Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Dr. Barnes had helped the ship's own medic to remove the ice and glass shards from Lieutenant Kathleen Healey's face, but her eyes were still severely compromised and Charlotte thought she should be taken back to civilization-and a first-rate ophthalmologist-as fast as possible.

“She could permanently lose the sight in one or even both of her eyes,” she told the captain in his private cabin. Purcell didn't say anything, but looked down at his shoes, thinking hard, and when he looked up again a few seconds later, he said, “Start packing.”

“Come again?”

“I'd planned to get you closer to Port Adelie before launching the chopper, but I think we can make it from here.”

Charlotte really didn't like the sound of that “I think.”

“We'll just have to jettison some of the provisions and supplies, in order to lower the cargo weight. Then we can board you and Mr. Hirsch and Mr. Wilde, with your gear, and take off from here. The chopper should be able to carry just enough fuel to drop you there, and then get back to us while we're already heading back north. Lieutenant Ramsey!” he called out as the officer passed through the corridor outside.

“Sir?”

“Prepare the helicopter. Who are our pilots on this trip?”

“That would be Ensigns Diaz and Jarvis.”

“Order them to fuel it up and be ready to deliver our three passengers to Point Adelie ASAP.”

“From here, sir? Won't-”

But the captain cut him short, completed his instructions, then dismissed him. Returning his attention to Charlotte, he asked if she'd tell Wilde and Hirsch to get a move on, too.

“How long should I tell them they've got?”

The captain glanced at his watch, then said, “Let's shoot for 1300 hours.”

Charlotte still had to do the quick math-that meant 1 p.m. And that meant she had about fifty-five minutes.

Darryl she knew where to find-he was still lying in his cot, less green than he'd been the night before, but still a color no human being should ever be. When she told him the news, he closed his eyes, clearly willing himself to get up, and did.

“You gonna be all right?” she asked, watching him move, like a sleepwalker, toward his bags.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Go on, get Michael.”

“You know where?”

“Where else? On deck.”

Charlotte did not have time for a concerted search-she had her own stuff to get together-but she quickly went up on the main deck, looked toward the bow, and saw nothing, then looked aft, where several crewmen were wrestling the dark green tarp off the helicopter fixed to its raised pad. The wind was still strong, and the tarp whipped around like a monstrous cape. Getting a photo of the undertaking was Michael.

“Did you know we're supposed to be on that helicopter,” she said, “in less than an hour?”

“Yep,” he said, still kneeling to get the shot he wanted. “The crew told me. Most of my stuff never came out of my duffel. I'm ready to go in three minutes.”

“Aren't you Mr. Smarty Pants,” she said. “Well, I got things to do. When you go below for your stuff, make sure you bring Darryl with you. That boy still doesn't look all that steady on his feet.”

As Charlotte headed below, Michael finished taking a couple of shots, then hastily stowed his gear. He had finally gotten his sea legs, and could pretty well anticipate-and correct for-the rolling and rocking of the boat. But he wouldn't be sorry to leave it. Ever since his stroll on the deck the night before, not to mention his disastrous visit to the aloft con, he'd felt himself to be persona non grata and had studiously avoided bumping into any of the senior officers. Even Petty Officer Kazinski had looked at him like a bad-luck charm. When the accident had happened, he'd done everything he could think of for Lieutenant Healey helping her down the ladder like a fireman-which meant staying on the outside and one step below her-then going back up top to try to remove the dead albatross and somehow seal the conning tower window. But there wasn't much he could do-the bird's body was so tightly wedged into the broken window, with the edge of the Kent screen slicing into its breast like a scalpel, that he decided it was best to leave it where it was. At least that way there was something to keep the battering waves from flooding the con again.

No, he wouldn't be sorry to leave the boat and get to Point Adelie. That's where he could begin his work in earnest.

After the tarp was removed, Michael, who'd been on a pretty fair number of helicopters in his time, could see that it was one of the Dolphin class, a sturdy, twin-engined, single-rotor chopper that was routinely used for missions like drug interdiction, ice patrol, and search and rescue. Like the ship they were on, the helicopter was painted red, a common safety measure in icy climes where a spot of color could make all the difference between discovery- and survival-and being lost forever. As he looked on, several seamen began to run fuel lines and prepare the craft for departure; a couple of others began to off-load some crates. They reminded him of a pit crew at a NASCAR race, each one of them going about his business with practiced hands and almost no words exchanged. He collected his camera gear and went back down to his cabin.

Darryl was slumped on the edge of his bunk, gnawing on a protein bar.

“Why don't you go to the mess?” Michael said, stuffing his shaving kit into his duffel, “and get something warm? They've got sloppy joes going.”

“Can't,” Darryl replied.

“You can't make it?” Michael said. “I could go get you one.”

“Can't, because I don't eat meat.”

Michael stopped packing.

“You haven't noticed?” Darryl said.

And now that Michael thought about it, it struck him that no, he hadn't ever seen Darryl eat any meat. Lots of fruits and veggies, tons of bread, cheese, crackers, corn chowder, cherry pie, spinach souffle. But no burgers or pork chops or fried chicken.

“For how long?”

“Ever since college, when I majored in biology.”

“What's that got to do with it?” Michael asked.

“Everything,” Darryl said, rolling the foil down another inch on the protein bar. “Once I started to study life in earnest-in all its countless permutations and manifestations-and I saw that all of it, no matter how large or how small, had one thing in common, I couldn't find it in my heart to interfere anymore.”

Michael thought he got it. “You mean the urge to live?”

Darryl nodded. “Every species, from the blue whale to the fruit fly, will struggle, with every fiber of its being, to preserve its own existence. And the more I studied them, even the single-celled diatoms, the more beautiful they all appeared to me. Life is a miracle-an absolute fucking miracle-in every form it takes, and I just never felt right again about taking any of it unnecessarily.”

While Michael was not about to give up his baby back ribs or his porterhouse steaks, he did understand Darryl's point of view. But there was one thing he didn't get.

“So why haven't you mentioned it before? In the Officers’ Mess, or the wardroom? They could have made you vegetarian plates or something.”

Darryl gave him a long look. “Do you know what sailors, and military types in general, think of vegetarians?”

Michael had never considered the question, and Darryl could see that.

“I'd be better off telling them that I was a child molester.”

Michael had to laugh. “What are you going to do at Point Adelie? Try to keep it a secret again?”

Darryl shrugged, finished the protein bar and crumpled the foil into a tiny ball. “I'll cross that bratwurst when I come to it.” He got up from the bunk and started pulling a sweater over his head. “As for the other scientists there, they won't notice a thing or care either way.” His head popped up again out of the hole. “Give a glaciolo-gist a fresh ice core to inspect, and he's the happiest man on the planet. As long as you don't mess around with their experiments, scientists couldn't care less what you do.”