by Adam Baker
He took an epinephrine syringe from his pocket. 'Sure you want to do this?' she asked.
'Yeah. Final lap.'
Lifeline
Punch stood at the refinery railing and looked east. Ice surrounded the refinery and spread towards the island. The sun no longer rose. Daytime was a brief pink twilight. The Arctic was entering perpetual night.
He took an old Sony radio from his coat pocket. He had found it alongside a drum of paint and a roller. Someone had been redecorating a corridor and quit halfway through the job. The batteries still held a charge.
He extended the aerial and adjusted the dial. Whistling static.
A ghost voice. Male. French accent. Tired, distressed. Punch pulled back the hood of his coat and pressed the radio to his ear.
'...est advice . . . safe place and don't venture . . . can hear me . . . refuge . . . hopeless . . . God help . . '
Punch returned to the observation bubble.
'Anything?' asked Sian.
'Nothing. Doesn't seem to work.'
Punch shook batteries from the radio and tossed it aside.
He and Sian had turned the observation bubble into their base camp. They had pushed chairs back from the transmitter console and erected a dome tent. Each night they cooked on a stove. They ate and counted stars. They zipped sleeping bags together and slept skin-to-skin.
'What do you think is waiting for us back in the world?' asked Sian. She was sitting cross-legged by the stove stirring noodles in a mess tin.
'I bet the worst is over. People will have got organised by now.'
'You think?'
'Yeah. When the chips are down, neighbours help each other out.'
Punch wanted to say: 'Promise you'll kill me. If I get infected, if I turn like Rawlins, finish me off. Don't let me become a monster.'
Instead he asked: 'How are the noodles coming along?'
'Soon be done.'
The powerhouse. A steady hum from Generator Three. Massive megawatt output, enough to power a small town. Ghost had run a single domestic extension lead from the control panel. It ran through an air vent into the submarine hangar next door. A single plug socket. A single convection heater. Crewmen took turns to sit in the orange glow.
The crew were camped in front of the submersible. Steel manipulator claws curved above them like a protective embrace. A couple of crew huddled in blankets and played chess. One crewman relentlessly sharpened a knife. Bottles of drinking water were lined up in front of the heater to keep them thawed.
Ghost lay beneath three parkas. Short, bubbling breaths. Jane sat beside him. She stroked his head. Once in a while he opened his eyes. She smiled. She wanted him to see a reassuring face. She didn't want him to feel alone.
He opened his eyes wide and steady.
'How you doing, champ?'
Thumbs up.
'Warm enough?'
Nod.
He stroked her face. Peeling skin.
'Guess I got too close to the fire,' said Jane. 'Sunburn.'
He licked dry lips.
'Drink something.' She put a canteen to his lips. 'Wet your mouth.'
She rearranged the coat beneath his head to give him a better pillow.
'Get as much sleep as you can.'
'Feel like I've been punched in the gut,' whispered Ghost. 'I can barely breathe.'
'Getting worse?'
'Yeah.'
Jane looked for Rye.
'She's in the sub,' said Ivan.
Jane lowered herself through the roof hatch. Her flashlight lit tight banks of instrumentation. Rye sat in the co-pilot seat. She was listening to an iPod.
'Rocking out?' asked Jane.
'About an hour of battery left. My last tunes.'
'What's the prognosis?'
'Ghost? Not so great. I'm dosing him with antibiotics but the pneumonia is caused by chemical damage to his lungs, rather than infection. If his throat closes much further I might have to intubate.'
'What are his chances?'
'Fifty-fifty. His lungs might recover, given enough time. He could be back on his feet in a couple of weeks, if he's lucky, if he doesn't exert himself like he did yesterday. Another shot of speed would kill him stone dead.'
'So there's nothing we can do but wait?'
'Like I say, I've been giving him antibiotics as a preventative measure. It might help, it might not. And plenty of painkillers just to keep him comfortable.'
'Okay.'
'Question is, when do we pull the plug? He's used up his share of meds already.'
'Give him everything he needs.'
