Man of Steel: The Official Movie Novelization

CHAPTER SEVEN

Surging waves washed over the ice-covered rails of the Debbie Sue, a two-hundred-foot fishing boat rolling atop the frigid waters of the Bering Sea, just off the coast of Alaska.

Captain Ivar Heraldson watched from the wheelhouse as the soaked deckhands scrambled atop the slippery deck below, racing the fading daylight as they hauled heavy metal cages, laden with captured crabs, onto the deck. It was October, king crab season, which meant that they only had four or five hours of daylight this far north.

Crabbers wearing wet-weather gear and rubber boots defied biting winds to hook the pots to a sturdy metal crane, which then swung the cages over the deck, where hundreds of pounds of crustaceans were dumped onto the sorting table. Rider crabs clung to the sides of the cages.

Heraldson kept a close eye on the proceedings. Theirs was a dangerous vocation, and a moment’s carelessness—or just cussed back luck—could lead to injury or death. The captain had lost men to drowning and hypothermia, and had seen skulls fractured by swinging hooks or cages. Manipulating several hundred pounds of cage and crabs was difficult enough. Throw in choppy seas, heavy winds, lack of sleep, and an icy deck littered with ropes, coils, buoys, and other hazards, and you had a recipe for disaster.

It was estimated that at least one man a week was killed every season. Heraldson sometimes marveled that the number wasn’t higher.

At the moment, however, everything seemed to going smoothly, despite the massive swells that were tossing the Debbie Sue about. Most of his crew consisted of veterans who knew the ropes well enough.

Then his wary eyes sought out the sole exception.

A greenhorn kid who had joined the crew in Dutch Harbor stood off to one side, coiling the buoy lines while the more experienced crewmen hauled in the pots. The hood of his insulated rain slicker partially obscured his face, but Heraldson glimpsed a rugged young face hidden behind a scruffy black beard. The youngster’s thoughtful blue eyes took in the hectic activity on deck. As a greenhorn, he was entitled to a smaller share of the profits, yet so far he had handled the long hours, backbreaking work, hellish conditions, and merciless hazing without complaint.

Which was more than could be said of plenty of first-time crabbers who found the job more than they could handle. Heraldson had been impressed by the young man’s strength and endurance. The kid didn’t even seem to mind the cold.

A wrenching noise yanked the captain’s attention over to the crane, which was swinging another pot over the rail. The jarring din came from the hydraulic winch, where a tangled rope had caught. Smoke rose from the straining block and, with a sound like a cannon going off, the line snapped abruptly, sending more than a thousand pounds of cage and crab plummeting toward the oblivious greenhorn. Directly below, the young man was staring off into space, as though his thoughts were miles away. He was only a heartbeat away from being flattened.

At the last possible moment the boat’s deckboss—a burly fisherman named Byrne—shoved the greenhorn out the way. The loose pot crashed onto the deck. Frantic crabs scrambled inside the cage, climbing over each other as they sought a way out. Heraldson let out a sigh of relief. For a moment there, he’d thought the greenhorn was a goner.

“Watch it, dumbass!” Byrne barked. “Keep your eyes open or you’re gonna get squashed!”

The greenhorn accepted the rebuke. His deep voice held a hint of the Midwest.

“Sorry.”

“Where the hell’d they find you anyway?” Byrne stormed off, shaking his head. The crew went back to work, scrambling to salvage the haul from the fallen cage. Crab season was getting shorter ever year, and they couldn’t take time off just because a rookie almost got killed. Even the greenhorn returned to coiling the lines, seemingly unshaken by his near brush with death.

Didn’t he realize how close a call that had been?

The captain contemplated the young man, who radiated a quiet confidence that belied his age and inexperience. Not for the first time, he wondered what had possessed him to sign on a green young kid who never talked about his past. Byrne was right for questioning why the kid was on the boat in the first place.

Where had he come from anyway?

“Martha Kent?”

The nurse escorted Martha and her husband into the examination room. It was a busy day at the Smallville pediatrics clinic, and the waiting room was packed. An anxious-looking brunette in her late twenties, Martha cradled her adopted son in her arms. The baby looked like any other infant. He bawled noisily

“He won’t stop crying,” Martha said apologetically.

The nurse just shrugged. She was surely used to crying children.

“The doctor will be right in,” she said.

Waiting tensely in the doctor’s office, Martha hoped they weren’t making an awful mistake. She and Jonathan had been reluctant to let anyone examine little Clark, but his nonstop crying had left them no choice. Besides the fact that neither of them was getting any sleep, she couldn’t help worrying that there might be something seriously wrong.

What do we really know about him? she wondered for what seemed like the millionth time. Or what he needs to survive?

After a few minutes, Dr. Whitaker joined them in the office. The avuncular silver-haired pediatrician was a fixture in the Kents’ small rural community. Bifocals rested upon his nose as a concession to his aging eyes. He had delivered most of the babies of the Smallville, with the notable exception of Clark.

He took the wailing infant from Martha and placed him gently on the examination table. Martha gripped Jonathan’s hand as the doctor conducted a routine inspection, checking out his heart, lungs, and reflexes. Peering into Clark’s throat and ears, he didn’t appear to find anything alarming.

