Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

“I'm only trying to prepare you,” the captain went on, “for what's coming.”

His warning came true even sooner than he might have expected. The winds had been picking up steadily, and the ice, drifting their way in chunks the size of train cars, was lumbering past in even-more-massive blocks; when some became impassable, the ship did what it was designed to do and plowed right through them. With dinner done, and the sun still hanging motionless above the horizon, Michael went out to the bow to watch the grudge match unfold between the oncoming bergs and the pride of the Coast Guard's cutters.

Darryl Hirsch was already out there, bundled up with only his eyeglasses poking through the red woolen ski mask that covered his entire head and face.

“You've got to watch this,” Hirsch said, as Michael joined him at the rail. “It's positively hypnotic.”

Just ahead lay a tabular slab of ice the size of a football field, and Michael felt the Constellation pick up speed as it rammed directly into the center of the snow-covered pack. The ice at first didn't give an inch, and Michael wondered just how thick it was. The engines groaned and roared, and the hull of the ship, rounded for just this purpose, rode up onto the surface of the glacier, and let its own weight-thirteen thousand tons-press down. A crooked fissure opened in the ice, then another, shooting off in the opposite direction. The cutter pressed forward, bearing down the whole time, and suddenly there was a great splintering and cracking of the ice. Massive shards reared up on either side of the prow, rising almost as high as the deck Michael and Darryl were standing on. Instinctively they stepped away from the railing, then suddenly had to lunge for it again to keep from tumbling all the way back to the stern.

When the shards subsided, Michael looked down over the rail and saw the pieces slipping away to the sides, before being sucked under the ship, on their way toward the giant screw propellers- three of them, sixteen feet in diameter-at the other end; there, they'd be chewed and chopped into manageable size, before drifting off in the ship's wake.

But what probably surprised Michael the most was the underside of the ice. What looked white and pristine on top did not look at all that way when broken and upended. The underbelly of the ice was a disheartening sight to see-a pale, sickly yellow that reminded Michael of snow a dog had peed on.

“It's algae,” Darryl said, intuiting his thoughts. “That discoloration on the bottom.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the crunching of the ice and the rising winds. “Those bergs aren't solid ice-they're honeycombed with brine channels, and the channels are filled with algae and diatoms and bacteria.”

“So they live under the ice?” Michael shouted.

“No-they live in it,” Darryl shouted back, looking vaguely proud of them for their resourcefulness. The ship plunged forward again, then dipped, and even in this strange light, Michael could see that Darryl was starting to look a little green at the gills.

After Darryl hurriedly excused himself to go below, Michael got tired of trying to keep his own footing and headed down to the wardroom, which was usually a hive of activity at night, with card games going and some DVD blaring on the TV (The choices ranged from Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan to professional wrestling and the Rock.) But there was nothing going on; the crew, he assumed, must have been called to various duties. He ducked his head into the gym-a cramped exercise room tucked into the bow, separated from the icy ocean only by the bulkheads. Petty Officer Kazin-ski was on the treadmill in a pair of shorts and a tight T-shirt that read KISS ME-I M COAST GUARD!

“How can you stay on that thing?” Michael asked, as the ship rolled again.

“No better time!” Kazinski said, clutching the handrails and keeping up a brutal pace. “It's like ridin’ a bronco!”

A small TV monitor overhead carried a live feed from the bow. Between the drops of water and foam that spattered the outside lens, Michael could see a grainy, black-and-white picture of the heaving sea, bobbing with slabs of ice.

“It's getting rough out there,” Michael said.

Kazinski glanced up at the monitor without breaking stride. “Gonna get a lot worse before this one blows over-that's for sure.”

Michael was glad Darryl wasn't there to hear that. But personally, he was pleased. To have passed through the deadliest stretch of sea on the planet without encountering a storm would have been like going to Paris and missing the Eiffel Tower.

With his hands outstretched toward the walls of the corridor, he stumbled back toward his own cabin and opened the door. Darryl wasn't in his bunk, but the door to the head was closed and Michael could hear him in there, throwing up everything he'd eaten.

Michael slumped onto his own bunk and lay back. Fasten your seat belts, he thought, it's going to be a bumpy night. Kristin had often used that old Bette Davis line when they'd found themselves stranded somewhere precarious as the sun went down. What he would have given to have her there with him now, and to hear her say it just one more time.

The plywood door unstuck itself and Darryl, bent over double, staggered out and sprawled on his bunk. When he noticed Michael, he mumbled, “You don't want to go in there. I missed.”

Michael would have been surprised if he hadn't. “Did you really have to have seconds tonight?” he said, and Darryl, wearing only his long johns, gave him a wan smile.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You gonna be okay?”

The ship suddenly lurched again, so violently that Michael had to grab the bed frame bolted to the floor.

Darryl turned a deeper shade of green and closed his eyes.

Michael leaned back against the interior wall, still gripping the frame. Yes, it undoubtedly was going to be a rough night, but he wondered how long a storm like this could blow. Would it last for days? And how much worse would it get? How much worse, for that matter, could it get?

He picked up one of his Audubon books, but the boat was pitching and rolling far too much to read; just trying to focus made him nauseous. He stowed the book under the mattress. And the roar of the engine and propellers, there in the aft quarters of the ship, was louder than it had ever been. Darryl was lying as still as a mummy, but huffing and puffing.

“What'd you take?” Michael asked him. “Scopolamine?”

Darryl grunted yes.

“Anything else?”

He held up one limp wrist. It had an elastic strap, thicker than a rubber band, wrapped around it.

“What's that?”

“Acupressure band. Supposed to help.”

Michael had never heard of that one, but it didn't look like Darryl would swear by it, either.

“Want me to see if Charlotte's got something stronger?” Michael asked.

“Don't go out there,” Darryl whispered. “You'll die.”

“I'm just going up the corridor. I'll be right back.”

Michael waited for a momentary lull, then got to his feet and out the door. The long corridor, tilting to one side and then the other, looked like something out of a carnival fun house. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed. Charlotte's cabin was about at midships, maybe a hundred feet away, but it was slow going, and Michael had to keep his feet broadly spaced.

He could see a telltale ribbon of light under her door, so he knew she was awake when he knocked.

“It's Michael,” he called out. “I think Darryl could use some help.”

Charlotte opened the door in a quilted robe with a Chinese motif-green and gold dragons, breathing fire-and woolly slippers on her feet. Her braided hair was knotted in a ball atop her head. “Don't tell me,” she said, already reaching for her black bag, “he's seasick.”