Free Stranded by Bracken MacLeod

him.

 
    9
    Mickle watched quietly as Brewster cursed and shouted at the unresponsive vessel. The Second Officer looked like he wanted to take the helm but didn’t know how to do it without knocking the ship’s master unconscious. Both men’s heads whipped around when Noah barged into the wheelhouse. The shift in Mickle’s expression suggested he welcomed an ally. Then Boucher followed him in, and that look of hope died under the weight of resignation.
    â€œGod damn it, Noah,” Brewster shouted. “What do you want? I have bigger problems than you right now.” He craned his neck forward as if being two inches closer could help his eyes penetrate the haze. Noah circled around and glanced at the display in front of the Old Man. The order transmission to the engines was “dead slow ahead.” Almost a stop, but the propellers were still moving, even if the ship wasn’t. Brewster dug his fingertips into his forehead and let out a long exhalation. Ignoring Noah, he said, “Boucher! What did you see?”
    The bosun stepped up to the console, but Noah interrupted him before he had a chance to reply. “He didn’t see a damn thing. I, on the other hand, got a real close look. We’re beset.”
    Brewster stared at him with a puzzled expression. Noah cast a glance over his shoulder at the deckboss who said, “That’s what he says, but—”
    â€œI told you to go have a look over the stern, Serge. Noah’s not allowed anywhere near the cargo deck.”
    â€œI know. I mean, he wasn’t,” Boucher stammered. “I thought it’d be better to lower someone down over the side and get a good, close look. I ran into him and—”
    â€œHe volunteered me as bait to go trawling.” Boucher shot him a withering look, but Noah wasn’t intimidated. His fury at being dropped on the ice gave him a taste of reckless courage. He might pay for showing spine later, but in the moment, showing meekness or even deference was only going to get all of them in even deeper trouble. He could stand up to Brewster or they could all freeze to death when Brewster burned out the backup engine controls trying to keep forward motion in solid ice.
    The Old Man looked Noah up and down. “You don’t look like you been swimming to me.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m telling you. He dropped me all the way down and I’m bone dry.” As if to emphasize his state, Noah pulled his watch cap off, revealing damp hair plastered to his forehead. He was soaking with perspiration from his excitement and coming out of the cold into the well-warmed bridge, but his gear was dry. He hadn’t been swimming in anything but adrenaline and sweat. Brewster raised his eyebrows, silently asking his deckboss for confirmation. Boucher shrugged.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI said, we’re beset.”
    â€œBullshit! Boucher, what did—”
    â€œDon’t ask him,” Noah protested, stepping in front of the bosun. “ I went over the side. I walked around on the consolidated ice pack that’s holding us fast. I know what I’m talking about.”
    Shaking his head at the absurdity of what Noah was saying, Brewster said, “You’re fulla shit. We can’t be beset; I haven’t seen anything on the radar. Hell, I would have seen ice blink out there.” He pointed at the white, blank window.
    â€œYeah? You think you can see the reflection of an ice field ahead when you can’t even see the sun?”
    Brewster set the throttle to stop, and stood. “Mr. Mickle, take the conn. Keep the engines on standby. I’m going to have a look.” Mickle hustled to climb into the seat before the Old Man could change his mind and sit back down. Brewster stomped toward the door, pushing past Noah with an elbow. Noah caught his arm and held.
    â€œDo we even have radar? Communications are down. Do we have any instruments or have you