The Floating Zombie, page 7
At 0125A—British Summer Time, one hour ahead of GMT—July 7, the duty officer performed this task. With a final approving nod at the chart, he returned to his desk and AT1’s met report. This gave the barometric pressure, sea and air temperature, wind direction and force, swell, and sea state.
He sniffed; nothing exciting there; another of those hot, airless nights he had endured many times. An experienced tanker captain, beached by an intractable ulcer, he remembered only too well—and was damned glad to be out of it. Suburban Sidcup suited him fine.
Aboard AT1 the local time was 0455, and Jacens, who had the watch, would have agreed entirely with the far-distant duty officer’s views on the weather. Dawn was still the best part of an hour away; the watch stretched endlessly; even the trivial punching of the time clock was something to look forward to. He yawned, rubbed his bristly chin, poured yet another cup of coffee, and tried to think about his book, but his mind soon wandered off to other things. He walked across the citadel, absentmindedly opening the door to the foredeck with his left hand. That was an error, as a sharp stab of pain told him.
The day before, Langley had exercised action stations. Running, Jacens had slipped and fallen, spraining his left wrist. It hurt like hell, but he said nothing, which earned him a sharp reproof when Jane Harris spotted his swollen wrist. At once the professional nurse, she had ignored his protests and hustled him into the sick bay. She checked the damage with cool, firm fingers; intent on her work, oblivious to his gaze, he was free to have a really close look at her.
Jacens was tough, mentally and physically, but that face, its expression, pierced his armor. He tried to think of the most descriptive word for her expression: “sweet” fitted, but was not entirely satisfactory; it had connotations of chocolate-box prettiness, a cloying quality. He pondered, finally concluding he needed two words: “sensitive” and “tender.”
Yes; both of those things and—goddamnit!—sweet. The curve of the good side of her mouth, the lips slightly parted in concentration, affected him more powerfully than her fine eyes, blond hair, or beautiful, clear skin.
She’d looked up, seen his gaze, and sharply averted her face, then resumed her bandaging, head bent well forward. That had been a tricky moment.
The tricky moment was repeated that morning after breakfast. Jane Harris had him back in the sick bay for examination. Jacens found himself staring at the top of her head.
“Don’t do that.” His voice was gentle. He did not have to make himself any clearer to her.
She did not answer, disturbed more than annoyed, for it was impossible to take offense. She fiddled unnecessarily with the bandage, giving herself time.
“There.” She had found her professional voice. “Coming on very nicely.” She turned away, tidying up. She could not pick up the challenging glove he had dropped.
“Thanks.” Jacens put a lot in the word. “I’ll be on deck this afternoon.” He hesitated. “I’m having trouble with this book of mine; I’d be honored if you’d give me your opinion.”
Jane Harris had as much insatiable curiosity as the next woman: Jacens had been as silent as a cloud on the subject of his writing; from Phil she had learned that he had said nothing to anyone, and if the Cornishman didn’t know, no one did.
“I … I don’t know.” She was acutely aware he was rolling through her defenses like a panzer division. “I may be busy.”
Jacens saw she did not mean to be rude. “I hope you can make it. Thanks again.”
She found him in the shade of the funnel on the helo deck. He stood up, smiling. Firmly he steered her to a cushion which put the disfigured side of her face toward him. Safe behind headscarf and dark glasses, she did not argue.
She soon discovered that when it came to shyness, a reluctance to face the bright light of day, her condition paled into nothingness compared with an embryo writer. After many hesitations, qualifications, and admonitions not “to expect too much,” he passed her his manuscript.
In spite of the countless millions spent these days on education, this is the age of illiteracy. The vast majority readily surrender their right of choice into the hands of TV programmers, happy to soak their brains in predigested pap. While no egghead, Jane Harris actually read books, and her reading was not confined to boy-meets-girl-over-puppy-with-hurt-foot stuff. Before she had read three pages, she realized Jacens was a notably bad writer. She read on, desperately trying to think of something to say to the anxious author.
