The Left Series (Book 6): Left On An Island

by Fletcher, Christian

  I stared quizzically at Chandra. “Hey, man, they’re not really in charge. We’re entitled to be on that bridge as much as they are. Don’t sweat it.” I nodded towards the bridge, situated further forward of the ship’s superstructure. “Come on, man.”

  Chandra looked slightly apprehensive and maybe a little scared but followed me towards the starboard entrance to the bridge, the control room of the ship. I entered through the hatchway to a raucous noise of raised voices. Chandra followed timidly behind me and closed the door.

  Smith, Thomas McElroy, Sammy O’Neil and Colonel Oleg Chernakov stood hunched around a control desk in the center of the room. They pointed at an open map laid on the desk, glaring at one another and barking in guttural tones.

  The bridge was surrounded by windows with an almost panoramic view of all directions. Only the view of the ship’s stern was blocked by the vast steel superstructure. Connor Hannigen, another big set Northern Irishmen sat at the wheel at the front of the bridge. Several dials and levers surrounded him on the instrument panel on either side. He turned, exchanging nervous glances with two of his countrymen, Dunne and McDonnell, who stood each side of the bridge with their backs to the windows and arms folded across their chests. Dunne and McDonnell occasionally turned to the windows and glanced out to sea, raising a pair of binoculars each to scour the looming land.

  Chandra hung back, looking nervous and skulking in front of the door. I approached the central desk, eager to know what all the commotion and heated row was about. Nobody around the desk acknowledged me as I joined the huddle of flustered men.

  “I am certain we are here,” Chernakov barked, jabbing his index finger to a point on the map that I couldn’t see clearly.

  “No, no, no, that’s totally the wrong place,” McElroy protested. “We can’t possibly be in that position.”

  “Mac’s right,” Smith agreed. “We would have seen some other land by now if we were there.” He thrust his hand along the strip of the map that Chernakov had indicated.

  “So where in the name of God are we?” O’Neil yelled.

  I waited until there was a lull in the fiery confrontation. “What’s up?”

  All four men turned and glanced at me as though I were a piece of poop they’d all just scraped off of their best shoes.

  Smith sighed and nodded at Chernakov. “This fucking asshole has managed to get us totally lost in the middle of Christ knows where.”

  The big, gray haired Russian soldier braced up, his cheeks reddening and his features contorting into a scowl. “I did not claim to be any sort of navigator. You abducted me and brought me along on your stupid quest. I would have been happier if you’d thrown me overboard before we left Ireland.” His voice remained low but the Russian accent was still noticeable through his hoarse, angry tone.

  Smith jabbed out a finger, an inch from Chernakov’s nose. “Well, we can still arrange to throw you overboard, pal. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Gentlemen, please!” O’Neil interrupted, holding up his hands in an appeasement for calm. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “No, that dickhead is getting us nowhere.” Smith jabbed at Chernakov again.

  Although I hated to admit it, Chernakov did have a point. He was a commander of a land force, only assisted by the Russian Navy, who probably had their own guys to operate the sophisticated plotting devices and high tech radars and sonar systems onboard. We were just a rag-tag bunch of nobodies trying to operate a modern fighting vessel. Hannigen knew how to steer and maneuver small ships around the waterways of Northern Ireland but sailing a warship across the Atlantic and guiding us to a specific Caribbean island was a whole different ball game.

  I was just surprised we’d made it this far to…wherever the hell we were.

  Also, I doubted the other Russian military we’d left behind in Belfast were simply going to allow us to take one of their prized possessions and breeze off into the sunset. They’d be coming after us. I didn’t know whether they had the capability of tracking our movements but it seemed a plausible scenario that they’d loom over the horizon on our tail at any moment.

  Chernakov bit into his bottom lip and clenched his fist, glaring at Smith. He obviously wasn’t used to being spoken to in such an offhand manner.

  “I swear, if you were in my command, I would have sent you to serve out your days in some godforsaken region.”

