Page 87 of Code 6
It was coming from the other side of the navigational bridge. In a seafaring phase of his virtual building career, Patrick had designed the world’s largest cargo ship, big enough to haul the equivalent of a freight train forty-four miles long, so he recognized the multistory structure rising from the main deck as crew accommodations. They started cautiously in that direction.
“Maybe we should hop a different freighter,” said Olga.
Patrick looked around the harbor. The nearest alternatives were in various states of loading or unloading. Massive cargo cranes were designed to move one container unit at a time. It might be days before the nearest ship was ready to leave port.
“This could be a good place to hide until we figure things out,” said Patrick. “If we’re alone.”
Olga pulled the pistol from inside her belt. “Yeah. If.”
They continued toward the stern and climbed a set of stairs to the poop deck, where they discovered that the ship was not quite as dark or deserted as first thought. A long yellow extension cord ran from somewhere inside the superstructure to a mechanic’s trouble light that hung from the poop deck’s covering. Across the deck, at the starboard-side rail, a man was warming his hands over a smoldering can of burning charcoal. Olga called to him in Spanish, asking if it was okay to approach. Olga translated his response for Patrick.
“He says we can come if we have his money.”
“Tell him we might be able to get it for him, if he can help us.”
She did, he waved them forward, and they started toward him, taking cautious steps.
“This guy could be expecting a suitcase full of hundred-dollar bills,” Olga said quietly, so only Patrick could hear. “How are we going to pay him his money?”
“I’ll figure that out,” he said, thinking of Kate. “As long as he can get us out of here.”
The smell of burning charcoal intensified as they approached. Theywere ten feet away when the man told them to stop. Even Patrick could tell that Spanish wasn’t his first language, but he was able to make himself understood to Olga.
“He says he’s from Indonesia,” she said, translating. “He’s not leaving the ship until he’s paid the wages he’s owed. Fourteen months’ worth.”
“Ask him why he wasn’t paid.”
She did, and she translated. “The ship is old, and the company decided it’s not worth fixing. They scrapped it and left it here. None of the crew was paid. The others left, but he has nowhere to go without his money.”
“Tell him we’ll pay him his wages and more if we can use his cellphone.”
She did, and the man laughed through his reply.
“He doesn’t have a cellphone,” said Olga. “He says all he has is rice. That’s it. Nine bags of rice left to eat. He’s been eating rice for the last three months.”
The man stepped away from the smoldering can, opened the door to the nearest cabin, and invited them inside to see for themselves. Patrick didn’t need the proof of rice, but the man apparently had another deal in mind.
“No cellphone,” he said, as he started toward the counter. “Radio.”
Patrick’s hopes soared, thinking he meant a ham radio. He didn’t. He switched on a portable AM/FM radio resting on the countertop. Salsa music filled the cabin.
“Baile,jóvenesamantes,”the man said with a smile.
“He wants the young lovers to dance,” said Olga.
“Tell him we’ll dance all the way to the United States, if we can find a way out of this place.”
Olga stepped closer. “Dance with me.”
Patrick thought she was joking, but the look in her eyes was serious.
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
“No better reason to dance.”
He realized it was her way of saying that they’d had enough stress for one night, that his constant intensity wasn’t helping, and that it wouldn’t kill them to relax for thirty seconds.
“Maybe later,” he said.