Helen
I opened the file on my laptop with a glass of iced lemonade by my side and the firm intention of tearing it apart. I was looking for any small flaw, any loose end that would allow me to keep the comfortable, prejudiced opinion I had of her intact.
The problem was that the document was flawless.
Organized, clear, and damn practical. It included names, exact locations along the evacuation routes, staff rotations, assigned radio channels, support points, and detailed observations on passengers’ typical behavior during evening events.
She even included preventive notes on the “hot spots”: those areas of the promenade deck where cruise passengers tend to crowd together to take photos with the sunset or clog the flow while waiting in line at the bar.
I read every line, pressing my lips together.
There was no trace of the chaotic Maika I remembered.
She had provided exactly what our superiors had asked for at the officers’ meeting: a layer of human psychology applied to the cold, flat evacuation plan.
Something difficult to refute without looking like I was clinging to my pride with both hands and an emergency whistle between my teeth.
No, no, and no. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit that she was right.
I saved the file in the general drill folder and forced myself to shut down the computer. I did it because I’m a professional and because, even though it stung to admit it, some of her proposals deserved a chance. Just a few. Maybe several. But not nearly all of them.
The start of the season is critical, and the entire crew—from the first officer to the last housekeeper—has to act with impeccable professionalism.
The crew’s general drill, hours before the boarding of the thousands of passengers who will fill the ship begins, is our last safety net.
My team of security officers was ready. I was ready.
The only thing left was to see if Maika’s entertainment circus would know how to stay in its place.
· · ·
The next morning, the harbor sun is already beating down on the deck.
Maika appears right on time, escorted by her entertainment supervisors and holding a bottle of ice-cold water.
Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail higher than strictly allowed, slightly violating the company’s image guidelines, and her sunglasses are perched on her head.
She seems calm. Too calm for my peace of mind.
“Good morning, Officer Müller,” she greets me as she approaches.
“Good morning,” I reply.
“We’ve checked the radio channels and the assignments for the assembly stations,” she says, stopping a meter away from me.
“I know. I got your email.”
Her mouth curves into a barely perceptible smile, the kind that makes you want to open the navigation manual and hit her with it.
“So you’ve read it…” she says, in a sing-song tone.
“That’s usually the goal when you hit send, isn’t it?”
“I’m glad to see the security department has a handle on basic technology,” she replies with sharp irony.
I stare at her, holding her gaze. She doesn’t blink.
Behind us, Gonzalo clears his throat to stifle a laugh that threatens to break the tension.
“Gonzalo,” I say without taking my eyes off Maika, “go check Assembly Station B.”
“Of course. Station B is begging me to go,” he replies, retreating.
“Idiot.”
Maika tilts her head, amused.
“Are you going to pretend again today that my suggestions are a threat to international maritime safety?” asks the know-it-all.
“It depends entirely on whether you intend to follow the regulations or not.”
“I promise to restrain my natural impulse to sow chaos.”
“Now that would be a simulation worth watching,” I reply.
Her smile loses its usual edge, and for a moment, a softer, almost weary look creeps into her eyes.
“Helen, really. I want this to go well,” she says.
The statement forces me to lower my guard just a little. Just a little. A millimeter.
“Me too,” I admit.
And I keep the rest to myself. Because saying more would mean admitting that I’ve analyzed her proposal until the wee hours of the morning, that her notes on passenger flows are brilliant, and that a part of me has been captivated by her way of understanding passengers.
But of course, I’m not going to say that out loud.
The full-scale drill begins in ten minutes. The general test alarm blares over the deck speakers: seven short beeps and one long beep. I grab the walkie-talkie from my control station on Deck Eight.
“Security Control here. Initial positions for the abandon ship drill. Crew, control the flow of passengers toward the Bravo and Charlie evacuation stairwells. Confirm receipt.”
The responses cascade in, breaking through the static on the radio.
“Security Alpha, confirmed.”
“Security Bravo, in position.”
“Evacuation team in the central atrium, confirmed.”
“Evacuation team in the port corridor, confirmed.”
Maika’s voice comes in last, clear and confident.
“Entertainment Coordination, confirmed. Ready for the simulated evacuation.”
I don’t understand why her voice, filtered through the radio transmitter, strikes me as even more dangerous. Perhaps because, unable to see her face, my imagination takes treacherous liberties, recreating the curve of her lips.
The drill proceeds smoothly.
I note the rotations, but then, on the touchscreen and through my binoculars, I spot the first breach. Lara, one of the new entertainers, leaves her fixed position by the elevator early and moves toward a column to intercept a massive group of “passengers” that has become stuck.
I frown, pressing the button to speak.
“Port aisle crowd control, maintain the fixed position assigned in the plan,” I order immediately.
Maika’s reply comes before her subordinate can even apologize.
“She pivoted because the group didn’t have a line of sight to the Charlie staircase. From their blind spot, they couldn’t see the exit.”
“That movement isn’t stipulated in the evacuation protocol,” I reply.
“No, but it’ll work better this way. You’ll see,” Maika insists.
I watch the closed-circuit monitor showing the simulation. Indeed, the human traffic jam begins to move forward. But the fact that she’s right doesn’t slow my racing heart.
“The safety points aren’t just guidelines, Maika. If the bridge is counting on her at a certain point, she has to be at that point.”
“I know,” she replies. “Just… trust me.”
Toward the end of the exercise, the technical team simulates a fire blocking one of the main corridors on the promenade deck.
