18
Helen
I’m two steps away from Maika when my whole body seems to rebel against itself.
Part of me burns with the urge to pounce on her right here and unleash all the pent-up tension in a monumental scolding for the chaos she’s caused.
The other part, far more treacherous, just wants to hold her tight—and kiss her until we’re both exhausted—to make sure she’s okay.
That second option, of course, is completely ruled out and buried beneath my uniform.
I watch her leaning against the bulkhead of the interior corridor, her head thrown back, her uniform jacket wrinkled as if she’d slept in it, and her hair escaping from her ponytail in unruly strands.
She’s exhausted, and I’m not surprised in the least. Meanwhile, the tourists make their way toward the central elevators, murmuring between exhaustion and relief.
The ship is about to cast off, and I can still feel the adrenaline pumping.
Maika opens her eyes and sees me. I want to tell her she did well, that she was brilliant.
I want to ask her if she’s really okay. And at the same time, I want to demand a detailed account of what happened.
I want… I don’t know exactly what I want.
And I hate not being in control of my own thoughts.
I take another step toward her, clutching the folder to my chest to stop my hands from shaking.
“Maika…” I murmur.
She straightens slightly, tensing her shoulders as if bracing for the impact of my scolding.
“If you’re going to yell at me…” she replies, raising a hand to stop me, “I ask that you give me five minutes to find a more comfortable place to collapse afterward.”
I open my mouth to reply, torn between the standard reprimand and a question too gentle that would give me away. But I don’t get to make the choice.
“Excuse me,” a male voice interjects from behind us.
A man steps forward from the stream of passengers who’ve just passed through security.
Until that moment, he’d seemed like just another tourist: light-colored pants, a linen shirt wrinkled from the trip, sunglasses hanging around his neck, and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
The typical look of a cruise ship passenger after a stifling tour of Rome.
But then he reaches into his inside pocket and shows us an ID badge.
My stomach lurches.
The card bears the corporation’s gold logo and the badge granting full access to restricted areas of the ship.
“I’m Arturo Valdés, fleet operations auditor,” he introduces himself with a calmness that strikes me as offensive given the urgency of what just happened. “And I think this conversation should continue in a private area.”
Maika blinks, completely taken aback. I’m frozen in place. I feel like if I let my muscles relax even a millimeter, I’ll collapse to the ground.
“Excuse me?” I ask, though my officer’s brain has already processed the rank on the badge.
The man turns the card so we can see the holographic seal.
“I was traveling incognito on the tour bus. As an observer. And I wasn’t the only company representative present in the group.”
His colleague appears instantly. I recognize her immediately: short hair, navy blue dress, one of the passengers who sat on the port side during the gala dinner.
One of those people who observe a lot, speak little, and analyze service standards without raising suspicion.
As soon as she stands in front of us, she pulls out her own corporate ID.
“Julianne Ferguson,” she adds. “Onboard Experience and Executive Evaluation.”
The boarding corridor seems to shrink around us. I feel the air conditioning start to freeze the back of my neck. Maika stands very still beside me. For the first time all day, I can’t even hear her breathing.
“Were you undercover on the cruise ship?” she manages to say.
Julianne flashes a smile and nods.
“We prefer the term ‘real-world quality audit.’”
“Sure,” Maika replies with a wry grimace. “Because saying ‘infiltrated’ sounds too much like a spy movie and clashes with the VIP passenger club brochures.”
Arturo doesn’t flinch, but Julianne keeps that analytical smile that we ship’s officers fear so much. I’m unable to gesture; my throat is dry.
“How long have you been on board?” I ask, forcing myself to keep my composure.
“We boarded in Marseille,” Arturo reports. “We’ve been monitoring interdepartmental coordination during disembarkations at previous stops. Today we were assessing the handling of potential contingencies in Rome, and we had the opportunity to witness the resolution of this latest… incident.”
A few suffocating minutes on a staircase in the Vatican, emergency paperwork with the local police, twenty-four cruise passengers on tenterhooks, a train we caught on the fly, and a return to the pier with the ship’s sirens blaring, urging us to depart.
All summed up in a neat, office-like summary, with no trace of the sweat or the anguish that had been squeezing my chest while I waited for Maika to appear before me.
