Stranded (14 page)

Mickle peeled the towel away from his face, wincing as the fabric caught at the edges of his wound. He tried to wipe blood from his face, but had little luck with the dry cloth. “The ship isn't built for breaking up consolidated ice, but he won't listen. He's got Boucher and Henry up there with him. They're telling him we're free from amidships back and pretending they can navigate.”

“Amidships? We cleared as far forward as the rear quarters, but definitely not as far as that. And only back about twenty feet maybe. Not enough for a running start if the prop cavitation doesn't break up the ice.”

Mickle stifled a laugh. “Cavitation? What makes you think that would do anything?”

“Brewster thinks it will.”

The second officer pressed the palm of his hand into his eye, trying to push back the pain. “We'll be lucky to be afloat when he's finished, whether or not we break out of what's holding us.”

Noah grabbed another towel off the shelf and doused it in the sink, careful to hold on as he moved through the room. He handed the damp cloth to Mickle.

Another lurch of the ship sent Noah grasping for anything to hold on to. Mickle grabbed Noah's forearm to steady him. He dragged himself to the stool bolted to the bulkhead opposite Mickle's desk and sat. Bracing for the next jolt by locking his knees and gripping the edge of the bunk compartment with one hand, he pressed against his lower back with the other. Felix rode out the attempt to free the ship unconscious in his bed. Noah mentally prepared himself to pull the man out of the bunk and carry him to the FRC at the first sound of the collision alarm.

Instead of an emergency Klaxon, the smells of smoke and burning oil intruded into the compartment. Whatever was burning was worse than just a stack in the instrument room. The tinctured air turned Noah's stomach. He tried not to think about what lay ahead of them when the engines finally died.

“I can't sit here and do nothing.”

“What do you suggest?” The second officer twisted his head around, stretching the stiffening muscles in his neck. “Anything short of physically dragging him out of that chair won't stop him, and
that
is mutiny.”

Noah pushed himself to his feet. “They can arrest me if they want. I'd rather go to jail than die in a shipwreck.”

“How are you going to get in there? When William relieved me and ordered me out of the control room, I heard Serge dog down the door and lock it behind me. Unless you can break it down, we have to ride it out.”

Noah lurched toward the doorway and looked at the ladder leading to the command room hatch. Even if he could find enough balance and strength to hack at it with a fire axe, he wasn't breaking through. The manufacturer that built the
Arctic Promise
supplied vessels to companies sailing through all parts of the world. They installed breach-proof hatches on all command compartments. If their hatches were strong enough to hold off motivated Somali pirates, he wasn't breaking it down by himself in any state. He returned to his stool and held his breath while the ship bucked and bashed at the ice. Not a combatant, there was no point in riding out the battle on his feet and risking another concussion, or worse.

 

15

It was an hour before the violent motions of the ship ceased and the wheelhouse door opened. The smell of smoke still lingered, but it wasn't getting stronger. If there had been a fire, it was contained. Or so Noah hoped.

Henry and Boucher lurched past the hospital compartment, lumbering toward the A-Deck ladder. Where they were headed in such a hurry should have worried Noah, but all he could focus on was the hatch above. He pulled himself to his feet. Although the ship was calm again, he felt like he was still struggling against the ghost of the fight. Steadying himself, he realized the ship might be loose in the water—he could feel the slight movements of a free-floating vessel. If the experience of the previous day had any lesson to offer, it was this: free or not, give it a night and they'd be trapped again. He imagined himself back out on the surface chopping away at something with the limitless ability to heal itself. Attacking the ice with hammers and scrapers was futile. It endured.

“Shall we?” Mickle said, pushing himself to his feet. He'd staunched his bleeding but still looked like the victim in a slasher movie. Gore streaked his face and neck; his hands were red and sticky. He looked at his palms and grimaced.

“Maybe we should wash you up first. Get some glue and butterfly strips on that cut.”

Mickle's mouth turned down. “No. If William won't believe what we tell him, I want him to
see
what he's doing to the crew.”