'I appreciate you two are close.'
'He was a systems technician. He kept the lights on, the water running. He's worth more than most of the crew out there, worth more than me.'
Jane climbed the side of distillation tank A. The tank was a cylindrical tower one hundred and fifty metres high. The ladder was glazed with ice. Her boots slid on slick rungs. She had a coil of red kernmantle rope slung over her shoulder.
She reached the frost-dusted expanse of the roof. She lowered the rope. Punch stood at the foot of the tower. He tied the rope to the radio case and Jane hauled the case skyward.
She set up the tripod dish and switched on the transmitter.
'Rampart to Raven, do you copy, over? Rampart to Raven, do you copy?'
'Jesus, Rampart. We thought you had been picked up and left us behind. We've been calling for days'
'There was a fire. We lost power. We've managed to get heat to a single room, but we're still in a bad way. You have an electrician called Thursby, is that right?'
'Tommy. Yeah.'
'We desperately need his help. And we need a twenty-metre length of high-voltage cable.'
'What kind of load?'
'Our generators put out about three thousand megawatts.'
'All right.'
'You have a medic?'
'Ellington.'
'We lost our infirmary in the fire. Most of the drugs and equipment got torched. We desperately need whatever you can bring.'
'Okay.'
'When can you take to the rafts?'
'We've been ready for days. We've been waiting to hear from you.'
'Then get going, soon as you can. We've still got GPS. We'll watch for you round the clock. Good luck, guys. God bless.'
Jane explored the powerhouse.
She crawled inside a conduit. She wrapped a scarf over her mouth and nose to protect against soot particles that swirled around her. She rolled on her side and inspected the high-voltage cable that ran along the duct roof. Burned and twisted. Melted insulation hung in ragged strips.
'Reverend Blanc?' Ivan's voice.
Jane backed out of the duct.
'It's Ghost. You better come quick.'
Ghost panted for air. His chest heaved. He clutched his throat.
Rye ripped open his coat and fleece. She held him down and pressed an ear to his chest.
'Can't you get a tube down his throat?' demanded Jane.
Rye prodded his chest and diaphragm.
'Fluid in the pleural cavity.'
'Can you drain it?'
'I can try. Surgery by flashlight. Outstanding.'
Jane grabbed a SCUBA tank from a wall rack. She opened the valve and forced the regulator mouthpiece between Ghost's teeth.
'Breathe. Suck it down.'
Ghost gasped the rich Heliox mix.
'Just keep breathing.'
Nail sat cross-legged on the storeroom floor. Ghost's boat. He tried to make sense of the plans. The central hull had a cockpit for the skipper and storage space below. No clear explanation of how it was to be built. Plenty of panels designated 'AFC'.
He thought it over.
Brainwave. AFC. Air Freight Container.
Specialist hydrocarbon pump equipment had been shipped to the refinery in aluminium crates. Two or three crates shunted to the back of each plant room. Lufthansa. Emirates. Gulf Air. Each crate could be broken down into sheets. Lig
htweight. Easy to cut. Easy to shape. Easy to weld.
Nail got to work. He wheeled an oxyacetylene tank through derelict plant halls. Smoked visor. Heavy gloves. Vaulted chambers lit incandescent by crackling flame-light. He piled silver panels on the storeroom floor.
He stripped to his waist despite the cold and pounded scaffold poles until a skeletal ship frame began to take shape.
Sometimes Nikki watched him work. His skin steamed with sweat. She was revolted. She needed Nail. It was a tactical alliance. He was a strong, amoral survivor. But she gagged at the smell of him as she shivered through their brief, brutal fucks on the storeroom floor. Trading sex for a ticket home.
Nikki studied the plans.
'The sail. What's it made from?'
'Guess.'
'BFx3. What does that mean?'
'Puzzled me for days.'
'Figured it out?'
'Balloon Fabric times Three. Mylar. Thin. Light. Rip-proof.'
'So how do we get this thing outside?'
Nail took a lamp from the table and held it up.
