Page 75 of The Impossible Princess
I begin to take command, but the decks are not as chaotic as I fear. I’ve drilled the crew unsparingly, but I’ve made sure they understand the purpose behind each task, too. At my order, sailors carry the boat ramp in place and slot it into position with a loud, reassuring clang.
Medical personnel have arrived, and I have them ready triage stations. The ocean is howling beyond the protective walls of the hanger bay, but the sailors are quiet, speaking only when necessary.
I feel the rudder shift, and the distressed boat comes swinging into view, less than a hundred yards out. I raise my binoculars and find the identification markers that tell me this is an ancient Vorburg merchant craft. Fifteen meters long with streaks of rust along the hull. The load lines are far underwater. We’ve got maybe an hour—less if the weather worsens.
I sweep my binoculars down the bulwark of the other vessel and perform a quick count of how many there are. Then I call the master chief and lieutenants who form up in a tight circle.
“Two rafts will come alongside at a time. Get a headcount from the first boat. These aren’t experienced sailors, so you’ll have to keep your life jackets tight and your lights on.” I look around. “Be safe. Everyone comes home.” I clap a lieutenant on the shoulder and the conference is over.
Moller and I watch as the rubber rescue boats shoot down a steep ramp into the ocean. I note the dwindling light. We’ve practiced for this, but no matter how fast we move, much of this operation will take place in darkness.
“I think I saw this group on the news,” I say, wishing I were on those boats. “They’re bringing awareness to coastline loss.”
“A scientific mission?” Moller asks.
“More like a filthy music festival on the open sea. There’s a lot of passion here, but not a lot of brains.”
“Did the news say how many?”
“Dozens. Maybe more than a hundred. They seemed to take pride that it wasn’t well provisioned. They wanted to ‘listen to the ocean.’”
I grunt. He grunts.
“Find an ensign to run up to the galley and get them to start sending down hot meals. Get another on bedding. We’ve got a long night if they have to sleep here.”
He nods and salutes.
The first craft, bucking against the waves, returns. Passengers spill out, thin linen pants pasted to their legs. One pulls a pan flute from his life vest and begins a soft tune while a sailor makes his report.
“There are ninety-eight people aboard the ship, sir. That one—” He points to a mangy young man with long hair and a shaken demeanor. “He says they’ve got a couple of goats, too.”
“Goats?”Stultes es.Goats. “I would’ve bet they were vegan.”
“Oh, they are. The goats are um…protesting the coastline loss too.” The sailor spreads his hands. “That’s what he says.”
“Got it. We don’t touch the goats until the humans are rescued.”
We discover that there aren’t enough life preservers for even a third of the passengers, and we send over dozens more. I spot the goats through my binoculars and see some idiot strap a couple of floatation devices around each animal before securing his own. Another is waving his arms, gesticulating wildly, while arguing with a sailor about bringing along a… my eyes narrow. I think it’s a didgeridoo. He gets pitched into the raft without further fuss.
I’m proud of these sailors under my command. Many of them are untried, braving high seas in small boats, and transferring passengers from the decks to the rafts in the dark amidst heavy swells. They wouldn’t have known how to do this six months ago.
I feel the rudder shift periodically, and I gauge the distance between us and the other ship. We’re not drifting at the same rate. The sea wants to push us towards the other vessel, and the frigate needs constant attention to keep us from drifting into it. I would take nothing to sink it now. Though my crew is moving swiftly, there are scores of passengers still in danger. I remind myself that the captain is good at these kinds of maneuvers, but I can see waves washing thinly over the deck and I pray for time.
Moller returns with a hasty salute. “Problem in one of our cargo holds, sir.”
I don’t have time for cargo holds.
“The compartment’s half-flooded.”
“Which one?”
He delivers the details, and I shove a clipboard at him. “Stultes es.Alert Damage Control and take over command. I’ll be back soon.”
I sprint down the passageways, sliding quickly down the ladders, each breath taking me farther and farther from the hanger, doors open on a howling ocean and sinking ship. My mind floods with the electrical specs and engineering blueprints I pored over all summer. Before I’ve even reached the hold, I have a tentative diagnosis. The fire main is kept under constant pressure, and if a pipe burst or sprinkler head got knocked off, there would be nothing to stop the water from filling the room. Out at sea, a thousand things can go wrong all at once, and they have.
The door to the hold is a hatch, and I spot the department head leaning over it. He looks up, his face white. Damage Control hasn’t arrived yet.
“I don’t know why this happened. The drains should—”
