Wake of Ghosts

HMAT Tyche, New York Harbor - 15 September 1946 – 1440 hours

Lieutenant Buck Norvegicus leaned against the cold steel of the Tyche’s forward rail, watching the tugboats strain against the tide. Lines snapped loose like rifle cracks. A low groan shuddered through the hull as the ship began to move—an old beast waking, dragging her belly through dark water.

He lit a smoke with cupped hands and took in the skyline. He didn’t like New York. Too big. Too loud. Too proud. Too clean for the things he carried in his head. He much preferred the honest dust of the Libyan desert or the sweltering heat of New Guinea.

The Tyche wasn’t built to carry passengers. Not like this. It was a freighter dressed up like a troop ship for wartime service. Now it carried a strange flock: war heroes, convalescing POWs, medics, a few scientists, and officers no one asked questions about. There was even talk of a bloody movie star somewhere on board, hiding behind dark glasses and a fake name. All of them Australian. All of them heading home like bits of wreckage finally washing up on the right shore.

Then there were the migrants. He’d seen the hell of Europe and he hoped that Australia could balm their wounds.

He blew smoke into the wind and saw movement below, near the lifeboats stacked amidships. Someone crawling where they shouldn’t be.

Buck narrowed his eyes. Too tall to be a kid. A young man. Moving guilefully like a cat, thin and long-armed. Not crew. Not a soldier. Wore a - was that a Harvard jumper—what the hell?

He squinted harder. The figure paused, then slipped under a tarpaulin draped over an emergency raft.

“Bloody hell,” Buck muttered. Stowaway.

He stamped out the cigarette and glanced around. No one else had seen it. The deck crew was too busy with ropes and whistles. He made a note to check on it later, quietly. No need to raise the alarm yet. The Tyche was already moving, and whoever the bloke was, he wasn’t going anywhere. And if he wanted to go to Australia why should he stand in the way?

Buck turned and walked aft, boots echoing along the steel deck. He passed Dr. Mary Protandry, who was arguing with a steward about the location of her cold storage unit. Her tone was clipped, decisive—“If the cultures die, this trip’s wasted. And no, I’m not a bloody nurse.”

“Hey, Doc,” Buck muttered. She was a looker but there was no chemistry there. Just a polite respect.

Mary gave him a nod. “Lieutenant.”

A low hum vibrated up from the deckplates. The boilers were kicking in harder now. The Tyche picked up speed, slicing through the Hudson like a blunt blade. The sky above was clear, but high above them there was a strange silhouette drifted in the upper atmosphere—a dirigible, tail fins sharp as razors.

Buck frowned. “Didn’t think the Yanks still used those.” Then the air raid alarms went off. “What the hell?!”

Then anti aircraft machine gun fire opened up. Mary looked up as well. “Up in the sky…” She asked, pointing. “Is it… a plane?” She wasn’t looking at the dirigible but the silver object hurtling through the sky leaving a white cloud in its wake.

“I believe that is a rocket…” Buck said in awe. “That yahoo from the newsreels - Jetboy!”