“It’s colic,” he pronounced. “Newborns have a built-in mechanism for tuning out sights and sounds. When that mechanism falls away, some babies become overwhelmed. Clark’s probably just more sensitive than most.”

But how sensitive? Martha fretted.

Dr. Whitaker produced a portable electronic device with a cord that was attached to a small earplug. He sterilized Clark’s ear with a cloth wipe, then inserted the tip of the probe into it.

“This is a test to measure hearing response,” he explained. “Don’t worry, it’s completely painless—lots of babies sleep through the procedure.”

Jonathan Kent frowned. His tanned, weathered features bespoke a life spent working outdoors. A few years older than his wife, he eyed the test apprehensively.

“I’m not sure that’s a good—” he began.

The doctor flicked a switch, activating the apparatus, which sent an acoustic signal into the baby’s ear. In theory, the device would measure the ear’s response to the sounds.

But not Clark.

The baby’s screams increased in volume. A deafening shriek shattered every window in the office—and beyond. Out in the waiting room, a gumball machine cracked open, spilling candy-colored spheres onto the floor. The nurse’s coffee mug came apart in her hand. An aquarium full of colorful fish exploded, flooding the reception area. Staff and patients rushed to rescue the gasping fish, which were tossed into paper cups filled with tap water. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet.

Car alarms went off outside. Storefront windows up and down Main Street shattered and spilled onto sidewalks. Windshields disintegrated into cubes of safety glass. The town’s one traffic light exploded in a shower of sparks.

I was afraid of this, Martha thought. We should have known better.

She cautiously uncovered her ears, which nevertheless kept on ringing. Dr. Whitaker stared speechlessly at little Clark. His glasses were askew, the lenses cracked. But the baby was smiling now, as if entertained by all the commotion.

Martha shared a look with her husband, who nodded in response. Before the doctor could collect his wits— or ask any unwanted questions—they reclaimed their son and hustled him out of the doctor’s office. Martha cringed at the mess in the waiting room, but didn’t stop to talk to the nurse or receptionist, who were busy coping with the chaotic aftermath of the event.

The Kents hurried out onto Main Street, where they found even more broken glass and other property damage.

Dear Lord, Martha thought. Did Clark do all this, just by crying?

The baby gurgled happily in her arms.

The waves were higher, the weather rougher, but the Debbie Sue hadn’t made her quota yet, so there was still work to be done. Down on the icy deck, the men were launching empty pots, baited with herring, into the sea. They leaned precariously over the rails as the freezing wind and spray pelted their faces.

Floating buoys marked the location of the pots.

“Mayday!” The radio in the wheelhouse squealed into life. “This is the Bright Aurora calling all ships in the vicinity. We’ve had an explosion and the platform is on fire. Numerous survivors are in the water!”

Captain Heraldson scowled. The Bright Aurora was an offshore oil rig only a few nautical miles away. An explosion at the massive platform was seriously bad news. He grabbed a mike and shouted to his men over the boat’s loud hailer.

“Lock it up! Just got a distress call from a rig due west of us.”

The emergency was going to cost them a day’s fishing, maybe more, but Heraldson didn’t hesitate. An oil platform like the Bright Aurora could house more than two hundred souls, all of whom might be in mortal danger. The code of the sea—and common sense— demanded that he respond to their SOS.

He hoped it wasn’t already too late.

To their credit, his crew battened down the cages and gear in record time. Heraldson opened up the throttle, pushing the Debbie Sue to her limits as the boat ploughed through the waves. Locating the burning rig wasn’t a challenge—the smoke and flames were soon visible from miles away. And it was as bad as he had feared.

The enormous drilling platform, which loomed hundreds of feet above the surging waves, was engulfed in flames. With its towering derrick and one-hundred-and-fifty-foot tall cranes, the imperiled platform resembled a large industrial factory on fire, which was essentially the case.

Terrified oil workers could be seen dashing around the rig’s various decks, fleeing the flames and explosions. Some had no choice but to leap from great heights into the frigid water, taking their chances with the sea rather than facing the blazing inferno. Lifeboats bobbed on the whitecaps, fishing survivors out of the oily waters. Gargantuan fireballs blossomed on the upper levels of the platform.

The Debbie Sue joined a flotilla of boats coming to assist in the rescue efforts. Heraldson spotted several of his competitors in the choppy waters around them. Fishing crews hurried to pluck burned and drowning roughnecks from the sea. Coast Guard rescue ’copters buzzed overhead, braving the rising smoke and flames. Turning the wheelhouse over to Byrne, the captain joined his own crew at the rail, searching the waters for more survivors.

Along with the rest of the men, the young greenhorn stared in horror at the disaster. Strong winds carried the choking odor of burning gas and oil. Heraldson covered his mouth and nose.

“Dispatcher says there’s still men trapped inside,” he informed the others. He doubted that anything could be done for those poor bastards, but maybe he and his crew could still rescue the desperate souls who had made it into the sea. He struggled to spot any survivors amidst the foaming swells. “Greenhorn, go fetch my binoculars!”

The kid failed to acknowledge the order. Heraldson turned irritably, only to discover that the youth was nowhere to be seen. A discarded orange slicker lay atop the deck.

What the devil?