Part Three

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"What're you doing, Scotty?"

Scott sighed in exasperation as he looked up from the equipment laid out in front of him. Gordon was sitting on one of the shallow ribs in the bottom of the lifeboat, his back against the side, one hand sheltering his eyes from the low-angle sunlight. The discarded foil wrapper from their second emergency meal pack lay by his side. Scott's stomach grumbled at the sight of it. He'd allowed himself a few bites of each, leaving Gordon the bulk of both lunch and dinner. His belly might be complaining that decision, but Gordon had regained a little colour, and exploring the many individual plastic packets the pack contained alongside the self-heating main course had kept him busy for the last twenty minutes.

The active little boy was finding their confinement in the small vessel an ordeal. He'd paced up and down the length of the boat a dozen times, and then from side to side of it, intrigued by the way it rocked under even his small weight, before Scott told him sharply to sit down. He'd perched on the edge of the hull, tapping his heels idly against the walls, until Scott had noticed and dived forward to grab him, dragging him back into the boat, screaming at him not to be so stupid. They'd both been taken aback by that outburst, and it had kept Gordon quiet and still for almost an hour as the boy laid low and tried to work out what he'd done wrong. Scott wasn't about to tell his little brother that he'd flashed back on the storm and the sight of Virgil falling into the pitch-black water, and Gordon was worried enough by the situation that he didn't dare ask.

Now though, the familiar look of boredom was back on Gordon's face, and Scott realised that if he didn't answer Gordon's first query, the insistent questions would only escalate.

"Come see." He beckoned Gordon forward, and rose from sitting cross-legged to catch his little brother when he slipped on the thin layer of water still pooled between the ribs lining the boat. Gordon froze, clearly expecting another reprimand. Scott sighed and set his brother back on his feet before sinking down to his knees on the damp deck, putting his eyes on the younger boy's level. "Gordy, look. I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier, okay? I just… it's just that I'm meant to be taking care of you. I'm not going to shout again."

Gordon shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again uneasily. He pulled at the collar of his newly-dry, but thoroughly creased, shirt. Scott scratched unconsciously at his own neckline, irritated by the salt permeating the sun-dried clothing, as he waited for Gordon's response. The six-year-old studied him intently for a moment before offering a tentative smile.

"Unless I do something really stupid?" he suggested.

Mustering up a smile in return, Scott chucked his younger brother under the chin. "Really stupid," he agreed lightly.

"Okay." Gordon nodded calmly. He gave Scott another brief, serious look. "I think I would have shouted too, if Allie was sitting there," he admitted with a shrug.

Scott gave him a one-armed hug, proud and impressed. At home, Gordon liked to push the bounds whenever he could, but in just the last year or so, he seemed more aware of when he could do so and when it was time to listen to his parents and big brothers. Having four-year-old Alan in tow most of the time probably had a lot to do with that. For the first time, Gordon was starting to ask not only whether he was prepared to try something himself, but also whether he wanted to risk Alan trying it too. Even now, with Alan safely at home with Mom, Gordon was applying the 'would I let my little brother do that?' rule that all Tracys learnt to consider.

Now Gordon glanced at Scott for permission before prodding the heavy hunk of machinery lying on a tarpaulin Scott had spread to keep it dry. "So what is it?"

Scott caught his little brother's wrist, pulling Gordon back against his own chest and guiding his fingers carefully across the metal components as he explained. "Well, we put some gas in this end, and when we pull on this cord, it comes through a little at a time into this box here. You know how Mom lights up the cooker with a spark?" Gordon nodded, wide-eyed, and Scott went on. "Well, there's a spark, and it makes the gas go 'bang!' like a firework. It all gets hot and rushes out through here. That makes this wheel turn, and that turns this rod, which turns the propeller. So, if we put this over the side of the boat, and start it going, it'll push us through the water."

Gordon nodded. His eyes ran over the system again, and his lips moved as if replaying what Scott had told him and committing it to memory.

Scott reached around him and started clipping the plastic shell back into place over the compact outboard motor. His Dad had explained a similar engine the same way, first time they'd gone out in a hired yacht. Scott hadn't been much older than Gordon was now and had listened with interest but without much enthusiasm. To his father's amusement, that had come a year later when the family jet was taken in for overhaul and his dad showed him its equivalent, but much more complex, system.

Jeff Tracy had always taught his sons to be thorough, and to be certain of any equipment they depended on. Now more than ever, Scott was determined to live by that, and the concentration it required had helped too, distracting him from darker thoughts. If there'd been any particular hurry, he might not have bothered to open the thing up and look it over. As it was, while the vast majority of the mechanism was a closed box as far as he was concerned, he'd checked the fuel chamber was empty and the exhaust clear, that the pull-cord was wound evenly on its gear without knots to snag it, that the mechanism appeared to have been greased and that the shaft and propeller were rotating freely. It was all he could do, and it was going to have to be enough. Even with the gas still in its metal can to one side, the engine was as heavy as Gordon. Scott was pretty sure he could lift it well enough to snap it onto the brackets on the stern. Once it was in the water though, there was simply no way he'd have the leverage to pull it out again.