My team activates the alternate route immediately, but I notice that the entertainers, moving in a less rigid manner than my guards, manage to get the human mass to react to the change in direction immediately, without stopping to protest or hesitate.
I should be happy. But I’m not.
When the three beeps sound, signaling the end of the drill, the overall evacuation time is… impeccable. I gather the section chiefs on the boat deck for the debriefing as the sun begins to melt the asphalt at the port.
“The drill was conducted in accordance with regulations,” I announce, reviewing the metrics on my tablet.
“But there is a serious lack of tactical discipline at the mobile checkpoints. The ship’s safety cannot depend on individual hunches that aren’t reported to the bridge.
I remind you that we have superiors and rules to follow. ”
Maika steps forward, physically placing herself between her subordinate and my official gaze.
“Those were my orders,” she admits, looking me straight in the eye. “I ordered them to adjust their movements in case of a blockade.”
“And I remind you that you don’t have the authority to alter an evacuation plan approved by the captain’s office,” I point out, fixing my eyes on hers. I’m starting to think the rest of the crew is going to end up charging admission to watch our back-and-forth.
“Don’t tell me the plan is sacred, Helen. Because plans don’t take the panic factor into account,” she protests, taking another step forward.
“Explain yourself, then. In front of everyone.”
Maika points toward the port lobby.
“The plan is designed for an empty hallway, but with real bodies, the exit signal disappears. If Lara stands rigidly in her corner, they’ll hear her, yes, but people need a visual cue. And by taking just three steps forward, the flow will turn without stopping.”
I process the impact of the argument.
Gonzalo, at my side, types with suspicious enthusiasm on his tablet, holding his breath. Everyone is waiting for my verdict. Maika first.
“All right. I’ll study the data,” I concede, keeping my voice even.
She raises an eyebrow, defiant.
“Does that mean you’re actually going to evaluate it, or is it going straight into a mental folder titled ‘nonsense Maika says to drive me crazy’?”
Someone in the back snorts to stifle a laugh, and I quickly shoot them a withering look.
“That means I’ll look into it. Period.”
“Understood.”
“Send me those modified parameters in writing,” I add, trying to regain control of the situation. “With their strict limits.”
Maika nods, her eyes sparkling.
“You’ll have it on your desk this afternoon.”
“Before six,” I specify.
“At five forty-seven, to keep up the routine,” she replies with a cheeky half-smile.
I don’t want to smile. I really do try my hardest to maintain the regulation poker face, but the corner of my mouth suffers a rebellious twitch for a fraction of a second.
She catches it on the fly, of course. Her eyes light up with such obvious triumph that I feel like ordering a complete inventory of the ship’s three thousand life jackets just to bring her down a peg.
“Don’t get used to it, Maika,” I warn her in a low voice.
“Never. I’m a woman of strict morals,” she replies with an innocence she doesn’t even believe herself.
“Since when?” Gonzalo mutters from the background.
Maika puts her hand to her chest.
“Gonzalo, you’re hurting my feelings. You have so little faith in my professional growth.”
For the first time since this steel giant became our battlefield, the tension doesn’t feel like a rope about to snap. Though it’s still there, vibrating in the hot air.
I give the final guard orders and break formation. As the rest disperse toward the crew mess halls, Maika lingers for a second, staying by my side while I feign absolute concentration on my tablet screen.
“Good work,” she says, lowering her voice to a frequency that seems designed just for my ears.
Looking up is a mistake.
“The drill was… acceptable,” I reply.
Her smile widens, revealing a dimple that throws my heartbeat off balance.
“That, in Officer Müller’s cryptic language, means: ‘Thanks, Maika, you’re a fucking genius.’”
“I don’t speak that dialect,” I declare.
“Not yet,” she whispers.
And without another word, she turns away before I can say a thing, leaving me standing still, watching her walk across the sunlit deck until she passes through the doors.
“You’re screwed, Helen. Screwed and without a lifeboat.”
· · ·
Hours later, taking advantage of the shift change and the absolute solitude of the Security Control Room, I lock myself in to review the camera recordings. I don’t log it in the logbook, of course.
On the screens, the deck unfolds from four different angles. I search for every sequence where the entertainment crew might have made a mistake. But what I find are very practical solutions executed in record time.
I lean back, tapping my lower lip with my index finger.
Eleven seconds may seem like a trifle to any civilian who buys a cruise ticket to sip margaritas by the pool.
For a safety officer, eleven seconds is the difference between a clear corridor and a human stampede, between a smooth evacuation and a tragedy.
And, to my utter misfortune, Maika’s intuition foresaw it before all my procedure manuals did.
I rest my arms on the table, exhausted.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I tell myself in the dim light of the room.
I work on the preliminary report for another hour. I draft the modifications to the Emergency Plan and introduce the concept of “dynamic support points under direct security supervision.” I’m very careful not to write “Proposal by the Entertainment Coordinator,” of course.
I look like an idiot trying to hide the sun with one finger.
Working with Maika is no longer the ungovernable chaos I remember from years ago.
She’s irritating, defiant, and tests my patience, yes, but she’s also making things very easy for me.
And, suddenly, the past hits me: before she shattered my expectations and disappointed me, Maika fascinated me.
And discovering that that fascination remains intact is what truly terrifies me.
Because resentment is a clean, structured emotion. It has an origin, a designated file, and an expiration date that you control. But attraction, on the other hand, is a shipwreck with no survivors and no logbook.
And I can’t afford a shipwreck on my impeccable record of service.