Ghost Writer(29)

I am back on the station. I’m not seeing through Minton’s eyes, it more like I’m sitting on his shoulder. I’m the ghost here, watching him write in his journal.

“I am concerned. I don't know why Mitch picked these men out of all the men that applied. Golanger is earnest, if nothing else. He is clean-living and makes an honest effort to work up to my standards. I wish he didn't hang on Boreman's sleeve, but at least he doesn't copy the man's vices.

“Kant doesn't take our situation seriously enough. He thinks it’s all one great adventure. On the job, he performs well. In his off time, he spends so much time reading fantasy novels, I fear he will lose grip on reality.”

Minton reacts to a noise. He tucks his journal out of sight and picks up an engineering journal. Boreman enters, giving him a friendly nod on the way to his bunk. The man strips down to his skivvies. Minton's nose wrinkles in disgust. Boreman stretches like a gorilla, holding on to the bottom rail of his upper bunk with one hand, then dropping his body down and backwards until his joints crack. Then he repeats the move with his other hand. Dropping to the floor, he does thirty push-ups and thirty sit-ups. Finally, he grabs his towel and leaves his superior officer in peace.

“Boreman is the worst,” Minton writes. “He's too smart for a non-com. I think there is more to him than meets the eye. He is trying to intimidate me into leaving him alone. It won't work.”

Now Minton's hand is shaking. Sweat is seeping from every pore. Red rimmed eyes look up in my direction, unseeing. He starts writing, the words are barely scribbles.



When I woke, my duffle bag from the émil Gagnan was sitting beside my bunk. Briseau poked her head in soon as I tried to sit up.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” I lied. I pointed at my luggage. “Does this mean I'm allowed to get dressed?”

“Allowed and encouraged. You've been invited to dine with the captain in the wardroom. I'll help you shower. Believe me, unless you've been on a naval vessel before, you'll need help with the shower your first time using it.”

It was all more complicated and time consuming than I had anticipated. Eventually I was clean, and I looked forward to putting on real clothes. There was only one problem. I had been using my duffle as a laundry hamper. Someone grabbed that and didn’t look for anything else. I opted for reasonably clean, but rumpled khaki pants and my new best friend, Sophie Briseau, brought me a pristine white t-shirt from ship's stores. I even managed to put on a little makeup because at least they picked up my toiletries. In the middle of my preparations, the doctor showed up in dress uniform. He checked my vitals and declared me fit for limited duty, including dinner. Then he took my arm and offered to be my escort.

If I had been thinking straight, I should have realized I was not in for an intimate soirée. But no, I was caught flat-footed.





Chapter Eighteen ~ Reconstruction



Dora greeted me, glass of wine in hand. She had more forethought than I. She’d brought a silk knit tunic, which made her the dressiest civilian in the room. The navy personnel were all in pristine, crisply pressed whites. The research team looked drab in comparison.

“Good news! Captain Campbell has arranged a stay of execution.”

“Who won’t be walking the plank?” I asked.

“Not who, what,” said the doctor.

Dora shook her head. “Are you sure Jen should be up and around? She seems out of it.”

“I’m standing here, Dora. I’m fine. I just needed a little context.”

Dora huffed.

The doctor patted me on the shoulder. “She’ll get better faster if she get up and around.”

Now the doctor was talking about me as if I wasn’t there. I was tempted to walk off, but I still felt a bit shaky.

A steward touched my elbow. I jumped, almost spilling his tray of appetizers. He made a great save.

“Sorry, ma’am. I just wondered if you wanted something.”

The tray held mini quiches and tiny sausage rolls. I took a couple of the cherry tomatoes that garnished the platter.

“Can I get you a glass of wine, ma’am?”

The steward was actually a Leading Seaman. His kitchen whites had his rank and name attached.

“Thank you, Leading Seaman Ogilvie, but I’d prefer a coffee if possible.”

Ogilvie looked past me. Was he checking with the doctor?

“I think that’s been taken care of, ma’am.”

I turned around. It was Chief Gravell, wearing his usual black except that a double-breasted jacket replaced his windbreaker. He kept his distance until I got over my surprise. He no doubt had seen what happened when I was startled and didn’t want coffee all over him. As soon as he passed me the mug, I wrapped both hands around it, enjoying its warmth. It seemed like I couldn’t get warm enough these days.

“Thank you.”

“Well done on the rank recognition, Jen,” said the doctor.

“Madame Kirby has a son in cadets and has, no doubt, helped him memorize the ranks. Am I correct?”

I gave Gravell a nod and a smile. “I also know the NATO phonetic alphabet. I have to admit, it helps that Seamus was recently promoted from Leading to Master Seaman.”

“Very well done for an eleven-year-old.”