Ghost Writer(21)

It was on ring number six before my numb fingers found the phone in the pocket where I had tucked it while I worked; ring eight before I connected the headset and was able to answer.

“Are you okay?” Captain Campbell's voice was sharp, worried.

“I'm okay. Where were you?” I checked myself. That had sounded accusatory. “Sorry. The line went dead, so I hung up. I pocketed the phone when you didn't call back immediately. It took me a while to remember what pocket I put it in.”

There was a huff of air. Was it a sigh? Or a snort of laughter? Maybe both.

“We were suffering technical difficulties, a few personality difficulties too.”

“Oh?”

“Later, Ms. Kirby. In the meantime, my chief medical officer wants to ask you how you are.”

“A little colder. A little wetter. I'm still not injured. I don't seem to have a fever. I wish I had a warm blanket and a hot cup of coffee.”

“I'll make sure they're waiting for you. Doc insists on grilling you personally, but I'll be back soon.”

“You said that last time.”

Pause. “This time I promise.”

Dr. James Stern introduced himself, and then dove straight into the usual questions. On a scale of one to ten, one being uncomfortably warm and ten being a popsicle, how cold was I? Did I feel any pain? Any numbness? Any dizziness? How about nausea?

I gave him an eight on the cold scale. On the upside, the cold reduced the pain in my knee to a five. I wasn’t numb or dizzy, but I had some low-grade nausea, the kind that comes from going too long without food.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch. I wanted to bring a thermos of coffee and some snacks, but Mary Lou vetoed me. She said we might contaminate the scene. If I live through this, I’m not going to let her live that decision down.”

“All going well, you’ll soon be able to take her to task. Now tell me about your drinking water.”

“I have about two thirds of a bottle.”

“Did you check Parker?”

I sighed. “That is Parker’s. My bottle is empty. I’ve been rationing myself but…”

“Don’t. Don’t ration yourself. I want you to drink half of the water now. You’ll stay hydrated longer if you’re fully hydrated. Drink the rest in sips when your throat gets dry.”

He told me to move around periodically, to keep my circulation going, which I was already doing, and stay out of the water, which would transfer the cold faster than the air. Contradictory advice under the circumstances. There was nowhere to move around that wasn't wet.

“How about air?”

“Moderate activity won't significantly use up your air supply. Don't worry. Hang in there.”

Hang in there? Was he serious?

“Hello, Ms. Kirby, I'm back.” It was Captain Campbell.

“Any progress?”

“Plenty. We have a working plan. You and I still have a couple of hours or so to wait. Shall we continue our chat?”

“Okay, but you talk for a while. Why did you join the navy?”

“I joined the navy to see the world…mostly I saw the sea.”

“You saw the Atlantic and the Pacific, but the Pacific wasn't terrific and the Atlantic isn't what it's cracked up to be,” I sang.

“Ms. Kirby?”

“Not crazy. Just a Fred Astaire fan.”

There was a pause. “I can't sing, but I can dance a little.”



He talked. I talked. It was the kind of conversation you only have with total strangers or best friends. Movie tastes: we both liked screwball comedies. He liked art films. I preferred action flicks. Failed marriages and kids: we both had one of each. His daughter was at the Royal Military College in Kingston. My son we had already covered. Both of us got along okay with our former spouses. Whatever rancour led to the separations was history. Favourite foods: we were all over the map on that one. We concluded there was enough overlap to be able to go out for dinner when this was all over.

While we chatted, I used the dim red light to strip the memory out of Parker's tactical camera and improvise waterproof containers for the chip and his personal effects. This wasn't as easy as it sounds. My fingers were cold to the point of numbness, and I had to pause, from time to time, to warm them up by stuffing them in my armpits. Periodically I'd jiggle my arms and legs to keep them from stiffening up. I used the pockets in my orange flotation jacket to store the items, and the hand-held. As long as I made it out, even if I didn't survive, the items would get out.



I blink. I must have dozed off. The lights are bright now and the water gone. The galley is shipshape. The bulkhead is intact. People are sitting around me; they don't notice me sitting on the table. Although I can't hear them, they appear to be having an animated discussion. I get out of their way.

I stretch. It feels so good to be able to move around without wading through icy water. I don't even feel cold anymore. The hatch to the living quarters is open. Great! I can leave.

There is someone on one of the bunks, writing in a journal. He doesn't pay any attention to me, he’s too intent on what he is writing. What is really strange is that I recognize the journal. I bagged it earlier. The photos and letters posted on the bulkheads are back in place. Plus, there is a photo that I don't remember seeing. It looks like three generations of Navy officers, cut-and-pasted to make a collage. I reach out for it.