“Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” he muttered. When it had become clear that Rad wasn’t going to back down from her plan to search the island for her castaway, he reluctantly told her he’d take them over in the RIB as long as they were all back on the Oannes by noon. It meant his morning would be wasted, but at least he’d have the afternoon to get another hydrophone array in the water.

“Sticks and stones, Marty,” Rad said, adjusting the beach bag slung over her shoulder.

His mouth twisted. “Your dog better not be in that bag.”

“Just some supplies.”

“We’re not going on a bloody picnic.”

“Sunscreen, for starters. Have you put on any yet?”

“I don’t wear sunscreen.”

“You really should, Marty,” Jacky said. “The sun’s bad for your skin. It ages you prematurely.”

“Think it’s a bit late to be telling him that,” said Rad.

“Will you two get on the boat so we can get this show on the road?”

Marty followed them onto the inflatable boat, then used a remote control to activate the crane’s wire pulleys, which lowered the boat to the water. With a push of a button, the clamps released their magnetic moorings on the prow and stern. They hit the water with a flat splash. He untied the painter line and got behind the wheel at the center console. He turned the key and shifted into forward, letting the boat idle.

When the engine was primed, he throttled up and accelerated away from the Oannes. Piloting a small boat through violent swells was dangerous, but Marty knew the principles of severe weather seamanship well. Even so, the sea was rougher than it had appeared, and he shot down the crest of a large wave too quickly, submerging the bow beneath the subsequent wave. Jacky and Rad, seated up front, shrieked as water drenched them. Marty, amidship, received only a light spray.

“Hold onto your hats!” he told them, tasting salt on his lips.

They stuck their hats between their knees. Rad shouted something back at him, but he couldn’t make it out above the roar of the wind and the growl of the motor.

For the next few minutes, Marty steered the boat through the roiling waves at angles so the boat rose and fell on its long axis, avoiding, for the most part, further soakings. When they reached the aquamarine coral reef surrounding Demon Island, the rougher seas subsided, and he trimmed the speed as they approached the beach.

“You’re the worst driver ever, Marty!” Rad said, looking green and releasing her death grip on the gunwale handle.

“I got us here without capsizing, didn’t I?”

He switched off the engine, hopped into the waist-high water, and dragged the boat up onto the sand. Unlike the well-maintained tourist beaches along Sri Lanka’s southern coast, this one was littered with clumps of seaweed, broken seashells, and deadwood. Behind grassy dunes fifty meters inland, a snarl of jungle climbed a steep, rocky hill, creating a nearly vertical wall of green that towered high above them.