The
Arctic Promise
had battered against an insurmountable obstacle for what? Whether Brewster surrendered or the engines did, the casualties of his continued efforts to wage war against the Chukchi Sea were only going to continue to rise. Felix, Noah, Mickle, and who knew who else had been hurt already. Enough was enough. They had to come up with a better plan and convince Brewster to back away from his usual way of dealing with things that didn't do what he wanted. To him, the sound of an object breaking was its compliance.

Noah made way for Mickle, falling into line behind him as soon as he was past. The second officer left crimson handprints on the ladder rails as he ascended. Noah unwittingly stuck his hand in the first one, pulling it away like he'd been burned as soon as he realized what he'd done. He had no compunction getting the man's blood on his hands if he were trying to help clean him up. Sticking a palm on the blood he left behind, however, felt wrong. It felt like a stain that belonged on the ship somehow—a warning to others. Go no further. Beyond lies madness.

They pushed through the door to find the Old Man already facing them, his countenance a mask of impatient fury. “You haven't had time to see Nevins about the engines!” Realization dawned on his face that he wasn't shouting at the men he'd dispatched. His expression shifted from shock to disbelief and back to anger as his eyes traveled from Mickle's grotesque look to Noah's unwelcome face. His gaze settled on Noah and he opened his mouth to begin shouting again. Mickle interrupted him before he could get a syllable out.

“It's time to stop this,” he shouted. “Can't you see you're putting us all at risk?” He pointed to his face; the drying blood at the edges of his mouth cracked and flaked away onto his chest where it stuck in the blood staining his shirt.

“What the Christ happened to you?”

“You have to ask?” Mickle stepped forward to give Brewster a closer look, but the ship's master retreated from his second in command.

Shaking his head, he said, “I made the announcement for everyone to—”

“A goddamn
second
before you throttled ahead!”

“And the PA isn't working,” Noah added. “It was just a crackle of noise.”

Brewster backed into the corner of the console, raising his hands to ward the man off. “If you hadn't noticed, we've got bigger problems than you bumping your head. And you!” He pointed at Noah. “I warned you, if I saw you in the wheelhouse again—”

“Shut up!” Mickle roared. “You've barely been sleeping, and your judgment is impaired. You're making decisions harmful to the ship, its cargo, and crew. I'm relieving you of command.”

“The hell you say!”

“If you don't like it, you can take it up with the company when we get back to port. In your present state, you are unfit to steer this boat.” Mickle straightened his back, fists balled at his sides, and waited for Brewster's move. Noah had once watched a man in a fight outside of the City Fish Co. counter at Pike Place Market take an elbow to the face. He heard the crack and crunch of breaking bone and cartilage from ten feet away. The man who'd taken the shot landed on his back, but a second after he fell was on his feet again, blood gushing from his flattened nose. He'd raised his hands and said, “I've had worse.” Mickle looked like
that
—wild-eyed and ready to give better than he'd just gotten. Brewster dropped his hands and let out a long breath of air.

“This is mutiny. You'll both live to regret this.”

“Living is the point. We'll just have to wait and see about regrets,” Mickle said.

After a long moment, Brewster stepped to the side and gestured with a sweeping hand to the command chair. “She's all yours. Set a course, Doc.”

Noah spun as he heard Henry and Boucher practically fall into the room, stumbling as they caught sight of Mickle. Unlike Brewster, Boucher showed no sign of shock at the man's appearance. His face held only one expression: contempt. He stepped away from Henry, making space between him and his compatriot so Noah and Mickle couldn't keep both men in sight at the same time. Noah had seen this done in a fight, too. He imagined Serge getting ready to signal Henry to rush them. He turned to keep facing the bosun. The second officer was bigger than Noah, and more than a match for Boucher normally, but he'd also hit his head and was sick. All of them were sick. Some more than others. But Boucher and Henry were doing better than Mickle, despite his attempt to appear formidable.

“That's enough,” Mickle said. “Stop right there.”

