Adrift
Copyright© 2025 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 2
Later, Lieutenant Riley and Becky Thatcher went down to the hospital cafeteria for lunch. A representative from American Express had been by and talked to her for a few minutes, promising to return later in the afternoon. That afternoon, the doctors released her early, after she got her credit cards, a thousand-dollar advance in Traveler’s Checks, and checked into a hotel.
“You’ll have to find some place else to sleep tonight,” Becky told the lieutenant over dinner.
He grinned. “Well, I was kind of hoping I could sneak that past everyone.”
Becky looked at him; she’d known in her heart for some time that it would happen one day or another. “Now wouldn’t be a good time,” Becky said lightly, meeting his eyes.
“I took a week’s leave.” He smiled. “There’s this hotshot kid, finished fourth at King’s Point last year; he’s a senator’s son. He’s dying to have my slot, even for a week.”
They were silent. The restaurant around them was busy; tourist season was at its height. A woman appeared at their table, and for a second, Becky was at a loss, and then she recognized the Navy commander from earlier, dressed now in a cocktail dress.
“May I join you?”
Becky could tell the lieutenant wanted her to say no, but Becky was curious. She had been curious ever since she’d talked to the other. “Sure.”
The woman sat down and looked at the lieutenant. “I’m glad you are in mufti; this makes this much easier.”
“Makes what?” The lieutenant was a fraction of an inch from overt hostility.
“Tomorrow, you will be interviewed by the media.” The commander turned to Becky, who nodded. “As I said before, try to stick to the basics of the story.”
“I have,” Becky said mildly, “already talked to some reporters. I stuck to the basics of the story.”
“And you did very well,” the naval officer told her.
“Tomorrow, there will be a news conference. There will be three Chinese journalists from the PRC in attendance. Exactly none have ever been to a news conference before; they were ‘media liaison’ at the Chinese Embassy in Mexico City.”
“Spies,” the lieutenant murmured.
“Field officers of the Chinese intelligence apparatus,” the commander corrected, but her voice was mild and soft. “I have information that they will take the position that Hampton Roads deliberately rammed their ship.”
Becky shook her head. “That didn’t happen. I told you what happened.”
“And I believe you and your government believe you. That said, right now every news agency on the planet is going over the records of all of you on that ship. They know it too. Regardless, we are sure that’s the approach the Chinese are going to take.”
The woman looked at Becky. “It could be rather unpleasant.”
“Compared to spending two days in the water?” the lieutenant sneered.
“The alternative is to tell them you are tired, want to go home. Delayed shock. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome; that sort of thing.”
“Commander, if you say you are researching everyone on the ship, then you must have looked into my affairs.”
The commander shrugged and looked embarrassed. Becky went on. “Not very pretty reading. My father enrolled me in these summer programs. Last year it was Outward Bound and a class in rock climbing in Oregon. This year, Hampton Roads, and when we return to San Francisco I was supposed to climb Mt. Whitney with a group, and three weeks later attempt McKinley, or whatever the Indian name is for it these days. Denali.
“My father wants me dead, Commander. Alive, until eighteen, he gets five percent of my trust funds as a custodial fee. If I die before eighteen, they go to him, in fee simple. I’ve already told him that the day I turn eighteen, my will changes so he’ll get a dollar and that will be that. Not another penny beyond that. He’s motivated by that deadline.
“He’s afraid to just outright kill me, but now he’s trying something else. He thinks he’s being clever. My trust funds just bought a big chunk of a Real Estate Investment Trust that specializes in psychiatric hospitals. One of them, near Phoenix, is for ‘troubled girls.’” Becky wanted to spit. “I’m not sure what his plan is for getting me in there, but if he does...” She shook her head. “Lots of people die in hospitals.”
The commander shrugged. “A long time ago, I took freshman rat lab, also known as Psych 101, back in college. One thing I remember my professor saying: Every now and then, paranoia is justified. A clinician has to be aware at all times that there are people out in the world who plot to kill others. That is, perceived paranoia might just have a basis in reality.” She waved eastwards. “I have no idea what I would do if I were in your shoes.”
