Stranded (7 page)

Boucher zipped up his environment suit—big enough for two men to fit inside—and yanked open an equipment locker. He pulled a red and yellow bosun's chair harness out and shoved it at Noah. “You're going to have a closer look.” Thrusting his hands into his gloves, Boucher stomped out of the change room and headed for the exterior bulkhead door without waiting to hear Noah protest. Noah scrambled after him, zipping up his gear, the harness clattering and clanking as it trailed on the deck behind him.

Outside, the thick fog drifted over the rails and the decking. Boucher stepped more carefully, leery of ice underfoot, but he still seemed to stomp like an angry giant. He stopped beside the lifeboat and swung a windlass on a boom arm over the rail toward them. Lowering a length of cable from the winch, he beckoned for Noah to come closer. Noah stood frozen. Brewster had actually ordered him overboard? Whether he was thrown unceremoniously or lowered in a bosun's chair, the result was the same: he was going over the side. Boucher straightened his back, growing even larger, and pointed a gloved finger at the deck directly in front of him, like he was ordering a child front and center for a scolding. Noah complied.

Boucher helped him secure the harness belts at his waist and across his chest. A flat board bounced against Noah's ass as he was pulled around so the bosun could attach a hook to the d-rings at the end of the straps by his sides. The latches snapped into place, the last clicking with a finality that sent a shiver of fear through Noah's body. He didn't feel like they were moving, but the engines were humming. He felt a lump grow in his throat as he imagined their seeming stillness was actually an illusion borne of the previously exaggerated and violent movement of the ship in the storm. He banished his dark thoughts and tried to think rationally.
You're not feeling movement, because we're not moving. Even if we were, we're not going to ram anything, because there's nothing out there.
He told himself these things in the hope that somewhere deep down a part of him—the part that controlled fear and irrationality—would hear him and be changed. Clamped to the windlass, his fear remained unchanged.

Once rigged, Boucher fetched up a pair of walkie-talkies and jammed one in Noah's paw. “I'm gonna lower you down real slow. As soon as you can see the surface, I want you to radio up to me and I'll stop the winch. Got that?”

“Aye,” Noah said. He tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat were dry and cottony. He sucked on his tongue, trying to produce some kind of moisture, and even sniffed hard, thinking snot would be better than nothing. The frozen Arctic air only hurt his sinus as he did. If he couldn't talk, he hoped at least the squawk of the radio would alert the bosun before he went in the water.

“Out you go,” Boucher said. He gestured to the rail gate like a maître d' showing a dinner guest to his seat. Noah stepped into the gap and leaned out from the hull, ready to go down. Starting the windlass motor, Boucher said, “Remember, as soon as you see water, hit the radio. You copy?”

Noah gave a nod and a thumbs-up. But the combined sounds of the ship's engine, the wind, and the winch motor all meant Boucher wouldn't hear a damn thing when Noah tried to hail him.

Boucher nodded, gave his own thumbs-up, and shoved the winch arm out, swinging Noah past the FRC and into space. He pulled the lever, unspooling the cable, and Noah descended with a sudden jerk into the mist.

He was clear of the ship by a couple of feet, but was careful to keep his legs ready to kick off the hull as the wind blew him around. He clutched the cable to stay upright while doing his best to peer down without unbalancing his seat. He searched for sign of the spiky frost flowers, feeling a little excited to see them again. Keeping the radio close to his face and his thumb on the send switch, he hoped Boucher's reflexes were quick enough. If the surface came in to view with only a foot or two to spare, Noah was certain he was going in.
You wanted a closer look and now you're going to get one,
he chided himself.

The mist remained thick and the mechanical sounds of the ship grew fainter as he moved farther down. He didn't hear water lapping and splashing against the hull as he expected. All the sounds he associated with the sea were absent; it felt like flying through clouds. A small, resigned grin grew on Noah's face as he imagined his father-in-law as a half-mad sky captain clad in leather and copper.

His smile vanished when he fell out of the sky.

