He Who Dares: Book Three (6 page)

“Thank you, Captain Jenkins, you always were a first rate officer.” Gramps painfully stood to attention and returned the salute.

“Goodbye, son. God’s speed.”

“Gramps!” But he was gone. Mike's eyes flicked to the main viewer, seeing the dull red blip of the
Prometheus
bloom for a moment. The pressure had finally crushed the remainder of the old tug. Air and water turned to ice, doubling the size of the radar return before it was swept away in the jet stream as if it had never been.

“Gramps!” Mike whispered, seeing nothing but a black void in front of him without his grandfather there beside him. For a moment, he teetered on the edge of the void, about to fall into it and never come back out. He couldn’t imagine his life without his grandfather, protecting, nurturing, and teaching. It was like suddenly looking at life without arms and legs.

“Chin!”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Do you have the
Prometheus’
IFF transponder code?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good, plug it in.”

“Captain?”

“You heard me! Do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, sir.”

“Take the helm, Mike. Take the
Queen Ann
home.”

“What?” Mike was too stunned to comprehend until Jenkins took him by the arm and led him over to the helmsman’s seat.

“Take the
Queen Ann
home to safety, Mike.” Numbly, he sat, and without conscious thought his eyes traveled over the status board.

“What the hell! I’m not giving up my share of the salvage to that fucking kid!” Rock yelled, nursing his knee.

“You’ll do exactly what I tell you, Hanson, or else!” Jenkins stalked across the deck and stood in front of the man, daring him to say a word. Rock backed down. There was a look in Jenkins eyes that he didn’t like. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, I’ll make sure of that.”

“
Titan
, this is the
Queen Ann
, do you copy?” Before anyone could move, Jenkins keyed his comm unit.

“This is the
Prometheus
, Captain Michael Gray in command, we copy you,
Queen Ann
.”

“
Prometheus
? But she went down…”

“I say again, this is the
Prometheus
, and we have you in tow.”

“Good god!” Captain Philips came on the screen and looked around the bridge, then nodded to himself. “Very well,
Prometheus
, I understand. Thank you for your assistance.” Mike listened, still numb, unable to keep track of what was happening.

“Is our contract still in force, Captain Phillips?”

“Indeed it is,
Prometheus
.”

“Very well, we are inbound to Christchurch and Port Stanley. Please be advised, that our ETA is approximately 35 hours and forty-five minutes.”

“Thank you,
Prometheus
, I have been so advised.” A sad faced Captain Phillips signed off and vanished from the screen. No sooner had he disappeared when the comm unit beeped again, and the outraged face of Jean Maxwell came on.

“What on earth is going on out there!” She demanded. “I have it on good authority that the
Prometheus
broke away from the tow!”

“And?” Jenkins asked.

“This is the
Titan
, you have the contract now.”

“I beg to differ, this IS the
Prometheus
, and we still have the
Queen Ann
in tow, inbound to Port Stanley.”

“Damn you, Jenkins. Don’t play games with me!”

“If you think this is a game woman, wait until I get to your office, I’ll show you what a game is!” He snarled back. His hand cut through the air killing the contact. Jean Maxwell’s outraged fat face vanished in mid word.

“Silly cow!” Jenkins muttered.

Mike sat in numb silence, not daring to say a word. He couldn’t, without his emotions getting the better of him. He’d misjudged Captain Jenkins by a country mile. He’d changed
Titan’
s IFF code to that of the
Prometheus
thereby ensuring all rights of the salvage to Mike. What prompted him to do it was anyone’s guess, but it went deeper than just one tugboat captain honoring another. The salute at the end, what was that all about? Mike stayed inside his safe emotionless prison and simply concentrated on steering the
Titan
and her charge home. He sat there for the whole voyage, refusing to be relieved less it break into his solitude.

Captain Jenkins stood at the back of the bridge for a time just watching Mike. In shock he might be, but there was nothing wrong with his piloting skills. Gramps had taught the boy well, and he handled the strange tug like a master. He knew about the captain’s license and Mike’s master mariner’s ticket seeing firsthand the confidence with which Mike handled his tug. If there was any doubt in his mind before, it was gone now. Mike’s judgment about going in to rescue the
Queen Ann
was another matter however.

He couldn’t make up his mind if it was youthful rashness, or calculated risk. No matter what it was, it had got someone killed, someone he admired very much. No matter what prompted Mike to go in, or any other tug for that matter, at that depth there was always a risk of someone getting killed or a tug getting crushed by the pressure. He couldn’t blame Mike for that, nor would he. No one ever said that the life of a tugboat crew was easy or free from everyday dangers, it was part and parcel of what they did. Any tow or salvage could turn nasty at a moment’s notice, but the question that nagged at the back of his mind was, how could he help, or stop Mike from beating himself up over Gramps’ death. He might not right now, what with the shock, but in the end, he would.

The welcome home in Christchurch was something none of them expected. The media got hold of the story and ran with it. Helicams buzzed everywhere poking their cold, impersonal noses into everyone’s faces. Sometime the speakers squawked to life and asked some inane question or other. Most of the tug crews ignored then, but more than one clubbed the camera into electronic scrap and dumped it in the nearest trash disposal. After that happened a few times, the media decided to avoid close encounters of the third kind and shot footage of
Titan
’s crew from long distance. That didn’t stop the talking heads from making up sensational stories about the rescue and speculating about the possible consequences. It had the effect of blowing Mike’s secret, which caused an embarrassed Port Captain and a few others to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions. Why was a 16-year-old boy captaining a deep space tug in the first place? That fed into the recounting of the spectacular fly-by of the
Prometheus
in full living color, and who was at the helm at the time? That prompted a full-scale investigation with charges and counter charges.

