Stranded (12 page)

Survival was shameless.

Everyone needed to eat. The crew could bundle up against the cold, wait out whatever was interfering with the instruments, and try to battle illness. But when they ran out of food and drinkable water, they were dead men, no matter what. He imagined, on the other hand, suggesting they ration supplies was going to be met with opposition at the very least, if not outright hostility. It made Noah recall the OTC painkillers. Undersupplied and gone in a day. The crew was irritable and bad-tempered due to the headaches—what Abby called “tetchy” when he got like that at home. When the men ran out of coffee, there would be fistfights. And when they ran out of food it'd be worse. But if he suggested they all take smaller portions to stretch things out … he didn't want to imagine it. He had to find a coconspirator. Someone who could back his play, or better yet, be the face of it. He needed an ally the crew would respect and listen to. Someone who could take a suggestion to Brewster and be heard. Chris Holden or Sean Mickle had to be the one to try. He'd start with Mickle. After dinner.

He filled a plastic plate with a half serving and went to sit with Jack and Kevin. When Boucher stood and moved toward the galley window to get seconds—or maybe thirds—he thought about saying something. What was the use? If the food they'd prepared didn't get eaten, it might find its way into the freezer to be reheated later, but given the state of the cooks and the crew, it'd just as likely make it into the trash. This meal was beyond saving. It was the next, and the one after that needed minding.

“What does Brewster got against you, dude?” Jack asked. “He looked like he was ready to take you to the woodshed, for real.”

A mental inventory of the reasons for Brewster's hostility marched through Noah's mind in a procession of nightmares. One followed another in a black parade of bad choices and disappointments, sides taken and moments you can never get back, or take back, lost in time, every day adding another regret to a sore and bent conscience. Noah took a breath, filing through his choices, trying to find a way to shrug it off, laugh, and make a joke about “in-laws, you know.” Taking advantage of his silence, Boucher turned on his bench and said, “You haven't heard? Shit, Cabot, go ahead and tell him how you got a man killed last year.”

“That shit was an accident,” Marty said from the corner, holding his head in a hand while he pushed his noodles around with the fork in his other. He sounded like he was already sick of the conversation. Noah definitely was. He wanted out of it before it even began.

“Killed?” Jack said.

“Yeah,” Boucher continued. “Your boy here sent a greenhorn named Connor MacAllister out to do something
he'd
been ordered to do. Cabot stayed dry and warm while Connor got crushed to death doing someone else's work.”

Noah felt a pull like a hook in his back, dragging him toward the door. Away from the mess to his own cabin where he could lock the door and refuse to talk to anyone. Instead, he swallowed and said, “It wasn't my fault, and Connor wasn't green. He had as much time at sea as me.”

“And look at how good you are at the job, professor. Underwater Basketweaving 101 was real good training for you out here, wasn't it?”

“We were en route to a platform called the Nordland I,” he said. “On our way we ran into a storm. Not as bad as the one
we
just went through, but still not anything you'd want to be on a weather deck during. It was my turn on watch and I'd been ordered to go check the lashing gear on the cans.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. Boucher smirked, knowing why he had to struggle to phrase it correctly. “I had … something else that needed doing, so I asked Connor if he could go out and take care of it. It was supposed to just be routine inspection. Walk around, ratchet a strap or two if they looked loose. I'd done the same round the day before and hadn't had to touch a damn thing. Everything was supposed to be secure.”

“But it wasn't, was it?” Boucher said, prosecuting the case against him.

Noah's eyes narrowed as he glared at the bosun. He gripped his fork in a tight fist, concentrating on the reassuring feeling of its handle in his palm, pretending it was a railing or a pipe—something he could hold onto to weather the storm of memory. “No, it wasn't. The sea kicked up a big swell and when the ship turned into it … a shipping can broke free and killed him.”

“Pulped his head you mean. Crushed it like—”

“He's dead! We all know it. Who the fuck wants to hear about the details?” Noah said, standing up. Boucher rose to face him.

