by Ralph Kern
That was painfully true. In the last few weeks, they’d had to deal with a dozen suicides among the passengers and crew, and Doctor Emodi had reported many more exhibiting signs of depression and anxiety. “But at least most feel they can talk to someone, if they need to.”
“I’m... not ready yet, Liam,” she replied quietly. “Maybe I won’t ever be.”
Kendricks turned his grip into a light pat. “Okay. I understand. Just know that I’m there, okay? We’re buddies, after all.”
“Speaking of captains,” Slater changed the subject in a not-so-subtle way. “How is he?”
Kendricks gave a long exhalation and looked down, knowing he was somewhere directly beneath them, even as they spoke. “Good, I think. In fact, that’s my next job. He needs his invite for tonight.”
Slater chuckled, her mood visibly lifting. “Are you sure you want him there?”
“Of course I’m sure. He may be a cantankerous old bastard, but he is a friend.”
“Here’s hoping he can behave himself.”
“Yeah... I’m sure he can.”
Kendricks wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to convince.
***
The elevator doors swept open, revealing the white-painted walls, adorned with colorful safety notices and bulletins. The distinct throbbing hum of the idling gas-turbine power plants permeated the air, and their slight vibration beneath Kendricks’s shoes propagated up his body, causing a tickling sensation in his mouth.
He walked down the corridor, exchanging nods with the bustling crew, and he tapped a code into the pad on the heavy hatch. With a rumble, it whirred open, revealing the engineering control room.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” he spoke loudly as he entered. One man had his feet propped up on the console, flicking through a magazine and, with comedic haste, rearranged himself to some semblance of looking attentive.
He frowned at the man, and turned to look at Wayne Pritchard, the chief engineer had a phone hooked between his ear and shoulder as he idly clicked away at his computer mouse. From the angle of the screen, he could see solitaire being minimized to be replaced by the intricate graphics of the engine-status displays. “Wayne?”
“Gotto go.” He flicked his eyes up and placed the phone down. “Skipper, how can I help?”
Kendricks darted a glance at the previously reclining man, feeling anger simmering in his belly. “I didn’t realize the console was a foot rest.”
“The guys have long watches, they...” Pritchard started to shrug, then must have seen the look on Kendricks’s face. “Absolutely. It won’t happen again, skip.”
“Good,” Kendricks said pointedly. “Because your job is to hammer out the lack of discipline in your direct reports, and my job is to hold you to account if you don’t. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” Pritchard said, not quite hiding the sullen tone of voice. “Larry, you dumbass. If I catch you with your feet up again, I’m gonna have you over my knee? Kapeesh?”
Kendricks nodded. Discipline on board had started to slip and it was the job of the staff captain to ensure it was enforced by the supervisors. The only problem was, he didn’t have a staff captain, which left it all to him. He simply didn’t have the time to be as on the ball as he needed to be. He gave a sigh. Just one more thing on his extensive to-do list. “Where is he?”
Pritchard pointed at the steps leading down to the main engineering spaces, knowing instinctively who Kendricks was after. “Room two, gas turbines.”
Kendricks strode down the stairs and undogged the hatch. Beyond was a gantry leading deeper into the engineering spaces. Piping and equipment wove through the dozen separate rooms which made up the engineering spaces where the power for the ship was generated. The mammoth chugging power plants were situated in such places. If they lost a room through fire or flood, or even half of them, they would still have effective propulsion. It was deliberately designed to be as redundant as possible.
To Kendricks, who had cut his teeth as a watch officer, he only had a rough working knowledge of just how the damn things operated. But someone else had come up through the ranks first as an engineering officer.
“Hey,” Kendricks called to a technician above the whine of the turbines. He was beginning to wish he’d picked up some earplugs to block out the persistent racket on his way through. “I’m looking for Lars.”
“Down there,” the man shouted loudly and gestured down another set of metal stairs.
