The Storm Episode One Read online

CHAPTER 5

  John regained consciousness to find himself dangling on the safety line and immediately got the situation under control. There was no time to recall how and why he had ended up here. The waves continued to lash the side of the tanker, covering him in icy splashes. It was only a matter of time before the next really big wave rolled in and crushed him against the wall.

  He grabbed the line with both hands, pulled it towards him and pulled himself vertical, as he should be, head uppermost. He tried to find some purchase with his feet so that he could push himself up to reach the rail. Finally his right foot found some sort of projection on the hull. He froze, preparing himself for a supreme effort, and sharply kicked off, pulling on the line at the same time. At the first attempt, he succeeded in reaching the rail and grabbing it. That was the first step done.

  Now he had to pull himself up by his arms so that he could get his stomach onto the rail and bend forward to reach the staircase. His gloveless hand slipped on the wet metal, while the other barely had enough strength to hold the whole weight of his body, made heavier by the rubber suit.

  After several unsuccessful attempts, he managed it. He leaned across the rail, putting his centre of gravity well forward, and simply let gravity do the rest. An instant later, he fell noisily to the platform floor. Without losing a second, he jumped up and wound the line around his arm so that a wave could not wash him off the staircase again.

  John continued his downward journey. The weather appeared to have become even worse since he had left the bridge. The wind raged wildly and the tanker’s steel hull sang along in time with it, producing low groans.

  When the adrenalin had abated somewhat, he started to feel a dull pain in his lower back and arm. He had probably injured his back when the line sharply interrupted his fall and had hit his hand when he fell.

  After covering the rest of the steps, he stopped half a metre from the door leading to the crew room. Now he slowed his pace, crept up to the porthole and carefully looked in.

  He was not able to look around the entire room through the small round aperture, but there was nothing suspicious about what he could see. The light was on, there were magazines scattered on the sofa, sliding from side to side as the ship rocked on the waves. The bottle of beer he had noticed via the observation camera was still in the same place. The rocking had made it foam so much that the foam was now pouring out of the neck.

  He gripped the door handle and pressed on it. To his relief, the door was not locked and the handle gave way and went down. Waiting until the ship again reached the crest of a wave, he quickly opened the door, darted inside and closed it behind him. The next moment, the giant tanker crashed downwards, causing a cascade of splashes as it reached the bottom of the wave. A whole waterfall splashed against the outside of the door. The tempestuous ocean was again expressing its rage that something as insignificant as a man had outwitted it and managed to get away. Once the wave had died down, it became quiet inside, in sharp contrast to the roaring of the storm raging outside.

  John slackened the cord on his hood and threw it back. A large mirror in front of him caught his eye and he saw his reflection. His wildly disordered hair and fiercely burning eyes made him look like a madman. On his face, where the tight edge of the hood had been, he could see a bright red groove. Water was running off the legs of his suit, forming two large puddles on the floor.

  He took a step towards the billiard table standing in the middle of the room, picked up a rag that was lying on it and wiped his wet face. Then he looked into the corner where he thought he had seen movement while watching through the camera.

  There was an object of some kind lying in the far corner. Only a small hairy part of it was sticking out from behind the armchair there. A dog! It was forbidden to keep large animals on the ship, with the exception of Miguel’s four-legged friend.

  Miguel had brought him on board ten years ago, while they were moored in the port of Manila. He couldn’t remember where he’d gotten him and no wonder, considering his addiction to strong alcohol. He had woken after one of his boozing sessions and next to his bed he had found a mangy puppy that seemed to be at death’s door.

  There were large bald patches in his fur, maybe from lack of food, maybe from impetigo. The poor pup looked so pitiful that Miguel did not have much trouble in persuading the captain to make an exception to the rule about keeping animals on board. After some hesitation he agreed, but ordered that the dog should be taken to the doctor, and if the doctor said that he should be put to sleep – and he looked in a really bad way – then Miguel must not object.

  The ship’s doctor had just as much sympathy for the unfortunate animal. Taking a considerable number of syringes from his cupboard and filling them with only he knew what, he injected the poor creature from head to tail. He washed him and shaved off his remaining matted patches of fur. As the captain said wryly when he looked into the medical section and saw the little dog asleep on a blanket in the corner, if he didn’t die of his own accord, no doubt the injections would finish him off.

  However, the puppy was soon on the road to recovery. Good food and attentive care did their work. Three days later he raised his head, and by the end of the first week on board, he was taking uncertain steps to a bowl of water.

  His fur gradually grew back and as soon as he began looking more like a dog, and not something sent to a sinful Earth by the Devil, the rest of the crew grew fond of him, too. Looking at the animal as he got stronger, the captain thoughtfully shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “Miguel, when I gave permission for him to stay, I didn’t think he’d last till the next evening,” he admitted.

  Miguel just stroked his dog, now named Rafael, took a gulp of beer and laughed.

  “That was the bait, Skip. And you took it,” he joked in reply.

  “I don’t understand how he survived...”

  “Mongrel dogs have the greatest variety of genes, so their ability to survive is far greater than that of any pedigree dog,” said the ship’s doctor, joining in the conversation. “They don’t look so attractive, of course,” he added, lifting a hairy paw and looking at the healed wounds under the leg, “but in the art of survival they are unequalled.”