Boucher raised his shoulders like a teenager saying, “I'm not doing anything.” They all knew better.

“I've relieved the skipper of command. You can either do as I say, or I'll see that you're all taken into custody when we reach port.”

“What? You going to radio ahead?” Boucher plucked the worthless handset off the counter and tossed it toward the man. Mickle didn't flinch. The transmitter reached the end of the coiled cable and sprang back, clattering on the floor.

“Are you finished having your tantrum, Serge?” Mickle didn't follow up his question with a threat or a promise. He waited for the man to either come at him or back off.

Boucher's face flushed red. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth over and over. Glancing at Brewster, he seemed to silently ask for orders. The Old Man offered him nothing. Finally, he let out a breath and said, “Fine. I'll play along. What are
your
orders?”

“I'm guessing William sent you to get a status report from Nevins about the engines. Am I right?” Boucher nodded. “Well?”

“We found him. He's passed out in the engine room. Guess he breathed too much smoke or something. Holden and a couple of other guys were already helping him out,” Henry said. “We came back to report the fire's out, but we don't know nothing about the engines. It's all quiet down there.”

Mickle turned to Brewster. The Old Man was expressionless. If he was moved by the news of either Nevins' collapse or the engines' failure, he didn't show it. Red warning lights shone in a row on the console beside him. Noah approached and read them. “Jesus! We have red on the main engines and both auxiliaries.”

“We were breaking through,” Brewster said. “It was working, but then the board started to light up.”

“I told you you were going to burn an engine out,” Noah said. “I didn't think you'd burn through all four.”

Boucher looked at him with open disrespect. Mickle tensed like he wanted to take a shot at the Old Man. Noah was certain if he swung at Brewster, Boucher and Henry would break free of their collars and come after them both. He stood ready to back Mickle's play, whatever it was. The second officer took a breath and seemed to swallow his frustration, returning to his normal demeanor. “Christ, William. What were you thinking?”

“I dialed down to dead slow as soon as the first beacon lit up. When the second one lit, I slowed to stop, but that didn't keep 'em all from going down. I was hoping it was a malfunction on the board and not in the engine room.”

“And now we're dead in the water. What do we do?” Noah asked.

“We need to get the radio working again,” Brewster said.

Mickle coughed loudly into the back of his hand. Fresh red shone on top of the drying maroon coating his knuckles. “You put the only man who can fix it on his back. If Nevins dies of smoke inhalation, he's taking the radio with him.” He sat down in the command chair and leaned his head against a fist, giving up the illusion of vitality. At that moment, Noah knew wresting command away from the Old Man was Pyrrhic. Command of the ship at this point was worthless.

Boucher and Henry seemed to realize Mickle was done as well, letting the tension out of their shoulders. A trickle of red painted Henry's upper lip and Boucher's eyes flitted around the compartment as if he was trying to keep an eye on more than just Noah and the second officer. None of them were in good shape. And they were getting worse. All but Noah, who seemed immune. At least to the illness that had gotten into the crew. The madness, on the other hand, was catching. He was seeing hints of the visions Martin had described. Even without a headache or weakness, he figured it was an eventuality that whatever was afflicting everyone else would start working on him, too. His hope they could wait this disaster out, wait for the company to notice they were missing and send helicopters to search for them, was as dead as the
Promise.
The idea that they could outlast their dwindling food, heat, and wits would have been laughable if it weren't so frightening. And Noah was frightened. They had officially run out of things to attempt in order to save themselves.

“Noah,” Mickle said, without raising his head. The setting sun backlit him, made him look like one of the flitting shadows Noah thought he was glimpsing out of the corners of his eyes. If someone shined a spotlight on him, Mickle would disappear like one of them. “You and Henry round up as much of the crew as you can, right now. Have everyone able to stand with or without help report to the A-deck day room in forty minutes.

“Are you going to get out and push?” Brewster said, pointing to the row of red failure lights glowing on the control panel. “We're not going anywhere.”