“I’m almost sixteen,” Becky said. “August 15th. That’s the day I go for broke. I file suit in San Francisco to emancipate myself. He has his plans, and I have mine. I was planning on vanishing for three weeks when we got into port. This is going to make that very difficult.”
The table was silent for a moment, and then the commander stood. “I’m sorry to have had to tell you, but you don’t deserve to be blindsided tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Navy,” the lieutenant said, but there was no hostility in his voice.
Their meal was served, and for a few minutes, there was just the sound of the meal. “I was thinking,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe I could hide you out at the BOQ.”
Becky smiled. “Thanks for the thought. I’ll be okay, I promise.”
He shook his head. “You missed my point. I want to help. Anyway, I can.”
Becky reached out and lightly touched his hand. “Tim, you’ve been more of a help than you’ll ever know. What I want, right now, is for you to take me up to my room, and then be back there at 0700. We’ll have breakfast. We’ll deal with the press conference, and then I’m going to get on a bird to San Francisco. Then I’m going to get lost for a month, rather than three weeks.”
He sighed, and Becky looked at him. “And when I’m free, I’ll be back,” Becky whispered quietly. “I’ll get a room someplace. We can -- visit -- then.”
He laughed. “And legally an adult. Wonder how that affects age-of-consent laws?”
“I thought in Samoa it was twelve?” Becky joked.
“I don’t think so.” He realized abruptly his chain had been yanked, and he laughed again. “Coming of age, that’s what I was thinking of.”
The next morning Becky was awake early, and had breakfast with the lieutenant. A man wearing a coat and tie appeared, and handed Becky a card. “I am Fuller Raines. I represent a number of maritime insurance companies; one of whom has the Hampton School as a client.”
Becky nodded and he went on. “I have read the Coast Guard report on your rescue. I would appreciate it if later today you would agree to a deposition at the local court building. An hour, perhaps two.”
“I was kind of hoping I would be getting aboard a flight back to the States about then,” Becky told him.
He nodded. “I understand your eagerness to return to your family and friends. However, the sooner this is done -- well, people forget small details over time. In any case, there will be a formal inquiry into the vessel’s loss. This deposition may save you a trip back to Samoa later this fall, Miss Thatcher.”
“And does Miss Thatcher need an attorney present for this deposition?” the lieutenant asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
The lawyer looked Becky straight in the eye. “My profession is much maligned -- for good reason. Yes, Miss Thatcher, a lawyer wouldn’t hurt. Quite frankly, there will be lawsuits. Lawsuits on behalf of the students and crew. Lawsuits against the school, against individual estates -- all sorts of lawsuits. If you were to utter an injudicious word, lawsuits could be filed against you. I don’t think that likely, given the preliminary report the Coast Guard has prepared, but there are no certainties, Miss Thatcher.”
“Thank you, Mr. Raines,” Becky said. “I’ll see if I can find a lawyer between now and then. I’m sure Samoa is awash with them.”
He smiled, “Try the phone book.” And he was gone.
Becky did just that, knowing full well that she was going to take potluck at best. A little after ten in the morning, a young man arrived and introduced himself as James Cartwright, a junior law partner. He listened to what Becky required, and then grimaced. “Well, yes, you should have someone there. The time frame, though, that’s completely unrealistic. I mean, there is the due diligence process we’re supposed to follow. A couple of weeks, at least.”
Becky shook her head. “I have no desire to stay here that long. I was pleased when Mr. Raines suggested this afternoon that it’s a far better fit to my schedule.”
The lawyer sighed and looked pensive for a few minutes. “Well, we’ll just have to cram in as much preparation time between now and then as possible.”
Again, Becky shook her head. “I am supposed to be at a press conference at eleven. After that, lunch. After that, some last-minute hospital processing, and then the deposition. I want to return to the States tomorrow. There won’t be much time.”
