Stranded by Bracken MacLeod Page B

but looking pale. Henry was more or less himself, albeit sweatier than normal. Boucher looked like he was on Puck’s heels. And Puck, he looked like death. “Working sick men like you’re suggesting could kill someone. We need to fix the radio and call for help.” Puck groaned and raised a hand to protest his weakened state. It was the first true sign of life Noah had seen in the man. His hand dropped back into his lap like someone cut the string lifting it.
    Brewster glared at Noah with a mix of hostility and cool ill intent. He said, “You’d know something about getting people killed, wouldn’t you, Noah? Being the only person in this room who’s actually done it.”
    Noah’s ears and cheeks went hot with blood, and all the bravado drained from his body. The words hit like a slap in the mouth. He took a step back, looking around the room at the faces of the other men. Jack and Kevin stared down at the table in front of them, leaning away, trying to distance themselves from Noah’s shame. Theo’s eyes grew wide while Henry’s narrowed with contempt. Only Boucher appeared to enjoy the repartee with a sweaty-faced smile. Noah felt perfectly alone, like he’d been left standing on the ice after all and was watching the ship sail away.
    â€œThat wasn’t my fault,” he said, not fully believing it.
    â€œI’m sure Connor MacAllister’s gal will love to hear you explain that to her when we get home. Until then, sit down and shut the fuck up. You don’t get a say here.”
    The sting of the dead man’s name made Noah’s heart pound, and his mind reeled at the memory of standing at his shipmate and best friend’s funeral, trying to look his girlfriend, Sheila, in the eye and tell her how sorry he was. Sorry he’d shirked his duty, sorry he’d asked Connor to perform a task he’d been ordered to do. He was sorry for a lot of things. Most of all, at that moment, he had been sorry for not being the one in the box they were about to lower into the ground. And not just because of what had happened to Connor.
    Noah shook his head, trying to clear away the stress and confusion of the last couple of days. Brewster’s condescension wasn’t anything new. Neither was his outright hostility and contempt. But his openness about it was. Noah had been pushing him, up in the wheelhouse and now, hard, in front of the crew. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised when the Old Man pushed back. Noah wasn’t master of the ship, William Brewster was. Then again, Noah hadn’t been the one to steer them into an arctic hurricane and almost cripple the vessel by overtaxing the engines. He wasn’t the one responsible for a broken man lying in a drugged stupor one deck below, and he sure as shit hadn’t driven them into the middle of a field of thick “two-year” sea ice. None of that, however, meant he knew how to get them out of danger. And none of that meant he owned any less responsibility for Connor MacAllister’s death a year ago.
    Breaking the silence that had fallen over the room, Brewster resumed. “However we got here, we’re in a bad way, and we can’t sit and wait for things to get worse. I’m the master, and the call to keep going in this shit was mine. I made it, and … it was … it got us here. I am not going to burn out the engines. Even if we did lose one, that’s why they built this ship with redundant engines. We got no choice but to try.” He looked at Puck, and for a moment, Noah thought he saw the Old Man’s self-assurance crack. “On the other hand, this is a special circumstance. I’m not going to ask any of you to put your lives at risk or do anything I wouldn’t get down beside you to do. I’m asking for volunteers. If none of you want to chop ice, then I guess that’s a vote to focus on the radio and wait for help to come to