Following the directions, he found himself on the lowest deck. The only spaces below were maintenance access shafts and the bilges. He looked around the room before spotting, sprouting from beneath a particularly complicated collection of pipes and machinery, a pair of legs sticking out.
Hunkering down next to them, he lightly tapped a shin.
“I’m busy!” a muffled voice snapped testily.
“Lars, it’s Liam!” Kendricks shouted. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”
“Fine.” A sound of grunting, and the odd swear word came, then Lars Solberg slid out, a small oily component in one hand. “Hold this.”
Solberg thrust the object, a pump, into Kendricks’s hands and he automatically grabbed it, realizing too late it was covered in grease.
With a grunt, Solberg picked himself up and wiped his own hands on a rag hanging from his belt before taking the pump back. “Damn heat exchanger failed, and I’d bet my bottom dollar it’s just the rotor in this pump getting all scaled up.”
Slipping his smeared glasses up over his forehead, he pulled out a penlight and sighted down one of the openings in the pump. “Problem is all these new-fangled engineers just view it as a black box. They simply want to pull out worn equipment and replace it out of our spares. They don’t even bother trying to fix anything broken.”
“I’ve come to check up on how you are?”
Solberg grunted again in reply as he wandered to a nearby bench and deftly unscrewed the pump housing, exposing its inner workings.
“I’m glad see you’re keeping busy, Lars.”
“What? Since some damn mutineer took over my ship?” Solberg said in his singsong voice as he extracted the rotor and held it up to the light. Sure enough, Kendricks could see the whole thing was covered in a thin sandy layer. “I am just, what’s the word, peachy?”
Kendricks gave a strained smile. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m still just acting captain.”
“Bullshit.” Solberg reached into a toolbox next to the bench and rummaged for a moment before pulling a tin of some kind of solution out. “You think anyone will have me back in command now? They think I went mad.”
“Never say never.”
“Just what’s the matter?” Solberg squirted some liquid on the rotor and began scrubbing it with what looked like a toothbrush. “Command getting to you? Not so easy, is it?”
“No one ever said it was.”
Solberg blew on the rotor and examined it closely again. “If it’s any consolation, I hear you’re doing an okay job.”
Kendricks tried to keep a smile off his face. Not for the first time, he thought working for Solberg had been like suffering from Stockholm syndrome. You had to put up with a lot of grief, but that made you hanker for the occasional approving remark.
“Thanks, Lars. And likewise, I’ve been keeping an eye on the reports. You could have just said screw it after the Locus. Instead you came down here to help out. We appreciate it.”
“Apparently, only one of two things I’m any good at. On the helm or in the engine room.” Solberg gave another grunt before laying the rotor on the bench and looking at Kendricks for the first time. “You know I was eighteen months from retirement, then I was going to blow my pension on golf, drinks, and girls far too young for me.”
Kendricks let his smile slip through. Commanding Crystal Oceans’ newest flagship had been Solberg’s swan song. He knew Solberg was on the way out, but he had never let standards slip for a moment. It had been a quality he respected, a quality he wished h
e had the headspace to emulate. Sure as hell, Larry wouldn’t have been caught with his feet up if Solberg had been sitting in the chief engineer’s chair.
“Instead, I’m down here, ten million years in the future, doing the jobs the kids don’t want to. Bet they are shitting themselves in glee seeing the old man covered in grease and grime doing their work for them.”
“Someone has to show them how it’s done.”
“Aye.” Solberg plucked his glasses off his brow and gave them a wipe, before gesturing at the disassembled pump. “Especially now. We can only fabricate so much. We have to learn again how to fix things, not just replace them.”
“Not many of that breed of engineer left, Lars.”
“What are you really here for?”
Kendricks thought back to what he’d seen in the control room. The lack of discipline and good order could at best cause the inconvenience of a loss of power. At worst, it had a damn good chance of killing them all if something popped down here. Pritchard had been off the boil for weeks now. Letting things slowly slide into complacency. He needed someone on it with a firm hand. Someone who would ensure he didn’t have to worry about what was going on down here.
