I like to think that I haven’t been approached yet because they see the toughness in my eyes—a genetic trait inherited from my father—but that can’t be it. If their hippie brew is enough to overcome their stench, it’s certainly potent enough to blot out any fear of me.
Am I scorned? I wonder. Am I a woman scorned? Someone, somewhere climaxes loudly and I burst out laughing.
A knock at the door silences me.
This is new.
The handle turns before I can respond. Light fills the room, forcing me to squint. “That you, Peach?”
Peach is my roommate—I have no idea what her actual name is. She’s got long dreads, a short body and a flat chest. Most of the guys here would pass her up if she wasn’t such a slut. When I see the silhouette of my visitor standing more than a foot taller than Peach, I know I’ve got my first caller. Must have made the brew extra potent tonight, because the only pheromone I’m putting off is unscented Seventh Generation baby wipes mixed with a strong dose of “get the fuck out.”
“You awake, Harper?”
The voice is clear and unhindered by any mind-altering substances. As a result, my visitor is easy to identify.
Greg Chase.
“You’d have to be dead to sleep through this noise,” I say.
“I witnessed a seal hunt once. Mothers and babies. None were spared the club.”
Well, this is morbid, I think.
A rapid fire banging issues from a neighboring cabin.
“This sounds worse.”
His quick turnabout makes me laugh despite myself. “That’s awful,” I say.
“Mind if I turn on the light?” he asks.
“Go for it,” I say, but then I’m filled with a fear that he’ll be buck naked.
Yellow light blooms from a small desk lamp, lighting the small cabin in a gentle glow. I’m happy he didn’t use the florescent overhead light. Those things make me wish I was blind. I’m even happier that he’s dressed in shorts and a short sleeve shirt. It’s summer here in the Arctic, so the temperature bounces back and forth between forty and fifty degrees—warm enough to melt a crap load of ice—but not really warm enough for beach attire.
He notes my attention to his clothing. “I don’t mind a little chill. Helps me think.”
I sit up a little, mindful to keep my blankets pulled up over my chest. I too, don’t mind a little chill. Helps me sleep. But my tank top could be misconstrued as suggestive, so I keep the comforter hiked up like a chastity cloak. He hasn’t said anything else, so I break the silence with a simple, “What’s up?”
He sits in the desk chair, which is free of Peach’s mess mainly because I actually use the desk and clear it off on a daily basis. The rest of the room is pretty much a pile of worn clothes, odd supplies, anti-whaling literature and rotting food.
I try to breathe through my mouth.
“You stepped up today,” he says, looking down at me with what I think are kind eyes, but his glasses have made them small, like some kind of burrowing mammal, so I’m not entirely sure. “You know, I wasn’t sure about you at first.”
Uh oh. “Why’s that?” I ask.
“To be honest, you’re not our typical volunteer.”
I do my best to wave him off. “I’m not different from the—”
“Yes,” he says, “you are. You’re intelligent.”
“There’re a lot of smart people on board,” I say, despite the words tasting like bullshit.
“Smart, yes,” he says. “Intelligent, no. There’s a difference.” He motions to the messy cot behind him. “Peach is smart.” He picks up an anti-whaling pamphlet with a Greenpeace logo on it. “She can absorb almost any subject and regurgitate the information in her own words. She’s contributed a lot of great articles to Sea Sentinel’s website.”
I look at all the reading material strewn around the room. I’d never really noticed Peach reading it, but I suppose that’s why it’s there.
“But,” he says, tossing the pamphlet away, “she can’t think for herself. She can’t plot, can’t strategize, can’t predict.”
“And I can?” I ask.
“I suspect so.”
“Why?”
“For starters, you’re one of four people who won’t leave this ship with an STD.”
I laugh again, but stop when I see that he’s serious. I quickly identify the other three disease free crewmembers—McAfee, who seems to have no interest in anything but whales, Mr. Jackson, whose obsession with order and cleanliness repels the ship’s females like a force field, and Chase, who values clear thinking, is very responsible and I now suspect is the mind behind McAfee’s madness.