 

8

Abby was resplendent in white. Daylight reflected off the opalescent beadwork stitched around her neckline and over her shoulders; she shone with a radiance that shamed the perfect day. Noah couldn't turn away. Transfixed by the image of her, he wanted to take in every second of her appearance. He longed to conquer time and live in that moment forever, frozen like a traveler in deep space. But time moved with her up the aisle. That perfect vision of a second ago fading into the present as they came together, her closeness obscuring the image of the whole woman.

William Brewster took her hand from the crook of his arm and held it a moment, staring into the veiled face of his only daughter. Finally, he guided her hand to Noah's. Gripping the back of the young groom's neck with a thick, calloused hand, he whispered, “Don't forget.” He squeezed, sending a sharp tinge of pain lancing up Noah's neck, and took his seat.

The feeling of Abby's father's fingers remained like a ghost ready to throttle him. The words echoed in his consciousness calling to mind the promise William made at Noah's bachelor party two nights earlier. He'd grabbed his future son-in-law in exactly the same way and said, “If I ever find out you hurt my little girl, I'll break your neck,” as casually as he ordered another scotch and soda when he let go.

“What was that about?” Abby whispered.

Noah shook his head and lied, “Beats me.” It was the first lie he'd ever told his wife.

Eventually, he'd tell her another.

*   *   *

The bosun's chair was designed to distribute impact forces evenly throughout a person's body in case of a fall. That meant Noah felt like hell from head to toe when he landed on the ice. He lost his grip on the walkie-talkie and it tumbled away across the white surface, squawking and chirping as it bounced. Laying there a moment, heart pounding and nearly hyperventilating with fear, he waited for reality to hit him with blast of the freezing water that would claim him. However, he remained dry. Cold, but dry.

It took some effort to sit up. The plank under his ass pushed his hips forward and prevented him from rolling onto his side. Sitting up sent a spark of pain down his sciatic nerve into his lower back and ass. He had to leverage himself on his elbows and struggle like a turtle before he could sit up. The cable attached to the metal rings of his harness slumped and dangled in front of him. Rising up into the fog, it was presumably still attached to the windlass. The line hadn't broken. That meant either the winch failed … or Boucher had hit the release lever, dropping him. The thing should have been able to lower ten times his weight without failure, so that left the second possibility as the more likely one. The way things were going on the ship, however, he couldn't be certain it was malice that had sent him falling. It was equally probable that the machine had been damaged in the storm as it was that the bosun released the catch. If there was a single bit of luck to be had, it was that he'd fallen on a piece of ice instead of in the water. Second stroke of luck: he hadn't broken his neck. It could always be worse. There was always farther down to go.

Noah opened his eyes and tried to see where his radio had gone. He pictured it sliding off the edge of the ice into the frozen depths, but hadn't heard the
splonk
of it entering the water. Ten feet away, a red LED shone dully in the fog. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped carefully, certain that redistributing his weight would unbalance the chunk of ice on which he stood and send him sliding off the edge. It didn't. He felt as sturdy on his feet as he did on board the
Arctic Promise
—as he did on land.

The radio chirped. A faint voice crackled from the speaker. He heard his name, the word “okay,” and an expletive. The rest was incomprehensible. He picked up the little yellow device and keyed it. “Boucher! What the fuck happened? Over.” He released the button and waited. A second later, another staticky burst of sound erupted, oddly punctuated by the bosun's perfectly clear colorful expressions, as if the fog was blocking all transmissions except profanity.

He looked around, trying to orient himself. The haze afforded a view only a few feet in any direction. He imagined the platform of ice on which he stood had to be huge if it wasn't shifting with his movements. What he'd thought had to be “open drift” ice was more concentrated. This was “very close pack” at least. The kind of solid ice in which ships became trapped—beset.

Taking a few halting steps, he tried to see where the pack ended and the next piece began, but at the end of his cable, he couldn't find a lip or an edge. He couldn't even find a seam. As far as he could see, it looked like old, consolidated ice. But that wasn't possible, was it? Hadn't he seen water and the frost flowers only a few hours ago? Unless the ice had closed in like a living thing to grasp them, it was impossible. They'd have felt the ice hitting the hull, slowing the ship. Brewster would have seen it on the x-band radar. Yet, there he was standing on it. Ice as far as he could see—which admittedly wasn't far—and no sign it would look any different if he walked any deeper into the fog.

