“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.”
By the time they got back to the cabin, Darryl had curled himself into a ball. He was so small-maybe five- foot-four, and skinny as a rail-that he looked like a kid with a tummy ache, waiting for his mom.
Charlotte sat down on the edge of the bed and asked him what he'd already taken. When he also showed her the acupressure band, she said, “No telling what some people will believe.”
She bustled in her bag and pulled out a syringe and bottle. “You ever heard of Phenytoin?”
“Same as Dilantin.”
“Ooh, you do know your drugs. Ever taken it?”
“Once, before a dive.”
“I hope not too soon before a dive.” She readied the syringe. “Any bad reaction?”
Darryl started to shake his head no, then thought better of shaking anything unnecessarily. “No,” he mumbled.
“What's it do?” Michael asked, as she rolled up one of Darryl's sleeves.
“Slows down the nervous activities in the gut. It's a seizure med, and, technically speaking, it's never been approved for seasickness.” She swabbed a spot with alcohol. “But divers like it.” She readied the syringe, then had to wait again as the ship took what felt like a series of body blows. “Hold real still,” she said to Darryl, then plunged the needle into the freckled skin of his upper arm.
“Give it about ten minutes,” she said, “and you ought to start feeling the effect.”
She slipped the used needle into an orange plastic sleeve and the bottle back into the bottom of her bag. For the first time, she looked around and seemed to take in the cabin. “Man, it looks like I did get the best room on board. I didn't believe it when the Ops told me that, but now I do.” She wrinkled her nose at a sudden gust from the head. “You boys ever heard of Lysol?”
Michael laughed, and even Darryl faintly smiled. But when she'd gone, Michael started pulling on his parka, boots, and gloves. The cabin was foul and stifling, and the action outdoors was too tempting to resist.
Darryl rolled his head to one side and fixed him with a baleful glare. “Where,” he croaked, “do you think you're going now?”
“To do my job,” Michael said, slipping a small digital camera deep inside his parka; the batteries could die quickly in the cold. “Anything I can do for you first?”
Darryl said no. “Just call my wife and tell her I loved her, and the kids.”
Michael had never really asked him about his family. “How many have you got?”
“Not now,” Darryl said, waving him away. “I can't remember.”
Maybe the drug was working faster than expected.
Michael left the light on in the cabin and made his way carefully down the corridor, then up through the
