Stranded (11 page)

Perhaps Holden had chosen a side after all.

“Thanks.”

“Don't thank me. You don't know what he wants yet.” Holden recruited Jack and Kevin to help him secure the FRC while Noah disappeared inside.

*   *   *

Noah stopped in the change room on the way to the wheelhouse to shed his Gumby suit. He secured it in his personal locker instead of with the other suits, but chose to keep his deck gear with him to store in his cabin. His adventure on the ice had him feeling like he should be watching his back. The men would look to Brewster for their cues how to treat him. Between the threatened beating and being left behind, the message was clear: Noah stood alone. Mostly alone, anyway. He seemed to have a small band of allies. Kevin had taken a big chance standing by him and was probably going to suffer for it. Jack would most likely get some on him, too. He suspected Holden would back him if it came down to it. His other friends aboard, Felix and Marty, were in no shape to take anyone's side but their own. Still, there was comfort in his circle of three, maybe four. He wasn't completely alone.

He slammed his locker shut, twisting the dial just to be sure. Any number of tools aboard the vessel would pop the thing open, but if someone had to jimmy the thing with a pry bar, at least he'd know his suit had been tampered with. If any saboteurs wanted to fuck with anything else of his, they'd have to come see him directly.

Now that Brewster had unofficially declared it open season on him, keeping his head down and doing as he was ordered wasn't going to cut it any longer. In that moment, he decided taking the helicopter back to shore with Felix was the best course of action. He'd lose half of his pay for bailing on the return voyage—hell, he'd probably forfeit the whole check for quitting—but however it shook out, he'd have to take the hit and find a way to make it work. It had been bad enough working with a crew who distrusted him, but sailing under the command of a man who openly wanted him dead was more than he could bear. Once home, he thought he could scrounge up enough money from friends to pay for gas and motel rooms on the road back to Gloucester. He'd load up the truck with everything he could and leave the rest for the landlord to sell to cover the unpaid rent. His mom would fall all over herself to make room in her apartment for her son and grandbaby. He could sleep on the sofa and Ellie would make do with an inflatable toddler bed for a little while. She was small, like her mother. They could live like that for at least as long as it took him to get a berth on a trawler or a tourist boat. He'd save a few bucks until he could afford a bigger place for them all. The money would suck, but at least he'd have a continent between him and his father-in-law. Ex-father-in-law. First, however, he had to make it home.

He wanted to call Abby's best friend, Meghan, to see how his daughter was doing. Meg had a girl the same age as Ellie and was more than happy to take her in for a few weeks while he shipped out to work. Meg said she thought it would be good for Ellie to have someone her own age to play with—good for her to just be a kid for a while. He hoped so. Everybody wanted something better for their kids than they had. Ellie needed something good in her life. She deserved better than he had to offer, and he needed to change that. It was her world now.

Leaving the change room, he passed the ladder to the wheelhouse and ducked into the sick bay to check on Felix. The room was empty except for the patient, who was sleeping. The bruises on his face were turning golden and purple, less black and blue, and his breathing was still shallow and labored. Noah imagined he was feeling no pain due to the good opiates. What happened when they ran out? He didn't want to think about it. They had to get out of the trouble they were in before that happened.

“You hang in there, pal,” he said. He wanted to stay, to keep watch over his friend, but he'd already taken enough time before reporting to Mickle. He'd sit with Felix for a while afterward, if he could.

Turning off the light, he slipped out into the passageway and climbed the ladder to the wheelhouse deck. Walking into the command room made his stomach knot. At first glance, he could have sworn it was Brewster sitting in the pilot's chair and that Holden had lied. When Mickle turned, the illusion faded, but the sight of him still wasn't reassuring. The best Noah could say about the second officer was that he looked weary. What he really looked like was a man who belonged in the bunk above Felix.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I do. How are you feeling, Cabot?” Mickle coughed and his face went slack as if his mind had to go somewhere else while his body dealt with the pain. Noah waited for him to come back. The light returned to his eyes slowly. While he tried to put on a brave face, Mickle looked like a boxer at the end of the thirteenth round—he might not be beaten yet, but he had taken a beating and there was plenty of time left on the clock for more.

