The X-Files: The Truth Revealed

Chapter 42

USS Massachusetts - Battleship Cove, MA 

Ascending the grey metal stairs that led to the main galley, Will and Frohike could smell the food that Doc was preparing. It smelled so good that Will found himself picking up the pace only to be held back by Frohike who motioned him to sit down. Leaning in towards Will, Frohike whispered, not wanting Doc to overhear them. 

"Keep sharp. Let me know if you confirm what you saw earlier." 

"What if I don't see it?" 

"Either way, I'm inclined to go with your first instinct, so fill your gut so we can make tracks. Whatever you do, don't do anything that would give him reason to believe we know what he is... if he is what we suspect." 

Will agreed with a nod of his head. Clearing the last step, they turned into the galley and moved towards the service line. Doc, his back to them, turned around surprised. 

"I didn't expect to see you. I assumed I'd be taking your trays down to sick bay." 

"Can't keep a good man down," Frohike responded cheerfully, trying to act though his injury was minor. "Where's Fergie? His sniffer's usually better than mine when it comes to a free meal." 

"He loves this old tug. Wanders around it every time he comes out here. Says it's got spooks on it." 

"Ghosts?" Will piped up. 

"Of the worst kind," Doc confirmed. "Take a load off. It's just about ready,." 

Will and Frohike sat opposite one another at a table by the entrance. 

"You really think there're ghosts on this ship?" Will asked. 

"Never seen one, so I can't say," Frohike answered, his eyes scanning the room."I'd sure feel better if I knew where Fergie was." 

"Maybe he got lost. It's a big boat." 

"Ship," the Doc corrected, rounding the end of the service line with two trays in hand. 

A top each tray was a steaming plate of chicken and gravy, mashed potatoes and corn. He set them down before Will and Frohike and then headed back to the line where he grabbed another two trays. He slid into the seat at the head of the table, placing one tray at his setting and the other in the middle of the table. 

"Rolls are hotter than hell, so watch you don't burn yourselves," he said, picking one up with his bare hands in complete contradiction to the word of caution he'd just spoken. 

"It sure isn't like Ferguson to miss a meal especially one as good as this. Think I'll give him a call." 

"Won't get reception down here," Doc said as he sank his teeth into a steaming roll. Frohike looked at the screen on his cell. The man was right. No signal. "My wife gets madder than hell because she can only reach me when I'm topside. Pisses her off to no end." 

"I imagine so," Frohike said in agreement. 

Conversation slowed as they ate. 

"Guess I'm not much of a conversationalist," Doc said. "My patients always told me I lacked a cheerful bedside manner. Maybe so, but I always figured I was there to patch 'em up, not entertain 'em." 

A loud crash in the kitchen caused Will and Frohike to jump in unison. 

"Blasted cat," Doc said, throwing his fork onto his plate. "I only keep the damn thing because he's one hell of a mouser, but he sure can make a mess sometimes. Excuse me while I go skin him." 

Will swallowed hard, his appetite suddenly gone. Not because of Doc's words, but because of what he saw. Gently, he kicked Frohike under the table. It was the signal Frohike dreaded.