  “Yeah, well things have changed, jerk off. We don’t live in the days of the Cold War no more,” Smith countered.

  “Gentlemen, please,” O’Neil begged for calm once again.

  I craned my neck above and between Smith and McElroy’s broad shoulders to take a sneaky peek at the map on the desk. I saw several light brown islands surrounded by a mass of light blue.

  “Are we around the Caribbean?” I asked.

  McElroy glanced at me and sighed. His forehead was sweaty and he looked concerned. “We think so, but we’re not sure quite where.” His gaze returned to the map.

  “I see,” I said. Jesus, this really was like the old blindfolded game of pin a tail on a donkey.

  The lunatics had definitely taken over the asylum. ‘Let’s pick an island and head for it – do you know where you’re going? – Hell, no but we’ll make it. The old guys used to do it in their old sailing ships so why can’t we in our modern warship? – Can we decipher Russian Cyrillic? – Hell, no but we’ll take a best guess, son.’

  I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation. What did it really matter what island we were heading to? It was either going to be friendly or hostile. Period. Just because the place had a name made no difference whatsoever.

  “Best guess?” I asked.

  More bad looks from around the desk.

  “There are more than seven-thousand islands that make up the Caribbean,” McElroy said, as though he was trying to keep his temper in check. “We could be anywhere from the coast of Argentina, right up to the Florida Keys for all we know.”

  Smith looked up and glanced out through the front windows of the bridge. “This looks to me like the Caribbean Sea someplace. The water is blue and clear, not like the South Atlantic near Argentina.”

  I glanced away from the map and looked through the windows. The unknown island drew nearer. I saw clusters of green trees behind slabs of gray rocks in the distance.

  Chernakov threw up his hands. “Ah, the sea faring expert speaks,” he spat.

  Smith growled. “You better shut your mouth, asshole.” The finger jabbing started again.

  “I say we are here.” Chernakov banged his thumb down on the map.

  I leaned in between Smith and McElroy for a closer look. Chernakov indicated we were somewhere off the coast of Montserrat.

  “Bullshit,” Smith spat. “If we were near Montserrat, we’d have sailed by and seen Antigua first.”

  I inwardly questioned if anybody on this bridge, this control center of the ship, really knew what the hell they were doing. My reservations were immediately confirmed when Dunne made a whimpering sound from the port side of the bridge.

  Dunne lowered his binoculars and turned away from the window. “Looks like an underwater reef below the surface,” he yelled. His face drained of color to ashen white.

  “What position?” Hannigen barked.

  “Dead ahead,” Dunne squawked. He turned back to the window and raised his binoculars to his eyes. “And across the port side.” He scanned across the ship’s bows. “And all along the starboard side. Shit, we’re heading for a low lying reef all around this side of the island.”

  Chapter Three

  Even with my limited knowledge of seamanship, I knew sailing right into underwater reefs wasn’t a good idea. Underlying rocks tended to be the scourge of seafarers since humans decided floating around the planet was a workable scheme. I had to admit, if my ancient ancestors had been anything like me then the nearest settlement, village or hamlet would never have been discovered. I’d have been happy to live in the confines of
an Irish peat bog or wherever they came from.

  “We need to steer the ship around,” Hannigen hollered. “Chernakov, get onto the engine room and tell them to slow the engines.” He twisted in his chair towards the control desk, sweaty faced and full of concern.

  Hannigen jerked the wheel to the right and Chernakov moved towards the headset beside the central control panel. The ship lurched and we stumbled across the bridge due to the sudden turn in the water.

  Chernakov rumbled something in his native Russian dialect into the headset’s microphone but the ship didn’t seem to slow down in any quick time.

  “Fucking hell! We’re heading straight for that reef,” Dunne shouted, pointing through the front window.

  “I’m trying my best to turn this ejit around,” Hannigen croaked, leaning hard on the wheel.

  I gripped the side of the desk as the ship rolled sideways at an angle. Smith, O’Neil and McElroy staggered against the tilting floor, towards the front windows.