“Okay, busted, I’m smart and have opposable thumbs,” I admit, but I need to end this conversation before he starts asking questions. I’ve got a cover story, but the WSPA isn’t the CIA. I don’t have fake IDs or the documents to back me up. A few calls from the ship’s satellite phone and I’d be revealed. “But it’s late and I really should try to sleep despite the noise, so if this is going to be a ‘way to go, champ,’ speech, let’s skip to the end.”
I flash a smile that says I was joking, but no one ever says something like that without at least being half serious.
He grins and stands. “Fair enough. But that wasn’t the only reason for my visit. Our cause needs more people like you. Like me. Committed people. I think we make a great team.”
I’m tempted to say, “Me Tarzan, you Jane,” which would be ironic because my first name is actually Jane, and it would be insulting because between the two of us, I’m clearly Tarzan and there is no doubt that he is Jane. I keep my mouth shut, but a moment later wish I’d said something, because he finishes with:
“Maybe more.”
He looks at me with the same blazing eyes I saw staring down theBliksem, gives a wink and heads for the door. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” He stops in the doorway and looks back at me. With a grin, he sings, “The lookout in the crosstrees stood, with his spyglass in his hand. ‘There's a whale, there's a whale, there's a whalefish,’ he cried, and she blows at every span, brave boys, and she blows at every span."
He closes the door behind him, leaving me stunned and unsettled. I now know why none of the guys have made a pass at me. They’ve been forbidden. I’m off limits, care of the first mate. And while I appreciate the fact that I haven’t had to deal with sexual advances, having to turn down a horny sailor or ten is far less creepy than being claimed by the Dungeon Master. Even worse, he’s just quoted an old sea shanty about whalers spotting a whale to hunt, but I got the clear impression that he is the whaler in the song, and I am the whale.
So much for ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’.No, I tell myself, you Ahab, me Moby Dick, and if you hunt me, I’ll kill your crew, sink the ship and then pull you under. Dad would be proud.
Before I can smile, my thoughts are interrupted by a loud warning klaxon and the sound of shrieking voices—the kind that say, “Someone’s just been murdered.”
3
After throwing on a pair of jeans, I dash up the stairs, taking them two at a time, toward the main deck. I’m pulling my sweater over my head when the ship turns hard to port. I tip to the side, slam into the stairwell wall, and fall. My head pops out of the top of the sweater, and I let out a shrill cry. I’m instantly embarrassed despite the fact that I might break my neck, but I know I look and sound like the Muppet, Beaker, so there’s that. But luckily the Swedish Chef is there to catch me.
Two strong arms embrace my falling body and I jolt to a stop against a cushiony body.
“You okay?” Jenny Gillespie asks.
“I’m good,” I say, standing and pushing my arms up the sleeves, trying not to look as stupid as I feel.
But Jenny is looking past me, toward the top of the stairs and the continuing shrieks of horror. She could care less about my appearance.
I wonder if all fat people are like that, and then feel like a total asshole for thinking it. I would have fallen down ten metal
steps and could have broken my neck if not for her. I decide to stop privately mocking her and other people who shop at Walmart. Okay, just Jenny. Walmartites are still fair game. It’s highly doubtful anyone on this ship would shop from an evil corporate giant.
A high pitched squeal rolls down the stairwell.
“What’s going on up there?” One of the male crewmembers asks. I’m not sure what his name is. I think he’s the cook, which does nothing to ingratiate him to me. Raw vegetables are the best thing on the menu.
I realize the question was directed at me. I’m first in line. And there are now five people behind me. “I have no idea,” I say, and continue my trek for the main deck.
The door has been left open, which is a no-no in the Arctic, where even during mid-summer, temps can still dip below freezing. I exit quickly, am struck by a cold breeze and hug my arms around my chest and hunch down. The action saves me from a bloody fate, but makes Jenny a very large target.
“Something hit me!” she shouts, clutching her chest and staggering to the side.