"Scott?"

"Yes, Gordon?"

"It looks awfully small."

Scott grimaced as he placed his feet carefully wide, trying for sufficient stability to lift the engine without rocking the boat. The same thought had occurred to him. The ocean stretched to touch the horizon in every direction, flat now but with the memory of last night's towering waves stored within it. By comparison this motor seemed just about big enough to take them across a garden pond.

"It's more powerful than it looks," he promised Gordon hopefully, grunting a little as he hefted the weight up to balance on his shoulder. "Gordy, I want you to go up to the front of the boat, and hold on tight, okay? I'm going to take this to the back, and it might tip the boat up a bit."

Gordon bit his lip, before nodding reluctantly. The little boy had been more clingy than usual since the two of them had wakened alone, and was obviously worried about being separated from his brother by even the length of the boat. Scott braced himself, his legs and back protesting the weight of the motor, as Gordon threw his arms about his brother's waist and gave him a quick hug. Gordy released him before he could complain, running forward to the blunt prow and taking a firm grip on the safety lines. Scott watched to make sure he was settled before turning in the opposite direction.

"Stern." Gordon's voice came as he was mid-way through heaving the motor onto the closed lid of the emergency cabinet. Scott finished the procedure before glancing back at his brother, checking Gordon was still where he was meant to be.

"Excuse me?"

"Dad said the back of the Santa Anna was called the stern. Is that true in a little dinghy like this too?"

Scott sighed, turning back to inspect the problem ahead of him. The anchor point for the engine was built into the back wall of the locker, the top-most notch barely visible to Scott as he leaned forward over the chest-high box.

"That's true in any boat, Gordon."

"Why?"

Turning his back on the cabinet for a moment, Scott hopped up to sit on the edge of it. The boat rocked, and Scott reached out to steady the motor resting on the lid beside him, even as his eyes flew to Gordon. The little boy had gasped when the deck moved, but he was sitting huddled in the well of the boat and his grip on the safety line was white-knuckled. Holding still for a few seconds while the motion subsided, Scott made the effort to keep his frightened brother talking.

"I don't know, Gordy," he admitted. "But how many other parts of the boat can you name? Show me?"

Gordon looked uncertain. "Well, this is the prow," he volunteered cautiously.

"That's good." Scott twisted slightly in position, glad to find that the boat didn't move when he shifted his weight slowly enough. Cautiously, he lowered himself to lie with his chest on the lid of the locker, the motor beside him as he inched toward the back of the boat. "You know your right and left, don't you?" he called over his shoulder. "Can you remember what Dad said we had to call them?"

"Port and starboard," Gordon answered promptly, sounding a little happier for the distraction.

"Uh huh," Scott agreed, freezing as he felt the boat tilt under him, the stern dropping noticeably lower in the water. Rolling a little onto his side, he reached an arm over the back of the cabinet, trying to figure out the mounting by touch alone. "Which is which?"

"Um…" Gordon hesitated. He'd loved every moment on the Santa Anna, at least until the storm blew up, and had run Dad ragged with his questions. On the other hand, over the course of a two-week expedition, that made for a lot of new information for him to take in. "Port is… well…"

His cheek still pressed to the cool lid of the emergency locker, Scott frowned. He could feel grooves and notches in the back wall of it, his arm damp with sea spray as he explored the mounting by touch. Making sense of it without taking a look was impossible though. This was no good. He wasn't about to risk swinging the heavy motor over the edge blind. He listened to Gordon trying to figure out right from left as he edged further across the locker, legs hanging in the air behind him as his head moved out over the turbulent water in their wake. The list to stern was significant now and Gordon's voice trailed off as the prow lifted out of the water.

"Want to know how to work out which is which?" Scott asked a little breathlessly. He peered down at the mounting bracket before glancing over his shoulder, He squinted against the eye-level setting sun, barely able to make out his pale little brother against the scarlet glow. "How many letters has 'port' got?" he asked, before looking back down at the water below.

This wasn't going to be easy. The dinghy had never been designed for use exclusively by children. At thirteen, Scott had hit the start of his growth spurt, but even so was a full foot shorter, and significantly less powerful, than the adults expected to do this.

"How many letters, Gordy?"

"Four," Gordon whispered, the word barely reaching his elder brother.

"Yep, and which one has four letters: left or right?"

Twisting in place on the cabinet lid, he got both hands on the heavy motor, rolling it over so when he lifted it, the mount and anchor point would be facing one another.

"Left," Gordon decided quietly, counting on his fingers. "Left has four letters, Scotty."

"Uh huh, so that's how you remember it: port and left have the same number of letters, and they mean the same thing." Lesson over, Scott took a deep breath. His fingers were still painful and bruised from clinging to the safety ropes the night before. He ached all over, battered by storm and wave, cramped from sleeping awkwardly and weakened by far too little food and water. But there was no one else to do this. He rolled onto his back, lifting the motor to rest on his abdomen, and then pulled it up to the level of his collarbone.

"Starboard and right don't have the same number of letters. Right has five and starboard has eight."

