Ghost Writer(25)

With hand signals, the divers let me know the way out was underwater. I nodded and did exactly as indicated, which included hanging up the phone and giving it to one of the divers.

That was hard. Even though I couldn't hear or speak to the captain, I felt connected. Now I wasn't.

The spare tank was transferred to my back. Until we submerged, the tank felt heavy on my tired shoulders.

It was surreal, like living through a Hollywood disaster movie. They guided me through an underwater obstacle course of machinery and debris. One or both of them kept hold of me at all times. The hull breach appeared. One edge looked raw and burnt. The rest of the opening was smooth in comparison. No doubt they had widened the hole to gain access. We sidled through, one-by-one, then my guides took a firm hold of me again.

If I had thought the water was icy in the galley, I was wrong. In the open water, I could feel the cold cut through my protective garments and burn the exposed parts of my face. It seemed to squeeze me, taking my breath away. One of the divers sensed my distress and signalled me to take deep breaths. At least, I think that was what the hand gestures were meant to convey.

They pulled me onward. A rescue basket appeared and they helped me inside. Then, very slowly, I was hauled in like the catch of the day.





Chapter Seventeen ~ Nottawasaga



The divers swam alongside, hanging onto the outside. Three other divers were visible on nearby cables where working lights illuminated the cockeyed base and its ring of overworked salvage balloons. The play of light and shadow made it look like a thing of flesh and blood, not metal. I watched the sea monster slowly recede and was surprised when we finally broke the surface and a crane hauled us up onto the deck of the Nottawasaga.

After the gloom of the galley, and the twilight shadows of the dimly illuminated water, the lights on deck blinded me. We were greeted by a cheer that was deafening.

One of the divers helped me out of the basket. People rushed forward. Strong arms supported me. My legs were so shaky. Someone gently removed my mask and lifted the tank off my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I croaked, peering into the face of the diver holding me up. She had her mask off and smiled at me. I couldn't hear the words, there was too much noise, but I could read her lips.

“You're welcome.”

I then turned to thank the other diver. He took my hand and squeezed it firmly. Other hands reached out to me, patting my shoulders and gently moving me along. I had no clue where. I was surrounded by well-wishers. I tried to offer my thanks for their work on my behalf. My voice seemed to have disappeared. That, and the kaleidoscope of washed-out colours that passed for my vision, made me feel like I was caught in a dream.

Someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and guided me away from the crowd, the bright lights, and the confusing buzz of noise. I was peeled out of my orange-wear. A fresh, heated blanket was wrapped around me. Then I was gently pushed into a wheelchair.

Someone, I assumed a paramedic, checked my pulse and oxygen saturation with one of those monitors that clip on your finger. A thermometer was aimed at my forehead and the gloriously warm blanket was shifted so a blood pressure cuff could be wrapped around my arm. The air that seemed warm after the water, felt cold now. As a reward for my suffering, he handed me a cup of juice. I wasn't sure what kind of juice it was, but the sweet-tart, syrupy liquid was like high-test to a grinding motor.

“She's cold, dehydrated, and a good candidate for pneumonia,” he announced.

I recognized the voice as Dr. Stern's. He turned to me and I was surprised how young he was. His voice and country doctor' manners had led me to picture a man in his fifties, either tall and thin, or padded and short. This man was thirty-something, fit, trim, and almost handsome enough to play a surgeon on TV.

“You're mine now, Ms. Kirby,” he said, giving me a twisted grin and suggestive waggle of his brows.

I shook my head.

“Not yet.”

Though lubricated, my voice was still rough. Sore too. It hurt to talk.

“I have to see the captain first.”

“I'm right here,” said a familiar voice.

My heart jumped. I turned toward the speaker.

He was right beside me. He had been there all the time. Rumpled, unshaven, wearing a jacket and watch-cap, I hadn't recognized him for the scrupulously well-groomed commander I had interviewed twice.

“Captain Campbell?”

“In the flesh.”

I jumped out of the chair and threw my arms around him. Worse, I started to cry on his shoulder. He was very gracious about it. After only a moment's hesitation, he held me tight with one arm while the other patted my shoulder soothingly.

Eventually, I brushed tears off my face and allowed the captain to ease me back into the wheelchair. The satchel was at my back. I was about to say something, but the doctor put a fresh warm blanket around me, passed me another cup of juice, and admonished his superior to bring me to sick bay ASAP or he'd exercise his CMO's prerogative. I decided the satchel could stay put.

“I need to tell you…” I started.

The captain stopped me with a shake of his head.

“Business, before pleasure, Ms. Kirby.”

I was about to tell him this was business. Then I saw the reason for his interruption.

A USN officer and a Marine contingent of three, including Dippel and Madison, were waiting. Perhaps they had always been waiting, but now I could see them. The world was back in focus. That juice was marvellous stuff. I took another gulp.