change from the giant American girls he usually met.

The table heavy with silver glistened in the subdued lighting from a crystal chandelier, and brought a warm glow to the rosewood paneling of the room. Seated in their places, Jennings moved around the table, offering them a series of platters. Bacon concentrated on the succulent roast beef and popovers. Nina, he noticed, served herself with practiced elegance, her back as straight as a sentry at Buckingham Palace. He imagined her as a six-year-old walking around with a book on her head.

The main course finished, aided by good red burgundy, Jennings returned with petits fours and coffee. Sir John having demolished half-a-dozen of the small teacakes looked at Bacon.

Any impressions so far?

"Just that you seemed to have covered all the bases until these problems came up. When I’ve thoroughly read Miss de Recalde’s briefing books, I’ll hazard my opinions. I do think I should check in with your Mister Smith and take a firsthand look into the Westward situation in Newport right away.

Do you want the teams to know you are on board?

Why not? And the Committee members too. It will make it easier to talk to them.

How should we refer to your job?

Any kind of innocuous title would be fine.

Sir John thought for a moment. What about ‘Deputy Director of Operations’? It will be assumed you are part of Nina’s staff.

Okay, bosses, Bacon smiled, looking around the table.

CHAPTER 2

Opening Moves

Look, I’m worried, the man said, speaking nervously into the phone. Two guys are talking to everyone in the plant. They’ve tracked those shipments back here.

Don’t panic, a voice responded in a muffled whisper. They won’t link you to the problem unless you let them.

What if they find out about the finishing plant I used in Philly?

Improbable.

I’m not so sure.

Keep your mouth shut and see what happens.

Yeah, sure, but maybe I oughtta have some more. I took a big risk.

How much?

The same as the first time.

I’ll ask. Wait for a call.

******

SAN FRANCISCO, April 26 — The president of Olympus.Com stood by his twenty-eighth floor office window, facing a panorama of San Francisco Bay from the Bay Bridge, past Alcatraz, to the Golden Gate. Ron Hunter ignored the view, his thoughts focused on his latest challenge.

At fifty, he showed few signs of the battles he had fought to launch two successful businesses, other than a few gray hairs and a thickening waist — a byproduct of mandatory corporate entertaining. In less than five months, he would see if the past two years of planning and spending spurred on by his usual ruthless drive to win would be enough.

And why not? His personal creed, Leave nothing to chance, would carry him to victory at sea, as it had over his business competitors.

His intercom buzzed. Yes, Martha?

Mister Cunningham, Mister Wilkie, and Miss Reilly are here.

Send them in. He stood, frowning as the door opened to admit his visitors. Josh, Ross, good morning. Dawn, I didn’t expect to see you.

Thought she’d be a help, Josh Cunningham said.

Not today. Better she should spend the time on our security arrangements after that keel bolt snafu. I want to go over some design questions with you two, he looked pointedly toward the men.

Dawn Reilly’s face reddened, as she paused to regain her composure. Okay, fellas, she said, looking toward the other visitors, I’ll see you back at the yard.

The three men waited as she left, Cunningham and Ross acutely embarrassed. Was that necessary, Ron? Cunningham asked.

Hunter waved away his comment, moving on to his own agenda. "You know, Josh, Zinger’s trials haven’t fully met my expectations, so I want to show you something that may help." Cunningham started to protest, but stopped as Hunter ignored him, walked over and opened a pair of double doors that led to the corporate boardroom.

An impressive, highly polished redwood table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by more than a dozen chairs. On the walls away from the windows were fiberboard panels covered with dozens of photos of sailing yachts, featuring long and close-up views.

I’ve had these pictures taken of our competitors. You can see the details of their hulls, deck layouts, and rigs. The only exception is the Italian boat. They’ll be launching in a couple of weeks, but you’ll see shots of her hull in the yard. What I want you two to do is look over these photos and see if there are any ideas we can use.

Wilkie spoke up for the first time. How’d you get these? I can’t believe the other teams would cooperate to this extent.

Hunter winked. Friends in low places. Take all the time you need. If you want anything, ring my secretary. He pointed to a button beneath the head of the table. When you’re through have her call me, he added, walking through and closing the doors behind him.