He made up his mind.
“Two things. Atlantica is yours, and has been since the moment we left dry dock. You spent two years working her up, and skippering her was your thanks. I’m sorry things turned out as they did, but we’re where we’re at. If you can convince Doctor Emodi and Reynolds you’re good for command again, I’ll give you back the keys without hesitation. But—”
“And what if I don’t want the chair back?”
“Say what?” Kendricks blinked in surprise.
“Look, Liam. I’m giving you shit, but you did the right thing. Don’t ask me to like it, ’cause I don’t. No one likes to realize they aren’t cutting it. But I have spent the last few weeks accepting it. And now,” Solberg gestured at the intricate machinery, “I’m enjoying this. I find it cathartic. My chief worry ain’t all the bullshit and politics above decks, it’s this, here. You want command? She’s yours.”
“Okay...” Kendricks started, feeling perturbed by Solberg’s acquiescence. “Then, I guess back to my first point. How would you like the chief engineer job?”
“I’d still rather have the helm, but I’m guessing my name is still mud up there.” Solberg snorted, then looked at Kendricks, obviously realizing he was being serious. “What about that slack moron Pritchard?”
“Leave Pritchard to me.” Kendricks glanced back to the hatch. That was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to, but c’est la vie. The man had made his bed, now he could lie in it. “I need you to show these kids how it’s done. Get this place shipshape again, then, if you change your mind about command, we’ll talk about it.”
Solberg nodded, idly spinning the rotor on the bench with a forefinger. After a long moment, he looked up. “Deal. I’ll sort out the engine room.”
“Great.” Kendricks felt an unreasonable sense of relief. For a spur of the moment decision, he felt he was doing the right thing. Both for the ship, and for his friend. “I’ll go have that chat with Pritchard.”
Kendricks turned and started climbing the stairs.
“You said two things?” Solberg called over the whine of the engines.
“Oh yes.” Kendricks paused, one hand on the metal railing. “Clean the oil out from under your fingernails and dig your whites out. There’s a dinner on tonight. And you’re invited.”
Chapter Seven – The Past
“Good evening, madam and... sir.” The concierge looked Grayson up and down, a slight turn to his lips. He had the distinct impression that puffed-up jackass had sized up that the suit he was wearing was, unlike Dillon’s, from an outlet store bargain rack. “How may I help you today?”
The gorgeous cream marble of the foyer announced the hotel’s five-star status and the clientele reclining in the adjacent bar had the look of people who were happy to pay as much for a single night in a place like this as Grayson earned in a month while on operations in some sandy hellhole.
“We have a reservation,” Grayson said. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”
“Of course you do.” The man pursed his lips, lowering his gaze to look at the computer inset into the mahogany reception desk. His eyebrows raised slightly and he glanced back upward. “And I see in the Presidential Suite too, no less?”
“That’s right, buddy.” Grayson gave his brightest smile, the one he reserved for the especially patronizing. “Nothing but the best for Mrs. J.”
“Just let me check.” The concierge tapped at his keyboard for a moment, clearly not quite believing what his booking software was telling him. “Yes, I see payment has gone through. If you’d like to put your luggage on the cart, I’ll have it taken up.”
“Why thank you.” Grayson continued his smile. Theatrically, he opened his wallet and fished out a five-dollar bill and snapped it taut. With deliberate slowness, he folded it, reached over the desk, and tucked it into the concierge’s breast pocket before giving a wink. “Don’t spend it all at once.”
“I’ll be quite sure not to,” the man responded as he held up a key card.
Prick. Grayson plucked it out of his hand, picked up a suitcase from the pile of baggage next to him, and turned toward the elevators. “Come on, my darlin’.”
“Of course, my love,” Bradley said, the set of her jaw announcing her disapproval of the interplay but still slipping her arm through his. They crossed the floor, her heels clicking on the hard surface.
“Are you trying to get us remembered?” she growled at Grayson when they were out of earshot of anyone else.
