The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [21]
Jun Do leaned over the side and watched one descend, following it down with his parabolic. The water crossing the shark’s gills would revive its mind and perceptions. They were above the trench now, almost four kilometers deep, perhaps a half hour of free fall, and through his headphones, the background hiss of the abyss sounded more like the creeping, spooky crackle of pressure death. There was nothing to hear down there—all the subs communicated with ultralow-frequency bursts. Still, he pointed his parabolic toward the waves and slowly panned from bow to stern. The ghost broadcast had to come from somewhere. How could it seem to come from every direction if it didn’t come from below? He could feel the eyes of the crew.
“You find something down there?” the Machinist asked.
“Actually,” Jun Do said, “I lost something.”
Come first light, Jun Do slept, while the crew—Pilot, Machinist, First Mate, Second Mate, and Captain alike—spent the day crating the shark fins in layers of salt and ice. The Chinese paid in hard currency, and they were very particular about their fins.
Jun Do woke before dinner, which was breakfast time for him. He had reports to type before darkness fell. There had been a fire on the Junma which took the galley, the head, and half of the bunks, leaving only the tin plates, a black mirror, and a toilet that had cracked in two from the heat. But the stove still worked, and it was summer, so everyone sat on the hatches to eat, where it was possible for the men to view a rare sunset. On the horizon was a carrier group from the American fleet, ships so large they didn’t look as if they could move, let alone float. It looked like an island chain, so fixed and ancient as to have its own people and language and gods.
On the longline, they’d caught a grouper, whose cheeks they ate raw on the spot, and a turtle, unusual to hook. The turtle would take a day to stew, but the fish they baked whole and pulled off the bone with their fingers. A squid had also snagged on the line, but the Captain wouldn’t abide them on board. He had lectured them many times on the squid. He considered the octopus the most intelligent animal in the ocean, the squid the most savage.
They took off their shirts and smoked, even as the sun fell. The Junma was pilotless, cantering in the waves, buoys rolling loose on the deck, and even the cables and booms glowed orange in the oven-colored light. The life of a fisherman was good—there were no endless factory quotas to fill, and on a ship there was no loudspeaker blaring government reports all day. There was food. And even though they were leery about having a listening officer on board, it meant that the Junma got all the fuel coupons it needed, and if Jun Do directed the ship in a way that lowered the catch, everyone got extra ration cards.
“So, Third Mate,” the Pilot said. “How are our girls?”
That’s what they called Jun Do sometimes, the Third Mate, as a joke.
“They’re nearing Hokkaido,” Jun Do told them. “At least they were last night. They’re rowing thirty kilometers a day.”
“Are they still naked?” the Machinist asked.
“Only the girl who rows in the dark,” said Jun Do.
“To row around the world,” the Second Mate said. “Only a sexy woman would do that. It’s so pointless and