“The AC is the Army of Christ,” replied a redheaded officer at one end of the table.
Army of Christ? What the hell was that?
“When Our Lord decided to punish the iniquities of the human race,” the officer continued, caught up by what he was saying, “all the sinners—those with impure hearts, hedonists, pagans—were punished by the Lord’s wrath. Only those of us who were pure in the Almighty’s eyes were saved. For a while, we wandered, lost and alone, surrounded by His divine punishment and the fruits of evil, but then we heard the call.” The sailor’s eyes glowed with a strange light. The kid believed every word he was saying.
“The call?”
“The call of Reverend Greene,” broke in another officer, a pimply-faced kid no more than eighteen. “He who brought us together in Gulfport and created the Refuge. There, we—the Lord’s Chosen—will witness the Second Coming of Christ.”
A new chorus of “amen” and “hallelujah” rang out. I didn’t know if these guys were pulling my leg or if the Christian Republic of Gulfport was real. I decided to play along. I didn’t want to be saved from drowning only to be burned at the stake for making a joke about Jesus.
“And is Reverend Greene here now?” I asked, casually.
“Of course not!” Strangärd replied with a chuckle. “He’s in Gulfport, keeping things running smoothly. He’s a busy man. In addition to saving our souls, he also governs that town of ten thousand inhabitants. Not counting the helots, of course.”
I nodded like I understood all the religious mumbo jumbo. I assumed that the “helots” were the Undead and survivors like me who wandered through the world outside of the Gulfport Refuge, but I couldn’t help asking. “So, am I a helot?”
“No, of course not,” said the captain. “We’re quite sure of that. By the way, what religion do you and your friends practice?”
The sudden shift in the conversation threw me for a loop. I was silent for a few seconds, thinking at full speed. Sister Cecilia would’ve been a big help right then.
“Let’s see, Lucia and I are Christians. Catholics to be exact. Prit is Ukrainian, so he’s Russian Orthodox.” The truth is, Lucia and I had never discussed religion and Viktor Pritchenko had no faith in anything but himself, but this was not the time to expose our religious failings, so I tossed in an outrageous lie. “We pray together several times a day and give thanks to God for saving us from damnation.”
“That’s good, very good.” Captain Birley slapped me on the back and everyone seemed satisfied. “Reverend Greene will rejoice to meet you when we reach Gulfport. You are the prodigal son, lost in the dark, far from the Light, amid the squalor and wickedness of the Undead. But the Lord has set you on the path to salvation. Today is a day for rejoicing!”
Another round of “hallelujahs” exploded around the table. Many of the officers hugged me or shook my hand. I smiled and wondered what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into.
“So,” I asked, “are we sailing to Gulfport?”
“Not yet,” Birley said as he poured me a fresh cup of coffee. “As I said, we’re on a divine mission that the Lord revealed to the reverend.”
“And what is that destination?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
“A place you should be familiar with since it was once a Spanish colony—the city of Luba, in Equatorial Guinea, on the west coast of Africa,” Captain Birley said with a knowing smile. “It is God’s will.”
7
About two thousand feet away, the port of Luba shimmered beneath the scorching African sun. After a slow, cautious approach, the Ithaca finally dropped anchor. Captain Birley and his crew had taken two full days to sail fifteen miles into port and then another day to ease the boat in those last few feet. They were serious professionals with a lot of experience. The Ithaca was too big to simply sail into port, especially since its pilot wasn’t familiar with the waters. Up on the bridge, they pored over digital navigational charts. They’d lucked out and the GPS was working, even though lots of satellites had dropped out of the sky. Still, this crew left nothing to chance.
That same day, they lowered a small Zodiac equipped with a probe. The inflatable boat made its way three miles ahead of the tanker, probing every inch of the planned route. Officer Strangärd told me they were trying to avoid rock shelves and coral reefs, as well as sunken ships that might block our way. Given the tanker’s size, an impact could be catastrophic.
“But why sail that little boat so far ahead? Why not use the ship’s sonar?” Pritchenko asked, leaning on the railing next to me.
“Simple,” said the red-haired officer standing next to us, scanning the water through binoculars. I suspected he was also keeping us under surveillance. “The Ithaca has a carrying capacity of nearly a million tons. We’re sailing at a speed of twelve knots, generating an enormous amount of inertia. If the captain gave the order to reverse the engines, it would take about twenty minutes to come to a complete stop. In that time, we’d cover several miles. It’s not like stopping a car. Even after we cut the engines, this beast drifts for a while, almost as if she had a mind of her own.”
Pritchenko grunted and peered through his own pair of binoculars. My pal was a suspicious grouch by nature. He didn’t like these people and didn’t really hide it. In spite of that, he took my advice and attended the three daily church services like a true believer. Prit prayed more on that ship than he had in his whole life. Lucia and I did the same. Everyone seemed pleased that we joined in their routine. Their polite but firm invitation made it clear they wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.
Prit and Lucia had also spit on the strip of paper. The results must have been acceptable since the crew gave them the same jovial welcome they’d given me.
My friends were as bewildered as I was by the crew’s religious fervor. Our best guess was that most of them came from the southern United States, where deeply felt Baptist beliefs prevailed and preachers abounded. But I wasn’t convinced that was the whole story.
Our questions about the mysterious Reverend Greene went unanswered. All they said was, “You’ll meet him when we get to Gulfport. You’ll see what a wonderful man he is.”
The Ithaca’s propellers stopped and we drifted for the last few miles. When we were right alongside a massive steel structure with three towers, the captain gave the order to drop anchor. With a splash, the ship’s giant anchors sank into the sea. A couple of minutes later, the chains tensed. The ship crept forward a bit, then came to a stop.
Strangärd turned to Captain Birley and saluted. “Anchoring maneuver completed without incident, sir. Ready to secure the ship.”
“Well done, Gunnar,” Birley said. His eyes didn’t miss a single detail on board his ship. “Proceed with security checks, and prepare to load the cargo.”
The Swedish officer saluted again and left the bridge to carry out his orders. The entire crew worked with the precision of a Swiss clock.
The “divine mission” that Reverend Greene had sent them on turned out to be more worldly than I’d imagined. They weren’t bringing the word of God to Africa, distributing food to survivors stranded on the coast, or anything usually associated with a divine message wrapped in light and accompanied by blaring trumpets with angels and cherubs fluttering around as a voice thundered down from heaven. The mission was much simpler: fill the Ithaca’s holds with crude oil.
When Captain Birley told me their mission, I asked what seemed like a logical question. “Why Africa? Why not Texas or the Gulf of Mexico? They’re a lot closer to Gulfport.”