This will be the last of the short stories for a while. I have several other projects I am working on:; work, family, burning Goyfire and FTL CD's to pass out and a lot of other stuff.

Jack

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THE DECISION

With every sweep of its hand, the soft, green glow of the radar screen momentarily illuminated the darkened bridge. As it made its way through the black waters of the South Atlantic, the gentle rolling motion of the Neptune 11 had an almost hypnotic effect on some of the crew on duty. The three men were casually exchanging bits and pieces of conversation, but First Officer Christopher Johannson’s mind was on something else. His eyes kept glancing at the pulsating radar screen, and he didn’t like what he was seeing.

He walked out onto the catwalk in front of the bridge and stared at the sky. The brilliant, twinkling stars created their heavenly mosaic against the background of the coal black sky, but what he saw in the distant horizon disquieted him. The occasional and barely perceptible flash of far away lightning began to disconcert him more. Bad weather was ahead and that meant bad times for all eighteen members of the crew.

He continued down the steps to the deck and walked to the prow where he rested his forearms against the curved railing. As he looked down at the phosphorescent splashing of the parting waters, he could hear the constant crying, shouts and arguing that came from the steel cages behind him. It was more subdued at night than during the daylight hours, but it was nevertheless irritating and nerve wracking. “Fucking niggers and their pickaninnys!” he murmured to himself. This was his fourth repatriation trip on the Neptune 11. Even though the other more seasoned hands had told him that he would eventually get used to the sound, he began to doubt it.

That night contrasted immensely with the day Johannson had left the port of Charleston. Sunny and balmy, even for October, it had been a day for short sleeved uniforms. As he stood beside Captain Schmidt, he watched the seemingly endless line of buses disgorge the filthy, disheveled, black passengers. Military police separated the groups of families and herded them into the waiting transport cages. Each repatriate was dressed in the simple black T-shirt and shorts they had been issued. Some of the women had tried to board the buses with bags of extra clothing and food for the children, but everything had been confiscated. The official attitude of the Aryan Government was that the negroids’ ancestors had been brought to this country in chains and that was the way their descendants would leave. The only difference this time was that although the jews had brought their savage forbearers to the western world, it was now the White man who was returning them to the jungle.

On this trip the Neptune 11 would be carrying over seven thousand feral savages back to the homeland of their ancestors. So proud of their African heritage, in a few days they would get a first hand lesson in the pleasures of African life. Cage after cage was filled, the screaming and frightened blacks hanging onto the steel bars as the cranes swung them back and forth lifting them to their place on the deck.

Unheeded shouts of protest came from each cage. “You can’t do this to us! We all be ‘mericans citizens.” “My daddy done been in de war, he be a hero!” “We don’ speak none o’ dat African shit, why is you sendin’ us dere?” And so it went until the final cage was on deck. Some sailors were busying themselves in securing the cages with heavy steel cables. Others, armed with automatic rifles, would force all the repatriates to the opposite side of the cages while they were being secured on the deck. Even as the Neptune 11 was leaving the territorial waters of the Aryan States, the din of screaming, crying and howling protests continued.

At three o’clock on the afternoon of their first day at sea, the voice of Captain Schmidt boomed through a series of loudspeakers mounted on the main deck:

“Give me your attention! This is Captain Paul Schmidt speaking. In approximately nine days you will be unloaded in the port of Monrovia, Liberia. During the course of our journey, you will be free to do as you please in your cages. You will receive your daily food and water rations at eight o’clock each morning. Those rations will consist of one pint of yellow grits and one pint of water per person. Each child under the age of twelve will receive an additional ration consisting of four ounces of cheese. You and your cages will be cleaned at six o’clock in the morning and again at six o’clock in the evening. For that purpose, we will use the water cannons you see on the left and right of your cages. Anyone who shows any disrespect, however slight, to any member of my crew will be shot immediately; regardless of sex or age. That is all.

A quiet voice behind him tore Johannson away from his reverie of their departure from Charleston.

