UnAlaska

3. In Transit

Morning, August 18th, Embarkation

Laura drove at a cautious pace to the docks, scanning the map on her phone clipped into the heater vent above her dashboard. A cheerful, robotic GPS voice guided her over a bridge. Below it lay a crisscross of railroad lines and beyond them the Puget Sound. A jumble of camouflage and olive green National Guard vehicles sat by the tracks.

She turned at a sign labeled 'Cruise parking,' navigated a warren of streets below the bridge, and turned in at a faded, weather beaten guard station. She turned down her volume knob, grabbed the hand-crank to roll down her window, shifted into neutral, and coasted to a stop.

A bored looking, middle aged guard with a receding hairline pointed at her through the window. "You have a reservation?"

"Sure. Constantine, 12 nights."

He paused to consult a clipboard, its pen dangling from a string. As he flipped the pages, they rustled in the maritime breeze. He checked off her name and furrowed his brow. "Driver's license," he grunted.

She pulled her license out of her purse in the seat next to her, and held it in the open window. The gate buzzed upward before he even saw her ID. She nudged her stick shift into first, eased up the clutch, and rolled through.

A moment later, she hefted her aluminum carry on out of her trunk. Her purse was stacked neatly on top of it, attached to the telescoping handle. A shuttle slowly pulled up and stopped with a wheeze of brakes, and she stepped on board for the short ride.

She felt a hitch in her breath as the shuttle rounded a corner and the MV Cecaelia came into view. The ship's sleek, long, and impeccably clean white shape seemed to go on forever. Balconies punctuated long fields of windows. The stern gracefully curved out of the water and then sailed back toward the purposeful, sharp prow. It looks fast standing still, thought Laura. How did they do that?

The shuttle stopped again with a wheeze of brakes at the embarkation station and Laura rolled her suitcase off. To her left, a small gaggle of protesters waved homemade signs reading "No nukes in our waters!" One shouted through a megaphone. "Don't board that ship! Don't support the pollution of our oceans with nuclear waste!"

To her right, a metal walkway zigzagged toward the ship. A woman in a neat, nautical uniform greeted her. "Amulet, if you please," she said in a crisp, vaguely British accent. She held up a tablet with a small pulsing amber light attached to it. She smiled patiently with bright red lipstick. Laura held up a finger to mime the universal sign for 'one moment,' and opened her purse. She fished out a cream colored lanyard, attached to a small metal disk machined out of a single chunk of aluminum. She held it out, and the light pulsed green with a gentle chime.

"Ah yes, Mrs. Constantine. Right this way." She held her slender hand with bright French polished nails, pointing with all five fingers, toward the metal walkway.

"Ms., actually."

She nodded contritely. "My sincerest apologies, Ms. Constantine. I hope you find your stay on the Cecaelia to be splendid."

Laura began her walk. The breeze carried a heady mix of saltwater and kelp aromas. Small waves lapped against the ship, and their vibration carried through the steel of the walkway. At the top, a man in a crisp white uniform stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He was a hair over 40, stocky, and standing upright with an easy formality. His hair was closely cropped, and his face was handsome, in an avuncular way.

"Ms. Constantine, the captain has requested your presence on the bridge. My name is Rohit, the Staff Captain. If you would join me, we can bypass the security screening. I understand you have the trust of the ship in advance."