Red Sand

by Ronan Cray

  Tucker didn’t look up from his leather bound copy of The Tempest. “That can be arranged.” He only managed to get a word in every twenty minutes whenever Mike paused to find a new story about his ball-busting wife and her family. With Mike aboard, the crew never lacked for conversation. One-sided, anyway.

  Tucker wasn’t really listening, or reading for that matter. His eyes drifted out the window, down to the upper deck. A family played miniature golf on the putting green. They looked so blissful. The father laughed when the little girl missed the ball. The wife kissed him on the cheek. The daughter looked up at Tucker, spotting him the way children seem singularly able to do. She waved. He waved back, with all his fingers. What are they doing here?

  They must have felt alienated. Most of the ticketholders had an average age of 78, when the tickets sold at all. Half of the cabins remained empty. The bursar wouldn’t even break even. The cruise line had already decided this would be the last voyage, though only the Officers knew this.

  Mike followed his gaze. “Is it just me, or are there a lot of old people on this trip?”

  “It’s just you. You’re old.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Old folks home in Maryland booked out half the cruise.”

  “I knew it. Sammy, you owe me ten bucks.”

  “Dammit. What did you do, take a census?” Chief Radio Officer Kandasamy Rasalingam, aka Sammy, folded a tenner into a paper airplane and threw it at him.

  “Yeah, I counted the eligible tail. Came up with binary numbers.”

  “Eligible meaning anyone under 80.”

  “At least I have standards.”

  Tucker let them chatter on. He’d worked with them a long time. Now he was selling them out. There was no harm in it. They all had the axe waiting for them after payday. What a great way to answer that age old recruiter’s question! “How did you leave your last job?” “After we got hijacked by pirates, the company flew me out of Monrovia.” Meanwhile, Tucker’d be sipping Mai Tais in the Caymans a rich man. No harm, no foul.

  His mind obsessed on the impending end of his career. After twelve more hours on this heading they would find a small tender with one Liberian pilot and several men with AK-47s. Not many, just enough to give his crew a hard time. Hopefully a few more than Angel could handle. Tucker planned to slip a mickey in Angel’s drink at the poker game, just to even the odds. Then Tucker hands over the ship, offloads the passengers, checks his account for the second half of his payment, and disappears.

  Simple. Painless.

  After that, he didn’t have a plan.

  This troubled him. Take the money and run, but where? Where could a man like him go?

  In his father’s time, a Captain could work anywhere. He could pilot a ship up the Amazon, hide out in the Seychelles, tramp up and down the Chinese coast. Back then, a captain still controlled his ship. He carried his skills with him. Any ship. Any time.

  Now, the bridge lit up like Star Trek. Computers and flashing lights and joysticks entertained an adolescent fantasy, not a nautical adventure. The position-control system downloaded data from a Global Positioning System receiver and gyrocompasses, auto-controlling the propellers to counteract wind, wave and current factors. He spent more time catching up on company paperwork than actually steering his vessel. When he did steer, it was with dynamic positioning on two little joysticks. Where was the romance in that?

  Only a handful of companies in the world could afford this kind of hardware. Once this caper put him on the map, he became untouchable. Here, at the top of his game, computers rendered him useless.

  He would have to go deep. Maybe Macau, or Bangkok, or some other hole. Trouble was, a very rich man living in a very poor country tended to stand out, get robbed, or worse. It dawned on him that this lucrative caper would squeeze him out of the world. Too rich for the poor. Too wrong for the right.

  He fingered the little slip of paper in the notebook in his pocket, a bank receipt with six delightful new figures.

  The door opened and Colin tumbled onto the bridge.

  “What is it Colin?”

  “How’s the storm?”

  “Nothing to worry about. We’ll head below it.”

  Colin looked disappointed.

  Mike gave him a dirty look. “Look at him. He’s dying for adventure. Forgot he’s on a cruise ship.”

  “Will there be anything else, Colin?”