“What do you think, Chris?” It was the voice of Hank Perry, engineer of the Neptune 11.

The First Officer replied, “Have you been looking at the radar?”

“That’s right,” answered Hank. “Looks like one of those rare southern storms that come up in these parts. Guess we have no choice but to deal with it.”

Johannson turned to him and asked, “How’s the engine room?”

“Everything is running like a Swiss music box,” was his answer.

“Good,” replied Johannson as he started walking back to the bridge.

It was four o’clock, and he did not want to awaken Captain Schmidt until his usual six o’clock call.

About six thirty, the captain walked onto the bridge holding a cup of boiling hot coffee in his hand.

He settled into his large swivel seat with a “Good morning, all.”

He looked at the radar screen for a few seconds and then tore off the two feet of paper that was hanging from the fax machine at his right. A quick glance at the weather map confirmed what he could already smell in the air and see on the screen. His ship and the lives of eighteen White men could be in jeopardy and that meant drawing on all his resources and skills as a sailor.

“Mr. Perry, go below and have your men check all the holds, bilge pumps and ballast. Make sure all stores are secured and seal off all holds.”

“Aye, Aye, Sir,” was the engineer’s reply as he left the bridge.

The captain then turned his comments to Chris Johannson, “Well, Mr. Johannson, it looks like this is not going to be another routine day at sea, does it?”

“No sir, it certainly doesn’t,” was his reply. “What are your plans?”

Captain Schmidt pursed his lips and said, “This storm is too wide for us to sail around. So, we will stay on course and manage the best we can. The Neptune is in good condition and can take a pretty hard hammering. See to it that all hands are in slickers, life jackets, and at their posts.”

As he spoke, the grey light of dawn began to filter into the bridge, and huge drops of rain started to splatter against the windows. At first the drops were of no consequence, but after a few minutes the incessant beating sounded like birdshot being thrown against the glass. The powerful wipers moved back and forth in rhythmic unison, but were barely able to clear away the torrents of water. On the deck below, the screams and shouts of the terrified and hapless negroids were drowned out by the roaring sound of sheets of rain pummeling the tops of their steel cages.

The wind was increasing and what had formerly been unthreatening whitecaps five or six feet in height were now growing into waves of twenty-five and thirty feet. The gentle rolling of the previous hours was replaced by the deafening boom of the bow lifting and slamming into the heaving waters. Captain Schmidt looked at his compass and could see that they were already twelve degrees off his planned course. For the following three hours the Neptune 11 continued to battle against the relentless torment of the sea. Then, as the ship came out of a huge trough between the waves, a gigantic wall of water came over the bow. As it hit the foremost cages, two were immediately torn loose from the cables that held them to the deck. With the metallic scream of steel fighting against steel, they slid across the deck and crashed against the port side rail of the ship. It held for a few seconds, but was no match for the heavy cages and the savages trapped inside. With the groans of yielding steel, the railing crumpled and the two cages tumbled into the churning sea along with their doomed cargo.

As the Neptune 11 continued to be buffeted about like a child’s toy, Captain Schmidt began to notice a slight list to his beloved ship. The leaning towards the port side caused him to immediately phone the engineer below.

“Perry! he shouted. What’s going on down there?”

“Hank Perry replied, “I can feel the list too, Captain. I’m going forward to recheck the holds.”

The engineer made his way through holds 5, 4, 3, and 2. When he got to the entrance of hold number one he could see water seeping around the frame in the bulkhead. He knew better than to open the door for further inspection, and he quickly returned to the phone in the engine room.

“Sir! he shouted into the receiver. Number one hold on the port side has about five feet of water in it, and I think it’s rising!”

“Alright, Perry,” replied the captain. I’m going to cut the leeward engine to half speed and see if that will level us out.”

“Aye, aye! Sir” returned the engineer as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

The captain grasped the lever to his left and pulled it down to the half speed mark. In less than a minute the Neptune 11 was again level and continued its errant course. Then, just as suddenly, another huge wave enveloped the bow of the ship with a thunderous crash. Immediately the ship began to list again to the port side, but this time the angle was more acute. He had to do something and quickly; if he didn’t, he risked having the entire bow ripped away.

