Ghost Ship

TWENTY-NINE

The Condor drifted with the current all afternoon, and Paul Trout began to feel like a sailor on an old galleon, caught in the horse latitudes and going nowhere.

As dusk approached, the ship was enveloped in darkness. The chief and his men rigged up an auxiliary unit that brought power back to the desalinization and ventilation systems, but because the unit was relatively small compared to the need of the ship, most of the lights were kept off and the HVAC processors were run at the lowest settings. As a result, the interior of the ship was a sweatbox and those who didn’t have to be inside congregated on various parts of the deck.

Paul considered himself fortunate to be on the bridge wing with Gamay.

“What a beautiful night,” she said.

“It really is,” he replied. There was a soft southerly breeze, just enough to keep the humidity from being oppressive.

“Maybe there’s something to be said for the old ways,” she added. “No hum of machinery. No annoying computers telling us a new message has arrived.”

She put an arm around his waist and pulled closer. “I wouldn’t mind a candlelight dinner, if you’ve got nothing else planned.”

Paul cocked his head at her. “Are you getting romantic on me?”

She huffed and pushed him away. “If you have to ask, I must be doing it wrong.”

He pulled her back to his side. “No, you’re doing fine,” he said. “Now, where were we?”

“Too late,” she said. “The moment has passed.”

If it wasn’t already gone, the appearance of a crewman sweating through his T-shirt sent it packing for good. “Sorry to interrupt but we’re picking up something on radar.”

“I thought the radar was out?” Gamay replied.

Paul shook his head. “Considering our predicament, I thought it would be wise to know what’s going on around us. I had the chief power up the short-range unit.”

“Do you want to take a look?” the crewman asked.

Paul nodded, and both he and Gamay entered the semidarkened bridge.

“Any chance it’s the tug?” Gamay asked.

“No, ma’am,” the crewman replied. “Target is to the east. Tug will be coming in from the west. By our estimates, she’s a good four hours away.”

Paul stepped over to the radarscope. “What’s the range?”

“Forty-six miles. That’s pretty much the maximum range of the system on this power setting.”

“What’s her course and speed? Maybe we can hail her?”

“That’s just it,” the crewman said, “she has no course and speed. The target has been intermittent, appearing and disappearing. For the last hour there was nothing there and we thought whoever it was had moved on, but then it came back in the same relative position.”

“But we’re drifting,” Paul said. “Even if she was sitting still, her bearing should be changing unless she’s drifting as well.”

“Or it could be shadowing us at the very limit of our radar coverage,” the crewman noted ominously.

“Has to be a pretty big target to show up that far off,” Gamay added. “Maybe they’re keeping their distance, hoping not to be seen.”

It was all guesswork. But considering what they’d already been through, Paul was not interested in giving anyone or anything the benefit of the doubt. “When’s the helicopter due back?”

“That’s problem number two,” the crewman said. “The pilot reported a mechanical failure shortly after leaving Durban. They’ve had to turn back. The last we heard, they were trying to scrounge up a spare part. But even if they found one right away, we won’t have them back until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“And the tug is four hours off?”

“At least.”

Paul sighed. Alone on the darkening sea and being watched was not a position he liked being in. “Contact HQ on the satellite phone,” Paul said. “Tell them we might have company.”

“What do you think we should do in the meantime?” Gamay asked.

Paul was pragmatic. “Either hope it’s nothing and enjoy the evening or prepare to repel borders.”

Gamay folded her arms across her chest and offered a pout. “Guess I’ll cancel my plans for a candlelight dinner and go scour the hold for a few rocks and a slingshot.”