“Maybe one of them wants to,” he said, swinging his arm toward Theo and Henry. “Everybody oughta know what you did.”

Kevin slipped in between the men, holding Noah back with his shoulder. “It sounds like an accident to me,” he said. “Sure, he shoulda done what he was told, but who hasn't taken a watch for someone else? Huh? It could've happened to anybody. Way it sounds to me—”

“Way it sounds to
me,
” Boucher said, shouting over Kevin's shoulder, “is you might not've put a gun to his head, but you sent him out there and the guy got killed. That's on you. Your job, your responsibility, your risk. You shirked your duty and got someone killed.”

“You think I should have died instead?”

Boucher's breath was sweet with spaghetti sauce and whatever was in the flask he kept stashed in his overalls. On top of the combined scents assaulting him, the fight or flight instinct at being confronted yet again made Noah's stomach tighten and sour. He wanted to swing his arm or puke. Maybe both. Boucher said, “Think it? I
know
it. I should be sitting here eating with Connor MacAllister instead of you, motherfucker.”

“If I could do it over differently, I would.”

“Save it, professor. I'm just waiting for karma to catch up with you and do what it should've a year ago. You're gonna get what's comin' to you, Cabot. And when you do, I'll put on a little skirt and grab my pom-poms to cheer it on.”

“That's enough!” a voice boomed from behind Noah. Boucher's gaze shot to the door. He took a step back with an expression on his face like a playground bully who spotted the teacher. Noah didn't need to look to know Chris Holden was standing behind him in the doorway. His voice was unmistakable.

“If you two are done pissing on each other's shoes, I suggest you bus up your plates and get your asses in their bunks. The Old Man wants you all out busting ice tomorrow and none of you have the time or energy to waste taking cracks at each other. You copy?”

“Aye sir,” Boucher said. His face reddened and his shoulders slumped. Grabbing his plate, he tossed it in the bin in the corner and stalked out of the room, giving Noah a yard stare as he went. Although his face was slick with sweat and his neck bent forward, Noah knew the man would find hidden reserves of strength if it meant finishing the job Brewster had started outside. The bosun slid past Holden, careful not to touch the senior officer, but not masking his contempt for the man's unwanted intervention. Boucher might not have had it out for Holden specifically, but if he'd save Noah from getting at least part of what was coming to him, then he was on the wrong side. No one said anything as they listened to Boucher stomp off down the passageway.

Holden walked up to Noah and said, “What the hell was that about?”

“Ancient history,” Jack said.

“A year ain't so ancient.” Henry gathered up the debris of his meal and carelessly deposited it with a clatter in the bucket. “Seems like current events to me, knowing what happened to Felix, too.”

“I was up doing what Boucher told me to when that happened.”

“And if we look at the duty log, are you gonna be the last one responsible for checking the lashing gear before he got smashed?” He didn't wait for an answer, instead following the deck boss out. Noah watched the room divide itself. Theo, Michael, and David stood together and trailed behind the senior deckhand, leaving their plates on the table. Marty, Jack, and Kevin stayed behind, pretending a line hadn't just been drawn down the center of the ship.

Marty rolled his eyes dramatically, and said, “You're never gonna win over that clique, Noah. Those guys are so far up Boucher's ass their breath smells like rum when he takes a pull off his flask. They back him because he hands out extra OT, not because they believe any of his bullshit.”

Holden held up a finger to silence the men. “We're in deep enough trouble without the Sharks and the Jets looking to rumble. You with me? I expect you, Noah, to work to keep the peace around here. You're smarter than those guys put together. That means you have brains enough to figure out what you need to do to get by on this boat. You can see as clearly as I do that the answer is not stirring up trouble.”

“How about standing up for himself?” Kevin asked. “Is he allowed to do that?”

Holden shot him a poison look and continued. “Speaking of shift assignments, Andrew is on mess duty today, but since he's down with the whateverthefuck, I'm enlisting you three.” He pointed to Noah and the twins. “When you're done eating, get to work on those dishes and whatever else needs cleaning in the galley. I want this place spotless for breakfast.”