“I haven’t read many westerns,” she confessed. “This character Lefty looks interesting”—she was talking fast, too fast—“and that bit about—”
He cut in. “No good, huh?”
“I didn’t say that. I think there’s a lot of work needed—”
Jacens shook his head. “Just give it to me, straight.”
This was the first time she had talked with him alone. She had seen from the start he had personality; now she was beginning to appreciate just how much he had; there was more to him than the steady gray eyes under black eyebrows. This was a man who made his own mind up, and wouldn’t change it in a hurry, not like some. …
“You shouldn’t take much notice of my opinion; I’m no judge—I couldn’t even start to write.” She touched his arm, not wanting to hurt him. “For a first attempt—”
“Nope. My second.”
“Oh.” Jane could think of nothing to say. He took the manuscript from her and tossed it aside.
“Thanks, anyway. Leastways, it confirms a nasty suspicion I had. Guess an orphanage kid kin aim too high. Knew I’d get a straight answer from you—an’ it saves me wastin’ time.”
“Don’t give up!” Again she touched his arm. “Nothing worthwhile comes easily. You’re a fighter—keep fighting!”
“Oh, sure. I won’t toss the towel in, not yet.” He dismissed the subject. “And how about you?” The panzer division was rolling again.
“Me?” Her heart beat faster. His fractured nose gave him a predatory look, an eagle contemplating supper.
“Yes, you—Jane.” For the first time in AT1 she was addressed by her Christian name. “Can you practice what you preach?”
She did not evade the question, although no one had dared—or had enough interest—to ask it before. She hesitated, then bowed to his quiet authority, wanting to talk, to unburden herself on him. “You may think I’m sorry for myself. Partly, perhaps, but there’s more to it. I think I’m the same person, but I’ve learned a six-inch scar makes a world of difference.”
“Tell me.” His voice was gentle.
“Don’t be too sympathetic; you’ll have me crying on your shoulder!”
“Anytime. But first, do me a favor; take those glasses off.”
“You want a lot, Mark.” His name came easily.
“Not more than you can give.”
She took them off, blinking in the glare.
“That’s better—no, don’t look away.” He took her hand. “Now, tell me.”
She could not resist him, and had no wish to. For a time she was silent, thinking. “I was an air hostess; engaged.” Her voice was calm, factual. “We planned to marry about seven months later. On a night stopover, the copilot rented a car, taking some of us to a swimming pool. We had a smash. He was killed. I got this; those in the back were only bruised.”
“And he was—?”
She shook her head. “No. Nothing like that; just the copilot. I was concussed. It was a fortnight before I knew what was happening, and then found I looked like this.” She stared at the sea. “They flew me home. The airline was kind, but who wants a hostess with a face like mine? Anyway, I wanted to hide. Nursing didn’t appeal—for the same reason—frightens the patients! I hadn’t much money, and only a third share in a flat. I took this job because it’s not exactly a social life, and I want the money for cosmetic surgery.”
“But how about the insurance?”
“None. Peter—that’s the copilot—always out for a bargain, rented a car without it.”
“You can’t do that!”
She laughed bitterly. “You can if you know where to go. He rented it in Johore; we smashed on Singapore Island—another country.” She laughed again, a hard sound. “If he’d lived, he’d have had enough trouble to last the rest of his life.”
“But … your guy?”
“Another pilot.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “He visited me twice: I knew the first time. I gave him the chance to get out … sent the ring back. He took it.”
“Jeesus! A louse, first-class!” In anger Jacens’s Texan twang deepened. “And dumb!”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t blame him. Some pilots live on their nerves, off-duty, they want to relax, forget flying, bombs, hijacks. He certainly couldn’t unwind with a smashed face. For me, the break was low in therapeutic value.” Her tone was deceptively light.
“Do you still love the guy?” He watched her eyes intently.
“Not anymore. I understand, feel sorry for him. Once a woman feels sorry for a man, she no longer loves him.”
