Trident Force by Michael Howe

his ship, checking that all was in order. He glanced up and forward and was most gratified to notice one of the enginemen standing beside the winch of the aft-most lifeboat on the port side. The man was, at the moment, staring aft at the party, but Covington was certain he was there checking the winch and performing preventive maintenance. He held his chief engineer in high regard and was pleased to have his confidence reaffirmed. Within less than a heartbeat, however, his sense of well-being blew away with the warm breeze when he caught sight of Congressman Peter Evans, his second most important politician-passenger, and realized the man was staring almost angrily at him.
    Evans had a reputation for being intensely ambitious, not to mention proud, and would expect Covington to approach him rather than the other way around. Pasting his smile back on, the captain turned and headed toward the congressman, who, he noted, had his wife, Penny, at his side. Penny, he understood, was from old money, and most seemed to feel that much of her husband’s success had grown out of that very same weedy old green.
    â€œCongressman Evans,” said Covington as he wormed his way through the small crowd surrounding Evans and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard Aurora. ”
    â€œThank you, Captain,” replied Evans, now beaming. Unlike Chrissie Clark’s, however, Peter Evans’s good cheer was totally forced. He simply did not seem comfortable, which seemed strange since most politicians are addicted to crowds. It was only then that Covington realized Evans had arranged for a news crew to be on hand to tape the great moment. Cameraman, soundgirl and reporter—all undoubtedly primed by Evans to ask just the right questions.
    A media show, thought the captain. A scripted media show. That was what the whole expedition was supposed to be.
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    Marcello Cagayan paused in his labors—he was lubricating the winch on one of the lifeboat davits—and looked aft at the party as he unthinkingly wiped the bluish grease off his hands with a rag. His most basic, and dominant, impulses were hatred and contempt, although a very slight twinge of jealousy was also present. He hated all those people milling around on the deck beneath him. For their smugness; their greed; their stupidity. He hated them because up until now they had not only believed they were powerful, but were, in fact, powerful. He hated them because whenever they noticed him—assuming they ever did—they would see nothing more than a powerless little brown monkey. Unworthy of comment.
    But the world was changing fast. The world had already changed. Omar was right. They thought they had the power. They thought they were in control. But they weren’t. On this ship, Marcello Cagayan, the puny little brown monkey, had the power. He was the one who would control who would live and when all would die.
    â€œHey, man.” Marcello turned. It was Vido, one of the Ecuadorian deckhands. “Looks like a damn good party.”
    â€œYeah,” stuttered Cagayan as Vido passed by, carrying a large roll of white nylon line. Vido was okay, thought Cagayan. He never called him a mono , never treated him like a fool. If anybody survived, Cagayan hoped it might be Vido, although he certainly wouldn’t change anything to guarantee it.
    Marcello had been born into parasite-ridden poverty on one of the southern islands in the Philippines. His father, a subsistence farmer, had died when he was young. Killed by government troops who claimed that he was a rebel. Even though they knew better. His mother had died when he was even younger. Of poverty.
    Marcello could well remember the day his father died. He’d stood there with the rest of the village in terrified silence when the officer told his father to kneel before him and beg. He saw the expression on the officer’s face when he pulled the trigger and blew a big hole in his father’s head.
    At