The Last Ship: A Novel

by William Brinkley

  Since our actions and our future are confined within those limits dictated by the field of Selmon’s experience and his knowledge, I have a kind of continuing dialogue with him, undertaking myself to master to a degree the fiendish subtleties of this new dimension, a fourth now added to the ancient triad wherein life has dwelt and had its being since time began—earth, sea, sky. Now this sovereign newcomer, more fickle by far than any of the others, moving about, settling here, not settling there, almost whimsically one would say if the game were less deadly, its nature less feral, inflicting all with disconcertion, confoundment; and infinitely more stealthy than any of the elements sailors have heretofore had to deal with in its impregnability to all of man’s customary warning devices—you cannot see, taste, smell, hear, touch it. That clandestine characteristic indeed constituting its most terrible threat, the men having to learn, a fact that in itself leads to an active and continuing disorientation, that the testimony of their senses is here worthless, the only guide of any reliability being Selmon’s instruments. There have been one or two occasions when, gone ashore for some purpose on some perfectly lovely day of blue and sunlit skies, of sweetest air, to all evidences, I have had to speak sharply to men to make them reembark in the boat when Selmon murmured the ritualistic phrase he has adopted: “It’s time, Captain.” He has become like some oracle—half seer, half sorcerer—we cannot do without; any more than the ship can dispense with her gyro-compass.

  This new dimension: None aboard has penetrated to and come to terms with its almost spiritual meaning, if one may use such a term, so deeply as himself. His dispassionate calm, his—I must say, almost serene acquiescence in the fact of it: It is as though he has quietly not just acceded to but embraced this new order as having become in the nature of things, simply recognizing that to fuss or grieve or to rail against it is on the order of railing in previous times against the inconstancy of the sea or the capriciousness of the elements. There is one constant: the farther we are from land, the more out at sea, the lower the radiation count. Out there we have seen dolphins play, following alongside our ship. Also the deeper we move into the land the higher the readings. The latter had been established near Carthage where Selmon for that very purpose—a permission I granted reluctantly (and on the very next day following my night’s talk by the lifeline with Lieutenant Commander Chatham), for I had come absolutely to comprehend that I could let no harm befall this officer—had marched straight inland as far as a mile, the rem count rising steadily until he knew he must go no farther. Later, behind the closed doors of my cabin, we had discussed this circumstance, this finding, and its implications for us; his first repeating to me at my request the readings he had encountered, nothing we had run into being anything like that high; figures which kept me silent for a while before saying it.

  “It suggests that the continent is gone, all of it.”

  There seemed a stillness about, a calm not to be explained except perhaps by that other fact of how far we had come, in our beings, in our souls, knowing acceptance itself—of whatever probable reality—to be the very price tag of our survival. Clear explanation, too, a kind of parenthesis, now brought of why we had not seen human beings even on the beaches—the land so close behind rendered impossible to get through. I could hear Selmon’s softly pitched voice.

  “There is no way to know or to find out, Captain; not absolutely. But we know this: the larger the land mass, the greater the contamination. And its corollary: the greater the distance from the sea, the higher the level. With that immense mass far away from any sea, and with a mere mile from the shore become unacceptable, and climbing steadily . . . Close to a certainty, sir.”

  There is a curious thing, scarcely given to our comprehension of it, having to do with the unlimited capacity of the mind itself. If one is living in virtual entirety in the purlieus of unknowns, certainties of whatever kind can, in some bizarre and unknowable manner, have their comfort, especially if accompanied by a practical side, however final. Just as absence of knowledge paralyzes, this corollary: To know is to be able to act. With food supplies ever-diminishing, with each day one less of propulsion power for the ship, we had no time to throw away. If the message now was, move along, get on with it . . . That, in its brutal way, was something. Though perhaps not quite yet: Selmon was speaking, his words quietly, insistently, breaking through my thoughts.

  “Sir, I think we should continue to take an occasional beach reading clear to Suez. Shouldn’t require all that much time. It is just possible—somewhere down the line between here and there. Some place that for some not very logical reason escaped. Some fluke . . .” The words trailed off in their sense of the unlikelihood, the remoteness of the idea. “At the same time it might be prudent perhaps to begin to think further ahead . . . geographically, that is . . .”

  His voice ceased—it took me a moment to realize. I sat looking at him, thoughtful.

  “It went up—steadily—as you went inland?”

  Somehow I needed the fact restated and certified. “Affirmative, sir. No backing off at any point. Even the rate was even. It was like a thermometer registering some rising fever. A very obvious correlation. I could see the ruins—in the distance. I had to stop.”

  I spoke an aside. “Still there?”

  “No visible change, sir.” He had mentioned before he went in that he had seen Carthage, on a holiday, not a half dozen years ago, and hoped to make it there this time. His counter meter had not permitted him to do so.