I race up to her, hoping she hasn’t been shot. I didn’t hear a gunshot and seriously doubt Greenland’s whalers are using sound-suppressed hand guns, never mind the accuracy it would take to shoot someone from one moving ship to another. But as ludicrous as it sounds, she was hit by something. As she sits down behind one of the Zodiacs secured to the main deck, I quickly survey our surroundings and note that the second Zodiac is missing. Strange, but not a threat. I look up briefly and see a furious Captain McAfee staring down at the chaotic scene, shouting something I can’t hear. When Jenny releases a string of rapid fire “Oh my gods,” I turn back to her.
Dark red blood stains the sweater where her hands are clutched. “It hurts,” she says.
“Let me look,” I say.
She shakes her head. The first reaction most people have to being severely injured is the desire not to know exactly how bad it is. But I’ve heard enough war stories from my father to know not to screw around with injuries. If it’s bad, there might only be minutes to save someone, or to say goodbye. “Let me look, now!” I shout.
My raised voice startles Jenny into compliance. She slowly moves her hands away. There’s enough blood to make me gasp, but I can’t see a tear in her sweater. And if it’s intact, so is everything else. “You’re fine,” I say.
Her eyes go wide. She looks down at her chest. Gives it a pat. She looks relieved, but says, “What hit me? It really hurt.”
As a coppery smell tickles my nose, I begin to suspect an answer.
A wet thwack a moment later confirms it. A chunk of ragged, fatty meat wrapped around a thick bone lands on the deck behind me. A part of me imagines the meat on a grill and my stomach rumbles. But Jenny stops my fantasy short.
“What is that?” she shouts, recoiling from the flesh, which has clearly been drowned in blood before it was thrown the distance between the Bliksem and the Sentinel.
I pick up the meat, drawing a squeal of disgust from Jenny.
“Its scraps,” I say.
“Scraps?”
“From a kill.”
“From a kill?”
Oh good Lord, Jenny! “From a whale. It’s whale meat.” I point to her chest. “And that’s whale blood all over you.”
Her pink cheeks go white like she’s some kind of color changing octopus. Jenny’s mortified face coupled with the horrified screams of the rest of the crew, who’ve figured out what’s being hurled at them, is more than I can bear.
A snicker emerges from my lips and I clamp my hand over it.
But Jenny has seen and her disgust turns to righteous anger. “You think this is funny?”
Angry Jenny is much more amusing than disgusted Jenny and I fail to contain my laughter. After five seconds, her face lightens. I’ve heard it said that laughter is contagious. Sitcoms use laugh tracks for that very reason, but I’ve never actually seen an explosive person defused by laughter. Apparently, Jenny has a sense of humor buried somewhere in her girth.
Damn, how long did I last? Three minutes before I mocked her size again? I’m so evil!
We’re both cackling like wounded seagulls when I glance at the wheelhouse again and find McAfee’s eyes glaring down at us. His eyes lock onto mine and I don’t know if the man has telepathic powers or what, but I swear I hear him say, “There will be a reckoning.”
Laughing at something like this is no doubt akin to mutiny. And I’ve pulled Jenny into the shitter with me. Thankfully, the captain has bigger problems to handle tonight. He’ll no doubt do what he normally does—retreat to his quarters with Chase and emerge two hours later with a grand master plan I’m fairly certain will come from Chase’s brain. If Chase has as much pull with the captain as I suspect, I might be able to get away with my humorous breach of protocol, but I doubt it.
I help Jenny to her feet, saying nothing about the captain. She had her back to him, so it’s possible she might escape his wrath, and I don’t want to worry her. Two scares in one night might be more than her heart could—fuck! I am Evil!
“Stay here,” I tell her as I work my way around the Zodiac. With whale meat being flung around like we’re in the middle of some whaling high-school food fight, it’s a risky venture, but I need to see it. I need to see the Vikings hurling bloody meat. I tell myself it’s for my report, but it’s really just because I find it so amusing. Flinging meat in most situations would strike me as silly and wasteful, but throwing whale meat at the Sentinel. Well, that’s just pure genius.
