‘You see this?’ he asked the captain, handing him the printout. ‘Think we’re in any danger?’
The captain shrugged, scanning the sea beyond the harbour walls, ‘Shouldn’t think so. I don’t see how blowing up a tug boat will bring them much vengeance.’
‘Still, perhaps we should stow the flag? Make us less visible.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He stood from the pilot’s chair and paced across the bridge and out the door.
The captain would take his afternoon nap now. He was right of course. They had been in the Gulf before, through the previous war, through the rise and fall of tensions between the various countries and their own.
This one felt different to him though. This one felt dangerous. They were only a tug boat, that was true. But in a few hours they would be attached to an American tanker bringing her into port to be loaded with fresh crude oil.
He picked up the binoculars and scanned the horizon. He saw the three grey dots in the sky in the distance before he heard the sound of the jet engines. He ducked instinctively as they shot overhead.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by DB McNicol. The idea is to write a short story of no more than 200 words using the photo prompt provided for inspiration. Read other contributions to this week’s prompt HERE.
It’s been a long time since I took part in a Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Hopefully there will be time for a few more in the year ahead. Happy 2020 to all the readers and writers out there!
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