Nine, but with the weight of the motor pressing down on his chest, Scott couldn't spare the breath to correct his brother. He rolled again so that he was looking down into the water, this time taking the weight of the motor entirely on his arms and shoulders as he lowered it down behind the boat.

"Scott, why doesn't right and starboard have the same number of letters?"

Awkwardly, Scott slid the heavy motor against the stern, trying to persuade it to latch into place.

"Scotty?"

Not working. He inched out a little further, latching his feet over the edge of the cabinet, a full third of his body now hanging over the back of the boat. With the extra leverage, he was able to see a little better. He twisted the motor a few degrees and there! Finally, it slid into its mount, ridges in the surface of the motor slotting into grooves that held them securely, and then the whole thing twisting to lock into place.

Scott's arms screamed with relief and he panted, not realising how much weight had been transferred through his chest until it was relieved. He started hyperventilating before he worked out what was happening. A wave of dizziness struck suddenly, a rushing sound in his ears as the blood pounded through them. For a while, he couldn't figure out up from down, or forward from backward. The feel of small hands on his ankles, pulling him backwards with determination but little strength, gave him the reference point he needed. He began to squirm back onto the emergency locker, helping Gordon's frantic tugs, until he was able to rest his head on its cool surface.

"Scotty?" Gordon was still pulling at his legs, his voice tear-filled.

"I…I'm okay, Gordy," Scott managed, blinking past the dizziness. He inched back further and found himself tumbling off the lid and into the boat, almost flattening his little brother. Gordon squirmed out from under him, and a few moments later, Scott's eyes focused to find the little boy fumbling with the catches on the locker. Gordon got the heavy lid up through sheer force of will, letting it rest on the crown of his head as he stood on tip-toe and reached down into the locker with both arms. Scott watched, bemused, as Gordon managed to lift the two-thirds-empty water bottle down and offer it to his older brother.

Scott accepted it gratefully. He rued every sip, but recognised that passing out from dehydration so soon wouldn't do either of them any good. Gordon's face was tear-streaked, his eyes bright as he hovered uncertainly in front of his brother. Scott smiled reassuringly, and offered his little brother the bottle to finish.

"Nine," he corrected mildly. Gordon stared at him and Scott rested a hand on his shoulder, using him for support as he climbed to his feet. There was still the fuel to get into the motor before the failing sunlight faded into pitch-blackness and it became impossible. "Starboard has nine letters, Gordy: S, T, A, R, B, O, A, R, D."

Gordon gave him an incredulous look, and then crossed his arms across his chest. "I don't care," he declared petulantly.

Scott sighed and reached down for the gas can he'd left on the tarpaulin. It was on its side, either toppled when the boat tilted or knocked over by Gordon in his haste to reach Scott. The lid was on tight though, and the heavy metal can still held its precious contents. He picked it up by the handle and looked tiredly towards the rear of the boat. Gordon threw himself in his path, wrapping his arms around Scott's waist and effectively anchoring him to the spot.

"Don't do that again, Scotty! Please! I don't want you to fall in!"

Scott leaned down, stroking his brother's hair.

"I've got to pour the gas into the engine, Gordy," he told the little boy. "Remember I showed you how it worked? It won't go without fuel."

"Why does it have to go at all?" Gordon asked, still holding his brother tightly, but tilting his head back so he could look up into Scott's face. Very wide amber eyes seemed to fill his pale face. "Where are we going, Scotty?"

Standing in the boat, Scott couldn't answer his brother's question. His eyes swept the featureless ocean. He had a vague idea that they'd been some way south of Dominga when the Santa Anna sank, but the storm could have carried them anywhere, and they'd spent the day adrift on unknown currents. They could be hundreds of miles from land, or just over the horizon from solid ground. Truthfully this was why he'd been in no hurry to unpack the motor, until the sun dropped toward the water and he'd decided he wanted it done before nightfall. After twenty-four hours adrift, their powerful but short-lived beacon would already be fading. They couldn't count on anyone finding them. They had to take the initiative themselves, but now the engine was mounted, he faced a frightening decision. The instant he started the motor, he'd be committing them to a direction, and it could easily be one taking them further from salvation rather than towards it.

He turned towards the setting sun, shivering in the gathering twilight as he searched for inspiration. The temperature was dropping already and he was far from sure that, even with blankets to wrap around them, either of them would survive another night on the open water. Despite that, he couldn't help a shiver of appreciation for the view. Strange that anywhere so hostile could be so beautiful. The evening sky was filled with streaks of salmon-pink and deep scarlet. Virgil would have loved it.

Scott swayed, and he felt Gordon tighten his hold still further. For the sake of his little brother, Scott took a deep breath, and then froze, eyes widening. Reaching down, he picked Gordon up, letting his brother wrap his legs around his chest to steady himself. With Gordon's cheek pressed against his, he pointed south-south-west. In full light, the faint smudge on the horizon had been lost in the heat haze and glare of reflection from the water. Silhouetted now against the luminous sky, the distant hint of land was a lone, solid reference point in an otherwise featureless world.

"See that, Gordy?" he asked in a whisper. "That's where we're going."

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