Noah's Ark: Survivors by Harry Dayle

brief everyone in due course.” Lucya pulled a face, like a naughty child expecting to be told off. “I was right though, wasn’t I? That’s what you’re going to be doing now, as you go round the ship?”
    “Yeah, yeah, you were right. But what do I say? How do I tell people Ibsen killed Hollen and I killed Ibsen?”
    “You don’t. You simply say that they both died following the ash cloud. Hundreds died, nobody is going to question it.”
    “But Hollen spoke to the ship after the ash cloud had passed, so that won’t work. I suppose,” he stared into the middle distance, his mind turning over possibilities, “if I just say that he didn’t survive his injuries following the ash cloud, then technically that’s the truth.”
    “Right, and if people assume that his injuries were caused by the ash, that’s not really your fault, is it?” Lucya smiled.
    “I’ll see you back here in a few hours for the senior officers’ meeting,” Jake said.
    “You sound like a captain already.”

Nineteen

    H IS FIRST PORT of call was the kitchen. He wanted to catch up with Claude Dupont, the head chef. There was one huge kitchen, on deck seven. It serviced the three restaurants and four cafes on board, as well as the crew canteen, and provided snacks for the bars. Normally the place was a hive of activity, with Claude shrieking out orders to the hordes of cooks who scurried about. It was a very different scene today, though. No columns of steam rising from hotplates, no bubbling pots or clanging pans or hissing griddles. Claude was seated at a stainless-steel bench. Behind him, a couple of people wearing white-and-blue cooks’ uniforms were busy loading food into a giant freezer.
    “Hi, Claude.” Jake smiled jovially.
    The chef looked up at him with a sour expression. He was a tiny man, bespectacled and slightly balding. Jake had always thought he looked more like he belonged in a magic shop, or a very niche second-hand book store, not a kitchen. Despite his diminutive stature, he was a formidable character. He had a reputation for whacking errant cooks on the back of the legs with a ladle, although to be fair, nobody could attest to ever having seen this happen. Nobody wanted to find out if it was true though, so when Claude told anyone to do anything, they would eagerly cry “Yes, Chef!” without question, no matter how odd or unreasonable the order.
    “Well, well, a visit from the captain himself. Sorry, the acting captain,” Claude corrected himself, loading the words with sarcasm. “I did not think I was worthy.”
    “How are you getting on with the inventory?”
    Claude ignored the question entirely. “I hear there is a new club, a group of elite staff who meet on the bridge. A bridge club, you might say.” He laughed at his own joke, but it was a hollow, false laugh. “Mr Noah and his band of cronies, planning out the future, creating their empire while the rest of us wait for our orders to be handed down from on high.”
    “Claude, if you are upset at not being at our meeting, then I can only apologise. Our immediate priority was to stabilise the ship. Now our concern is the wellbeing of everyone on board. If there are any elite staff, then you are certainly one of them. Feeding three thousand people with limited resources and power is a challenge unlike any other, and I honestly cannot think of anyone better qualified to take it on than you.”
    “You are laying on the compliments a bit thick, Monsieur Noah. I am not stupid. Do you think I am stupid?”
    “Far from it, and I mean what I say. In fact, now that emergency repairs are underway, you are the first person I have come to see. I came straight from the bridge to find out how you were progressing, and to ask you to join us at the next bridge meeting in,” Jake looked at his watch, “just over two hours. If you cannot make it then I will understand.”
    “No, no you are right. It is true that without sustenance, without nourriture , all your