Just over two and a half hours later, he returned. Martha tells me you’re ready. So what have you got?

Remaining professional with some difficulty, Cunningham waved his hand at the photos. I’ve been over them all from the design standpoint, and Ross has been looking for anything that will make crew work more efficient.

Well, what have you found?

"A couple of things. The German boat, Meteor, has reduced the diameter of the mast and narrowed the boom by adding a number of additional supporting stays. Cunningham pointed to a number of features on a photo. Their sails appear to be made out of some new kind of plastic film and you can see lines running through them, which probably allow the crew to adjust the aerodynamics depending upon wind conditions."

Won’t all that extra rigging make for added windage?

Sure, but the saving in weight above the deck should improve stability, particularly in light winds.

Can we use any of this?

Maybe one thing. See, right here, he pointed to the spar attached to the bottom of the mainsail. There are wires on each side of the boom with small spreaders that keep it stiff, even though the cross-sections are about half as wide and weighed a quarter as much as they would normally. Also, Ross likes the way they’ve positioned their winches, which should improve crew efficiency and keep the leeside grinder from being buried in water in heavy weather.

What about the other boats?

"Most of their innovations are in hull design. The only other idea we could have considered is on Banzai." Cunningham moved to another set of photos. See, just forward of the mast?

Looks like a spinnaker pole.

We think it’s a removable topmast. There’s a track that runs from just above the deck to the peak, and a slot in the masthead jib stay fitting to allow the topmast to go through. That would let them set a spinnaker about a third larger than the other boats.

Pretty useful in the horse latitudes and the doldrums.

Yes, and in the trades too, if they are light.

"Okay, so we adopt these ideas for Zinger."

We can’t. It’ll be obvious that we lifted their design concepts.

So what? It happens all the time. The Aussies took the America’s Cup by putting wings on their keel, and we took it back using the same idea.

Sure, but only after it became common knowledge.

So it offends your concept of sportsmanship, Hunter sneered. Tell anyone that asks that these were my ideas. They know I didn’t get where I am by being nice. Look, America’s Cup races come around every few years, but this may be the one and only Magellan. We’re going to win it.

******

37.8 N 171.1 W, April 28 — The heavy log rolled slowly in the light waves. Travelling on the South Equatorial Current for three thousand miles, its myriad cells had filled with water until it barely showed above the surface of the sea. The log was ready to sink, but not just yet.

Inbound to Auckland, No Worries had finally left behind the heavy weather that had carried her across the Tasman Sea from Sydney. Watch Captain Jack Chapman relaxed as she sped on; wave tops glistened in the moonlight. Any doubts he and the crew had harbored about the boat’s high-tech approach to Polynesian outrigger design were fading fast. She was a goer in just about any weather.

Lighting a cigarette, Chapman glanced at the illuminated cockpit dials: Twenty-eight knots with occasional spurts above thirty. At this rate, they’d pass the headlands of Manukau Harbor in about five hours. No Worries, he thought, was aptly named.

A heavy crash jarred the boat, followed by a series of loud thuds. Chapman looked quickly over the leeside as a long dark object slipped past the aft quarter and astern. Under full sail, the boat was staggering, the forward tip of the outrigger digging into the sea and throwing up a rooster tail of spray.

With a dangerous list to port, the helmsman fought to keep the boat from turning into the wind as Chapman organized his startled deck crew. Let go of the chute and the main halyards, NOW!

The big spinnaker flew out ahead, dropping into the water as the mainsail fell to the deck, covering the cabin top and the cockpit. Dodging the sail as it dropped, Chapman stuck his head into the main hatch, nearly bumping heads with Jesse White coming up the companionway.

Jack, Skipper says to get the sails off her.

It’s done. What’s happening down there?

We have a big gash in the hull forward. It looks like the whole sea’s coming in. We’ve started pumping and they’re stuffing mattresses in the hole, but it doesn’t look like it’ll be enough. We’re sending out a MAYDAY.

Okay, toss life jackets for the guys up here. We’ll get the rafts over side. Turning back to the deck, Chapman saw the spinnaker had been fished out of the water and now lay in a soggy pile on the foredeck. Leave that. Come on aft. We’re launching the rafts.