  We spoke in studious, uncompulsive tones, in a manner meditative, our minds set to reassessments in this new light; the taking of fresh compass bearings for a ship blocked in its present course by impenetrable minefields. I was thinking of those inexorable laws of mathematics here applied of which he had just spoken, of land masses, of distances from the shores of seas. I had already, scarcely aware of the transition, the mental crossover, begun to look ahead, to put the Mediterranean behind me. Then—it was the first time—a thought took shape, a hypothesis.

  “The one consistency appears to be that: the farther from land, the more out at sea, the less the contamination. Now you have added: the farther into the land, the higher. Might these taken together suggest an island as possibly having the best chance to escape it entirely? A particular sort of island. Not very large—and provided, most important, it be surrounded by vast spaces of water?”

  I could see his mind carefully evaluating; he then spoke as if having reached a careful preliminary position.

  “Based on the finding over there, and our knowledge of the substance’s behavior to date, it would seem to be a strong candidate,” he said. “Yes. A piece of land far from all other land, no part of it distant from the sea—also, as you say, the place itself situated in the most immense body of protective water possible.” He paused a beat. “The problem: if such a thing can be found that meets other requirements.”

  I shrugged, deliberately, and spoke offhandedly. “Of course, we are speaking theoretically. It was only a thought, and a premature one. We are certainly not searching for any island. However high on that one list, it would almost be guaranteed to be woefully far down on the other—those requirements you mention.”

  A warning signal went off in a captain’s soul. I decided we had gone far enough with this. It was the first time the idea of an island had been broached. Beyond this exploratory stage, I felt it was much too early at present to take it further. It was hazardous territory: the immense difficulties such a life would bring in its train; worse, for now, the certain hostility of ship’s people to any such proposition, isolating them on some island in nowhere. Best not to test it further now, to let the notion—it was hardly more than that—retreat into our minds; rest there, a kind of possible fail-safe, if it should come to that.

  “A wild thought probably,” I said. “And Mr. Selmon?”

  “Sir?”

  “You are not to speak to the crew of this, any member of it. Any talk of islands. Is that understood?”

&nb
sp; “Understood, sir.”

  “I don’t think it’ll ever come to that. Another thing. I see no reason to broadcast your findings—over there. Would serve no useful purpose. And might well add to the difficulties—mental, emotional . . . They have enough to handle. No need at all to hit down on them with that kind of news.” I moved my tone of voice up a notch. “Clear?”

  “Clear. I understand fully, sir.”

  The truth was, I was saving it. I looked quietly at him. “Meanwhile, I take your suggestion: We will stop now and then between here and Suez. Places you deem the best bets, if anything like that appears. It would be nice to be wrong, to find one of those freaks, flukes, you speak of.”

  “It would indeed, sir. In my view, we shouldn’t give over all expectations there. Some place that by a twist lucked out: I would not rule it out. We have seen other aberrations. Nor would I place high odds there.”

  “I shall be careful not to do so.”

  He smiled thinly. We sat, silent, lingering for a few moments, pensive, contemplating, both of us, the knowledge he had brought back; undertaking, I believe, to get deeper into it, finding that not an easy thing; acceptance, I think, for the reasons given, being achieved much more readily than comprehension. I felt an unaccountable need in him to say something more before he left, so did not dismiss him. He made a slight movement.

  “Africa,” he said. He spoke the name of the continent barely aloud, as though to himself, as one speaks of the bygone, the dead.

  “Yes, Mr. Selmon?”

  “Odd, sir. I was thinking of the animals. Not to put them first. But rather that we have become accustomed almost to what happened to the people. London. Those beaches in Italy. And of course everything north of there. Paris. Grenoble . . . very pretty place. I competed once in the European games at the University of Grenoble—gymnastics.”

  “Did you?” I said.

  The sudden personal note constituted almost rambling for him. “Sorry, sir.” He waited a moment, collecting himself. “It’s only that we have become used to . . . to hardly expecting that anything but that would happen to the people . . .”

  “I understand,” I said, for I did.

  “So one thinks of the zebras and the lions, the giraffes and the elephants . . .” Poignant fell his voice, and strangely gentle . . . “The animals may still be alive. In fact, probably are, most of them. Not for so very long, I shouldn’t imagine . . . though again we have no certainties. But for the present still around, down inside there. We know that.”

  “Are you saying that the animals will live longer than men?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Of course not a great deal so. And even among themselves, varying quite considerably.”

  Something jumped up, alert, in me. He went on to explain that for some reason nobody had ever been able definitively to determine or account for, virtually all other members of the animal kingdom stood superior to man in the amount of radiation they could absorb. Sufficient amounts, of course, would take any of them in time but all both endured eventually lethal doses longer and could survive unharmed doses that would affect deleteriously their alleged better on evolution’s ladder. He continued in a mood contemplative, almost of a nostalgic character, a temperament in which I had not before seen him, an officer as he was entirely professional, to the point, given to excluding all extraneous matters. I found myself listening with a special intentness as he continued to educate me.