“Why us?” Jack said.

“Why do people climb mountains?” Holden sighed as Jack and Kevin stared at him blankly, awaiting the answer to his rhetorical question. “Just do it. That's an order. When you're done, you're to go get some rest. You all look like warmed-over death. Nevins, you get back on the radios.”

Marty groaned. Holden turned to leave.

“Can I have a word, Mr. Holden?” Noah said. Holden waggled a finger at him and walked out into the passageway. Noah followed while the other men groused at each other about being left with the mess.

Holden stalked over to the far wall, checked his watch, and ran a hand down his face. “What is it, Cabot?”

“Stopped?” Noah asked, glancing at the watch.

“Yeah. Like everything else. Still checking it out of habit, though. But you didn't stop me to talk about my watch.”

“No sir. It's … the food.”

Holden put a pair of fingers to his temple. “You can address all complaints about the quality of the food to the company when we—”

“No sir. It's the quantity, not quality. If we're stuck here much longer, we need to think about rationing and maybe even prioritizing who gets what based on how sick they are.”

Holden's eyes widened. He ran his hand over his head. Noah could hear the sound of his palm rubbing over the rough stubble. “You're kidding, right?”

“No sir. If we don't make our supplies last, I think we're going to be in real trouble. You saw how things went in the mess room. I can't be the one to bring it up, but you—”

Holden held up the authoritative finger again, cutting Noah off. He grabbed the deckhand by the arm and dragged him off to a corner, farther from the mess and day rooms. Backing up against the door to the provision room, Holden glanced up and down the passageway for other ears. “Are you nuts?” he whispered. “We've been icebound for a day and you want to tell these guys they have to start going hungry?”

“No. Not that. But we're at least another day out from getting through what's holding the ship, if the Old Man's plan works. If it doesn't work—”

“If the skipper's plan doesn't work,
then
we can have this conversation. But not now. Not when we all need to be working together to get out of this. Stop trying to get these guys to line up against you.” Holden put a hand on Noah's shoulder and squeezed. It was meant to be reassuring, but instead it amplified and localized the ache in Noah's shoulders from chopping at the ice all day. “I know you didn't start that bit of business in there just now. But you saw how it ended, right? People are already lacing up their gloves and we've barely been stuck. Suggesting things are worse than they seem isn't going to do anything but ring the bell. I understand why you're talking to me about this, I do. But now's not the time. Even if we don't have enough for the return trip, no one's going to starve if we run low on supplies a couple days out of Seattle. Okay? Let's wait and see. You read me?”

Noah nodded. He hadn't always been a worrier, but repeated experience had taught him to anticipate the worst-case scenario. Even if he hoped for the best outcome for them all, he wanted to plan for the worst that might lie ahead. He'd spent enough of his life reacting to disaster, trying to find the money for school, for rent, for medical bills, only when he was already in arrears. He started educating himself about chemo and surgeries when they had to schedule them. He learned about hospice when the pain was already bad and guaranteed to only get worse. He still had a problem avoiding trouble, but at least he didn't close his eyes to it anymore. He learned that much from experience. Being out of control his entire life had made him want to be the guy with a plan—the one who had a resolution half in play before anyone else even realized there was trouble looming. The problem he couldn't seem to get on top of was that he wasn't in a position to make things better. He loaded ships and unloaded them on the other end. No matter how well he educated himself, on board ship he was muscle, not brains. Born with rough hands, no amount of college was going to get him off the killing floor.

“Okay. Tomorrow then,” he said. “I'll come back tomorrow.”

“If Brewster doesn't get us out of this by tomorrow night, you won't have to bring it back to me. I'll suggest it on my own.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't thank me. I haven't done anything yet.” Holden let go of Noah's shoulder and walked away, descending through the hatch to B-Deck. Noah returned to the mess to help with the dishes and try to save the leftovers. He was just in time to prevent Kevin from dumping them out.