In minutes, two large rafts had been removed from their canisters flanking the wheel, inflated, dropped into the water, and tied off to the stainless steel stern pulpit. As Chapman finished handing out lifejackets, Sam Burton, the Skipper, emerged from the hatch totally drenched and carrying a roll of heavy line. Behind him, two crewmen, equally wet, pushed a sail bag and two vinyl-covered mattress into the cockpit.

Jack, get your guys. We’re going to run the storm jib under the boat and use it to hold these mattresses over the crack. If we’re lucky, we may stay afloat.

******

NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, May 2 — Bacon sat across from Harrison Chance, in the yacht designer’s second floor office on Thames Street, overlooking the piers that housed some of the world’s most elegant and expensive playthings. On the desk, between the two, lay the pieces of a large marine fitting.

Chance leaned forward. "As soon as we removed these pieces from Westward’s mast, we had a representative of Atlantic Marine Hardware come up to take a look. He agreed the casting was made in their plant, but was discarded when the flaw was discovered."

How can he be so sure?

The finish is clearly not up to their standards. Chance tapped the metal with a pencil. He claims it was polished elsewhere and somehow found its way to us. I, for one, believe him.

What happened to the good fitting?

We don’t know. We made an intensive search, as did Atlantic. It didn’t turn up.

Then, there was no mistake. You were deliberately targeted.

I can’t think of another explanation. What about the Aussie boat? Anything like what happened to us?

No, Bacon said. Looks like a freak accident. They clearly hit something. The good news is they saved the boat and expect to make the race. When she was towed in, all the boatyards in Auckland volunteered to help. They’re working three shifts around the clock.

Sounds like the Kiwis. Too bad the boat will lose some tune-up time.

What about you?

We’re catching up and should sail for Lisbon pretty much on schedule. Of course, we haven’t been able to do any local on-the-water crew training, but a transatlantic crossing ought to pretty well take care of that. Would you like to see the boat?

Sure would.

Then come on.

They left the office, jaywalked across Thames Street and past several piers until they reached their destination. Walking out on a decked float, past several large motor yachts, they reached a heavy wire gate. As Chance unlocked it, Bacon looked at the boat beyond. Westward was an impressive sight, from the length of her bright white hull and unusually wide deck, to the new mast thrusting up higher than any other along the eastside of the harbor. On top of the curved edge of the deck, Bacon could see her name in large blue letters highlighted by a multicolored compass rose — its arrow pointing defiantly west.

Two men at the stern of the boat were at work checking the tension on the backstays. Two others sat in the cockpit with clipboards on their knees. They got up as Chance and Bacon crossed the gangway.

Mister Bacon, this is Sandy Bergstrom and our Team Manager, Brad Kingsley. Guys, meet Francis Bacon from the Race Committee.

Bergstrom nodded pleasantly. There was no denying his Viking ancestry, Bacon thought as he craned his neck to look up to the skipper’s rugged tanned face and sun-bleached hair. Kingsley was big too, wide rather than tall and heavily muscled. An ingratiating smile split his lined face as he shook Bacon’s hand.

Bergstrom put down his clipboard. Like to take a look around, Mister Bacon?

Very much.

Okay, let’s start topside. Bergstrom pointed upwards. As you can see, the mast and its standing rigging have been replaced. The running rigging and the boom will be installed this week. He turned toward the stern. We have the usual dual steering wheels, with electronic read-outs for course, speed, depth, and wind direction. That yoke in front of the helm, he pointed to the arch that bisected the rear end of the cockpit, supports the mainsail winches. The three winches on each side are for the jib and spinnaker sheets, and the four, just behind the mast, for the halyards.

The boat seems unusually wide. Is that typical? Bacon asked.

"No, Westward has a flat planning hull downwind. Upwind or on a reach, we drop the leeside of the hull so she sails like a catamaran. Titanium hinges raise and lower the sides, and cables with expansion joints make the system work and hold the whole thing together. Harrison can give you the technical details if you have several days to spare. He smiled. With one or both sides up the way they are now, we get a bonus of extra deck space. Keeps us out of everyone else’s way. Now let’s go below, but watch your head."