'See? A winch in the ceiling and a hatch in the floor. They used it for hauling shipping containers aboard. The floor opens like a bomb bay. Hydraulics. Big enough to lower our boat. The winch can take about ninety tonnes.'
'But there is no electricity.'
'That's right. We need the power back on. Two, three minutes. That's all it would take. Get the hatch open and we're out of here.'
They carried Ghost on a stretcher.
'We need to get him somewhere clean,' said Rye. 'Some place that hasn't been used much.' They took him to the chapel.
'Get some light,' ordered Rye.
Jane positioned a couple of battery lamps.
'Help me get his shirt off.'
'He'll freeze.'
'Fine. It'll reduce bleeding.'
'Want me to get the altar? Lie him down?'
'No. I need him sitting with his back towards me.'
They dragged Ghost to the front of the chapel and positioned him straddling a chair.
'So what's the deal?'
'I reckon there is liquid building up beneath his lungs.'
'Infection?'
'Maybe. Antibiotics tend not to penetrate the pleural cavity. It's kind of a blind spot.'
'What's the plan?'
'Pleural tap. Siphon off the liquid with a big-ass hypodermic. Place is about as sterile as a toilet seat, but it's the best we can do.'
Rye emptied her pockets on to the altar: 20cc hypodermics; gloves; iodine; dressing.
Rye prepped a needle.
'Ghost? Can you hear me?'
Ghost struggled to focus.
'The cable,' he whispered. 'Listen. In case I don't make it. You need fourteen-centimetre, single-core. Easy to splice. Bolt sockets every thirty, forty metres. Should say Con-Ex on the insulation. Look beneath C deck corridors. One length. That's all it takes.'
Rye measured ribs with her fingers. Second intercostal space. Iodine swab.
'Hold his shoulders.'
Ghost lolled semi-conscious until the tip of a big-bore needle pricked his side and punctured his skin. He convulsed. Jane gripped his shoulders.
'Look at me. Look at me, Ghost. We have to do this. We have to get this done.'
Ghost clutched the back of the chair. Rye drew off three syringe-loads of fluid. She patched the wound. She pressed a stethoscope to his chest.
'Better?'
Ghost gave a thumbs up and passed out.
'Let's get him out of here,' said Rye. 'Get him back in front of that fire.'
C deck. Jane lifted floor grates. Fire had spread through the conduits carried by melting insulation. The cables were burned.
Jane glimpsed Nail at the end of a corridor. He was carrying a sheet of aluminium. She quickly shut off her flashlight. She followed him to the pump hall.
Ghost lay with his back to the yellow hull of the submarine. He took occasional Heliox hits from a SCUBA tank.
'You look better,' said Jane.
'A little less dead.'
'Doing okay?'
'Dr Feelgood and her magic pills.'
'Jesus, you are tripping your brains out.'
'Ask for the pink ones. Seriously.'
'Nail is building something next to the pump hall. Know anything about that?'
'A boat. You saw it. I was going to carry you off into the sunset. Sketched a few plans. I suppose Nail and Nikki found them and decided to finish the job.'
'I'm not sure I can be bothered to intervene.'
'Let them go. Nobody will miss them.' 'You're staying?'
'I'm not in much shape to embark on a long voyage,' said Ghost. 'Besides, I can't ditch these lads.'
'No?'
'You and me. We'll get them home.'
'Want to shake on it?'
Ghost held out his hand.
'Last men off?'
'Last men off.'
Jane visited Punch and Sian in the observation bubble. They had invited her for dinner. Mushroom risotto. They ate from mess tins.
'So you cook for yourself now.'
'The men have stoves,' said Punch. 'They've got pasta and sauce. They've got dried figs. They aren't helpless.'
'Cosy little den.'
'All this doom and gloom. You don't resent a few snatched moments of comfort, do you?'
'The guys are jealous. You can't blame them.'
Sian looked over Jane's shoulder out to sea.
'See that?' she said, pointing at the horizon.
'What?'
'Look west. The stars are going out.'