“Come to the press conference,” the lieutenant interjected. “That will give you a basic understanding of the situation.”
“A press conference?” the lawyer blanched. “That’s not wise. Not wise at all.”
Becky pointed a finger at him. “You listen, you learn. Everyone says I need you; I’m beginning to think I don’t. I will help as much as I can in the time available. If you can’t do this, say so now, while I have a chance of finding someone who can.”
The young man shook his head violently. “No, that will be okay.”
“Fine.” She pointed at the door. “In a minute, I’m going to get dressed. Go find where this meeting is going to be held; I’ll stick my head out when I’m ready,” she told him.
The lieutenant watched the lawyer go, and then glanced back at Becky. “Aren’t I going to get invited to leave too, or can I stay and maybe peek this time?”
“In a second; I have a question.”
He laughed. “Now I have to figure out which part of the question you answered.”
Becky shook her head. “I’ve never been in a press conference; I have no idea what I’m supposed to do or say.” She waved towards the door. “I’m not going to stand there and say ‘no comment’ no matter who thinks it’s a good idea. I won’t.”
“Well, the captain told me that I could represent the Coast Guard; we’ve filed a report already. What we can do is have me run the first part, giving the high points of the Coast Guard report. Then I’ll ask you to describe what you saw and did. Then questions.” He shrugged. “A few years ago, we did a major drug bust; the morons tried to shoot it out with the cutter. That didn’t work; we killed a bunch of them. That news conference lasted four hours. Hopefully, this will be shorter.”
“Hopefully.” Becky nodded at the door. “I believe I can handle this next part best by myself.”
“Well, if you ever need an audience, let me know.” He turned and left. Becky quickly dressed, still in simple dungarees and a heavy men’s shirt. Clean underwear -- a luxury that she’d only rarely had on the ship.
She went out into the hall; the two men were standing a few feet apart, studiously ignoring each other. They walked down the hall and by the front desk, Becky saw the Navy commander, standing reading a brochure. Probably touting the vacation spot that was Samoa, Becky thought wryly.
“Good luck, Miss Thatcher,” the Naval officer spoke as Becky got close. Becky nodded and kept going. The other returned to the brightly colored folder, seemingly disinterested.
There was quite a crowd in the hospital’s main conference room. Becky even recognized a few of the faces from the evening news. The lieutenant simply stood at the lectern, looking around. “It’s eleven hundred, anyone not ready to go?” his voice was firm and strong.
There was a chorus of “Ready” and the lieutenant nodded. “Okay, you have ten seconds to get the cameras rolling.” Becky watched him wait quietly at the podium, no expression on his face.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said after what Becky was sure was the tenth tick. “I am Lieutenant Tim Riley, executive officer of the Coast Guard Cutter Empire City. I have been authorized by my captain to represent the US Coast Guard today. What I will do is summarize the report we have already filed, and then ask Miss Thatcher to relate from her perspective what happened. Then we’ll have a period for questions.
“Before we start, I want to remind you all that two days ago Miss Thatcher was floating, alone in the ocean. She had been, at that point, for two full days and was still a few hours from rescue. She had swum, according to our calculations, almost a hundred and thirty miles in that time. The doctors tell me Miss Thatcher has made an amazing recovery, considering the nature and duration of her ordeal; hopefully, we can keep the questions to a reasonable length of time.”
He started then, explaining the “Sub Sunk” radio call, the arrival at the accident scene of the cutter, the rescue of the survivors from the submarine. The next bit was kind of skimpy, the transfer of the Chinese survivors to the Navy, followed by the return to Samoa, when they recognized that another ship must have been involved, and the search for Hampton Roads begun. “We had been out two days; our fuel was getting low. The Navy was searching, so we headed back to Samoa, intending to refuel, and then return immediately to the search area. A lookout spotted Miss Thatcher approximately seventeen nautical miles, due south of Samoa.
