Ghost Writer(15)

Campbell retreated behind an expression of bored courtesy. “I cannot confirm or deny your statements.”

I sat back, trying for a Mona Lisa smile. “I'll quote you on that.”





Chapter Twelve ~ Arctic Station Alpha



At breakfast the next day, Franchot announced that we would be going aboard the station after lunch. He gave us the news with his usual flare for the dramatic.

“My friends, I've got good news and bad news. Good news is that the interior is intact and dry. They don't want to engage the old nuclear power generators, so the Scranton has attached an umbilical, providing power for lights and air recycling.” He sighed wistfully. “It will be like stepping back in time. Wish I could be there. Bad news is, only the members of AFFA will be allowed to go this time. Our divers are excluded and so is the documentary crew.”

Tracy asked the question we were all wondering about. “Is this because of the bodies?”

“No. That is another case of good news and bad news. The good news is there are no bodies in the areas you will be allowed access to. The bad news or weird news is, they haven't evidence of bodies anywhere else either.”

“So this is just military officiousness,” said Jamal.

Franchot shrugged. “Gravell is going to review our protocols. Later, someone from the Scranton will do the same. Use your common sense when deciding which protocols to follow.”

Lieutenant Redding briefed us via video conference a couple of hours later. The moment we stepped aboard the station, he told us, we were under the jurisdiction of the United States Navy. Navy personnel from the Scranton would be aboard checking out the operational areas. We would be allowed into the living quarters only, under Marine guard.

As soon as he signed off, Dora stood up and gave her own manifesto. “We'll do what we have to do to get along with these bozos, but anyone not following Mary Lou's protocols for evidence collection will have me cutting them a new one. Understood?”

We all nodded. I, for one, was less afraid of military reprisal than the wrath of Dora.

Our videographer, USN Petty Officer Matt Parker, was introduced to us at lunch. He must have had ambitions to go to Hollywood after his tour of duty, because he made nice with the professionals, asking Tim what he wanted and conferring with Zoe and Toby. He took one of their hand-held cameras in addition to the shoulder mounted tactical camera that would transmit information to the Scranton.

“I know this isn't what you wanted. Rest assured, I'll do my best to satisfy your needs as well as the needs of the captain.”

He then spent a half hour deftly answering and not answering questions. By the end of the meal, he was on a first name basis with everyone. Dora, the hardest sell of all, agreed that he was better than they might have expected.



Despite the fact that there was no beach in sight and the water was freezing, most of us stood around in bathing suits. Personally, I opted for cotton boxer-briefs and sports bra. I bought two new sets for the occasion, one in black and the other in athletic grey. I wore the black in deference to the dead.

Dora, in contrast, wore a bright floral one piece bathing suit. Tracy wore a bikini and was drawing a lot of attention, mostly appreciative. Lil’s modest one piece drew even more attention because of the body inside. Jamal was wearing a Speedo so revealing I didn’t get any further in my observations.

Under the direction of our divers we pulled on thermal gear and bright orange, waterproof coveralls. This outfit was topped with flotation jackets. Although the station was dry, the ride over on the rigid-hull inflatable boat wouldn't be. If something happened and we went in the water, we'd need to stay warm and afloat long enough to be fished out. Once we were at the station, we'd still need the protection. There was light, but little heat.

Excitement mounted with every layer of clothing.

When we boarded the boat, we were buoyed by more than air. Mary Lou and Reuben couldn't get their eyes off the station or that part visible above the waterline. Mike was totally focussed on the station. Lil’s eyes darted from the station to the Scranton to the Nottawasaga and back again, as if one ship or the other might open fire on us any time now. We certainly had an audience. The decks of the émil Gagnan and Nottawasaga were lined with observers from their respective crews. Even the Scranton had watchers on their tower.

From a distance it looked like an oversized cartoon submarine. Close up, you could see that it was more bulbous, especially compared to the Scranton. It was also taller and more menacing at sea level than it had appeared looking down on it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go inside after all.

When we finally transferred from the RHIB to the station, Parker was first onboard. He scurried expertly up the ladders and disappeared. A second seaman climbed up and waited to help us as we ascended. I would have rather had someone helping me descend into the dark. Looking down, the tower ominously brought to mind the dark tunnel of death with the bright light at the end.

Mike took the lead. I hung back, wanting to keep open sky above me as long as possible. The seaman on deck had to chivy me along. He followed me, dogging the hatches behind him. For an awful moment I thought my chest was imploding.

“Slow deep breaths,” he advised. He took my arm and we followed the others.

I nodded. Chances were he wouldn’t see that, but I couldn't speak yet. Sooner than I expected, the tunnel gave way to open space, then a landing. I paused to take a couple more deep breaths and look around. Because of the lights shining up the tower, I couldn't see anything but shadows.