Murmansk-13

Tor peered over the gurney. Mihailov looked like a man who’d not slept for a week. A day out from the Riyadh and he’d aged a decade. Sweat glistened his heavy brow, despite the chill atmosphere, and his eyes had withdrawn into shadow. He’d paled like a deep sea creature, born never to see the sun. “There are four of us, aren’t there?”

Mihailov did not answer, his eyes hung on Katja for a moment. Tor imagined his second mate was appraising the value of the girl. While Tor could sympathise, he knew Mihailov’s body was tormented by the same nauseous emptiness of sleep and hunger as his own, Mihailov was also a childless bachelor, distanced from any sense of burden or duty.

Falmendikov’s disappearance would ultimately weigh on Tor. He was the Master and like Falmendikov, he was also a father. If he was to lose his command, at least let it not be an ignoble dismissal. Meanwhile, Mihailov would be allowed to continue his career. A statement, perhaps a court appearance would be the extent to which his life would be inconvenienced by Katja’s father. Maybe he could knowingly leave the girl aboard the station, free of guilt.

Silently, Tor rebuked himself as he returned to the gurney casters, Mihailov was frightened, the unfed sleeplessness and half-a-day spent within a morgue only fed that fear. There was something about Murmansk-13 that swallowed courage and had Tor been emotionally divested, he may also have been able to walk away.

It dawned on Tor that his curious insistence had drawn them deep into the station, to the girl. He remembered again, the first Captain he’d flown with as a cadet. A bulbous Norwegian named Dag, a self-styled Scandinavian cowboy who was never seen without his cowhide fringe jacket and bolo tie. Dag had grown exasperated at Tor’s Texas Hold ’em play, inviting the young cadet to his cabin each night to gamble contraband with the other Europeans. ‘Your bluffs are predictable boy, and you never know when to quit.’

Dag believed Hold ’em could teach you a lot about life and had tried to teach Tor the intricacies of the game. The overriding lesson Tor received was that he never learnt. Had they turned back at the ships plan – their primary objective, Katja may have forever remained in unknowing slumber and Tor unburdened.

Diligently, Peralta tied the strips of sackcloth to the handlebars of the gurney. Tor noticed the old bosuns hands quaked gently, prominent veins bulging as he tightened each knot. “I suppose we should start moving her, Captain?” His voice betrayed the same unsteadiness of his hands.

Tor nodded, leaving the scalpel on the autopsy slab. Together, he and Peralta joined Tala who quietly sat with Katja taking care not to disturb her. Tala turned her puffy face to Tor. She looked drained, her concern lost beneath swelling and heavy eyelids. Katja remained unresponsive, at least until Tor ventured to put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged violently away and grunted. The chair tipped slightly to one side and righted with a dull screech against the tiling.

“We’re going to have to grab her simultaneously.” Tor paused to see if this command elicited any response. Katja’s gaze remained firmly on the cold chambers. He gestured for Peralta to go to her legs and Tala to join him at Katja’s shoulders. “Sec, we could use a hand.”

Mihailov poked his head back into the morgue and paused, an indecisive silhouette in the corridor.

“We can move quicker together, Sec,” said Tor, mutedly, hoping to excite no further movement from the girl.

Like a wild bird being teased out from the undergrowth with seeds, Mihailov abandoned his watch and rejoined the party. His head on an untrusting swivel.

“Take the legs with Bose,” Tor watched Mihailov join Peralta unsurely. “Now slowly and gently get a firm hold of her ankles. Me and Tala will hold her shoulders.”

The party all nodded their understanding, gathered around Katja like nervous jewel thieves.

“On three.” Tor licked his lips, bracing himself. “One, two…”

A sepulchral moan cut short Tor’s countdown. Confused, Peralta and Mihailov lunged forward, grabbing at Katja’s legs. Terrified, Katja bucked, kicking out blindly at the two men approaching her. Mihailov got a single hand on her left shin, but took the brunt of her flailing leg in his jaw before falling hard and backwards. Katja’s right swung around swiping Peralta in the paralysed half of his face, knocking him to the side. She arched her back in an inhuman reflexive contortion, throwing the little plastic chair into the knees of Tor and Tala.