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What do you make of it?”
“I’d say,” Pitt murmured softly, “we’ve had it”
The fog was a thick white quilt rising over the water swirling in coils from the light breeze, opaque and oppressive in its clammy wetness. The men on the bridge strained their eyes, peering vainly into the billowing mist; they feared something beyond that can’t be seen or touched or understood. Already a shroud of moisture was crawling over the ship, and the visible light became an eerie mixture of orange and gray from the light refraction of the setting sun.
Boland rubbed the sweating beads from his forehead, took a reassuring glance through the wheelhouse windows, and said “It looks common enough; density is somewhat high.”
“There’s nothing common about that fog except the color,” Pitt said. Visibility barely took in the bows of the Martha Ann. “The high temperature, time of day, and a three-knot breeze hardly make for normal fog conditions.” He leaned past Boland and studied the radar, watching closely for nearly a minute, checking his wristwatch every so often while making a series of mental calculations. “It shows no signs of movement or dissipation; the wind hasn’t budged its mass. I doubt whether old Mother Nature could come up with a freak like this.”
They went out on the port bridge wing, two shaded silhouettes against the peculiar light of the mist. The ship rolled a scant degree or two under the gentle Pacific swells. It was as though time had ceased to exist. Pitt sniffed the air. He couldn’t place it at first, but then he became conscious of what he was trying to connect; a distant memory.
“Eucalyptus!”
“What did you say?” Boland asked.
“Eucalyptus,” Pitt said. “Don’t you smell it?”
Boland’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “I smell something but I don’t recognize it,”
“Where are you from and where did you grow up?” Pitt asked.
Boland looked at him, mesmerized by Pitt’s urgency. “Minnesota. Why?”
“God, I haven’t smelled this in years,” Pitt said. “Eucalyptus trees are common around Southern California. They have a distinct aroma and yield an oil used for inhalation purposes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I agree, but there’s no denying the fact that this fog reeks of eucalyptus.”
Boland flexed his fingers, spe
aking to Pitt without facing him. “What do you suggest?”
In simple English, I suggest we get the hell out of here.”
“My thoughts, exactly.” He stepped back into the wheelhouse and leaned over the intercom, “Engine room? How soon can we be underway?”
“Say when, Commander,” the voice down in the bowels of the ship echoed metallically.
“Now!” Boland said. He turned to a young officer on watch. “Up anchor, Lieutenant.”
“Up anchor,” the boyish watch officer affirmed.
“Detection room? This is Commander Boland. Any readings?”
“Stanley here, sir. All quiet. Nothing except a school of fish about a hundred yards off the starboard beam.”
“Ask him how many and how large,” Pitt said, his face set
Boland nodded silently and issued the request to the detection room.
“By rough count, over two hundred of them swimming at three fathoms.”
“Size, man. Size!” Boland snapped.
“Somewhere between five and seven feet in length.”
Pitt’s eyes shifted from the speaker to Boland. “Those aren’t fish. They’re men.”