Jenny doesn’t argue, and I round the front of the Zodiac. A wall of cheering men greets me. The all male crew of the Bliksem stands along the rail, dipping their hands into buckets of meat and hurling it toward the Sentinel. And unlike the Sentinel’s peace-loving crew, every crewmember on board the Bliksem throws like a man. I look to my right and see a long stretch of bloody meat sliding down the side of the ship, walls covered in whale blood. What I don’t see are people. The crew has retreated from the attack, hence the cheers of the opposing crew.
Then I see the Viking, lit by the Bliksem’s floods. He’s looking right at me again. But I’m not hidden beneath a hood this time. He can see my face. My body. And I sense the eyes of a man at sea too long staring at me. I shake my head, no, at him.
He flips me off.
I counter his continuing barrage of rude sign language by returning a volley of my own, duplicating the cocksucker gesture his crew is so fond of. And strangely, despite being on opposing ships, separated by a hundred feet, we share a laugh.
I glance around making sure no one has seen and when I look back, the Viking looks worried. He stumbles a bit, and then is waving his hands at me, telling me to get back. For a moment I wonder why, and then realize I’m an idiot for not seeing the same thing twice in one day.
The Bliksem is closing the distance.
They’re going to ram us.
Tit for tat on the high seas.
Damn, someone’s going to get killed if this stupidity doesn’t stop. Fueled by rage, I storm past Jenny and head toward the wheelhouse door.
“What are you doing?” Jenny asks.
“McAfee is going to apologize and end this or I’m going to throttle his ass and stage a one man mutiny.”
Jenny follows me and says, “I’m with you.”
“He’s likely to lock us up,” I warn.
“I’d like to see him try,” she says.
I climb the steps to the wheelhouse feeling more confident. If McAfee gives me trouble I’ll just have Jenny sit on—
Damnit!
4
The metal stairs clang beneath my feet as I storm up to the tall wheelhouse. The bong, bong, bong of my feet on the steps has alerted the bridge-crew to my approach, so when I burst through the door, all eyes are on me. A gust of wind sweeps in behind me. It’s a rather dramatic entrance, and I think it might help my cause.
Then I see Captain McAfee. He goes nuclear.
With a beet red face he shouts, “Get
this trash off my bridge!”
Chase is there. He’s stunned. “Captain?”
“She can’t be trusted!” he shouts and then stabs a finger toward me. “How many more of you are there? What are you really doing here?”
What the hell? The level of manic craziness radiating from McAfee sends a wave of nervousness radiating out of my stomach. Still, this needs to end. Jenny gives me a little push from behind, urging me on. I recover from the captain’s verbal slap and remember why I’m here.
“You need to contact the Bliksem, now,” I say with as much authority as I can muster. “This can’t continue.”
“What are you talking about?” Chase asks. He’s starting to get a look in his eyes, not quite as accusing as McAfee’s, but suspicious.
“We throw paint at them, fine. Rotten butter? Stupid, but okay, whatever. But then we ram them and now they’re going to ram us? How’s that—”
“What?” McAfee shouts, a look of true horror entering his eyes. He dives to the port side of the wheelhouse and looks out the window at the Bliksem. I catch a whispered, “Oh my God.” I wonder why Mr. Ram-happy is worried about getting up close and personal, and then he shouts, “Hard to starboard! Flank speed!”
Flank speed? Seriously? Flank speed is faster than the ship’s full speed. It’s a fuel hog and can’t be sustained for long because the engines on this refurbished ship will overheat. I’ve never heard the term used outside of a military context. It’s a last ditch effort move reserved for emergencies like trying to evade an enemy aircraft. Granted, we’re about to get T-boned by an ice class ship, but I thought that was the game McAfee played. His level of panic now seems out of place.
Then he’s got the radio in his hand. “Bliksem, Bliksem, this is the Captain of the Sentinel. Stand down and we will leave you in peace.”
Several of the crew in the bridge, including Chase, turn their heads toward the captain, aghast. Retreat is bad enough, but a peace fire?
“He’s probably lying,” Jenny whispers.
She’s right. McAfee is as untrustworthy as any genuine pirate. He’ll say and do just about anything to stop the killing of whales. Anything but accept defeat. But his concern seems genuine.
THE SENTINEL (A Jane Harper Horror Novel) Page 2