She was thirsty. She flipped open the hatch. She lowered the desalinator tube into the sea and cranked the handle. Fresh water dribbled from the output tube. She filled her canteen. It took an hour. Adrenalin was slowly ebbing away to be replaced by boredom and despair.
Nikki passed land. A serrated ridge on the pale horizon. A seagull wheeled high above the boat. She checked her map. She was passing the island of Longyearbyen. It was Norwegian territory. A barren rock. Russians used to mine coal. Whatever sparse population once scratched a living on the island had probably long since been evacuated, but there might be stores.
The sea surrounding Norwegian territory was supposed to be closed. AWACS planes were guiding a flotilla of gunboats. But she hadn’t seen any planes and she hadn’t seen any boats. She watched for the winking red strobes of high-altitude aircraft, but the skies were empty.
What would happen if she were confronted by a gunboat?
Would they tell her to turn round and head the other way? Would they take her prisoner? Drag her off to an internment camp? Most likely they would open up with a deck-mounted. 50 cal and blow her from the water.
She found tins but the labels had come off. She shook them. A rattle. Chick peas. She couldn’t find the tin opener. She stabbed at the tin with a nail file, but barely made a scratch.
She rationed her food. Three raisins for breakfast. A Ritz cracker with a scoop of peanut butter for dinner.
It took a long time to pump fresh water. A lot of muscle power. She filled a two-litre bottle. She allowed herself a swig every hour.
She drifted down the coast of Longyearbyen. Weak daylight. She found a pair of rubber-coated binoculars among the clutter below deck. She scanned the shore. Bleak volcanic crags. No birds, no grass, no life.
She looked south. A smudge against the sky. Was it a cloud or was it smoke?
The boat slowly rounded a headland. She saw the smouldering ruins of a wooden cabin. The roof had partially collapsed.
A fisherman’s hut? Shelter built by whalers?
Nikki shouted towards the shore.
‘Hello? Can anyone hear me?’
The boat drifted past the distant house.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’
Movement. A figure in the cabin doorway. Maybe someone scavenging supplies.
‘Hey. Hey, over here.’
She waved her arms.
‘Hey. Hello.’
The figure looked her way.
She took binoculars from a hook near the hatch. Focus, re- focus. Blood and metal. The guy had no jaw. His tongue flapped loose. He was joined by two women. Their faces were a mess of spines. All three wore furs streaked in blood. They stood at the end of a wooden jetty, reaching for the distant boat with scabrous, clawing fingers.
Nikki let the current carry her south.
Morning. The southern sky was tinged azure.
Nikki saw a white dot on the horizon. A fragment of iceberg? A sail? The object grew closer. It was a fin. The tail of a plane. An Air France 747 floating low in the water.
Nikki drew alongside the massive passenger jet. She jumped on to the wing and slammed the barbed spike of the anchor into a riveted seam. She walked back and forth on the wing, boots crunching on the salt-crusted metal. She hadn’t walked a single step for weeks. She spent each day crouched in the cockpit and, once a day, she crawled across the hull of the boat to check the mast and sail.
Nikki wiped a porthole with her sleeve. She saw, through the misted glass, rows of empty seats. She guessed the plane had been turned back from US airspace and run out of fuel halfway back to Europe. The aircraft ditched and the passengers used the evacuation slides as rafts. The last cabin staff to abandon the jet must have shut the hatch behind them out of domestic instinct. The plane was hermetically sealed, a steel bubble. It retained just enough air in its cargo hold, empty fuel tanks and passenger compartments to keep it above water. It would float for months, maybe years, riding out the squalls.
Nikki pushed the wing hatch with her shoulder. The rubber seals gave way with a squelch. The interior of the plane was lit by weak daylight shafting through the starboard portholes.
Economy class. Rows of empty seats. A tangle of oxygen masks hanging from the ceiling. Luggage was scattered in the aisles. No blood, no bodies.
Club and first class were both empty. Attachй cases and laptops had been left neatly on the seats as if the passengers would soon return and resume their journey.
The cockpit was empty. Banks of dead instrumentation and a view of empty ocean.
Nikki sought out the galley at the back of the plane. She hoped to find soft drinks, cartons of long-life milk and maybe biscuits.
She found cartons of orange juice in an overturned stewardess trolley. The cartons were frozen solid. She ripped away packaging. A yellow brick of juice. She smashed the brick in the galley basin and sucked shards as she explored the plane.
She noticed one of the toilets was engaged. She casually kicked the door, then jumped back when a voice said, ‘ Don’t come in.’
‘Jesus,’ said Nikki, addressing the bathroom door. ‘How long have you been aboard?’
‘ Leave. Just leave.’ A male voice.
‘Look, there’s no need to hide. There’s just me. I’m on my own. Come on out.’
‘The door’s jammed. It’s staying jammed. Don’t come in.’
‘Please. Come out.’
‘No.’
‘Look, this is stupid.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘The plane ditched. You know that, right? There’s no one on board but you.’
‘I’m not leaving.’
‘You’re in the middle of the fucking ocean. Everyone took to the rafts. You’re alone. And this plane is barely afloat. If it takes on even a cupful of water it’ll sink to the bottom and take you with it.’
‘ Just fuck off.’
‘Well, shit. I’m not going to argue with you.’
Nikki found a pallet of bottled water in a galley locker. She stacked the bottles by the hatch.
She found a wash-bag and baby wipes among the scattered luggage and locked herself in a club-class lavatory. She stripped out of her hydro-suit and wiped herself down. She brushed her teeth and spat. She kept her lock-knife open on the edge of the basin in case her unseen companion decided to emerge from his den.
She found fresh clothes in a suitcase. Socks and underwear. She tried to repair her cracked and wrinkled hands with moisturiser.
She crouched on the wing and tried the radio. She hoped the metal plane would act as an antenna and boost the signal.
She couldn’t raise Rampart. It was out of range, over the horizon and lost in perpetual night.
Nikki scanned the wavebands. A flickering LED. The radio was trying to lock on to a ghost signal.
‘… God’s help… terrible deci… arkest day..!
The voice died away.
Nikki loaded food and water on to the boat, then walked to the lavatory at the back of the plane. She knocked on the toilet door.
‘This is your last chance. I’m leaving.’
‘ Bye.’
‘Seriously. I’m heading south. You could join me. If you stay here you’ll die.’
‘Then leave me. You can do that. You’ve done it before.’
‘Leave you?’