All in all, it was a rough time. They put Mike’s master mariner’s ticket on hold until he was 21 and suspended his captain’s license until he was 18. For Mike, it felt as if he had spent all his time in a courtroom of one sort or another giving testimony until he was sick of it. He rarely came out of his self-imposed fog, fearful the full weight of the emotional impact would be more than he could bear. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Jean Maxwell made an issue of paying off on the salvage. That took a Naval Board to sort out, but all the records indicated that the
Prometheus
had completed the rescue of the
Queen Ann
and her towing to port. They refused to listen to her charges that the
Titan
had changed her transponder code to match the
Prometheus’
as irrelevant. They knew what had happened and why; all the board members saluted Mike for his resourcefulness, and Captain Jenkins for his compassion.

The subject of why no other tug would go in after the
Queen Ann
or why it took so long to negotiate a contract were also raised which placed Jean Maxwell in the hot seat. She squawked like a plucked chicken for a while, spouting off to the board and the media until she was summoned home by the CEO of the shipping line on the next available ship out. That turned out to be an old passenger-cargo ship that was more cargo than passenger. That was the last anyone ever heard of her. She did get the last laugh though, maintaining that the
Prometheus
was working under a standard Lloyds’ towing contract. It hurt as this was worth half of what it should have cost the insurance company. The question of whether Captain Phillips had endangered his ship by entering the planet’s atmosphere was broached, but a short board of inquiry decided to leave that question to the shipping line and the Earth authorities to answer. Mike let his attorney handle most of the matter, shying away from involvement less he reopen the wound, but it left him in a legal limbo. The money he’d received from the insurance company just about covered his legal expenses, while the insurance check for the loss of the
Prometheus
went to cover the expenses of the
Titan
and her crew. This left little or nothing in his credit account to cover day-to-day living expenses, but that was secondary to his legal status.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Mike roused himself at the insistent knocking on the front door, having ignored the chimes for ten minutes. Another persistent local newsy begging for an interview wouldn’t have persisted so long. It had to be someone else. He froze for a moment when he opened the door, seeing his other grandfather standing there. He half-heartedly tried to close the door, but a large rough hand held the door ajar. In a way, he knew this moment was inevitable.

“What the hell do you want?” He snapped, turning his back and walking back into the living room. He knew why he was here, and legally he couldn’t stop Gordon Tregallion from entering the house, but he didn’t have to like it or be civil.

“A slightly less hostile tone would do for a start!” The big man replied.

“Why?” He looked at the man who looked so much like his brother and himself. Big, muscular, dark hair cut short, dressed in dark gray “moss worm” silk pants and shirt. He looked so much like Gramps, his brother Gordon Tregallion, it was almost heartbreaking.

“Because that is the normally accepted mode of address…”

“Or because you’re the president? Like hell!” Mike cut in.

“No, I was going to say, between family members and civilized people.” Mike snorted and turned away, walking over to the window and looking out at the view over the harbor. Gordon Tregallion let out a heavy sigh, and followed his younger self into the living room. Behind him trailed the Avalon spy chief and family attorney, Andrew Anderson. With a wave of his hand, Gordon motioned him to stay by the door, but it was clear he wasn’t happy about it.

“So what do I owe this visit to?” As if, he didn’t know. “Concern for my well being?” Mike turned to face the older man, shoulders hunched, fists clenched. His posture didn’t go unnoticed by Gordon, or Andy Anderson.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you, Michael.”

“Like hell you didn’t! You knew you’d have a fight on your hands the moment you knocked on my front door.” Suppressed anger chopped his words up, and he spat them out like blaster bolts. It was something of a shock to Gordon to see Mike in person after so many years, his image of a reckless, immature young man vanished the moment the door opened. Facing him was a young man, a very angry young man, in the full sense of the word. A man as tall as he was, and with muscles just as well developed as his own.

“Yes,” the older man said thoughtfully, “I supposed I did.” He stopped a moment and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t say it! Don’t even think it!” Mike yelled, taking a step towards him.

Andrew moved and slipped his hand inside his jacket, then stopped. He had his orders, and even if it came to a physical fight, he was not to interfere unless a weapon was drawn. This wasn’t Avalon where a Proctor would be standing by in case. Gordon Tregallion closed his mouth on the unsaid words, realizing that words of condolence were not what Mike wanted to hear right now, nor would he accept them from him anyway. Without being asked he sat in one of the easy chairs careful to make sure it wasn’t a favorite one used by either his brother, or Michael. This put him in a less threatening posture, and at a disadvantage should Michael start throwing punches. His earlier assumption that he could handle a 16-year-old boy went out the window, as one look at his grandson’s size made him think again. Older and more experienced in rough and tumble fighting he might be, but he was willing to bet he wouldn’t come out of the fight without getting his lumps. A physical fight was one thing he wanted to avoid at all costs which had nothing to do with who came out the winner. What he had to do was difficult enough without adding an extra dimension to it like trading punches.

“All right, Michael, I won’t say a word about how I feel about my brother’s death.”

“Smart of you.” Mike snapped, seeing the muscles in his grandfather’s jaw tighten.