Red Sand by Cray Ronan

Author:Cray, Ronan [Cray, Ronan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrasax Press
Published: 2012-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

The hurricane hadn’t made an appearance before the sun settled on the horizon. It looked like clear sailing.

Dragos noted this. “We clear the storm by morning, sir.”

“Good. That means we won’t run into any trouble in the night. What do you say, boys? Ready to lose your shirts?”

It was Poker Night. Tucker could spend the evening with his crew rather than bullshit with the old people around a dinner table. He never did relish the public side of this job. He wanted to steer the ship and command men. That’s it. Unfortunately, twice a week, when duty called, he put on a smile like any other decoration on his crisp, white uniform and headed to the Banquet Hall to sit through mind-numbing conversations with Mid-Westerners who treated him like Magellan. The adulation itself wasn’t so bad, but it only highlighted how far from those great navigators the job of Captain had actually deteriorated. It depressed him.

But not tonight.

“You coming?” Mike looked forward to Poker Night even more than Tucker.

“I’m waiting here until Colin relieves me for the night. You boys go on down and I’ll meet you.”

“Colin? You’re kidding.”

“He wants some experience.”

“He’s never manned the bridge alone.”

“He’s an Able Seaman. He’s been trained. And besides, maybe if I give him a shot, he’ll shut the hell up.”

Mike stepped off the bridge. His sarcastic voice echoed in the hallway: “Oh, hello, Colin. Funny bumping into you here.”

Tucker summoned up his most fearful, commanding voice. “Colin!”

Colin tripped in, then snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

“You’re early.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Wait outside in the hall.”

The rest cluttered out the door. The bridge was quiet; all his.

He didn’t have much time. He checked to make sure Colin didn’t have a clear view. Colin stood rigid as a Beefeater. Good. No peeking.

A few quick turns on the screwdriver popped off the AIS cover plate. He wanted it to look like faulty wiring disabled it. The Automatic Identification System is a collision avoidance system. Every few seconds it pings out a signal with the ship’s name, course, speed, and location. This information transmits to every ship in the area on a readout about the size of a garage door opener. With the AIS on, everyone knew his course. He didn’t want that.

Turning off the AIS was strictly against international maritime law. All passenger ships are required to have one, for obvious reasons. They can send the fine to the Liberians.

He did worry about a collision, though. Without the transmission, they were on a ghost ship. If they crossed paths with any other ship in the night, god forbid it be an oil tanker, that would end their trip in a hurry.

That was a risk he was willing to take.

“Damn it!” he seethed as a tiny blue lightning bolt licked the end of the screwdriver. A spark, a hiss of smoke, and the AIS was no more. He’d planned on a more elegant solution, but this would do the trick. He inspected it a moment. Anyone would think the unit had just shorted out.

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