Prologue
Men huddled over charts, gauges and controls. Rain pattered onto their roof and fell in a curtain over window panes angled inward. Sporadic lightning strikes lit the dim control room for an instant. In a mutual silence, a man in noise-cancelling headphones perked up
“Sir!?” The radio officer sounded off .
His superior stood behind his console chair. “What is it?”
“I’ve got a ping,” He rotated a large dial. “Aft; 7 meters and closing.”
His superior turned and crossed the control room to his console. He flopped into his seat before an unfiltered microphone. He pressed a clear button in a row of off-colored buttons.
“Post seven. Post seven.” The officer spoke into the dull gray microphone.
“Go ahead.”
“Echo shows an object. Got a man on aft spotlight on 5”
“Roger,” The receiver twisted a knob on his radio handset that clicked on each channel between 1 and 5. “Bollocks.” A monsoon awaited him from his dry spot under a solid cement catwalk. “Aft Spotlight, you awake?”
“Yeah,” A groggy voice answered.
“Bridge says its got a ping,” He lifted his hood over his head. “Get on the spotlight.” He charged out into the storm.
Winds swayed his body this way and that before finding a handhold on a railing. The spotlight followed the sentry to the rail. "Put the spotlight there!" It rained in sheets upon choppy waters. An elongated cone of light shone onto the churning ocean. "There!" He shouted into his portable radio pressed firmly to his face awash with sweat diluted with pristine rain. He pointed a baggy black raincoat sleeve into the dark abyss below shaking rain onto his soaked boots. The spotlight focused on a navy and brown form splayed on the water's surface. A crude alarm blared. Harsh red light glowed onto dark hallways. A lone oil rig on a black ocean sprung to life.
Minutes later, men fatigued by emergency operations peered upon a woman wrapped in colonial dress being carted to the medical ward. An entourage of designated medical staff barked orders at one another.
"How's a stage actor end up out here?" A bulky man with a towel over his shoulders asked a meeker shirtless man sharing a doorway to a dark bunkroom.
"Maybe she swam." The meeker man replied dryly. The bulky man sighed and disappeared into the bunk room leaving the other in the doorway. A doctor ran up the hallway.
"Baker!?"
He looked up.
"We need a rubber tube for an intravenous bag.”
Baker nodded.
“We're in ward 3." He sprinted back to the medical ward. Baker walked to a storeroom retrieving shears and a length of red rubber tube looped loosely over his shoulder.
Alva Baker, an engineer on this oil rig, A first of its kind. A marvel of modern science drawing the lifeblood of industry and warfare from murky depths. When machines broke down, he fixed them within the limits of a sporadic supply ship from London. ‘Keep this rig pumping!’, a mantra of the company, meant a lot of duct tape and chewing gum stuck in places until a fitting part was manufactured.
Engineers have to be flexible; a jack of all trades, an ever-ready, able-minded, job-saving, welcome mat. What started as a dedicated team whittled down to a lone engineer on a rig of sailors. Alva backed into swinging doors a few floors below his quarters. Formerly white tiled walls stained pink from gruesome injuries marked the so-called medical ward. A sliver could cost you an arm in this ill-equipped storage space.
“Got your hose here-” Alva sidled between two shower curtains meant for privacy during executi-, I mean, surgeries. A being of flawlessness lay upon that table. Smooth, milky skin with a flush as if she only rested. A fragrant rose surrounded by fat, hairy, and rancid butchers.
“Thank you, Baker.” A doctor blocked his view.
“Y-yeah,” Alva snapped to. “Here you go!” Alva handed over the rubber tube and shears. The doctor spent a moment fitting the tube to a milk bottle with its bottom sawn off and turned upside down to feed fluids to a patient. He peeked back to find Alva gawking. “That’ll be all, Engineer.”
“Right.” Alva stole a glance before leaving the ward.
“Alva.” A smooth female voice called to him. He’d felt it behind him as if-.
“No, she’s unconscious.” Alva wrote it off and returned to his quarters.
An hour later, Alva lay awake in his bunk. Rain dripped a circuit of pipes to his ceiling. Could a female on this stationary sausage fest be enticing Alva from afar? He could count the women on this rig and the chances he’d sleep with any of them on one hand.
“Derek,” he called out leaning over the edge of his bed. “Derek!”
“Wha..?” Derek woke.
“What’d you think of that lady they pulled up?”
“Who cares? She’s dead."
‘Dead’ stung Alva.
“A husk they dredged up. Maybe someone threw their old lady over the side.” Derek laughed through a grin.
Alva sat in silence.
“Long day tomorrow, gotta watch for those U-boats.”
“Alva.” That voice again soft as ever.
“Derek, that’s not funny!”
Derek jolted from his slumber. “What’s not funny?!”
“You didn’t say anything!?”