  “Captain, I just… I just wanted to know...”

  “Spit out it, Colin.”

  “Well, I hope I can be a Captain some day. I hope to be as good a captain as you.”

  Tucker tried not to roll his eyes. Mike hid his smile behind a beefy hand.

  “But, what I wanted to say is that I’ll do whatever it takes to move up the ranks. Give me a task and I’ll do it. Nothing is too small or too petty. I want to learn this job from the inside out. If you give me a shot, you won’t regret it, Sir. I’m learning about the bridge. I’m taking classes on the side. Someday I want to steer my own boat. Anything. Anything you need me to do.” Colin didn’t know the cruise line faced bankruptcy.

  “Colin?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Can you find your way off the bridge?”

  He looked crestfallen. “Yes, sir.”

  Tucker felt bad for the guy. He’d picked the wrong voyage to grow ambitions. And the wrong captain. As Colin turned around, Tucker stood up and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Tucker was certain he saw a tear in the boy’s eye. That gave him an idea.

  The hurricane hadn’t made an appearance before the sun settled on the horizon. It looked like clear sailing.

  Dragos noted this. “We clear the storm by morning, sir.”

  “Good. That means we won’t run into any trouble in the night. What do you say, boys? Ready to lose your shirts?”

  It was Poker Night. Tucker could spend the evening with his crew rather than bullshit with the old people around a dinner table. He never did relish the public side of this job. He wanted to steer the ship and command men. That’s it. Unfortunately, twice a week, when duty called, he put on a smile like any other decoration on his crisp, white uniform and headed to the Banquet Hall to sit through mind-numbing conversations with Mid-Westerners who treated him like Magellan. The adulation itself wasn’t so bad, but it only highlighted how far from those great navigators the job of Captain had actually deteriorated. It depressed him.

  But not tonight.

  “You coming?” Mike looked forward to Poker Night even more than Tucker.

  “I’m waiting here until Colin relieves me for the night. You boys go on down and I’ll meet you.”

  “Colin? You’re kidding.”

  “He wants some experience.”

  “He’s never manned the bridge alone.”

  “He’s an Able Seaman. He’s been trained. And besides, maybe if I give him a shot, he’ll shut the hell up.”

  Mike stepped off the bridge. His sarcastic voice echoed in the hallway: “Oh, hello, Colin. Funny bumping into you here.”

  Tucker summoned up his most fearful, commanding voice. “Colin!”

  Colin tripped in, then snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

  “You’re early.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Wait outside in the hall.”

  The rest cluttered out the door. The bridge was quiet; all his.

  He didn’t have much time. He checked to make sure Colin didn’t have a clear view. Colin stood rigid as a Beefeater. Good. No peeking.

  A few quick turns on the screwdriver popped off the AIS cover plate. He wanted it to look like faulty wiring disabled it. The Automatic Identification System is a collision avoidance system. Every few seconds it pings out a signal with the ship’s name, course, speed, and location. This information transmits to every ship in the area on a readout about the size of a garage door opener. With the AIS on, everyone knew his course. He didn’t want that.

 
Turning off the AIS was strictly against international maritime law. All passenger ships are required to have one, for obvious reasons. They can send the fine to the Liberians.

  He did worry about a collision, though. Without the transmission, they were on a ghost ship. If they crossed paths with any other ship in the night, god forbid it be an oil tanker, that would end their trip in a hurry.

  That was a risk he was willing to take.

  “Damn it!” he seethed as a tiny blue lightning bolt licked the end of the screwdriver. A spark, a hiss of smoke, and the AIS was no more. He’d planned on a more elegant solution, but this would do the trick. He inspected it a moment. Anyone would think the unit had just shorted out. Okay.

  Now he had the course laid in, the AIS off, and no one to question it. The Black Box would record that the ship was off course by his authorization. Every ship had a black box, but he had no reason to try to destroy it. He could justify the course change.