  “They did these animal radiation tests at a place out in West Texas. Amarillo, Texas—it was the end of civilization,” he commented. Selmon was from Boston. “The Wild West. They were a damned sight more secret than they ever needed to be—but then everything was. Secrecy was a disease. They picked up our whole class and planted us down there for a full month. Just so we could see it for ourselves. They didn’t, couldn’t, try it on everything. Rhinoceros, for example. Lions. Wildebeest. Not many of those in Texas. But almost every domesticated, or semi-domesticated, you could think of. Pigs. Sheep. Cattle of assorted breeds—to find out whether there were differences in the amounts a Hereford, a Charolais, a Santa Gertrudis, or a Brahmin could take—they actually tested, compared those four. Do you know what animal of all turned out to have the highest tolerance?”

  “No idea.”

  “Prairie dogs. Plenty of those around Amarillo, Texas.”

  “Prairie dogs? How odd. Anyone find out why?”

  “Not the foggiest. One speculation—a frivolous one basically—was that they spent so much time underground.”

  “Amarillo, Texas,” I mused absently. “I believe that’s where they put the things together. Place called Pantax. Any connection between the location of that industry and the animal tests being conducted there?”

  “As a matter of fact there was. The radioactive ingredients being so conveniently at hand for the exposures.”

  “Prairie dogs,” I reflected. “Who would ever have thought. Something rather profound in that if I could think what it is.”

  Again he smiled thinly. “I always felt so, sir.”

  “It would be interesting to know how giraffes fare in comparison with prairie dogs.”

  “Yes, too bad we never learned. No giraffes in Amarillo, Texas.”

  * * *

  My choice would have been to find a couple of cows, along with a not very large bull, but I felt certain that, however these ranked on the radiation ladder, they would never make it on the nautical ladder, aboard ship: certainly not on a destroyer. Cows would insist on larger and more commodious vessels. If not cows, why not goats? They would suit my purpose just as well. Somehow I had the feeling, with no shred of evidence or knowledge to back it up, that they would also make better sailors. I had checked the matter with Selmon. Were goats among those tested? Oh, yes. Plenty of goats in Texas. How did they rank? They had done quite well in the experiments, coming out at the higher levels of tolerance. I pressed my inquiry. If we found living goats would it be safe to take a couple aboard? Yes, provided they had not already reached unacceptable levels. What about their milk? The probabilities were these: Their milk would not be safe to drink immediately. But as their radiation levels diminished, in time it should be perfectly so. All these responses he gave me readily in conversational tones. Another thing that I appreciated in Selmon was his invincible lack of surprise at any matter put by myself to him and his absence of all nosiness, meddlesomeness. Of course, lieutenants (jg) are not given to interrogating their captains, and I was aware that inwardly he might be teeming with surprise and questions, wondering intently what we might be wanting with goats. Or maybe he had even guessed—he was, as I have said, a man of percipience.

  I had high hopes of finding them, especially after Selmon’s disquisition on their absorption capacity. I had traveled extensively in the Mediterranean during my two-year stint of shore duty at the NATO command in Naples, making dedicated use of that assignment to explore at the Navy’s expense every nook and corner of a sea I loved above all others. People are not generally aware of the numbers of the islands of the Mediterranean. Of course, everyone knows of the celebrated ones—Malta, Sicily, the Greek islands—but how many know of Gorgona, of Ponziane, of Ustica, of Pelagie, Lampione, and Lampedusa? There are scores of such islands popping up here and there on the blue plain of that sea, islands that few outsiders ever touch; sparsely populated for the most part, a fair number unpopulated at all, at least by human beings. Most of them decidedly hilly and rocky; it may be due to these topographical characteristics, actually favored by him, that there is no life so indigenous to the islands of the Mediterranean as the goat. He is everywhere, in every variety. And has been there, as we know from reading the ancient Greeks—the goat, I always felt, was clearly the favorite animal of men like Pindar and Hesiod—more or less always. Indeed, the animal of the gods. Present and accounted for in how many friezes, in how many tapestries I had seen with my own eyes—at Patmos, at Rhodes, and a dozen other Greek gardens: Were not goats the one animal always certain to be around chewing
the grass on Parnassus’ slopes? In view of what Selmon had said, the Amarillo findings, they must be somewhere, on some island or another. If we wanted them we should have goats. I wanted them. Two. The Mediterranean, if indeed we were forced to put it behind us, cross it off, could well be our last chance to procure an animal that might turn out to be not just an asset but an urgent need in our future existence.

  As we moved across the sea I ordered specific course changes that would bring us into waters I knew to have islands set in them. From the moment we had entered the Mediterranean I had ringed the ship with lookouts, as I have noted elsewhere—we were looking for other ships, for life ashore—equipped, each lookout, with 7x50 binoculars and with a sound-powered phone to communicate instantly to the bridge anything he raised. In addition the Big Eyes was now constantly manned. I shared my new intention only to the necessary degree, merely alerting all lookouts now to keep a sharp eye out for goats on all islands we passed. To these I always brought us close inshore. And one day one of the lookouts sang out, “Goats on the starboard bow.”