Ice Harvesting
Weddell Sea, just off the edge of the remnants of the Ronne Ice Shelf - January 23, 2055
​
Captain Wells, a veteran of over forty years at sea, sat at his desk, slightly hunched over, slowly reading the loading report that had been delivered a short time ago. Although his face was expressionless, he was pleased. They had a full load and had run into no delays or incidents. He leaned back as there was a knock at his door.
“Captain Wells?” came a voice from the other side.
The captain turned from his desk to face the door.
“What is it, Hendricks?”
Hendricks entered the small cabin, a look of deep concern on his face.
“We’ve lost contact with our escort. They’re not responding to our hails anymore.”
Captain Wells stood to face Hendricks.
“When did we last have contact?” he demanded.
“About four hours ago. Just as we were sealing the last ice hold. They were stationary and the meeting point and the last message they said they would be proceeding on schedule.
We just tried to radio them to confirm, but they didn’t reply and, according to Michels, they’re moving out.”
“Fuck!” cursed the captain as he shouldered past Hendricks and headed for the bridge.
* * *
​
“Michels! Any sign of our escort on radar?” asked the captain as he moved to the radar position.
“Yes, sir. They’re about four miles out and heading away from us, and I have three objects coming in fast from just portside of the bow.”
“How soon will they get here?”
“They’re running at over 60 knots. Maybe ten minutes,” replied Michels.
“Pirates!’ cursed the captain, “and it looks like our escort’s been bought off.”
He moved to the communications post and grabbed the mic.
“ARA Gonzalas!” he yelled. “What are you doing?”
He waited a moment for a reply, but there was only silence.
“ARA Gonzalas! Do you read me?”
Again, only silence.
Still holding the mic, he turned to the crew.
“We’re on our own here, boys. Seal the ship and break out the guns.”
He saw the grim faces of some of the crew and fear on others. The crew was well seasoned, but what they needed to do now was beyond their normal duties.
He gritted his teeth, cradled the mic and headed for the gun stores.
I’ll be dammed, he thought angrily, if I’m going to lose my ship over a cargo of ice.
* * *
Three days later the supertanker lay moored in a secluded bay in a remote area of Argentina, waiting for its next crew and destination. Although the original crew of eight had fought valiantly, they were no match for the thirty trained mercenaries.
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Johannesburg would go through another week of forced water rationing, while the swimming pools of the bureaucrats of Saudi Arabia were kept full.