But his nap was haunted once again by his father.
This time, Howard Justice was standing at the foot of his bed in cruise wear. He had on a blue Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and white socks with boat shoes, making Rory smile. He remembered that outfit from his childhood.
“Son, I decided to come get you.”
“Great, Dad. I’ll be ready in a minute.” In his dream, Rory stood in his cabin in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving.
“You don’t need to get ready for where we’re going.”
Rory stopped, set his razor on the vanity, and turned around to face his dad. “What do you mean? I thought you were joining me for dinner. It’s casual night; you’ll fit right in. Wait until you meet Linda and Mindy. They’re crazy, but you might find them entertaining. Don’t worry. Mom will have no reason to be jealous. Actually, I find them a bit annoying.”
“Be quiet, Rory. We’re not going to dinner.” He noticed the stern look on his father’s face and felt a cold chill of dread. Suddenly, in his dream, Rory realized his father wasn’t alive—he was reappearing from the dead, or rather, from his resurrected place in heaven. Rory tried to ignore the fact that Howard Justice’s skin shone a translucent white.
“Why not? Aren’t you hungry? What’s wrong? Where do you want to go?”
“I need to take you off this ship, son. It’s for your own sake, and for the safety of all of the people on board.”
Rory shivered as fear seized him. “I want to stay on this cruise. I paid good money ….”
“The money I gave you to go to Las Vegas.”
“But, Dad, you know how much I hate that place and all of the people there ….”
“They are the people who need your help, Rory. You need to go there. That’s why you need to get off the ship. You need to follow through with what I asked you to do—in person.”
“And what if I don’t?” Rory knew he sounded defiant, childish, like when he used to talk back to his parents when he was seven years old, but he couldn’t help it. He was afraid.
He watched as his father walked to the window of his room and drew back the heavy curtain, which Rory had pulled shut to darken the room.
“Come here,” Howard Justice commanded.
Rory walked over to look out. He stared in awe at the most amazing sky and ocean he had ever seen. The clouds had united to create a monster vortex of grays that ranged from the darkest black to the brightest white, swirling and undulating. It was both terrifying and beautiful. Under the cloud mass, the ocean was a shiny sheet of silver glass. But in the distance Rory could see a monster wave forming, rolling, growing. It looked like it was still many miles away, but it was headed straight toward them.
Rory knew he was witnessing Hurricane Lola. He turned to ask his dad “what if?” and “how long?” but his father was gone.
“This is crazy.” Captain Whittaker hunched over the control panels, leaning on his hands, his head bent with worry. He dreaded looking out of the windows again and stared instead at the dozens of monitors that surrounded him in the engine control room. He had already watched long enough in astonishment as Lola, originally predicted to continue east and fizzle out along the way, menacingly approached the Voyager. Instead of heading out and away to sea as predicted, the storm had suddenly reversed its course and propelled south, picking up velocity, churning its way over the past few hours from a Category 1 to a Category 3 hurricane. Now it was predicted to possibly increase all the way to a Category 5 and make landfall off the coast of Grand Cayman Island, right where they were headed.
Captain Whittaker realized he couldn’t very well steer the ship east toward Jamaica into the hurricane, but the opposite direction was now blocked by the US Navy unless he surrendered Rory Justice. He knew that even if he chose to do the latter and navigated the Voyager in the other direction, it might be too late to avoid Lola’s path of destruction.
He knew he had to warn the passengers, but right now, even he, the brave and mighty captain, was at a loss for words.
Jeremy Styles could also find no words of wisdom or comfort to reassure his captain. He too was dazed with shock.
Lyle Whittaker finally straightened and turned to face his staff captain, his face ashen. “I don’t know what to do.”
Jeremy had never heard his boss utter that statement before. “We could try praying, Captain.” The words had come out involuntarily. He knew the captain wasn’t a religious man, had never heard him speak of God or anything spiritual before. Jeremy believed in the concept of a Higher Being, but he wasn’t particularly religious or spiritual either. He hadn’t been raised in any faith nor talked of God with anyone before.
