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Authors: Bracken MacLeod
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across the white surface, squawking and chirping as it bounced. Laying there a moment, heart pounding and nearly hyperventilating with fear, he waited for reality to hit him with blast of the freezing water that would claim him. However, he remained dry. Cold, but dry.
It took some effort to sit up. The plank under his ass pushed his hips forward and prevented him from rolling onto his side. Sitting up sent a spark of pain down his sciatic nerve into his lower back and ass. He had to leverage himself on his elbows and struggle like a turtle before he could sit up. The cable attached to the metal rings of his harness slumped and dangled in front of him. Rising up into the fog, it was presumably still attached to the windlass. The line hadnât broken. That meant either the winch failed ⦠or Boucher had hit the release lever, dropping him. The thing should have been able to lower ten times his weight without failure, so that left the second possibility as the more likely one. The way things were going on the ship, however, he couldnât be certain it was malice that had sent him falling. It was equally probable that the machine had been damaged in the storm as it was that the bosun released the catch. If there was a single bit of luck to be had, it was that heâd fallen on a piece of ice instead of in the water. Second stroke of luck: he hadnât broken his neck. It could always be worse. There was always farther down to go.
Noah opened his eyes and tried to see where his radio had gone. He pictured it sliding off the edge of the ice into the frozen depths, but hadnât heard the splonk of it entering the water. Ten feet away, a red LED shone dully in the fog. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped carefully, certain that redistributing his weight would unbalance the chunk of ice on which he stood and send him sliding off the edge. It didnât. He felt as sturdy on his feet as he did on board the Arctic Promise âas he did on land.
The radio chirped. A faint voice crackled from the speaker. He heard his name, the word âokay,â and an expletive. The rest was incomprehensible. He picked up the little yellow device and keyed it. âBoucher! What the fuck happened? Over.â He released the button and waited. A second later, another staticky burst of sound erupted, oddly punctuated by the bosunâs perfectly clear colorful expressions, as if the fog was blocking all transmissions except profanity.
He looked around, trying to orient himself. The haze afforded a view only a few feet in any direction. He imagined the platform of ice on which he stood had to be huge if it wasnât shifting with his movements. What heâd thought had to be âopen driftâ ice was more concentrated. This was âvery close packâ at least. The kind of solid ice in which ships became trappedâbeset.
Taking a few halting steps, he tried to see where the pack ended and the next piece began, but at the end of his cable, he couldnât find a lip or an edge. He couldnât even find a seam. As far as he could see, it looked like old, consolidated ice. But that wasnât possible, was it? Hadnât he seen water and the frost flowers only a few hours ago? Unless the ice had closed in like a living thing to grasp them, it was impossible. Theyâd have felt the ice hitting the hull, slowing the ship. Brewster would have seen it on the x-band radar. Yet, there he was standing on it. Ice as far as he could seeâwhich admittedly wasnât farâand no sign it would look any different if he walked any deeper into the fog.
He moved to unclip the hook from his harness to do just that, but paused. If he released himself and Boucher got the windlass moving, itâd yank up his only connection to the ship. Heâd be lost. Maybe that was the plan. Instead, hanging on to the cable, he moved what the length of it allowed in a wide crescent, looking for any sign of a break
It took some effort to sit up. The plank under his ass pushed his hips forward and prevented him from rolling onto his side. Sitting up sent a spark of pain down his sciatic nerve into his lower back and ass. He had to leverage himself on his elbows and struggle like a turtle before he could sit up. The cable attached to the metal rings of his harness slumped and dangled in front of him. Rising up into the fog, it was presumably still attached to the windlass. The line hadnât broken. That meant either the winch failed ⦠or Boucher had hit the release lever, dropping him. The thing should have been able to lower ten times his weight without failure, so that left the second possibility as the more likely one. The way things were going on the ship, however, he couldnât be certain it was malice that had sent him falling. It was equally probable that the machine had been damaged in the storm as it was that the bosun released the catch. If there was a single bit of luck to be had, it was that heâd fallen on a piece of ice instead of in the water. Second stroke of luck: he hadnât broken his neck. It could always be worse. There was always farther down to go.
Noah opened his eyes and tried to see where his radio had gone. He pictured it sliding off the edge of the ice into the frozen depths, but hadnât heard the splonk of it entering the water. Ten feet away, a red LED shone dully in the fog. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped carefully, certain that redistributing his weight would unbalance the chunk of ice on which he stood and send him sliding off the edge. It didnât. He felt as sturdy on his feet as he did on board the Arctic Promise âas he did on land.
The radio chirped. A faint voice crackled from the speaker. He heard his name, the word âokay,â and an expletive. The rest was incomprehensible. He picked up the little yellow device and keyed it. âBoucher! What the fuck happened? Over.â He released the button and waited. A second later, another staticky burst of sound erupted, oddly punctuated by the bosunâs perfectly clear colorful expressions, as if the fog was blocking all transmissions except profanity.
He looked around, trying to orient himself. The haze afforded a view only a few feet in any direction. He imagined the platform of ice on which he stood had to be huge if it wasnât shifting with his movements. What heâd thought had to be âopen driftâ ice was more concentrated. This was âvery close packâ at least. The kind of solid ice in which ships became trappedâbeset.
Taking a few halting steps, he tried to see where the pack ended and the next piece began, but at the end of his cable, he couldnât find a lip or an edge. He couldnât even find a seam. As far as he could see, it looked like old, consolidated ice. But that wasnât possible, was it? Hadnât he seen water and the frost flowers only a few hours ago? Unless the ice had closed in like a living thing to grasp them, it was impossible. Theyâd have felt the ice hitting the hull, slowing the ship. Brewster would have seen it on the x-band radar. Yet, there he was standing on it. Ice as far as he could seeâwhich admittedly wasnât farâand no sign it would look any different if he walked any deeper into the fog.
He moved to unclip the hook from his harness to do just that, but paused. If he released himself and Boucher got the windlass moving, itâd yank up his only connection to the ship. Heâd be lost. Maybe that was the plan. Instead, hanging on to the cable, he moved what the length of it allowed in a wide crescent, looking for any sign of a break
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