“Waal, I kinda feel sorry for him myself—he missed the chance of a lifetime! By my book, you’ve got—along with a lot else—one thing no woman can do without, a kind heart. And you’ve got guts.” His grip on her hand tightened. “We’ve come a long way mighty fast, Jane. Thet scar don’t matter. Stop hiding—live with it! Come a week or tew, an’ no one will notice it—you’ll see! Later, when you’ve got it fixed, you’ll be glad you didn’t run. Take that scarf off!”
“You are moving fast!” She gave a shaky little laugh, hesitated, then fumbled with the knot, and stopped. “I don’t know why I—”
“Yes you do, too, Jane! I ain’t sweet-talking you, and you know it.”
Impulsively she snatched the scarf off and did not turn her head away.
He examined her face critically. “Sure is a hell of a scar, but stateside there’s a stack of surgeons kin fix it—docs who had plenty of practice with Vietnam veterans! Anyway, just as you are, I think you’re beautiful, inside an’ out.” His deceptively casual movement cloaked his speed; he grasped her chin, kissed her lightly on the mouth, then let her go. “Okay, go right ahead an’ slap my face!”
Outwardly she remained composed. “Are you just being the Southern gentleman, or are you a man trying to trap the only female for a thousand miles?”
Mark’s face hardened. “Neither—an’ yew say that agin, and I’ll slap your face! I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t want to make love to you, but I’m after a whole lot more than thet! If I’m a pain in the neck, say so; won’t bother you agin—’cept if I see you with that scarf on!”
She studied his intense, angry face, free of any trace of insincerity. To talk of love—either way—would be ridiculous, but she realized he soon would. And how did she feel? Physically, she was attracted by his gentle strength; she felt grateful for his bold action, pushing her: with his strong support, she would not wear the scarf again—on board.
On the other hand, he could be just out for sex. There was only one way of finding out, and she had to know; loneliness has to be met and defeated somehow.
Jacens came off watch at midnight. Pale with apprehension, fearful he would misconstrue her action, Jane was in his cabin. For once in that ill-fated voyage, for two at least, the stars were reached.
IX
At 0015 GMT July 9, the duty officer was jerked to full consciousness by the arrival of the red pneumatic cartridge. He opened it, yawning, grimaced at its coded contents, and got down to breaking it.
AT1’s midnight position was 0550 South 6046 East, course 180, speed 12.15 knots. He plotted it, checking against the predicted position.
Right on track. Bloody thing might as well be running on tram lines.
He read again the ship’s met report: pressure 1001 mb, sea 15C, air 25C, wind light, variable force 1, swell negligible, sea state nil. Reading it made him yawn again. Like his Sidcup colleague, he thought the report matched AT1, damned dull.
Bloody science was ruining everything, including his career prospects. Another ten years, and master’s ticket or not, he’d be seeing the sea as a beach attendant. They could stick that guard job sideways; pride wouldn’t let him touch it anyhow, but more than that, the sheer, screaming boredom of it …
Aboard AT1 the local time was 0500. Colmar had the watch, and was well into his eighth coffee. The log had been written up—nothing to report—and he’d punched the time clock. Apart from the very faint engine vibration, AT1 might have been in harbor. Langley had paid one of his silent, unheralded visits—the bastard—half-hour back, checking his time card, the log, and the armament without a word.
Colmar grinned in the darkness. Langley would love to find fault with him, but couldn’t—and hadn’t enough brains to realize he could never outsmart a guy like him.
For Colmar, watches were never long; alone, he could give his imagination full rein, dreaming of endless triumphs over Langley, Jacens—particularly Jacens—and a dozen others. He had always hated authority in any form, but sergeants were his particular bête noire, even more than officers.
Given his nature, his failure to get the commission he had confidently expected, one-time Corporal (Ordinance Corps) Colmar’s attitude was entirely predictable. Lost in his private fantasies, he bided his time. For one who could speak without thought and whose sharp bursts of rage suggested a lack of self-control, he had remarkable patience: he would get even with them, with all the wide world, everyone, everything.