If anything, he considered himself an agnostic. But this … this larger than life monstrosity that loomed in sight suddenly convinced him that there had to be a Power, a God who wasn’t manmade or of this earth, but was greater than all of it to create such a magnificent force of nature.
“Go ahead, Mr. Styles. It certainly can’t hurt.”
Jeremy closed his eyes and bowed his head, and did his best to pray. “Dear, uh, God … please have mercy on us and help us find our way through this storm, and save the passengers on board the Voyager. Please. And thank you. Amen.”
He slowly opened his eyes, hoping for a miracle. But Lola was still raging out the window, presenting herself in all of her horrifying splendor.
Both Jeremy and the captain had witnessed their share of hurricanes before, but none as terrifying as this.
Suddenly they heard a rap on the door to the control room. Jeremy opened it, and standing there in jeans and a T-shirt was Rory Justice. His face was white, and he looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Mr. Justice.” It was more of a statement than a greeting from the captain. “You shouldn’t be here. Obviously, you’ve seen the storm out there so you need to go back to your cabin. I am just about to make an announcement to all of the passengers to begin preparations for a possible rescue.”
“That won’t be necessary, Captain.” Rory spoke with conviction. “I’m ready for you to turn me over to the authorities. I believe that once you do that, you and the rest of the people aboard the ship will be out of danger since at least they will unblock one of your directions.”
“And what … who caused you to think that? Never mind. We don’t have time for these games, Mr. Justice. If you’ll just follow my orders and ….”
“God, Captain—in answer to your question. And right now His orders supersede yours.”
Jeremy backed into the control panels, astonished that his prayer had perhaps worked after all. He spoke with conviction. “Captain, I think we should listen to Mr. Justice. Should I call the FBI while you make your announcement?”
The three men looked at each other warily for a moment, and then all three sprang into action.
CHAPTER SIX
The USS Alaska floated only a hundred nautical miles away, awaiting instruction. It was a brand new attack sub that had launched a month prior for drills.
The sea hurled against the sides of the cruise ship as Hurricane Lola blew closer. Fortunately, the experienced captain and crew of the Voyager were able to draw within twenty yards of the sub as it surfaced, surprising the most jaded cruise ship customers with a sight none had ever witnessed, although only a few dozen passengers had braved the pelting rain and wind that thrashed on the deck to see it.
The big metal sub bobbled on the uneven surf, a half dozen US Navy submariners waving from the top of the tower, waiting for the transfer of the prisoner.
The Voyager angled itself parallel to the Alaska, and four crewmembers lowered Rory Justice, who had been fitted into a wetsuit and harness, into a rescue lifeboat where three other crewmen were waiting to row him to the sub.
Rory feared the rescue boat might capsize and he might drown as he was lowered into it in a kneeling position, the waves were so rough.
Once the lifeboat was within ten feet of the submarine, Rory was fastened into another harness
that had been lowered from the tower by members of the Alaska crew and was hoisted up, swaying precariously in the wind, and then landed safely onto the submarine’s surface. The cruise ship passengers who had stayed to watch were clapping and cheering. Rory wondered if it was because they were glad he was off of their boat or because he had made it safely onto the submarine. He chose to believe the latter, since it was already humiliating enough to be lying face down, petrified, on the cold, hard metal surface of the submarine tower deck, a prisoner.
The Alaska’s crew didn’t waste any time with theatrics. Rory Justice was now a threat. The FBI had told them he was an alleged terrorist and ordered them to transport him back to Corpus Christi. Two submariners roughly pulled Rory to his feet, yanked his arms behind his back, and handcuffed his wrists as a naval officer read him his rights.
Flanked on his front and rear by naval guards, he was sent scrambling down the tiny metal ladder in the narrow tower. Rory stumbled and nearly fell since he couldn’t use his hands on the rails.
