My Journal
By Harriman Nelson
7
“Damn!” I said,
flinging the test tube against the lab’s bulkhead.
Yesterday had not
been pleasant and today was frustrating as hell as I’d not been able to figure
out a way to poison the seaweed without harming anyone consuming it. I was glad
Dr. Fukimi was busy with the other marine biologists ashore.
“Sir?” Kowalski
asked, gingerly opened the door. “Everything all right in there?”
“Oh, um, I’m fine,
Kowalski. Just a little…er…accident.”
“Yes sir,” Ski said,
trying very hard to agree with me. But I could tell he didn’t. “Why don’t I get
things cleaned up in here while you go to lunch.”
“Lunch? Already?”
“I guess time flies
when you’re having fun, er…I mean…”
“I know what you
mean, Ski, thanks. I think I will take a break.”
“Uh, sir? There's a new picture
of the Skipper on the bulletin board. Real nice. I sure hope we continue to get
news reports about him.”
“He is rather popular
with the press,” I said proudly.
“I…we…sure miss him,
sir. Blind or not…he…he belongs here.”
“He certainly does,
Ski.”
Chip was already in
the Wardroom, file folders next to the sandwiches on his plate. But instead of
being engrossed in either, he was just staring off into space.
“Chip?”
“Oh, hi sir. About
time you came out of the lab. Any luck?”
“No,” I sighed, “the
more I try the harder it seems that we’ll ever find a way to fix the problem,
short of ripping out the seaweed beds and replanting them all, that is. What’s
on your mind, Chip? Not like you to ignore your reports or lunch.”
“I just can’t help
thinking about Lee. After all he’s done, after all he’s given of himself to us,
to mankind, how can God let him go blind? Even if it turns out to be temporary.
It’s not fair.”
“There are a lot of
things we can’t know in this life, I’m afraid. I wish we did. It would save us
a lot of grief.”
“Something wrong
with the grub, Mr. Morton?” Cookie asked
as he carried a steaming bowl of Mac & Cheese to the sideboard.
“Oh, er…sorry. Had my mind on other things.”
“You know what I
think, sir?” Cookie wiped his hand on his apron. “I think maybe you ought to
call the skipper. Both of you. Everyone can tell you’re both…well…missing him.”
“You know, that’s a
good idea,” Chip said, got up, and clicked the mike. “Sparks? Put a call through
to Captain Nelson-Crane.”
“You do realize it's 0300 there," Sparks said.
“Oops. All right,
belay the call. I’ll catch him later.”
“Aye, sir.”
But the best laid
plans do go astray. Chip had to go ashore to handle an arrest in town of a few
crewmen who got themselves into trouble and I was called to the lab ashore and
then to the prime minister’s, followed by a quick visit to the emperor.
I glanced at the worn
tour pamphlet that’s been manhandled by just about everyone aboard, wondering
just where their skipper is and what he might be eating because there’s a
disclaimer that the itinerary is subject to change.
But there was an
easier way to keep track of him, Sparks told me, and soon he’d tuned us to the
BBC on the monitors for anyone who was interested. Of course, keeping tabs on a
visiting American wasn’t all that important in relation to world news, but they
did have a live report from Amesbury Plain.
There was a line of storm clouds forming in the
distance at Stonehenge. Rather
fitting for a mysterious ancient monument.
Members of the tour
group ( I could tell from the logo on the bus) were huddled together muttering
with each other. No doubt they too, wanted to get up as close and personal with
the ancient edifice as their colleague. The gate had been opened to Lee, Joe, a
couple members (I presumed) of the Antiquarian Society, the reporters and
camera crew.
Lee had forgotten to
shave (one day can make a big difference I’ve long noticed) or he’d decided
start growing a beard. He was wearing jeans and a pullover,(not the same ones
as before) and was pressing his hands against one of the inner stones. Joe was
nearby holding Lee’s stick for him.
“As you can see,” the
reporter was almost whispering, “Captain Nelson-Crane is trying to commune with
the stones. The action, requested by the Antiquarian Society, is hoped to uncover a
more detailed history of
the place. Ah, he appears to be finished….”
“Nothing,” Lee said,
shaking his head and retrieving his stick from Joe, “a pretty awesome feat of
engineering especially since it was created before the pyramids. I wish I could
travel back in time to find out what the place was for and how they did it.”
Suddenly a bolt of
lightning
shattered his stick, the force of the bolt lifting Lee up into the air to land
in a heap on the ‘altar stone’, and Joe onto the ground, along with some of the
camera crew, the image slanted, cracks in the lens.
“Lee! Lee!” Joe gasped,
rolling, pulling off his smoldering jacket, crawling toward Lee as all hell
broke loose and everyone ran to assist the downed men and women.
Lee groaned, and helped
up by the crowd, and ran a hand through his burnt hair, some of it coming off
in clumps in his hand.
“Maybe we’re not
supposed to know how or why they did it, after all,” he said, trying to make
light of what happened.
“Lee? You okay?” Joe
asked after he’d been helped to stand. “Your stick’s fried. So’s your sweater.”
“Kind of figured,”
Lee began, then gasped as he plucked at his pullover, “ow…seems to have melted
right into my skin….”
“Is there a doctor
here?” someone cried out.
“I’m fine. Just a
little…sore.”
“You are not just a
‘little’ sore!” Joe said. “You’re burnt!”
“I’ve called an
ambulance!” a chubby older woman yelled as she came running from the bus with a
first aid kit. “ Everybody who can, get back to your cars or the tour bus before we’re
all hit!”
Then she took out an
aerosol can and began to spray Lee’s scalp, then soaking his sweater and hands
with the emergency burn spray. “No, don’t try to pull the sweater off him, Commander.
You’ll do more harm than good. This will stop the burning and make it easier
for the medics to remove. Now you, too, ” she added as she sprayed parts of Joe’s
affected clothes, and hurried to check out the camera crew, though none of them seemed to have been burnt.
The line of storms was
moving closer and most everyone had retreated to their vehicles for shelter.
“Feels better already," Lee said as Mrs. Piccadilly
returned to her charges, "I didn't know you were
this skilled.
“Simple first aid, that’s
all. Oh good, here comes the ambulance….”
“Joe?” Lee asked.
“You’d better call Harry before he hears the news. Finding a fix for Japan’s
seaweed problem is more important than flying out here to see me. Besides, I
really am okay….”
Just then the
ambulance parked as close to the fence as possible and the paramedics began to check Lee and Joe as well as other affected
victims. But the ambulance only whisked the boys away, siren blaring.
“Those poor boys,”
Mrs. Piccadilly said before escaping to the safety of the tour bus just before
the darkened sky released torrential rain.
Sheltered under an umbrella
(not a good idea in an thunderstorm) the reporter resumed his report, “And so
it appears that the mystery of Stonehenge will remain just that. It remains to
be seen if Captain Nelson-Crane will be able to continue his culinary tour. But
it’s a sure bet he won’t be joining the group at Merlin’s Roost for supper
tonight.”
As the station
returned to other breaking news, and the broadcast was turned off by Sparks, I found myself supported by Doc, officers
and
crew who’d seen the report.
“He’s lucky he wasn’t
killed,” Will said, “but the burns might be serious enough to bring him home.
Will you back me up?”
“Whatever you say,
Will.”
Sparks is still
trying to raise the local hospital for a report on Lee’s condition. Chip’s
returned with his errant crewmen and we’re all on tenterhooks.
It’s going to be a
long night.