“We need to meet immediately,” Julianne declares. “Let’s go up to the officers’ deck conference room.”
I look at Maika. She shoots me a quick glance, laden with a vulnerability she rarely allows herself to show. There’s too much unresolved history between the two of us to fit into this hallway.
“She just arrived from shore,” I interject before my mind can weigh the consequences of contradicting an auditor. “My colleague needs a few minutes to stop by her cabin. At least to freshen up a bit.”
I don’t know why I’m protecting her in front of the top brass. Or maybe I do know, but I’m terrified to admit it. Maika glances at me out of the corner of her eye, taken aback, and that surprise stings more than any dig she could have thrown my way.
Arturo shakes his head, unyielding.
“I’m sorry, officer. The report must be drafted before the ship leaves territorial waters.”
“Understood.”
We walk toward the service elevators in silence. Maika walks beside me, her shoulders slumped and her gaze fixed on the floor. I can’t help but analyze every detail about her. Her stiff hands, the red mark left by her bag strap on her wrist, the loose strands of hair falling down her neck.
I force myself to stare straight ahead as we go up to the officers’ deck.
“What the hell is going on here?” I mutter, almost to myself.
Maika lets out a bitter laugh that cuts off immediately.
“If you figure it out, let me know. I’m still trying to decide if I survived Rome or if this is a hallucination caused by dehydration.”
The officers’ conference room on the bridge is too brightly lit, too cold, and has that distinct smell of wax and cleanliness so characteristic of command centers.
An oval mahogany table, four leather chairs, the navigation screens turned off, and the muffled hum of the ship’s engines coming to life in the background.
Julianne and Arturo show us to our seats.
Maika slumps into her chair, though she straightens her back instantly.
I sit down next to her, adopting the stiff posture dictated by protocol.
Arturo unfolds a tablet on the table, and Julianne folds her hands slowly.
“Before we go over the procedures,” she begins, “we’d like to inform you that the passenger evacuated at the Vatican is in stable condition at the medical center in Rome.
The company’s ground support team has already taken care of his accommodations, medical insurance, and tickets to rejoin the cruise at the next port if he’s discharged. ”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maika close her eyes and exhale all the air she’d been holding in her lungs. That relief from someone else hits me hard in the chest.
“Thank you,” Maika manages to say.
“Good,” Arturo continues, typing on his screen. “Let’s focus on the sequence of events following the loss of signal.”
All my defense mechanisms kick in reflexively.
“What happened…” I interject, “is that as soon as the coordinator reestablished contact upon stepping out into the plaza, port logistics were restructured from the ship, and the arrival of the entire group was ensured before the gangway closed for good.”
Julianne studies me with a clinical gaze.
“That’s on the terminal log, officer,” she admits. “The group cleared the scanner on time.”
“Therefore, we’ve proven that everything worked as it should,” I conclude.
Maika turns her head toward me. I sense her confusion at the fact that I’m using the plural to defend us.
Arturo rests his forearms on the table and fixes his gaze on mine.
“The result was optimal, Helen. But it could have gone differently and cost us a fortune, not to mention the complaints and claims from the passengers that are sure to come. Because they’re sure to come.”
The remark stings because it hits the exact target of my own fears. I’ve been calculating the cost of what happened the whole time.
“Every ground operation has a margin of risk,” I reply. “That’s why we’re in charge.”
“And that’s why we’re assessing what happens when protocols are useless,” Julianne states with icy calm.
Maika leans forward, resting her elbows on the table.
“With all due respect. When a seventy-year-old man collapses on a spiral staircase twenty-four inches wide, the company’s procedures manual is of little use in preventing the group from panicking or in negotiating with the Vatican Gendarmerie.”
Far from being annoyed, Julianne nods slowly.
“Exactly, Maika. That’s what we were getting at.”
I feel confusion gripping me. Arturo swipes a finger across his screen and clears his throat.
“This inspection has revealed two critical factors for the operations center. The first: the coordinator’s ability to improvise and her organic leadership on the ground.
Keeping a group of cruise passengers calm at a foreign train station, arranging ticket purchases under pressure, and devising a brilliant escape route in real time. ”