  “Slow it down, man,” Hannigen roared. “We’re going right into that fucking reef.”

  Now I realized why it was important to know where we were heading. Sailing into any old coastline wasn’t as easy as I thought.

  “They are doing it right now,” Chernakov screamed, his gray hair flopping over his face as he jigged up and down.

  The whole vessel lurched to the right sending us all sprawling across the bridge floor. A loud crunching and scraping sound came from somewhere below the waterline and the ship seemed to stop dead in its tracks.

  Everybody on the bridge rolled forward with a sudden force, as though we’d been in an automobile collision. Dunne smashed against the side window and the glass cracked. Hannigen unintentionally head butted the console in front of him, splitting his forehead in an inverted Y shaped cut. Smith and McElroy both smashed into the control panels at the front of the bridge, breaking the plastic coating as their muscular limbs made impact. McDonnell and Chandra spun head over heels in a combined tangle of arms and legs on the starboard side of the bridge. O’Neil cried out and spun, falling backwards and trying to grip hold of Smith and McElroy’s clothes to stop himself lurching further forward.

  I managed to prevent myself from flying into the front windows by inadvertently lowering myself enough on my haunches to allow the physical impact of a high speed ship meeting underlying rock to propel me through the air and smash my face into the edge of the desk. What a genius.

  Somebody was talking to me but it sounded echoed and far away. I felt like I was underwater. Had the ship sunk and we’d all drowned?

  “Come on, Wilde Man, get the fuck up, dude.”

  A hand thrust towards me. My vision cleared. My face hurt and I tasted blood in my mouth and felt warm snot drip from my nose. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and saw claret. Not snot but blood. Well, done Brett. Beaten yourself up again.

  The hand didn’t wait to connect with mine but simply hauled me upwards with ease by grabbing my inner bicep.

  “Come on, Wilde Man, get with the plot, kid.”

  I felt a slight slap on my cheek. Then another but a little harder this time.

  Some kind of towel was thrust in my face and raked down my nose and mouth.

  “Jesus Christ, man, you’re bleeding all over the map.”

  My head cleared slightly. I saw fleeting glimpses of an ugly, rotten green skinned bastard wearing a top hat and laughing at me. I quickly realized that was my other self hiding someplace on the ship’s bridge. What had that motherfucker done? Crashed the damn ship?

  “Wilde Man?”

  Another slap around the face.

  “What? Quit hitting me,” I protested.

  “You don’t quite look with the program, kid. You okay?”

  I gazed into Smith’s steely gray eyes. He looked genuinely concerned, which I thought was a nice touch. I wiped the blood from my face with the towel and shook my head, trying to alleviate the fuzziness from my brain.

  It’s strange how the memory works. I remembered one time at Brynston High School when me and this dopey kid, Max I think his name was, had snuck into the boys bathroom with a bottle of correctional fluid and thought it was amusing and wild to sniff this toxic substance until we were totally wasted. Max and I were probably around sixteen and thought we were Jimi Hendrix or Jim Morrison at the time, tripping our asses off and claiming to see oompa loompas riding snakes while crawling out from the walls and shit. It had been a strange experience but the effects were similar to how I felt after busting my face into that damn desk.

  “Mad Max,” I said, as though I had solved the New York Times crossword. “That kid was always known as Mad Max.” The memory of his face eluded me but I remembered he had ginger hair.

  “What?” Smith barked. His face screwed up a few inches away from mine.

  The High School recollection faded and I couldn’t understand why it was ever important.

  I felt Smith’s hands clasp each side of my head.

  “Listen, kid. The ship has crashed but we better get you to see Wingate. You look like you might be in a bad way.”

  Chandra Yadav came into my view, kind of barging Smith out of the way. “It is okay, it is okay, I got it,” he said.

  Chandra took me to the edge of the bridge and sat me down in a reclining chair. He found the first aid kit and tended to my increasingly stinging facial wounds. He stuck a few band aids over my cuts and gazed into my eyes.