“I'm exhausted,” Noah said. “But I'm okay. Aside from the cut over my eye, I feel about as good as I did when we shipped out. You don't look so good. How are
you
doing?”

Mickle waved a hand. He opened his mouth and let out a long sigh, as if whatever he wanted to say died on his tongue and all he could do was let out its last gasp. He collected his thoughts and sat back in the chair. “How was it out there?”

Noah almost laughed. “It's shit. It's cold as a tit in a brass bra and every foot we break up refreezes in the time it takes to get through the next one.”

“I wasn't asking about the work.”

Noah let out a strangled laugh. He figured word would spread through the ship, but he had no idea how fast it could actually travel. “Oh, you mean that.”

“Yeah,
that
. I heard about the stunts Brewster pulled, both on the ice and in the lifeboat. You might think you don't have any friends on this ship, but you do.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't feel too relaxed. You got one helluva big enemy, and he's got a lot more friends than you, in addition to being the one calling the shots. Whatever it is Brewster's got cooking isn't going to go down easy, if you follow me.”

“Believe me, I'm aware. Is that all?”

Mickle looked at his wristwatch and asked, “You know what time it is?”

“No. My watch died yesterday.”

“There's a lot of that going around.” He pointed to the clock mounted in the back of the wheelhouse. This time of year, this far north, the days were short, but at half past two in the afternoon it should have been a lot brighter outside than it was. “Here, too.” The second officer reached over and switched on a control table monitor. The radar display showed an empty circle without even a sweep line tracking around. He turned the screen off. “Holden and Nevins had the whole console over there in pieces and back together like a couple of kids with a Lego set. Nevins said there's nothing wrong with any of it that he can tell. ‘All mechanically sound,' is how he put it. Still, we can't even get static on the radios, let alone hail anyone. Both satellites are dead, too.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don't think it's a coincidence the ship is shutting down at the same time the entire crew is sick and getting progressively worse. I know I'm feeling like the same hell that's got into everybody else—a few are pretending it isn't getting to them, but anyone can see it is. The crew is breaking down as fast as the
Promise,
maybe faster. All except you. Why do you think that is?”

Noah took a step back. Mickle was frightening him. His eyes were a little large naturally, but with dark bags beneath sunken cheeks, he looked like he might lurch for Noah's throat to get a drink of whatever was keeping him from getting sick. “It doesn't make any sense to me, either,” he said, his voice raspy with sudden dryness.

Mickle pointed out the window. Noah could see a hint of the far shape they'd spied earlier in the distance. In the darkening day, it was little more than a bump on the horizon, and soon wouldn't be anything at all. He'd missed his window to get a better look at it.

“Brewster and Boucher were up here trying to figure out what that thing is. The Old Man's convinced it's the platform. What do you think?”

Noah nodded toward the shape. “Don't know. I suppose it could be. You'd think if it was the oil rig though, the lights would be coming on soon. They can't work in the dark.”

Glaring out the window, Mickle nodded. “Same thing I've been thinking. If it's the Niflheim, they should have lights. Unless the same thing that's killing us already got to them.”

Mickle's face reflected in the dark window. His eyes narrowed as he squinted to see the increasingly obscure deformity in the distance. His shoulders slumped and Noah could see what the man was thinking. He had the same thing on his mind: it was too much to hope that they'd have a working radio if they didn't even have lights. And it was definitely too much to hope that there was a helicopter already waiting on the pad.

“I still think we need to get over there,” Mickle said. “If it
is
the Niflheim, we can see if they can call for a medevac and an icebreaker. If they can't, at the very least we can see if they have more medical supplies. We're all in a bad way, but then there's Felix. Between his injuries and … this other thing … he's not going to make it if we do nothing. We need help.”

