“Well now, if that’s the case…” The pilot grew expansive, warming to his passenger’s quiet English modesty and charm. “I’ll see about giving you a lesson as soon as this wind drops.”
In the event, the wind veered almost immediately and the sand cleared rapidly from the south.
Within half an hour the Sikorsky was following the fading petticoats of the sandstorm north as fast as the pilot dared — given the odd unexpected buffet and jump that caused both doctor and nurse to make some very strange noises indeed; and the danger of sucking too much flying sand into the engine and taking them all for an unscheduled swim.
The pilot flew almost the whole way out, but it was Robin, given a flat calm, clear air and a floodlit landing pad — almost perfect conditions — who brought them down in the end, drifting the Sikorsky sideways gently and expertly to match the tanker’s speed.
As soon as they touched down there was bedlam. Four men rushed down the bright-lit deck bearing a fifth on a stretcher, paying scant attention to the clouds of sand still whirling under the idling rotors. The side door of the Sikorsky slammed open and the doctor and nurse rushed out to meet their patient, equally oblivious of the sand. The pilot gave Robin an impressed thumbs-up and was gone to see what he could do to help.
Robin was left alone for a moment, like a yacht with the wind taken out of its sails. Movement seemed too much to demand of muscles still thrilling with the excitement of landing. Was this such a good idea after all? What would Richard say? Nothing pleasant; that was for sure. Did that matter a damn? Nope. One thing was certain: there was no point in coming all this way, then vanishing again.
The hesitation lasted perhaps a second.
Everything was gone out of the body of the helicopter to make room for the stretcher. This included Robin’s luggage. There was nothing to do but to leap down onto the sand-cloaked metal and get out of the way as the doctor pushed past, already attending to his patient.
The sand was settling now, revealing an effulgent white bridge, big as a block of flats; revealing the distant, more shadowy lines of the ship. She hadn’t seemed all that big from the air.
Suddenly the pilot was there. “Doc says we got to go or the boy’ll be dead before we land. Pleasure to’ve flown with you. You have a delicate touch…”
He paused in the doorway, looking back. He might have been going to repeat his warning; going to suggest a change of mind. Their eyes met and he shrugged. “Your cases are up with the second mate. Captain’s on the bridge. Take care.”
Robin raised a hand in reply.
Ten steps toward the bridge and the pilot had completed his preflight checklist. The engine coughed warningly. Robin hunched forward and broke into a run. The Sikorsky fired up. The rotors caused another storm, clouding everything with red sand from the deck.
The side door to A deck was open an inch or two and someone — John Higgins — was waiting just inside it. Robin tumbled through in a rush and a choking cloud and they faced each other — much the same height, uniforms pink and faces like childrens’ made up to be Red Indians because of the sand sticking to them.
John launched into his speech of welcome: “Welcome aboard. I’m John Higgins, second mate. I’ve had your cases taken up to the third mate’s cabin, and…” He paused. His short briar pipe drooped comically as his jaw slackened with surprise. “Good God! You’re…”
“I know I am,” said Robin pushing past him; nervous suddenly, and uncharacteristically rude. “I know where the third mate’s cabin is. And I know where the captain is. Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, washed and brushed, the new third mate arrived on the bridge. The deck officers were all there. John Higgins, frowning with concern; Ben Strong, his face devilish with laughter — one glance showed that John had reported to Ben and the information had stopped there.
Richard turned. He looked older; tired; so distinguished.
In the grip of feelings far too complex even to begin to examine, Robin strode toward him, watching the color drain from his face.
Richard stood, ashen, and watched the exact image of his dead wife approach him across the shadowy bridge and stop.
Only when she smiled did he realize that this was Robin, not Rowena.
“Hello, Richard,” she said.
Richard closed the door with his back then leaned upon it, looking at her as she turned to face him. The owner’s suite was large — as large as the captain’s — but it seemed tiny now, far too small to contain the pair of them. He remained, apparently at ease, tense as a coiled spring.
She turned and there was no pretense of ease about her. “You want rid of me,” she accused. “But you can’t send me away.”
He let his breath out, hissing, between his teeth. He hardly trusted his jaw muscles to loosen or his numb lips to frame the words. He certainly did not dare to deal with things on her tumultuous level. “It’s been a long time,” he said.
She stopped. Her eyes narrowed calculatingly. She had not expected this. Outrage, anger, hatred even; coldness no. Calmness certainly not.
But only Richard knew how fragile that calmness was.
They faced each other in silence across the narrow room. “A long time,” he repeated quietly.
“Are you going to let me stay?”
“I’m working it out,” he answered.
“You want rid of me, the same as always,” she challenged again.
“Not the same as always, but this time, at first glance, yes! I’m thinking. This is no place for you.”
“An unlucky ship?”
One corner of his mouth curled up. Almost a smile. “Perhaps.”
“You need a third officer.”
“That I do.”
“And I am qualified.”
“Eminently.”
“But…What I am…My sex…”
He hesitated. There was no denying it. Pictures from the video and the magazines flashed through his mind. What if anyone who found such things exciting were still aboard?
But even as she threw down the challenge, so she raised her chin and he recognized that look — something that existed in natural leaders. Some quality he had seen in her father but never in her sister. A power he had never seen in her before, nor ever even suspected she possessed.
“Not only that, no…” He was suddenly fighting for time and they both knew it. Like a duelist more interested in testing competition than easy victory, she turned away and let him compose himself.
Let him face the inevitable question: Why not?
Why should he not let her do as she planned? She was capable. She was available. She was here. In many ways she was a better officer than he was expecting. She would strengthen his command considerably.
But would she weaken him?
And was she actually strong enough herself?
Had this Robin Heritage been the son that old Sir William Heritage had always wanted — a young man equally qualified, even with all the hatred that lay between them — would he have been hesitating now?
No, he would not.
He stopped hesitating, therefore.
When she turned back, she saw it in his eyes and her face became almost incandescent as she smiled.
Next morning, 11.00 local time, they were all on the bridge again, but Robin was on watch.
Salah Malik stood still by the wheel, eyes scanning instruments and then horizons in easy rhythm, hooded against the dazzle of the sun. Robin stood at his shoulder, hands clasped behind her back, rocking gently on the balls of her feet, calm, collected, confident.
Ben and John were at the chart table. Every now and then one of them would look at the Collision Alarm Radar, though there wasn’t much to see. Both of them, of course, were really watching the new third mate. They would have been here watching any newcomer on first watch — especially one as important as this — but the facts of who Robin was, and what, added extra interest.