Nuclear Winter Devil Storm by Bobby Akart (great novels txt) 📗

while keeping one hand on the wheel to keep the bow pointed into the unruly waters. Lacey gripped the teak trim on the helm until she could locate the stainless-steel grab bar near the entrance to the galley.

Up they went again as another massive wave rolled past with a violence only the planet itself was capable of generating. Man may be able to conjure up destructive nuclear bombs, but nothing compares to the annihilation caused by naturally occurring catastrophes like volcanos, earthquakes, and killer storms.

The bow popped up out of the water like a cork, only to be crushed by another wave taller than the wheelhouse, forcing it back down again with a crushing blow. Two forces of nature battled one another—gravity and buoyancy. The powerful waves used their ally, gravity, to force the boat toward the bottom of the Earth. The boat’s buoyancy fought back, using its upward lift to seek air at the surface.

Over and over again, the waves, which had now caught up to the wind speed, attacked the vessel at its most vulnerable. The constant battering of the boat tossed its crew around the wheelhouse. The Cymopoleia was without a captain, as Lacey and Tucker were unable to regain control of themselves, much less the boat. Flailing about in the water as the storm had its way with her, the vessel was caught in a battle to the death between gravity and its ability to float.

Then a massive gust of wind struck her on the port side, forcing it sideways. Now, rather than the hull acting as a buffer to the incredible waves they encountered, the Cymopoleia was turned sideways to the storm.

Advantage: gravity.

With gravity continuing to use its powerful grip on the vessel to pull it down, the buoyant nature of the boat had shifted to one side. They were now broadside to the waves, beam-to, as boat captains say. Even aircraft carriers can be rolled in rough seas when they’re beam-to.

If these captains didn’t right the ship, it would capsize.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Friday, November 8

Gulf of Mexico

984 millibars.

The sound of the wind was unnerving. It had changed from scream to shriek to moan. Then it turned preternatural. It was alive, playing a macabre tune resembling a ghoulish figure angrily slamming its hands down on the keys of a church organ. Deep. Growling. Like an AI-generated sea creature rising from the dark water, throat open, ready to consume them.

Man versus the forces of nature. Tucker gave up on the prospect of making it to shore. His mind raced. He recalled the conversations around the dinner table at the Andinos’ home as well as during his hands-on training from the day before. Certain things stuck in his head.

If you can’t make it to shore in time, stay away. Waves get steeper and break more easily as they approach the shoreline. Tucker had visions of his inability to control the boat as it crashed into Marco Island.

Keep your speed, or the storm will drive you. With rain pelting him from all directions, Tucker wiped his face clear and then rubbed the gauges located behind the wheel. He was deeply focused now that he’d gathered himself. He was ready to soldier through.

After they had regained their footing, Tucker stayed with the helm while Lacey went in search of protection in the event they were washed overboard or capsized.

“Put this on!” shouted Lacey, who returned from below deck with life jackets.

Tucker continued to grip the wheel in order to bring their boat around, turning it back into the waves that were rolling toward them. He provided a little more throttle as the bow dipped into the water, using the surfer’s method of taking advantage of the wave’s energy to turn. The boat responded, and they were once again toe-to-toe with their heavyweight opponent.

Lacey held onto the stainless-steel grab bars mounted within the wheelhouse. She helped Tucker slip on the life jacket and secure the buckles before pulling the tabs to adjust for his slim waist. They both exhaled for the first time in a while.

“This is nuts, Mom!”

She shouted back to him, “Just keep doing what you’re doing! I have one more thing to get!”

Patting her son on the back as she left, Lacey struggled to keep her balance as she descended the stairs into the galley. After a moment, she returned with two safety lines. These elastic tethers had carabiner anchor points at each end. One connected to a stainless clasp at the back of their life jackets, and the other could be attached to any suitable spot on the boat, including railings or cleats.

Tucker caught a glimpse of the barometer on the water-soaked helm. The pressure had dropped to 982 millibars. The storm was continuing to strengthen, battering the boat mercilessly.

Tucker’s head was on a swivel, looking in all directions as if an exit ramp from this highway to hell would suddenly emerge. He wiped the moisture off his face and leaned into the wheel to glance at all the gauges. They offered nothing in the way of comfort. Finally, he convinced himself it would be okay speaking aloud, as if verbalizing his rationale would make it so.

“We gotta hang on. It’ll pass over us eventually. They always do, right?”

Lacey leaned against the bench seat on the other side of the wheelhouse and gripped the helm. Tucker set his jaw and continued to fight the wheel. He was gaining confidence and focus.

The waves were coming every fifteen seconds or so with a steady, almost set-your-watch-by-it predictability. The rhythmic motions allowed Tucker and Lacey to breathe when pointed toward the water and hold their breath as the bow was thrust upward, praying that the coming wave didn’t crest more than a slight whitecap.

As the period between waves gets shorter, they become steeper. The steeper they become, the more likely they are to break in the middle of the Gulf. A tall, breaking wave at that frequency could destroy their boat. They weren’t breaking yet.

Tucker’s prior obsession with the