Ghost Writer(12)

The room is sterile. All I can see is mirror-bright stainless steel kitchen equipment. Then I hear voices. I can't make out words, but there are several people talking and laughing. I hear the slap of cards and rattle of chips. I look around.

Six men sit around the table playing poker. They are drinking coffee, though as I watched, one man pulls a flask out of his pocket and hands it around. A few are smoking. Contrails of cigarette smoke drift towards the exhaust fans.

A seventh man enters. The flask disappears and two of the smokers stub out their butts. The game continues, but there's no laughter. Then comes the blood and the screams. There is a murderer aboard the station. He has killed all the others and is now coming for me.



I woke in a sweat, feeling dizzy and nauseous. A shower and clean teeth helped. I quietly dressed, grabbed my water bottle, and went up on deck. It wasn't until I was outside that I realized we were no longer moving. Up and down, yes, a little side to side, but no longer forward. We had weighed anchor overnight.

It was only five o'clock. I had an hour before I was expected in the galley to help with breakfast. Meanwhile, I could get coffee. There was always fresh coffee. They had a machine that made it fresh, in your choice of city roast, dark roast, or decaf. They used something like a K-cup except that it was loaded internally and made entirely of compostable materials. I knew this because I cleaned out and reloaded the machine every morning I had galley duty.

In a couple of minutes I had a cup of dark roast and was scooting up to the observation deck. I felt like a kid on the first day of school, full of excitement and dread. I wasn't the first to the party. Reuben and Lil were there, as was Jamal. They were clustered together, pointing and staring. I couldn't blame them. Up close, the Nottawasaga was massive compared to the émil Gagnan. Yet, that wasn't what they were pointing at. As soon as I reached the rail, I knew the object of their attention. It wasn't as big as the Canadian warship, but it was twice as scary. Our American observers had arrived in a submarine.





Chapter Ten ~ Storm Warnings



It was like Empire Strikes Back, when Lando Calrissian made a deal with Darth Vader and the deal got progressively worse. First we got permission to dive. Then we found out that we'd have a Canadian warship looking over our shoulders. Now we had the USS Scranton, a tactical sub, for added intimidation value.

Franchot made the official announcement at breakfast. There was a lot of grumbling speculation, but only one real eruption.

“Fucking bloody merde, schietz, excusado…” Dora maintained a string of multilingual swear words as she violently skewered sausages and home fries on her fork. “Son of a dog's excrement!”

When she was really pissed off, she made up her own epithets. It’s a testament to her expertise that this behaviour never got her into trouble. I couldn’t get away with it. I had to be the calm and courteous one.

“I know this is aggravating, but we always knew we were here on sufferance.”

She gave me the icy glare you might expect from a lecturing professor being interrupted a smart-ass student. “It would be naive to think that anything could be done without the permission and blessing of the military, and I am not naive. Now we must ask ourselves, which country's military will mete out permission and which will add their blessing?”

Shrugging, I concentrated my attention on buttering my toast. I neither had an answer, nor did I want to dig myself into deeper shit. On the other hand, Dora's silence gave me a chance to think of a way of fighting back, in a manner of speaking. I would ask for interviews. The US and Canadian commanders didn't have to know that I was a ghostwriter, not an investigative reporter. As my mother used to say, “Fake it ‘til you make it.”

Captain Tinsdale of the Scranton made no bones about it. He wasn't allowing any civilians aboard and he wasn't leaving his boat. His spokesperson, Lieutenant Redding, sounded friendly, if a bit patronizing. He granted me a few words via radio and was apologetic about not being able to meet with me aboard the émil Gagnan. His hands were tied. The captain had decreed that no interviews were to be given at this time.

Captain Campbell of the Nottawasaga agreed to a video call. The first thing I noticed was his looks. Without being quite as handsome, he brought to mind Cary Grant in Charade. Mature. Smooth. Charming. While Tim got organized, we chatted.

“Have you enjoyed your voyage so far?” he asked.

“It's had its ups and downs.”

“That's life at sea.” He said that so blandly, I wondered if the joke was unintentional.

Tim indicated he was ready, and I took a couple of deep breaths in preparation.

“Are you all right, Ms. Kirby?” asked Captain Campbell.

“I’m fine. We're ready to start.”

I put on my front-of-camera smile—friendly, but serious. After getting the introductory questions out of the way, I got to the meat of the interview. “Tell me about your mandate for this mission.”

“Mission…That sounds so intriguing. The Nottawasaga is simply here to ensure the safety and security of the Canadian people…and visitors of course.”

“What about the issue of Canadian sovereignty? Arctic Station Alpha is a US military installation in Canadian territorial waters.”

“Station is a bit of a misnomer. I understand it was intended to be a slow, but mobile, research and observation platform.”