'Christ.' Jane threw her mess tin aside and stood up. 'That's a serious cloud bank.'
'It's coming fast.'
'God just keeps on shitting on us.'
They zipped their coats and ran outside. Sian and Punch carried the radio case between them.
Jane climbed the distillation tower. She hauled up the radio on a rope, hand over hand as quick as she could. She set up the tripod. She crouched on the roof and shouted into the handset.
'Rampart to Raven, over. Rampart to Raven, do you copy, over?'
No reply.
'Rampart to Raven, come in.'
No reply.
'Raven. Come on, guys. Tell me you haven't taken to the rafts yet.'
No response. A fog bank approached from the west propelled by a bitter wind. A moonlit wall of mist. Jane collapsed the tripod and slammed the case, anxious to quit the tower before cloud eclipsed the moon and left her in absolute dark.
Part Two
Ghost Ship
Hyperion
Jane got some sleep then looked for Ghost. He had joined Sian in the observation bubble. They were sipping tea. Sian brewed a mug for Jane.
'Feeling better?'
'Restless,' said Ghost. 'Been lying on my back for days.'
He unzipped his coat and fleece. He lifted his shirt. A surgical dressing taped over bruised skin.
'Feels like she broke most of my ribs.'
'Rye saved your life. Battlefield surgery. She kept calm. I don't know how.'
'She's a tough person to thank.'
'You're not going to get all distant on me, are you?' said Jane.
'Why would I do that?'
'It's happened to me countless times. I help people through their midnight hours. Later on, they won't look me in the eye. They associate my face with hard times.'
Ghost gave her a hug. She tentatively hugged back.
'Mind the ribs.'
Jane took the GPS unit outside. She and Ghost stood on the big red H of the helipad and studied the screen. They were searching for the Raven lifeboats, scanning for a clear TACOM contact.
A winking signal at the top of the screen.
'Damn,' said Ghost. 'The Raven guys. There they are.'
'How long has it been? Four, five days at sea? Poor bastards. Let's bring them home.'
Ghost steered the zodiac. Jane sat in the prow. They had left Rye shivering at the refinery r
ailing, ready with a spotlight to guide them home.
Jane hunched over the GPS screen. An intermittent signal to the north.
'Left. More left.'
She shone her torch into the darkness and fog. The beam of her flashlight lit nothing but broiling vapour.
'We're getting close. They should be around here somewhere.'
Ghost shut off the engine. They rode the swells. Jane scanned black water.
'I don't get it. They should be right here.'
A blinking TACOM signal at the centre of the screen.
Jane shouted into the dark.
'Hello? Is anyone there?'
Nothing.
Jane took a flare from her coat pocket. She popped the cap and pulled the rip-strip. A red star-shell shot skyward.
'How long do you want to wait?' asked Ghost.
'It would be tragic if they are floating out there and we miss them.'
They took turns to shout.
'Two more minutes,' said Jane, 'then we call it a night.'
'There,' said Ghost. 'See that?'
A faint strobe blinking in the fog. It was hard to judge distance. Ghost gunned the engine and headed for the flashing light.
The TACOM beacon was a cylinder the size of a Thermos flask. It floated in the water attached to a ragged strip of red rubber. The remains of a raft.
'So they didn't make it,' said Jane. 'Lonely place to die.'
'We needed that cable. Guess it'll be at the bottom of the ocean.'
'Over there.'
More ripped rubber. Jane undipped a paddle from the side of the zodiac and dragged the punctured raft closer. A boot. She lifted the edge of the tattered raft. A body in a red hydro- suit. A bearded man, floating face up. Marble-white skin. Open eyes.
'Was that him?' asked Jane. 'Ray. You said you met him once. The guy I've been talking to these past couple of weeks.'
'Maybe. Hard to tell. Want to say a prayer?'
'No.'
They headed back to the rig. Neither of them spoke. Jane switched off the redundant GPS and sealed the case.
Ghost suddenly swerved the boat. He struggled to avoid a sheer white wall that confronted them through the fog. Jane was thrown to the bottom of the boat.
