Ghost Writer(16)

“This is my stop,” said the seaman, patting my gloved hand with his. “You keep going down. And keep breathing.”

I forced a smile. “Always a good idea.”

I was used to using the steeply inclined steps that passed for stairs on the émil Gagnan. This flight wouldn't be much worse if I could have seen my feet past the bulk of thermal and safety gear. I descended backwards, holding the rails until Mike and Reuben guided me to the deck.

Two Marines had joined us. They weren't introduced. According to their headgear, they were Madison and Dippel. As soon as I had my feet, Dippel took the lead as guide. Madison brought up the rear, making sure no one lingered too long as we passed through the operations room on the way amidships to the living quarters. Abaft was engineering. Forward were weapons' control, sick bay, and the labs. We might, eventually, get to see those areas once they were cleared. For the time being, I was only really interested in where the crew lived.

What we saw of the station's interior brought to mind old episodes of Star Trek. The bulkheads were near-white and seemed to glow with reflected light from the covered panels. Yellow and black stripes marked the coamings, those ridges at hatches and other entries that kept water from slopping and tripped me up about twice a day on average. Red signs outlined rules and prohibitions. Blue signs marked location and directions. The overall effect was much more cheerful and less military than I expected. Perhaps it really had been intended to be a research station.

Dippel stopped at a hatch and ushered us through.

We flowed in silently. I was last in, besides the Marines, and Dippel had to ask me to move. I was frozen in the hatchway.

The room was exactly as I had dreamed.

This was too weird. My mind had to be playing tricks with me. There was the crazy quilt, neatly laid out on one bunk. There was the tiny teddy bear. The photos I could see looked roughly correct. I had never been able to see much detail in my dreams, only positions on the wall and basic composition.

I continued scanning.

There was the gas station pinup calendar. Next to it should be the photo with the woman and baby. I didn't see it. I climbed up. The photo had fallen onto the pillow.

Dora yelled, “Jen! What are you doing? Don't touch anything until everything has been recorded.”

I blushed and stuttered an apology. Who'd have thought I would be the one to get caught up in the moment?

Calmer, Dora spoke to the team. “We've been over this before. We're treating this like a crime scene. Everything gets photographed and itemized before it is bagged and tagged. Enough sightseeing. Let's get to work.”

Although Petty Officer Parker was the only one with video equipment, the team was equipped with digital SLR cameras. Lil and Reuben placed reference markers and took photos while Dora described what she saw, and her initial deductions, speaking into a digital recorder. Mary Lou followed, looking for trace evidence, hairs, blood, that sort of thing. Mike acted as her assistant, diligently handing her equipment. Jamal, Tracy, and I brought up the rear, bagging and tagging artifacts. I collected the paper letters, diaries, photos, even the pinups filing them in a waterproof satchel I carried over my shoulder. They took everything else, packing the bagged items in a soft-sided chest that they carried between them.

While we worked, Parker watched and filmed. Through his shoulder mounted tactical camera, the Scranton and possibly the Nottawasaga also watched. Periodically, I heard Parker responding to something over his headset, but he didn't interfere with our labours.

Processing the room took longer than expected. Parker suggested that we return the next day to do the wardroom and galley. Although I wouldn't have minded a coffee break, none of us were ready to quit for the day. Who knew if or when we might be let back onboard?

Dora and Reuben vetoed Parker's suggestion with a unified, “No way!”

“At the very least, I'd like to do the overview of the wardroom,” said Dora.

Parker gave the Marines a shrug and consulted the Scranton via his headset. After a short exchange, he nodded and led the way onward. Hitching the satchel up on my shoulder, I brought up the rear. Looking back, past Madison who was chivying me forward, I thought I saw a man on one of the bunks. I blinked and he was gone.

The wardroom and galley were combined in one room accessible directly from the living area via a hatch which, Dora posited, was probably left open most of the time. The hatch led to a landing, and a couple of steps down to the deck. According the plans we had, the galley had higher ceilings to allow for fire control systems and was against an outside bulkhead at one of the points designated for future expansion. In one of the more ambitious conceptual drawings Reuben had acquired, what was now a bare-bones facility would become the master galley, provisioning several wardrooms throughout the expanded station.

Right now it sent a chill down my spine. Everything was stainless steel and the metal radiated cold. There were no personal touches. No photos. No cheesecake calendar.

“This won't take long,” Reuben remarked.

Dora shook her head. “Maybe. Maybe not. We need to keep our eyes open. This place strikes me as too antiseptic. Perhaps something was missed.”

With those cryptic words, she set us to work.

Dora started with the food storage area, which consisted of two rows of food lockers full of sacks, cases, and industrial sized-cans, all long past their due dates. She and Reuben catalogued the remaining supplies to compare with the original manifest. Lil followed, taking photos.