He moved to unclip the hook from his harness to do just that, but paused. If he released himself and Boucher got the windlass moving, it'd yank up his only connection to the ship. He'd be lost. Maybe that was the plan. Instead, hanging on to the cable, he moved what the length of it allowed in a wide crescent, looking for any sign of a break under his feet. There was none. He knelt and brushed away the thin layer of snow in a spot, wondering if he could tell how thick the ice pack underfoot actually was. What he uncovered was an opaque surface that gave no hint at its width. He could be kneeling atop ice an inch, a foot, or a yard thick. He fumbled at the pocket on the side of his harness for a tool to pick at it—dig a little and see. The pocket was empty.

The radio crackled and he heard Boucher say, “Got it!” just before the cable tightened, jerking him off balance. Noah stumbled backward in his crouch across the slick surface, trying to stay on his feet as the winch dragged him toward the hull. His heels skipped and slipped out from under him in a mockery of a Russian dance. Dropping the radio, he grabbed the cable with both hands to try to keep from landing flat on his back again. The cable dragged him to the ship and he held on as it lifted off the surface. He banged painfully into the hull before he was able to orient himself around again with his legs ready to act as shock absorbers against the next impact. His pulse throbbed in his throat and his temples. Blood rushed in his ears, deafening him. As he rose, Noah held his breath waiting for the next drop, this time from a higher point—the height that would cripple or kill him. The machine pulled him up to the deck, however, and Boucher's sizable paw grasped the harness and pulled him in.

“The hell?” Boucher said.

“You dropped me!”

Boucher let out a single barking laugh. “I swear, the release on the winch just gave. It was the damndest thing.” The big man looked Noah up and down with an expression of astonishment and confusion. “Why aren't you wet?”

Noah shook his head, unfastening the hook from the harness as quickly as he was able. “I landed on ice.”

“Ice?”

“Yeah. When water gets cold enough it becomes solid. They call that ‘ice.'” He stabbed his fingers in the air around the word.

Boucher reared up, looking like he was about to knock Noah back over the side. Noah unslung the harness, swinging it back over his shoulder with the seat plank. The straps and rings whipped his back, but he stood his ground, ignoring the pain. “Give me your best shot, Serge. I'll knock your skull all the way to fuckin' Lansdowne Street!” Boucher took a half step forward. “Don't believe me? Finish that step.”

The bosun's face grew dark with rage, but he stopped.

“Get out of my god damned way or I'll tell the Old Man the gate just popped open and you fell over the side. ‘It was the damndest thing, Brewster, he just lost his balance. Musta been drunk.'” Noah flinched forward with the seat plank. “Move!”

Boucher backed off, hands raised and head lowered. He wasn't cowed; he looked like a boxer with his guard up. Noah was pretty sure if he swung at the man, Boucher would catch the damned chair and fling it over the rail with him following right behind.

“We're not through, Cabot,” Boucher said. “This ship ain't big enough for you to disappear in, and you can't hang on to that chair the rest of the trip.”

Noah threw the bosun's chair at Boucher's feet. “You want to tussle, I'll be in the wheelhouse.”

“And you can't hide behind your father-in-law, you pussy. He'll hold you while I tear your head off.”

“I'm not hiding. I'm going to tell Brewster we're beset.”

“Beset?”

“Yeah, it's solid ice down there as far as I could see. We're stranded.”

Noah turned for the bulkhead door, waiting to feel the blow from one of Boucher's heavy hands or even the bosun's chair plank flat against his already aching back. Instead, what he felt was the man's footsteps falling in step behind him.

 

9

Mickle watched quietly as Brewster cursed and shouted at the unresponsive vessel. The Second Officer looked like he wanted to take the helm but didn't know how to do it without knocking the ship's master unconscious. Both men's heads whipped around when Noah barged into the wheelhouse. The shift in Mickle's expression suggested he welcomed an ally. Then Boucher followed him in, and that look of hope died under the weight of resignation.