Outside the citadel the predawn blackness was relieved by few stars. Only the faint reflected glow from the port and starboard lights gave a hint of light on the steel deck, dripping with dew. Astern lay the only real relief for strained eyes: diamond-cold points of blue-green phosphorescent fire flashed and danced in the broken water of the wake. Often Langley would walk aft and lean on the rail, watching for what seemed like hours to Colmar.
As far as Colmar was concerned, anyone could have his share of nature, free: he neither liked nor disliked it, he ignored it. Egocentric, he wanted position, recognition, power; deep down lay a very simple need—to be admired; and failing that, feared.
He tossed his empty paper cup in the bin and gave the horizon an all-round scan with his binoculars. Nothing in sight. Just as it should be: quiet as the grave.
But beyond Colmar’s horizon there was a ship. Thirty miles astern and slightly to port of AT1, it was steadily narrowing the gap. AT1’s radar held it, and the computer knew exactly where it was, its course and speed, but as it did not present a navigational hazard or a security threat, no reaction could be triggered. To the computer it was no more than a contact to be reevaluated with each sweep of the surface warning aerial.
Computers are tireless; this one had checked that particular target every four seconds, day and night, for a week. Computers are also only as bright as their programmer permits; AT1’s computer had no instructions about shadowers from astern who kept their distance.
Punctual as always, Jacens arrived in the citadel at 0655, allowing five minutes for the handover. Mentally he cursed Langley’s rota, designed to ensure that no man was stuck with the same watch day after day, which, with three men and eight-hour watches, was inevitable. By Langley’s system, the man who had the watch to midnight also went on watch at 0700. Theoretically, this meant the man who had the 0700-to-1500 watch—with a relief for dinner—had a good six and one-half hours’ sleep in the night, which, to this point, Jacens had accepted as reasonable. Even now, he had to agree that the system was fine—provided you were not emotionally involved in that time off-watch.
Jane. … God Almighty! How she had given herself. … Weary with the experience of many beds, Jacens was chary of committing himself, but again and again he told himself this was it. Jane was no easy lay; neither was he just looking for a cheap screw. Something that had had its tentative beginnings in Bahrain came to fruition in his cabin. If he did not love her, he was kidding both of them.
Aware of Colmar’s mordant gaze, he got on with the watch-change check: logbook, time clock, armament.
Colmar stood back, watching in ill-concealed contemptuous silence.
These lousy GI’s! How they clung so lovingly to all that Army crap! Going by the book; pants and shirts pressed in regulation style, just to make it look that shade more like a uniform. Bet that bastard would love a few shiny brass badges to brighten his lousy, rotten, stinking …
Jacens looked up from the log. “This ship half-hour back—still around?”
“Yep. Still ’way back; I’d say its overtaking us.”
Jacens nodded, punched his card, official acceptance that he had the watch. “Okay.”
“Okay,” repeated Colmar, smiling.
His tone made Jacens look around sharply, but Colmar was just as fast. He smothered a convincing yawn. “It’s me for a shower, feed, and bed. What’s the chow?”
Jacens told him, wondering if it was his imagination that saw amusement in Colmar’s eyes.
“Great! If our Jane performs as well in bed as she does in the galley … Still, that’s something I wouldn’t know.” He turned for the companion way.
Jacens had picked up the binoculars, not watching Colmar. “Ain’t yew fergittin’ something, son?”
“Huh?” Colmar looked blank. “Oh, yea!” He unbuckled his gunbelt slowly and hung it on its peg. “Mustn’t rile the dear old sarge, must we?”
Once Colmar had gone, Jacens relaxed. What had that young creep meant by that crack about Jane? No, he decided, Julius Colmar was just being his normal, unpleasant self; a bad conscience makes its owner unduly sensitive.
Mentally Jacens tossed Colmar aside and got on with his job, scanning the horizon. Lacking nautical experience, he could not be sure, but to him it looked as if the ship astern would pass well clear behind AT1. It appeared to Jacens that the stranger was pointing more or less straight at AT1, so assuming they were going about the same speed, the newcomer would pass seven or eight miles astern. This one apart, the sea remained as empty as it had been since they’d cleared Hormuz. Jacens relaxed.
