Ghost Writer(34)

This time I didn’t skip the journey north. Imbedded in the descriptions of the voyage were his impressions of his colleagues.

Mitch and I have often been called the “Odd Couple.” While he isn't quite Oscar Madison and he looks nothing like Walter Matthau, there is some truth in this. I think that's why we work so well together. Mitch sees the big picture. I notice the details. Mitch is easygoing and inspires loyalty. I am disciplined and demand excellence. Now, Margolo is an Oscar. He's a great guy, but one day I'm going to strangle him, he's such a slob and his socks smell like rancid cheese…

While the station was being towed into place, Minton was full of excitement for the coming adventure and, according to his journal, the pleasant anticipation was shared.

Golanger is like a puppy. I know he's not as young as he looks, but it's hard to believe when he spots a whale or walrus. Boreman teases him, but I think the man actually delights in Golanger's enthusiasm. No doubt, Boreman misses his kids and Golanger makes a good substitute. Poor Golanger.

If we are delayed much longer, Doc Dawes will have emptied the pockets of every sailor foolish enough to sit down to a game of poker with our slick gentleman. Mitch says I should relax my personal rules about gambling, but it isn't going to happen while Doc is dealing.

The adventure palled quickly, once the team was on its own. After exhaustive training, the station itself held no surprises and the dark, frigid waters offered little outside stimulation. Minton didn't mention anything about their work in his journal. He gave brief comments to whether it was a busy, slow, or difficult day without mentioning what would make them busy or what kind of difficulties they faced. He wrote about personal things.

The poker games are a mistake, but they have been sanctioned by the commander so I can't do anything but keep tabs on the men.

When we started out, we agreed that smoking would be curtailed. The break room in engineering is the officially designated area, but Mitch says that the men can smoke in the kitchen as well because of the fire controls and extra air filters. As a result, all the food tastes like tobacco. There's a grimy sheen on everything. It makes me nauseous to go in there, but I force myself.

Mitch shrugs it off, but I know they are drinking during games. They have coffee cups in front of them, but someone always has a flask to tip. We're sitting on tons of nuclear material and they are getting drunk. It's unconscionable.

“Well, I'm with you on that point,” I said aloud to the ghost of Minton, who had appeared at the end of my bed. “Drinking and nuclear arms don't mix, though I have a hard time believing they got drunk on a few swigs of whisky. Or would it be rum?”

Minton gave me a wan smile. Even if he had answered, I wouldn’t have heard him.

“And smoking in an enclosed system, yuk. Well, I think smoking is yucky anyway. It must have driven you crazy.”

Minton nodded grimly.

I set tucked the journal under my pillow and closed my eyes.



Minton is red-faced. I can feel the heat exude off his skin as I hang over his shoulder. Commander Shore is listening calmly, but the colour is rising in his face too, and I know that Minton is crossing the line towards insubordination. Minton picks up on this too and he hesitates. Something Shore says makes him pale. Shore seems to loom over Minton. He seems to suck the air away from Minton away from me. My chest feels heavy. Then the blood flows.



I woke deeply disturbed, short of breath, and parched. I went to the head and washed my face, taking the edge off my thirst with a couple of handfuls of water. It wasn't very satisfying. Worse, it gave my stomach something to want to throw up.

I needed to get out on deck.

On board the émil Gagnan, I would have been able to go to the galley for a juice or coffee then go stand on the foredeck. There, Gravell would eventually find me and we'd chat companionably until our duties took us elsewhere. I missed that camaraderie.

Here, I had no idea where to get a coffee and only a vague idea how to find the deck. Add to that, I couldn’t find my clothes and suspected that if I wandered around in scrubs, I would be escorted back to sick bay.

I'd have to take that chance. I couldn't stay here. The walls were closing in on me, and I had broken out in a fine sweat from fighting down the nausea.

There was no one between me and the exit. Still, I moved cautiously and opened the hatch slowly, peaking around outside before exiting. Then I closed my eyes and tried to remember the route the captain had taken me. I felt a wave of cold and opened my eyes to Minton.

“You know the way out?” I whispered.

He nodded. I followed. He led me to the port side, the side overlooking the station. Soon I was breathing blessedly cold, fresh air. Okay, I should have brought a jacket. But it was worth the chill.

Why would anyone willingly serve aboard a submarine? I would have gone bananas on that station. I probably would have loaded myself into a torpedo tube and shot myself to the surface for the chance to breathe fresh air.

Maybe Doc would let me set up a hammock on deck. Maybe he'd let me return to the émil Gagnan where I knew where to find coffee and I didn't have to sneak around.

I felt a wall of warmth behind me and half expected to be taken back to sickbay in irons. Instead it was Gravell proffering a steaming mug.

“Bonjour, Madame Kirby.”

I sighed happily, forgetting I was ever angry at him.