Stargate Atlantis: Latitude

Chapter 19 - White Water

"Relax, McKay, we're nearly through!"

Rodney released his white-knuckled grip on his seat but still sat rigidly, his shoulders tensed up around his ears.  The rush of the opposing current came from all directions and in the darkness he could see flurries of white amid the smooth black of the coiling, writhing water.  His eyes flicked down to the display which John was using to thread his way skillfully through the treacherous rapids.  The engine whined high-pitched in its battle against the current; the little craft jinked suddenly to one side and Rodney saw John correct their course, lower lip gripped between his teeth in concentration.

Then the water was calm once more, sliding past them in smooth, oily blackness.  John turned to Rodney with a chirpy grin.  "That was cool!"

He treats it like a computer game, thought Rodney, smiling weakly.  "Yes, because running dangerous rapids in the pitch black is so much fun!"

John shrugged, looking disappointed that Rodney didn't share his enthusiasm.

"It's not pitch black now, anyhow," he said, nodding toward the faint glow on the horizon. "We should look for somewhere to hole up."

V'stet had recommended hiding in the reed beds bordering the river during the day and so John steered the Tadpole toward the thickest patch of reeds he could see.  Reducing the boat's speed, the sharp prow pushed the tall plants to either side allowing them to slide through; the reeds closed back into place behind them, covering their tracks.  John switched off the engine and allowed the boat to drift to a halt.  The ripples of their passing died down and their concealment was complete.

The little two-seater was not the most comfortable place to spend the day.  The reeds didn't shelter John and Rodney much from the heat of the sun and after a couple of hours Rodney's legs began to cramp and he wriggled from side to side to try to relieve them.

"Stop shuffling!  You're making waves!" griped John.

"Cramp!" hissed Rodney, leaning back and sticking his legs up over the control display.

Occasionally the throb of an engine could be heard passing along the river, sometimes the cries of fishermen and in the background the distant whisper of traffic on the highway.  John and Rodney remained as still and quiet as possible and it was a relief when the river traffic diminished and they could tell by the purple-streaked sky overhead that the sun was setting.

The mist that rose that night was sparse and trailed in wispy curls around the Tadpole as it cut through the water.  John steered the boat close to the reeds along the riverbank and reduced their speed to a crawl.  Neither man spoke and the silence, broken only by the murmur of the river and the gentle flutter of the engine, was oppressive.

Rodney stared into the gloom, seeing nothing but the black river bordered by towering columns of reeds.  He glanced at John, noticing his hands tight on the controls, his eyes flicking from side to side, tensely.

"What's wrong?" Rodney whispered.

John shook his head.  "Maybe nothing.  We're too exposed here.  I don't like it."

They traveled on into the night.  John flicked at the controls, bringing up the map of the next treacherous cataract. 

"How far?" breathed Rodney, feeling any speech was too loud in the stillness.

"Coupl'a klicks," replied John, softly.  "We'll stop once we're through."

Rodney reflected afterwards how quickly a situation can change; from calm to chaos, from apparent safety to danger in one moment.  A startling glare of white light, the roar of an engine as a large boat broke out of the reeds and a blaring, magnified voice: "This is a Queen's Patrol!  Halt and prepare to be boarded!"