  Only one thing could tip his hand now, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  A quad of electric motors maneuvered the ship into port. Unfortunately, a sensor sent updates wirelessly to the pods’ manufacturer, Rolls-Royce. If they malfunctioned, or started to take on water, an automatic alert went out. It was a nice customer-service gimmick, but Tucker couldn’t turn it off. It didn’t matter. As long as they didn’t scrape bottom along the way, those sensors would remain silent.

  Tucker ran through his mental checklist one more time. All clear. Now, the coup de grace.

  “Colin!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “The bridge is yours.”

  Colin stammered. “W-what?”

  “You said you wanted some responsibility? Well, you got it. You’re taking night watch. Everything is on automatic anyway. Don’t touch anything. If you get worried for any reason, just push this button and get me on the com. You got it?”

  “Yes, SIR!” Colin snapped a salute, beaming.

  “Do me a favor. Don’t get worried. I don’t want to be called up here unless you see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Capiche?”

  He only said that to make Colin nervous. The less Colin questioned the better. It worked.

  “Now, Colin. I know you’re new, but this post is part of your training. We’re depending on you. Make me proud.”

  “I’ll give it 110% tonight sir.”

  “I know you will, Colin. Good luck.” Tucker closed the door.

  This was a stroke of genius. He’d been agonizing over who to put on the bridge at night. Who wouldn’t notice the AIS out? Who wouldn’t obsess about being off course? Who wouldn’t call the weather service every five minutes to check on the storm?

  Colin was perfect. And he actually thought he was doing him a favor! What a chump.

  Now, Tucker had a poker game to get to. He didn’t give a damn what his cards were tonight. He was a champion bluff.

  Tucker learned long ago the art of avoiding guests. It protected him from time-wasting elderly admirers, but it had practical reasons as well. The typical American cruise ship patron physically fills a hallway, making it impossible to pass.

  This evening, despite his best efforts at evasion, he was unsuccessful. The young married woman he’d seen earlier, the one with the little girl, accosted him outside her stateroom. “Captain?”

  Fuck off, he thought, as he beamed a stellar smile. “How can I help you?”

  “Would you please come inside?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I…”

  “My daughter would love it if you would read her a bedtime story.”

  He blushed. His embarrassment propelled him in. “Oh, right. Sure. But just a few lines.”

  In a stateroom identical to all the others, a little girl lay bundled up pink pony pajamas. She squealed. “Are you a real Captain?”

  Tucker picked his way through a pink plastic minefield. “Yes, I am. How old are you?”

  “Four.”

  “Really? You and I have a lot in common. I was four when I was your age!”

  She giggled. Her mother smiled from the doorway.

  I need a scotch. “What can I do for you?” Stellar smile.

  “Read me winipoo?”

  He took the book she proffered and turned it toward the light. On the cover, Winnie the Pooh fussed with an umbrella in a rainstorm.

  “You want me to read this? Okay.”

  He sat down with the book and started to read…

  "I ought to say," Explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends."

  “Depends on what?”

  “On whether I’m on the top of it or underneath it.”

  A superstitious man, he didn’t like the inference. “And that’s all for tonight. Sweet dreams!”

  “But Captain…” she cried as he scuttled out the door.

  Two hours of scotch pushed that memory aside. Tucker, Angel, Sammy, Dragos, and Mike sat around a green felt table just outside the engine room. They shouted over the noise. Ados, the Principal Medical Officer, joined them. He was a tall, thin Portuguese man with impeccable style and a patrician air. When he wasn’t attending to his medical duties, he holed up in his quarters with a library of scientific works. Only Poker Night brought him out, though he played conservatively, spoke little, and insisted on drinking Port.

  “You don’t seem to mind it when I take your money,” Angel said, hauling Tucker’s chips across the table.

  “I don’t think anyone would object to you taking their money.”

  “It’s not my fault I’m bigger than you.”

  “It’s your mother’s fault you’re uglier,” Mike added.

  “What do you mean? She looked just like me.”