Deep in thought, he made his decision. He would outrun the storm. As daring and dangerous as it would be, he felt he had no other recourse.

He shouted for his first mate to come to the bridge.

A drenched and breathless Johannson quickly climbed the stairway and presented himself before the captain.

“Yes Sir?” he asked.

Captain Schmidt looked at him for a moment, and then said, “We’re going to outmaneuver this storm. Get all available hands on deck with torches and cut the port railing. When the railing is clear, have them remove the ratchets and cables from all the cages.

Incredulous at what he had just heard his captain order, he knew what was going to happen; however, Johannson had no choice but to obey. “Aye, aye, Sir!” was his prompt reply.

The Captain then cut the leeward engine to dead stop and grasped the massive brass tiller with his right hand. Slowly the Neptune 11 responded and began to turn northward. The gigantic waves continued to punish the ship and the sailors who were feverishly cutting away the railing. As Captain Schmidt watched from the bridge, he carefully marked the progress they were making. The last of the railing had fallen into the turbulent sea, and the men had set about the task of releasing the cages from their moorings.

Now, broadside to the storm, the captain continued turning the vessel about until he was almost 150 degrees from his original heading. He immediately pushed both engines to full speed. The rows of unloosened cages began to twist and turn like a huge jungle serpent. Again, the hellish sound of steel grating against steel ripped through the air as the cages slid slowly across the deck and rolled into the sea. The frightened screams of anguish and despair were heard over the din of the pelting rain as the savages became aware of their destiny. In an ignorant attempt to save them, some mothers were even trying to push the smallest of the children and babies through the five inch space between the bars. Captain Schmidt mused about the fact that most negroids could not swim and were afraid of water. He concluded that it was a moot point because it would be impossible for the repatriates to get out of their welded cages.

“I hope Davy Jones likes niggers,” he thought to himself. “I just sent him seventy-two hundred plus.”

In less than twenty seconds the deck of the Neptune 11 was empty; Captain Schmidt had lightened his vessel by approximately 700 tons. Now riding higher in the water and with the storm at its stern, the ship had lost the dangerous list and was almost perfectly level.

Several hours later, the ship was in more tranquil waters and the storm was behind as he set course for the port of Santiago in Cape Verde. His plan had succeeded. The captain and his crew would live to sail another day.

That evening, as they were having dinner, First Officer Johannson was the first to speak. He knew that challenging the captain of a ship was, if not mutinous, certainly an act of insubordination and impertinence. Yet, he felt compelled to address the superior officer.

“Sir,” he began, “how are you going to live with the decision you made this morning?”

Captain Schmidt looked at him over the top of his wire framed glasses and softly asked, “Do you have a problem with my decisions, Mr. Johannson?”

“Well Sir, it’s about the loss we had today. Those were over seven thousand people we dumped into the sea,” Johannson answered. “In my opinion, that is a loss that will be hard to justify to the Minister of Maritime Services.”

The Captain continued cutting the steak on his plate and without looking up said, “I can assure you the Ministry is not concerned about a bunch of monkeys lost at sea, and I will not lose a moment’s sleep over the fate of some apes who tried to pass themselves off as human beings. They are less than animals and you know it. If it were not for my decision to change course and outmaneuver the storm, you, the crew and the whole ship might now be resting on the floor of the Atlantic with those niggers you call people. If I were you, I would be more concerned about the loss of two hundred thirty transport cages.”

Johannson sat silently, knowing that with a great deal of leniency he had been put in his place by Captain Schmidt. His face and ears reddened with embarrassment and anger as he heard the master of the Neptune 11 say, “If you have no further questions or sage observations, you are excused from my table.”

[color="Cyan"]All characters in Repatriation, Repatriation Two, Aryan Justice and The Patriots are fictional, and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.