Bacon followed the skipper as he stepped down into the cabin. The overhead was very low. Bergstrom was bent double as he moved away from the hatch, and even Bacon found he had to duck.

Bergstrom pointed to the starboard side. That’s the chart table, of course, and above it our electronics.

I don’t recognize half of that gear, Bacon admitted.

Neither did I, at first. Here’s the global position system. It tells us within a few feet where we are, anywhere in the world. Next are the radios with the screen showing the weather around us and ahead. Furthest forward is the tactical computer. It monitors all the electronics and coordinates, boat design, and weather information to help us pick the optimal course and sail settings.

Could be a major problem if it crashed, Bacon suggested. Easily cost us the race.

Bergstrom pointed across the cabin. The most important part of the boat, the galley. It may be small, but it’s efficient enough to let us make anything from a soft-boiled egg to baked Alaska.

Bacon looked forward. Tucked in along each side were a long row of narrow concave bunks, flanking a long table with light metal swivel chairs solidly anchored to the deck.

Bergstrom pointed to the bunks. We’ve stuck to pilot berths so no one will be tossed out in bad weather, and chairs around the table, rather than benches.

Looks comfortable.

They are. Within weight restrictions, Harrison has added all the enmities he could. I expect it will pay off in crew efficiency over time. Up forward, we have two heads and under the foredeck, sail storage. The rest of the equipment and stores are under the deck or in the overhead lockers above the bunks. That’s about it unless you have some questions.

No, I think you’ve anticipated anything I might ask.

Returning to the cockpit, Bacon thanked Bergstrom, said goodbye to Kingsley and followed the boat’s designer back on to the pier.

Quite a boat, Bacon said.

Chance turned back briefly. It’s been a fascinating challenge for all of us. You know, the Magellan is primarily a designer’s race. We get a chance to test our pet theories on the water in actual competition with no restrictions. Very exciting.

To say nothing of the satisfaction of winning.

That’s the prime objective of the owners and crews, of course, but the advances in boat technology will be the big payoff for me and probably most of the other designers. I certainly don’t want to see us getting drubbed, but in this case I can’t go along with Vince Lombardi.

Winning isn’t the best thing, it’s the only thing?

Precisely.

Unfortunately, someone else doesn’t seem to share your opinion. Along those lines, may I ask you a couple of questions about your team and your perceptions of the competition?

Sure.

"How’s the morale since Westward came back?"

They were all very low for a few days, especially Billy Secceles, who blamed himself for Todd’s death.

Was it his fault?

No, but Billy was the one that picked Todd to go up the mast and deal with the problem. Everybody told him he made the right decision, but he’s had trouble living with it. I think we’re in a lot better shape now. A couple of days after Todd’s funeral, Sandy got the crew together. Whatever he said, they seem even more determined to sail a good race.

Glad to hear it. Since you mentioned the race, who do you think will be your main competition?

"Hard to say, I don’t have enough solid information on their designs to give you a really informed opinion. But if I had to pick a likely winner, I’d look to the French, German, and Japanese boats. The Italians may have an outside chance. The Aussie-Kiwi team on No Worries will certainly be a factor if they can recover from their accident. The dark horse in the race is Zinger from the West Coast. She’s been built in an indoor facility in nearly total secrecy. The owner and skipper is Ron Hunter, so she’ll be good. Hunter’s smart and competitive. Some think too competitive."

In what way?

In the interest of good race relations. Let’s leave it at that. I’m sure you’ll get an earful when everybody gets together in Spain. They reached the head of the pier and were back on Thames Street. Chance pointed toward his office. Want to come back up?

No, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time. Oh, just one more thing. Have you had your computer checked for possible viruses?

Nothing special. Why?

That might be something worth pursuing. Let me do some checking and I’ll get back to you within a couple of days.

******

KEY LARGO, FLORIDA, May 5 — Driving south on U.S. 1 from Miami Airport, Bacon felt relieved after the intensive work of the past three days. His trip was the result of a long telephone call with the editor of a leading aviation magazine, several hours on the internet, and time spent tracking down the man he was to see today.

Between times, he had talked with Sir John in London, following up with a long email memo.