“He dissed you,” Grayson responded as he paced forward. “He didn’t think you were good enough for a place like this.”
“Yes, and now he’s going to go into the staff room to bitch and whine about the two idiots in the Presidential Suite.”
“I doubt it’d be the first time.” Grayson gave the bellhop next to the elevator another one of his smiles. “We’re going up, buddy.”
The young man made to walk into the elevator and Grayson held a hand to his chest, stopping him. “It’s okay. We can find our way. Just do us a favor and bring the rest of our bags up pronto.”
With a polite nod, the boy turned back to the reception desk. With a chime, the doors slid shut.
“You and Max are real fish out of water in civilized society, aren’t you?”
Grayson pushing the button labeled ten in ornately stenciled letters and turned to Bradley. “Maybe we are. But that’s because while you were swanning around in London, we were dancing with the ISIL Remnant.”
“You think I’m just some REMF, don’t you?” Bradley tutted, shaking her head in mock despair. The elevator hummed as it rose through the floors. “Sweetheart, I spent my formative years in Baghdad. Dodging truck bombs.”
“And you don’t look more than what, thirty-five?
The elevator gave another chime as they reached their floor. The doors swept open and they marched out. “What can I say? I had a hard start in life.”
As they walked down the empty corridor, Grayson glanced left and right, looking for their room.
“Go on then, I’ll bite,” Bradley said. “What’s your story?”
“Me?” Grayson found their door and ran the card through the reader, opened the door, and entered. He looked around, giving a low whistle as he did. The room was huge, as big as his apartment, and that was just what he could see of the spacious lounge area. “So, this is how the other half live.”
He pulled his phone out and opened a counter-surveillance app. The screen flashed green and showed the usual Wi-Fi sources permeating the luxurious room, but nothing suspicious. “We’re clear. Anyway. Rangers, then I passed Green Beret selection and did a couple of tours with them—”
“The thinking man’s special forces. Maybe you aren’t just a glorified grunt.” Bradley opened up one of the doors. Through it, Grayson could see a bedro
om nearly as extensive as the lounge.
“That’s right.” Grayson lifted his case onto the bed and pressed his thumb against the biometric lock. “Saw a bit of the world, got my Masters, and then got the tap on the shoulder. Next thing I know I’m reporting for duty at Langley with the Special Activities Directorate. What about you?”
The case cracked open, and Grayson pulled a long cylinder out and examined it, making sure it was intact.
“Me? I went to Cambridge, where I got brainwashed by the University Air Squadron. Got a commission after graduation in the RAF as an intelligence officer.” Bradley pulled a tripod from the case and walked to the balcony window. She spread the tripod legs on it and set it down. “Then someone said there was a job opening in counter-proliferation with the SIS, so next thing I know I’m paying exorbitant London rent on a civil service wage.”
“So definitely no Aston Martins then?” Grayson handed Bradley the cylinder and she set it on the tripod.
“No Aston Martins.” Bradley locked the cylinder down and twisted it to face the window. Grayson handed her a telescope and she slotted it in place next to the cylinder. “I do, however, have an ancient and rather battered Mini.”
“Classic,” Grayson said as he set a briefcase on a coffee table and opened it. Within was a set of headphones and a robust looking laptop. “Okay, get the laser aimed.”
Bradley slid open the balcony door. The distant sounds of traffic and revelry washed into the room along with the fresh sea air. She gently maneuvered the tripod out. Staring through the telescope which ran parallel to the laser cylinder, she orientated it roughly in the general direction she wanted.
Then came the fine motion. She slowly twisted the dials on the tripod and the servos gave a slight hiss as they steadily tracked into position, toward the Hotel Bahamia across the road where John Reynolds was staying. They hadn’t gotten the Presidential Suite in the Grand Caribbean out of the goodness of the CIA’s heart. It was simply the best room overlooking their target.
“Okay, I’ve got his room,” she said after a moment.