As he descended into the bowels of the submarine, he noticed the air was stuffy, warm and dank and smelled like a combination of ammonia, body odor, and some other industrial smells permeating the interior.
He had to twist as he passed through narrow corridors to avoid obstructions, step over door hatches and duck through low-ceilinged doorways until he ultimately was tossed into a small, solitary berth reserved for prisoners.
Since the USS Alaska had a full crew on board who weren’t expecting to take on another man, a makeshift bunk had been set up in the torpedo room as the prisoner quarters. A plastic mat was placed on a storage rack, where torpedoes and missiles were usually kept, as his bedding. Rory did have the luxury of having a door instead of the customary curtain that gave most of the crew privacy in the berthing area. He assumed it wasn’t for his benefit, like the cabins with doors were for the captain and executive officers, but rather for his protection, and more importantly, for theirs.
Rory still had a hard time believing that he was suspected of being a hardcore terrorist. It’s surreal, he thought as he rubbed his sore wrists where the steel rings had chafed his skin. At least they removed the cuffs, he thought sardonically. But he knew he was still imprisoned.
Even though he was exhausted, Rory couldn’t sleep at all that night. He felt nauseous; the submarine had submerged again to four hundred feet below sea level, but on the way down to the ocean’s depths, had experienced some turbulence from the proximity of the hurricane. Rory lay there on his tiny cot staring at the rack above him, willing himself not to be sick. He felt sticky with the damp sweat of humidity, close quarters, and fear. The eerie silence was deafening.
Rory had never realized he was claustrophobic to some degree. But just knowing that he was stuck in this big metal tube hundreds of feet below the sea’s surface with no escape made it feel as real as a vise clamped around his lungs. He willed himself to breathe, concentrating on sucking air in and out, in and out, calming his racing mind, and slowing his thumping heartbeat. The exertion of his will only exacerbated his anxiety when he remembered a scene from the movie The Shawshank Redemption in which prisoner Andy Dufresne, played by actor Tim Robbins, was thrown into solitary confinement in a tiny box in the yard for two months. It was literally a box not big enough to stand in with no light, no windows, and no fresh air. Rory had always wondered how a man could survive such an ordeal. Next to drowning, being suffocated was one of his biggest fears.
Now he was finding out firsthand, and again wondered if he would survive. It’s as if I’m trapped inside something … a machine … or a being.
No one had told him where the sub was headed, how long it would take to get there, how long he would have to endure his captivity.
Breathe, he kept telling himself. Try to sleep.
Finally, when he could take no more of his inner voice screaming “Breathe!” or his heart feeling like it would burst, he decided to try something different: he would accept that he couldn’t sleep and take his mind off the present by escaping into something, anything.
He hadn’t been given the luxury of any books or magazines to read, much less any electronics. His phone had been confiscated, and he had no laptop or music. There was nothing in his tiny berth except his bunk, a metal toilet and sink, and a shelf to put his belongings. What a joke, I don’t even have any. He laughed to himself, suddenly wondering if this was a first sign that he was already beginning to lose his mind.
Rory wasn’t sure what made him think of it; he certainly didn’t exercise at home, but he decided to do sit-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks, and jogging in place until he fell back onto his bunk exhausted. He finally fell asleep at three in the morning.
Since there was no daylight, Rory didn’t know he had only slept three hours until someone told him; the submariner on morning watch knocked on his door, barking out that it was 0600 hours, time to wake up and eat his breakfast.
The submariner, who was accompanied by another crewman for security, handed him a tray with a plate of lukewarm eggs, toast and a cup of coffee. Not exactly like cruise ship food, but it could be worse. He had half expected to get bread and water since he was a prisoner. Rory suddenly realized he hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch the day before, and he wolfed the food down. He was told that when he was finished eating, he would be escorted to the galley, or ship’s kitchen, where he would be put to work under strict supervision, of course.