The road ahead narrowed to one lane in each direction, as it approached the first of many bridges that linked the Florida Keys. Crossing a second bridge, he reached the island made famous by Humphrey Bogart’s classic 1940s movie.

Not impressive for a tropical paradise, but peaceful, Bacon thought as he passed a series of low buildings, mostly homes, interspersed by businesses, small restaurants and palm trees. Counting traffic lights, he passed the third and spotted his landmark, a jet boat dealer’s showroom. He made the next left, following a lane, marked by a dead end sign towards the ocean. Broken asphalt soon gave way to gravel and then dirt, finally ending in a small parking space facing the water.

He got out and looked out to the Atlantic. A white sand beach ran down to the light turquoise water of the shallows. Farther out, the sea became a darker blue with flecks of white along the wave crests. Running out into the water was a long, narrow pier. Alongside was a square wooden float and tied to it, a large seaplane.

Bacon moved closer for a better look. The body of a plane rested on the water. A single high wing supporting two prop engines, ended in two pontoons that hung down and slapped the water as the aircraft rolled gently on the small waves. The aluminum skin was badly oxidized with a few streaks of rust. What little paint remained was faded and peeling, including the words DeWitte Aviation along the side.

Hey, you come to see me? a voice called behind him.

Bacon turned as a tall, heavyset man in shorts and a T-shirt came out of the drab white bungalow to his right. If you’re Mister DeWitte, I have. I’m Francis Bacon, he said as the man reached him, smiling broadly and wringing his hand.

Friends call me Buddy. What do they call you?

Just plain Bacon, he said, returning the smile.

DeWitte laughed. For a man who likes fried food as much as me, that’ll suit. Come on in the house, meet the wife, and have something cold.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned, walked over and held open the door of the screened porch facing the ocean. A slim, attractive Latino woman in a minimal halter and cutoff shorts stood just inside.

Honey, meet Mister Bacon. This is Connie, short for Consuela.

Hi there, she said. Glad to meet you.

"Connie and I fly Matilda together, so we’d both like to hear what you have to say."

Matilda? Bacon asked.

Yeah, our Catalina out there. Bought her in Australia cheap and flew her home.

Pretty big trip for a plane probably older than you.

Hell, she’s almost older than my daddy. Course, she was fifteen years younger when I got her and just had an engine job. Now what’ll it be, beer or lemonade?

Lemonade, please.

Connie disappeared into the house, and returned with three glasses on a tray.

Buddy turned his glass in his hand. I’d rather have beer, but in our business you never know when you have to be sober.

"Hope you’re not too busy, because we want to charter Matilda for six months."

Season’s over, not much action ‘til December. Six months, huh? His eyes narrowed. This doesn’t have anything to do with drugs, does it? We’ve had offers before and we won’t touch ‘em.

Don’t worry. Before you’re through you may need a few aspirin, but that’s it.

In the next fifteen minutes, Bacon filled them in on the race, the problems that had cropped up, and why he needed the Catalina.

When he was through, he looked around at the couple. Interested?

So you want us to ride shotgun on a bunch of rich guys and their yachts around the world?

Just to be there if they need help.

Sounds good to me, Buddy said and Connie nodded. The only problem is that the old girl may not be up to the job. She hasn’t had major maintenance work for a long time and not because we wouldn’t like to do it.

And if we paid for a complete overhaul?

That’d take maybe a hundred grand.

"We can handle that. By the way, does Matilda have radar?"

No, couldn’t afford that either.

Then let’s say we pay for the refit along with radar on a six month charter for say, he paused, Thirty thousand dollars a month. During that time, we cover insurance on the plane, fuel, and whatever else you need, and supply accommodations for you and Connie along the way. At the end of the charter, you get another engine tune up and you’re ready for the next fifteen years.

Sounds good. Should we go for it? He looked at his wife.

Sure, she said.

Fine. There’s only one condition. You and the plane have to be in Spain by September Tenth and ready to go. Can you do it?

Yeah, I’ll have the work done by guys I know in Pensacola. They won’t screw me. If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know before the weekend.

Fine, then you better have some cash. Excuse me for a minute. Bacon went to the car and returned with his laptop. "Let me plug this into your phone