  “I think you are suffering from a bit of concussion, my friend.” He turned to Smith. “Please keep an eye on him in case he goes into shock. You know what to do?”

  Smith nodded.

  I was aware of some wailing and screaming from outside the bridge from places along the upper deck.

  Chandra’s eyes were wide with concern. “I have checked out everybody else on the bridge and they are okay. I must go and see if anybody else onboard needs medical attention.”

  “Go for it,” Smith said.

  Chandra scurried through the bridge door and out onto the upper deck.

  Smith bent forward with his hands on his knees, peering into my face. He kind of looked like a beaten up version of Elvis.

  “You okay, kid?”

  “Aw, I didn’t know you cared.” I blew him a mock kiss.

  Smith recoiled then grinned.

  “You’re one weird motherfucker, Wilde.”

  I smiled then winced at the pain from my split lip.

  He pulled out his cigarette pack from his combat jacket and took two out, shoving one into my mouth. The silver Zippo struck flame and we both lit up.

  I took a long puff and coughed out harsh smoke.

  “Hey, are these those shitty Russian smokes? What happened to the British brand?”

  Smith shrugged. “Our local storeman, the good old Seamus Heath has limited our supply of the good things in life.”

  I continued to smoke the cigarette despite the harshness of the draw, flicking ash on the bridge carpet. I fancied a drink to accompany my smoke.

  “Hey, Smith, you fancy an afternoon session of heavy rock and booze?”

  Smith snorted a laugh as he sucked on his cigarette and looked down to the floor. “Well, normally I’d take you up on your offer, Wilde Man but we seem to have some kind of crisis on our hands that requires our immediate attention.”

  My head began to clear to some sort of normality and I realized what had just happened.

  “Shit, we had a smash-up, didn’t we?” I gasped. “Wow, what the hell happened? Is everybody okay?”

  Smith ducked his head and turned to the windows. “Don’t know about that one yet, kid. You up for taking a look-see?”

  I nodded. I felt a little strange but not in a bad way. Maybe smashing my face into the sides of desks was some kind of therapeutic cure.

  Chapter Four

  I hauled myself out of the chair and followed Smith towards the front windows of the ship’s bridge. The ship had stopped moving but remained stuck at an angle, leaning to the r
ight. McElroy stood beside O’Neil, who sat in the captain’s chair positioned a few feet back from the main control panel. Dunne and McDonnell tended to Hannigen sitting at the wheel. Chernakov stood ramrod, staring out through the front windows.

  I followed Chernakov’s gaze. Green palm trees swayed in the sea breeze high above the rocky coast of the island in front of us. The problem being the land was at least a quarter of a mile away from the ship. We’d hit the underground reef and could advance no further. I dreaded to think what damage the ship had sustained below the water line.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  Smith rubbed his face, screwing up his eyes, stress evident on his features.

  “Fuck if I know,” he muttered.

  Chernakov grabbed the radio headset and barked out some harsh Russian dialect, presumably to the crew below decks to cut the engines. He listened to the response for a few seconds then tossed the headset on top of the control panel, turned and glared at Smith.

  “Congratulations, you have managed to totally fuck the ship.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Smith snorted, breezing by Chernakov and strolling towards Hannigen still sitting at the wheel. “Hey, Hannigen, any chance we can set the engines to full astern and get us off this reef?”

  Hannigen brushed Dunne and McDonnell aside and stood from his chair. The guys had wrapped his head with a bandage with a big pad beneath, covering the cut on his forehead. Hannigen glanced out through the bridge windows, looking down at the bows.

  “Depends on how far we’re wedged into the rocks,” he said.

  O’Neil and McElroy joined us at the windows, both staring at the front of the ship.

  “Looks pretty bad,” McElroy commented.

  “We better send a team down into that forward compartment to take a look-see to check we’re not taking on water down below,” Smith said.

  “We can do that,” Dunne volunteered, pointing to McDonnell beside him.

  “Okay, boys, you carry on,” Smith said, nodding. “Take a VHF radio with you and let us know the extent of the damage.”