  John knelt down next to the dog, which was breathing heavily but looking at him unblinkingly with his black eyes. Lifting the animal’s head, he could feel that his fur was sticky with something wet and warm. In the shadow of the sofa, he could not see what it was, but it was obvious anyway.

  He carefully put his other hand under Rafael’s stomach and lifted the dog up. A barely audible groan was heard as he did so.

  “Who did this to you?” John asked quietly.

  The ship provided many opportunities for a dog to get into trouble, but the fact that Rafael was lying wounded all by himself showed that something was wrong. He carried the dog into the light and looked at his wounds. His right front paw and his side had sustained injuries and they did not look accidental. John was not sure about the first wound, but the second was certainly from a firearm. If it had been an accident, the dog would not have been left alone lying on the floor. Damn, what was going on here?

  He had to hide himself somewhere until it became clear and send an alarm signal to the mainland. John looked speculatively towards the door through which he had just entered. The weather outside was raging so fiercely that even without carrying an injured dog, he could easily be swept into the ocean. There was no question of the two of them walking about outside. He would have to risk using the internal staircase.

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, he cautiously approached the other door. All ears, he assessed the situation in the stairwell. There did not seem to be anyone there. Then John realised he was carrying Rafael. The dog’s hearing and sense of smell were just what he needed now. If only he could understand what was required of him...

  John looked the dog in the eyes. To all appearances, he was fully conscious, although both wounds were obv
iously causing him severe pain. Rafael, sensing someone looking at him, looked back. Amazingly, the dog appeared to have read his thoughts. He pointed his ears for an instant and his nostrils expanded in time with his breathing. Then he licked himself. That was a good sign, it seemed there was no-one there. John took the risk of leaving the cabin.

  The staircase was in a huge well that ran through the whole ship from top to bottom. It began down below in front of the engine room, extended up through almost thirty decks and ended on the viewing platform at the top of the superstructure. It would be hard to think of a more dangerous route, given the existing situation, but there was no alternative.

  Luckily, the sounds coming up from the engine room below mingled with the noise of the weather outside concealed the sound of footsteps somewhat and for John, who was creeping as quietly as he could, any help in remaining undiscovered was welcome.

  He now had three things to do. Send an SOS, find a good refuge until help arrived, and give first aid to Rafael.

  The last of these was no problem, as there were first aid kits all over the ship. The SOS would be more difficult, he would have to get to the bridge for that, and finding a good hiding place for several days was certainly no trivial matter.

  There were a number of hiding places in a ship as big as a fair-sized skyscraper, of course. No, there was another difficulty here. John still did not know from whom he had to hide: from a crew member gone crazy, or from outsiders? It would be easy to hide from outsiders, but the rest of the crew knew the ship as well as he did. The better concealed his selected hiding place, the more likely it was that it would be the very place he would be sought.

  John had no doubt about where he should begin – with first aid for the dog. He had a living animal on his hands that was writhing in pain, but still quite patient, just whining softly now and again. It seemed that the self-preservation instinct he had acquired as a puppy was kicking in again. Although wounded, the dog did not whimper, knowing that his sounds were more likely to bring enemies than help. Furthermore, like any canine, Rafael had excellent sense organs, and John now needed these more than ever.

  After a pause for thought, he went to the store where the spare parts for pumps were kept. Neither the storeroom itself nor the entrance to it was in the field of vision of any of the observation cameras, so it was quite a good place for keeping out of sight.

  After taking off his rubber suit and putting it on the cold floor, he carefully laid the injured dog on it. The paw was badly crushed, but luckily without open fractures. He bound it up with a bandage. Rafael would not be able to make full use of it, but at least he would be able to put a little of his weight on it.

  On careful inspection, there was not just a single gunshot wound. A shotgun had been fired at the dog and the lead pellets had made several holes. Some of them had passed right through, while others were caught up in the animal’s skin. Luckily the shot had been fired at a tangent, and there were no internal organs in the line of fire.

  John injected an analgesic and, without waiting for a reaction, began groping through the animal’s fur for shotgun pellets. Each one he found, he squeezed out. Rafael waited stoically, but the tension could be read in his face. When the effect of the analgesic had spread throughout his body, he went into a sleepy state, making it easier to give first aid. No longer afraid of causing pain, John quickly got all the other pellets out, then he rinsed the wound and bandaged it. The dog, sensing that the procedure was over, opened his eyes.

  Now he had to call for help. John grabbed the first rag that came to hand, wound it around his body from the front like a sort of baby-carrier and put the dog in it. The dog obediently hung his head and front paws outside.

  “Clever boy! Now I need your help,” John whispered in the dog’s ear. In reply, the animal looked him in the eye so meaningfully that he appeared to have understood what John had said. Mongrel dogs are indeed devilishly clever!

  John went up to the door and opened it slightly. As soon as he felt the draught, the dog livened up and followed his nose. Sniffing the air, he breathed in and then lost interest. He closed his eyes. The way was clear. John, trusting the dog’s senses, set off up towards the bridge.