“No!”
“Cram it! Both of you!!” A man on the other set of bunk beds shouted at them. Derek settled into his sheets and Alva stared at the ceiling.
“Ugh.” He slid down from his bunk barefoot and headed into the softly lit hallway. Cold floors blew away his drowsiness. Soft orange lights replaced the harsher ones for this early hour. He came upon a refreshment room, filled with vending machines, an icebox and a coffee maker. All affixed on a brown, perpetually sticky countertop. Alva ignored them for tap water. He fell into a daze as the water flowed into his cup.
“Alva.”
“Stop it!” He yelled. But he wasn’t in the refreshment room anymore. He sat at her bedside. She slept peacefully, a soft blush on her eggshell white skin.
“Alva.” Her supple pink lips mouthed his name. An oscillating fan blew a few strands of her auburn hair over her shut eyelids. Alva reached out and brushed it away. His forefinger graced her cheek. It felt like silk with an abnormal warmth. His thin hand blocked her eyelids from his view. When Alva saw them again, they shot open. A wet feeling spread over his hand.
“Aagh!” Alva’s cup run over spreading cold water over his hand. He turned off the faucet and poured out the excess. Alva chugged the bland water. He trot down the cold passage, a nervous hurry urged him on. “Was that real?” he thought. He shook his head violently as if it would dislodge with enough effort. Alva lay in bed again rubbing his fingertips together holding on to a feeling of her smooth skin.
“Think he’s gone mental?” A foursome of men seated at a table chatted over lunch.
“He’s always down in medical sitting at her bedside.”
“Least he’s in one place when you need him.”
“Come on, guys!” Derek took over the discussion. “We’ve seen this before. Someone goes mental; enough to be sent shoreside for stress,” He took a sip of his juice. “Then comes back with a kid on the way.”
“So you saying he’s homesick?”
“I’d go with lady-sick” The table shared a laugh. Derek spooned some rice into his mouth before seeing Alva enter the mess. Alva disappeared and returned with a tray of his own. “How’s the lady treating ya?” Derek greeted him. Alva was silent as he opened his juice.
“She let you slide into third yet?” Alva didn’t look up from his plate.
“Bet she’s cold as a fish down there.”
“You’ve done it with a fish before?”
“No…,” He turned away drawing attention to himself. The three pried on about his aquatic escapades.
“They’re kidding,” Derek turned to Alva who sat next to him. “How’s she doing anyway?”
“Agatha’s fine.” Alva spouted.
“Agatha?”
“Yes, thats her name. Agatha Morse.”
“So she’s awake now?” Alva started to choke on a bit of chicken cutlet. He washed it down with juice.
“Y-yeah.” Alva stirred gravy into his mashed potatoes.
“Attention to all crews! Attention to all crews!” A call went out over loudspeakers. It echoed in the mess hall as everyone craned their heads. “A supply barge is stopping to refuel and take on drums of crude oil. ‘C’ Shift will load the ship.”
“We’re on lunch, you twat!”
“Bloody hell!” A manager stood quickly from his seat flipping his tray onto a worker in front of him. “Another ship isn’t due for a month.” Men surged through the hallway clogging the route to the dock. Alva managed to stay beside Derek as he elbowed past other workers. Sweat graced Alva’s brow. He bit his knuckle before before spouting,
“I did it.”
“Did what?”
“I sent a distress out. Agatha said she wants to see London.” Derek yanked Alva by the collar. Alva lost his breath when Derek pinned him against it with a club-like forearm.
“Now you’re bothering me!” He breathed it out; his words seared Alva’s face. “Where’s Agatha?” Derek lifted Alva from the floor.
“In a drum...” Alva whined. “I snuck her out in an empty drum.”
“Come on then.” he dragged him by his lapel. They moved easily through the herd of men into the dock. Forklifts relayed pallets of drums onto a docked ship’s cargo bay. A wide crowd of men watched on. “Alright, lover boy, Where’s the wife?”
“A green drum.”
Derek slapped his own forehead. “Those green drums go back to the company and are brought back filled with provisions." A yellow square on the smooth warehouse floor was bare. “They’re all gone and so’s Aggie.”
“Then, I’m getting on that boat.” A resolve rung in Alva’s voice.
“I’ve heard enough crazy ideas from you today.” Derek let go of Alva and wandered off into the crowd. Alva stumbled before setting his sights on the open cargo hold. It's a long run to the door. Everyone would see him if he bolted… He wasn’t an action man; He's an engineer.
“Hey Peterson!” He heard from way across the dock. “I’m tired of your shit!” It was Derek. He slugged the guy who slept across from himself and Derek. Everyone craned their necks to see the scuffle. Even the forklift drivers left their seats with payloads high on its forks.
“I’m coming with you, Agatha!”