“And?”

“And you're the only one fit enough to make the trip, Cabot. You watch yourself. Tomorrow, when you go back out to break up the ice, if you don't already have 'em, you need to grow eyes in the back of your head. Keep a lookout all around, because I have a feeling we're all going to be relying on you sooner rather than later.”

Noah nodded. He didn't want to be anything but what he was: a deckhand trying to get home. Instead of saying as much, he backed toward the door. Mickle watched him go. The second officer's face relaxed and his hungry vampire look dissolved, replaced once again by weary resignation. “Keep it together, Cabot. Watch your back.”

“Aye, sir.”

He didn't want to be anyone's last hope. Because that meant hope was already lost.

 

13

The mess room was as active as Noah had seen it in days. The ice breaking crew were seated around the tables eating with a somewhat renewed gusto. The encroaching ill ease among the men had soured a lot of appetites, but hard work seemed to revive them a little. Theo and Henry stooped over plates still half full of pasta while Boucher wiped a piece of bread around his, trying to capture every bit of sauce left behind. A few of the men who hadn't been on the breakup crew picked at their food, pushing it around, but not seeming to have much of an appetite.

Meal times were becoming increasingly unreliable since the galley cooks, Michael and David, could barely stand by themselves, let alone prepare food for the entire crew. Fend-for-yourself was the new menu for as long as Noah could foresee. While most had found their appetites waning along with their energy, a couple of the crewmen—Boucher and Henry—seemed to have decided every meal was now a feast. Add labor to that equation and they were determined to eat like they were trying to pack on fat for a long hibernation. If only a couple of them ate like that for few days, it wouldn't be a problem, given how many men, Noah included, had been skipping meals lately. They would likely break even when it came to the larder if they weren't beset for too long. Noah reckoned, however, that if Brewster's plan didn't work, they'd have to start rationing food. The round trip from port in Seattle was typically a clockwork operation, and the company knew exactly how much was necessary to stock to feed the men adequate to their needs and company regulations, while still being the most economical. The company's eye to the bottom line was the crew's worst enemy in dire circumstances.

Even assuming they were on the right bearing when they'd become fixed in the ice, if they got free today they were going to be butting up against the extent of their available supplies. Any more of a delay, and they'd run out of food on the voyage home. Admittedly, there was probably more than enough to eat in one of the shipping crates. Noah hadn't seen the shipping manifest, but the supplies they were delivering to the platform had to include food and drink. Maybe there was enough on board to last weeks or even months. It was stocked and locked away in a shipping crate buried among a half dozen other containers, however. If it was deep in the stack, no matter how much there was, they couldn't get to it.

He had a flash of the earliest days home from the hospital after his daughter was born. Abby hadn't been able to produce enough breast milk and Ellie was losing weight. They went to lactation specialists, bought nursing equipment—suckling tubes and bottles and pumps. Abby ate fenugreek seeds until her sweat smelled like maple syrup. But nothing worked. The baby slept more and ate even less, which made her sleepier still. She'd fall asleep trying to nurse, missing out on even the small quantity of breast milk Abby could provide. Their daughter was starving to death in their arms and everyone was telling them they just weren't trying hard enough, they weren't doing it right. It seemed like an entire industry dedicated to making them feel inadequate as parents was pressing down until they despaired, accepting that they were failures before they'd even had a chance to succeed. Then, one night, full of shame and desperation, Noah went to a drugstore and bought a can of powdered baby formula. When Abby saw what he'd brought home, she cried. Together like a pair of conspirators, they silently mixed it up with the small amount of milk Abby could express and fed their child. Ellie ate more and more and immediately started gaining back the weight she'd lost after they brought her home. She got stronger and more alert, and her parents realized that whatever it took was what they
had
to do. They wouldn't feel guilty about keeping little Ellie healthy and happy, no matter what the “experts” told them. They wouldn't let anyone shame them for keeping the three of them together. Food was her salvation and theirs.