The Devil's Waters - By David L. Robbins Page 0,40
Behind him Nikita whispered, “Thank you, svóloch.”
“You’re welcome, hui.”
The first mate Grisha was not in the wheelhouse, the only place LB knew to look for him. He found Drozdov in his captain’s chair. To the rear, the third officer sat at the map table, filling in the logbook.
LB told Drozdov of Nikita’s progress and the request to see Grisha. The Russian captain received the news with a long sigh of relief. Picking up the intercom phone, he found the first mate in his quarters.
“Nikita has moved a toe.”
Drozdov set down the receiver. LB imagined chubby Grisha bolting for the stairs.
LB climbed into the empty leather chair beside Drozdov, facing the broad tempered-glass windshield. Far ahead, a convoy steamed toward Suez. The Valnea sailed into an afternoon that had aged while LB kept vigil in the infirmary. The dropping sun shone into the ship’s westbound face.
On both large, round radar screens in the command dash, a red line swept out of the center blip that was the Valnea. The distant klatch of freighters showed as dark arrowheads, their speeds and headings digitized beneath each mark. To the north, a warship shadowed them. Above and below the convoy, two east–west electronic lines displayed the bounds of the IRTC, five nautical miles wide. Yemen lay a hundred miles to the north, Somalia an equal distance south. The Valnea plowed down the middle of the lane. She sailed alone.
“We cannot keep up,” Drozdov said. “The ships in the convoy are making sixteen knots. I have reported damage to UKMTO Dubai. That is all I can do.”
“When exactly do we get to Djibouti?”
The captain rolled a track ball. The cursor on one radar screen zoomed ahead, scrolling the distance from the center blip.
“Three hundred eighty miles. At this chërtov speed, dawn day after tomorrow. Perhaps.”
“Perhaps what?”
Drozdov laughed a grave chuckle that wrinkled his pocked nose. He gazed forward to the lowering sun.
“What do you think of my ship, Sergeant?”
LB patted the leather arms of his chair. “She’s a beauty.”
“Fah. She is govnó. Shit.” Drozdov turned dark eyes at LB. “Twenty years ago I am master on ships that are at sea even to this day. I see them, I talk on radio to them. Those were made of thick steel, good material. I worked on ships half this size with crew of thirty. Today I have just twenty men. Is all about money now. Companies care nothing for men, for metal, only money. This Valnea, she will have life of maybe ten years. Then she will be scrap. The steel will melt, then go into another ship, then another. You watch, look around. Every day, crew is grinding, painting to stay ahead of rust. Razvan is fixing breaks in something all the time. Two boys are hurt bad because engine explodes. Now we are limping to hospital. Da, I am captain of shit. I have become man to do this only for money, like owners, like insurance company. I am no better.”
LB hadn’t sat with Drozdov for any of this; he’d just meant to report on Nikita. The captain didn’t break his gaze from LB, inviting comment.
“You’re not happy, so quit.”
Drozdov’s temples folded into creases etched by decades of ocean winds and shadeless light. Even grinning, his face dimmed.
“No. I drink too much on land.”
LB let the statement linger; it wasn’t the sort of remark to leave on.
“So tell me about Iris Cherlina.”
Drozdov’s narrow chest shook to a private, dour chuckle. LB’s question seemed to have struck another nerve in the captain.
“I know nothing about Iris Cherlina.”
“How can that be? I mean, she’s your passenger. She was sitting right here when I came on board. You don’t talk to her?”
Drozdov tapped a finger on the arm of his chair, the way Grisha had done against his lips. Iris Cherlina made these sailors twitchy.
“You have curiosity, Sergeant?”
“No more than any regular guy would for a good-looking woman.”
“I will tell you what I know, since you are regular guy. Iris Cherlina eats alone at all meals. In the day, she sometimes sits on the bridge to watch the seas go by. The rest of the time, she stays alone. At nightfall, she disappears into her cabin. Or she walks forward into the dark. That is what I know. This is cargo ship, not cruise liner. I do not talk to her. My crew do not talk to her. We do what I suggest you should do. Look.”
This wasn’t very friendly on anybody’s part, but LB kept that