“Because of the sea conditions and haze, Miss Thatcher did not recognize how close to land she was. The island just looks like a distant, low-hanging cloud. We rescued her, and then headed in at flank. Miss Thatcher was evaluated aboard the Empire State and our corpsman determined that she was in fair condition.
“The hospital reported her condition as fair, upon admission, and upgraded that two hours later to ‘good.’ She was released yesterday.” Riley turned to Becky.
“Miss Thatcher.”
Becky got up, and walked to the podium. She was nervous, and still unsure. Her eyes lit on three Chinese sitting in a group, two men, flanking a woman. “My name is Becky Thatcher, I’m almost sixteen. I was a student this summer at the Hampton School, which operates a full-scale replica of a Windjammer Schooner, called the Hampton Roads.”
She told her story quickly, without reference to any of her emotional turmoil; it didn’t take long. I came, I swam, she thought. The lieutenant nodded to the group. “Some questions.”
A man stood up; Becky couldn’t think of his name, but he was a CNN correspondent. “Wolf Blitzer, CNN.” He nodded to Becky. “Very brave, young woman. How long were you in the water?”
“Forty-seven hours.” Becky told him. “I used to like a long soak in a hot tub. Right now, I don’t think I’m going to be interested in doing that again for a very, very, very long time.” There were chuckles and he nodded.
“Miss Thatcher in that time, did you see any planes, any ships? Anything at all?”
Becky shrugged. “I’d like to give you an honest answer; several times on the second night I thought I saw lights. Always distant, never for very long. I’d like to think I was seeing something real; I simply don’t know. Nothing I could be sure of.”
A woman rose. “Elizabeth Farragut, ABC.” The woman said. “Miss Thatcher, I certainly admire your fortitude, but I own a power boat myself. One thing I absolutely require: everyone wears a life jacket. Did you have a life jacket? If so, where was it?”
“Yes, I had a life jacket.” Becky paused and looked at the lawyer out in the audience. Time to be accurate, but not too accurate. “Hampton Roads was a working sailing ship. We did have a diesel engine, however the only time we availed ourselves of it, at least while I was aboard, was in harbor. As a powerboat captain, you undoubtedly know the rules of the road, vis-à-vis sailing ships. Quite simply, we used the engines more as a convenience for others, as much for ease of handling, and then only in anchorages.
“We were a working schooner. There are hundreds of tasks that have to be done to keep the ship and sails trimmed. There is a lot of that hard physical labor, including climbing up the masts in all sorts of weather. We were ordered to wear a life jacket when going up the mast; it is too easy to fall. We wore safety belts most of the time on deck. However, most of us, when working on deck, didn’t use life jackets. Particularly the female members of the crew.” Becky looked straight at the woman. “Life jackets chafe. Discomfort may not seem like a good reason to give up the added protection, but after days and weeks at sea, sometimes small discomforts come to dominate your day-to-day thinking.”
“Chafe?” the woman asked, unsure. “I don’t understand.”
Becky debated cutting her off and looking around for another question. “Across the chest,” Becky said forthrightly. “Although I didn’t suffer as much discomfort as some of my fellow students, it was still painful. I wore a life jacket in those situations that I felt one would be of value. Not otherwise.”
The Chinese woman rose, and Becky looked at her; well, it had to happen. “Miss Thatcher.” The woman’s voice was quite pretty, Becky thought. “Your ship rammed and sank a warship of the navy of the People’s Republic of China. Which officer of your crew gave the order?”
Becky looked at the woman, who, in turn, stared back at Becky. No emotions were visible on Becky’s face or that of the woman who faced her. “The standing order was to sheer off any course with a constant bearing from any surface ship.”
“Captain Selkirk told us any number of stories about encounters between schooners and whales. The dangers of reefs, rocks, and shoals. Above all, collisions with surface ships. We had no knowledge of any ship in the area; perhaps if your ship had been surfaced, we could have avoided it. I was never briefed on the rules for submarines. I would expect, though, that it is the submarine’s responsibility to maneuver away from a collision.”
“Was your captain working for the CIA?”
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