  “Your father must be a blind man.”

  “A blind priest, actually.”

  If Angel’s mother bore six ugly children, Angel was the ugliest. He called himself a Pinoy, which was the same thing as a Filipino. A former military officer who fought Islamic terrorists, Angel had chosen to leave the military for something more peaceful. Tucker always invited Angel to the table and deliberately lost to him. As the Safety Officer, and a total bad-ass, Angel was an ally Tucker wanted to keep close.

  Mike turned to Tucker. “The way you’re losing money, I’d think you found yourself a job.”

  Tucker winced. Was he that obvious? Unconsciously his fingers reached in his pocket to touch that notebook and the bank slip. They all knew he’d sent out 217 resumes without so much as an interview. Cruise lines, ferries, containers, bulk carriers, tankers, and tugboats turned him down. Desperate, he even sent his resume to amusement parks. Not one interview. Too many letters littered his table with postmarks from Greece, Germany, Sweden, Korea, Panama, and every other port in the world starting with those poisonous words, "Thank you, but..."

  That's what happens when you spend five years with a failing brand. Every newspaper in the world carried the plight of this cruise line, the fights with the bankers, the dropping rates of passengers, the pooling red ink. Maybe he'd waited too long, held out too much hope for a recovery.

  Tucker felt tipsy. He’d been liberal with his chips and enjoyed this devil-may-care attitude. He didn’t mind playing away his pay knowing he had three quarters of a million dollars deposited in a Cayman account and another bundle on its way to him tonight in a Gucci suitcase on a Liberian tender. Special delivery. Good thing, too. If it hadn’t been for that money, he’d be sunk. All the other Captains had found their postings, beating him to the punch.

  “No, I didn’t find anything. I just stopped caring. Call.” He pushed another chip out in front of him. He had nothing, but bluffing was becoming a way of life for him. “What did the rest of you get? I know Mikey here’s going to be a Captain, too, next week.”

  Mike went red. “Well, of a tug boat. My wife wants me closer to home. I’m really looking forward to it. Just like having a roo
t canal every day for the rest of my life. Sammy? What about you?”

  “Same old, same old.” Sammy found jobs as fast as other people change clothes. He was already posted to another cruise line.

  Angel didn't say where he was going, and Tucker pitied anyone who got in the way. Ados remained stoically silent about his situation. Without this job, his visa was up. He referred to a return to Portugal as a "death sentence" but wouldn't elaborate. Dragos hadn't even applied to anything. He said he wanted to go home to his mother's cooking, yearning for something "authentic".

  Mike leaned over to whisper confidentially to Tucker. "What are you going to do?"

  "I have a little stashed away for retirement.” That was no lie. “Guess I'll find me a little island to take some time off till something comes my way."

  "Bermuda?"

  "Good as any."

  But it wasn't like that at all, and only Tucker knew it. Charlie Pips, the owner of the cruise line, called him into the office last week and asked him a simple question. "How would you like a $1.5 million retirement package?" All Tucker had to do was steer this final voyage to Liberia, hand it off to the pirates who were scheduled to come aboard, and disappear. Of course, Mr. Pips didn’t spell this out directly. He alluded to it in a hypothetical scenario so he could maintain plausible deniability if Tucker went to the authorities. Tucker agonized over the decision for about five minutes. Then they got into details.

  He thought about cutting in his colleagues. It would be easier if they were in on it, but greed and distrust decided it. He'd known these men for five years, but he couldn't trust them with a secret this big. He could just hear himself saying tonight, "I'm stealing this cruise ship. You want in?" Besides, he'd seen enough heist movies to know that the more people involved, the weaker the weakest link.

  Speaking of the weakest link, he’d better make sure Angel was out cold when the machine guns showed up. Tucker held a small capsule of chloral hydrate under one of his cards. He poured another round of drinks for everyone and dropped the pill in Angel’s glass. Hell, he might even take a shot at winning his money back before the ugly brute started cutting logs on the table.