The submarine’s supply officer and head cook, a beefy Italian man in his fifties who introduced himself only as “Tony,” gruffly instructed Rory to help the mess cook, a young blonde crewmember in his twenties who was peeling potatoes. Tony introduced Rory to Ralph, one of three crewmembers who constituted the supply department, the group on board who prepared that day’s meals.
Ralph eagerly shook Rory’s hand then sheepishly blushed under the stern gaze of the head cook. He turned back to his work in the narrow kitchen. But once Tony left the room, saying he had to go to the head, and there better not be any funny business while he was gone, Ralph started talking non-stop.
“Hey, did you hear that the hurricane died out once we dove back down here?” Ralph peeled and talked at the same time. Apparently, he had mastered the art.
“How would you be able to tell, being this deep?” Rory hoped he didn’t sound sarcastic. He truly didn’t know and was curious.
Ralph wasn’t easily offended. “Sonar. This new sub has all kinds of fancy gadgetry to see and hear things miles away, including hurricanes. The head operations officer said it was the strangest thing. I was talking to him at breakfast this morning. He said he had never seen anything like it, and he’s been working his station on a number of subs for over twenty years. Said he’s never felt a hurricane rise up so fast before, and never seen one die down so quickly.”
Rory was silent, pondering the news, remembering what his dad had said in his dream, the puzzle pieces in his mind clicking into place. I need to take you off this ship, son. It’s for your own sake and the safety of all of the people on board.
The thought crossed Rory’s mind that perhaps the storm had calmed down because God wanted him to get off the cruise ship and go do what his dad had called him to do. In fact, maybe the hurricane had picked up force the longer he stayed on board. No, that couldn’t be possible. I’m letting my claustrophobic imagination get the best of me.
Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “Do you know what happened to the Voyager?”
“Yeah, apparently right after you got off and boarded the sub and the hurricane died down, the coast was clear for them to go to Cozumel later that night. They’re all probably playing on the beach right now, basking in the sun while we’re slaving away here in the dark bowels of this blessed submarine.”
Rory let his mind wander for a moment to the tranquil blue waters and sun-drenched white sand beach. That’s where I should be, he thought, but then he willed himself to stop his self-torment. What good would that do anyway? So he tried to st
eer his mind back to questioning Ralph. “Why do you work on a submarine if you hate it so much?”
“To get away from my old man.” Ralph peeled potatoes now with renewed vigor. “I didn’t want to end up like him, so I went into the military. He was a good-for-nothin’ alcoholic. They said sub work pays well since nobody wants to do it, so I signed up. I hope to save up enough money so one day I can sail around on those cruise ships. Doesn’t look like either one of us will be seeing the sun for a good long time, though, huh? But one day ….”
“One day what?” Tony yelled the words as he stepped back into the galley, surprising the young mess cook. Ralph jerked in a startled reaction, and his right arm bumped into a plastic jug of heavy-duty bleach on the counter, knocking it onto its side. The cap on it was loose, and the contents spilled out—onto the head and shoulders of Rory, who had bent down to pick up some potato peels from the floor.
The bleach was an industrial-strength type used for hard-to-clean iron skillets and other metal surfaces on the sub. The submariners didn’t use it unless they wore latex gloves to protect their skin from its corrosive power.
Before Rory knew what was happening, toxic bleach was pouring down his head, neck and shoulders, which were exposed because he was wearing only a tank top.
“Aghhh!” It took a moment for the burning sensation to begin, but when it did, a stunned Rory cried out in pain.
Tony barked orders to everyone while Ralph just stood there, his mouth gaping.
“Someone call the Doc, stat! Benjie, get lots of water and rinse him off as best you can. Keep him calm! Don’t let him touch his eyes! Joe, go get Captain Brown. Ralph, don’t just stand there! Put on gloves and help clean this up before someone else gets hurt!”
After Rory was stripped and doused with water, he was taken to the sick bay where he was treated by the hospital corpsman, known only as Doc, who administered pain medication and wrapped dry cloth bandages around his upper torso, neck and left hand.
The Runaway Prophet Page 7