Ride the Titanic! (10 page)

‘Robbie, do me a favor and kill the room lights.’

As the room goes dark, I key the ‘start’ command into my controller and a ring of gold LED lights glow around the perimeter of the water surrounding the ship. At the same time the ship’s interior lights come on. The iceberg-shaped hotel glows bluish-white from within, thanks to Lewis’s lighting cleverly sandwiched between the foam-core layers.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the soft whir of the computer’s cooling fans and my steady but nervous breathing.

Robbie breaks the spell. ‘A first rate setup, my lads!’

At that very moment, one of the
White Star Grand Hotel
wall tabs gives way and the entire thing tips over and folds onto itself like an origami sculpture. As Joe wrestles it back into place, Robbie says, ‘Bad dress rehearsal, good performance. Isn’t that what they always say?’

‘Gaffer’s tape,’ Joe says.

I dig out a roll from the carrying case and toss it over. Robbie turns on the room lights. The magical scene of our Las Vegas dream ride vanishes. In its place is a pathetic ship model, four easels with Joe’s concept paintings, three with CAD elevations, my laptop sitting on a flimsy card table, and my father-in-law fixing a foam core hotel with gaffer’s tape. Our dream dangles on the thinnest of threads.

Robbie apparently feels otherwise because he pats the bow of the
Titanic.
‘Other than a bit of tape here and there, I think you’re sitting pretty for tomorrow.’

I start to demur, but then realize Robbie is absolutely right. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And no matter how tawdry things may be behind the
Wizard of Oz’s
curtain, it’s what’s in front that will count when Ms. Zhu sits down to watch.

‘Thanks,’ I manage to say.

‘Fancy a quick nightcap?

A shot of booze to carry me into dreamland has strong appeal.

‘Got a bar in this place?’

‘Four, as a matter of fact. But we’re not going to any of them.’

‘Bottle-in-the-room kind of thing?’

He winces. ‘What a depressing concept. No, my friend, we are off to someplace quite special.’

I yawn and check my watch. Just past midnight. Been up almost twenty hours straight.

‘Joe, you up for a quick one?’

He steps back from the repaired hotel, once again a majestic multi-cragged, ominous backdrop for the lightless
Titanic
now sitting dead in the water in a dull-looking make-believe sea.

‘Bring it on,
paisan
. I’m done for the day.’

‘But only one,’ I warn. ‘Tomorrow’s already here.’

I doze inside the Rolls as it purrs along the streets of Freeport. How can I not? The seats are comfortable and the car’s interior insulates me from the Freeport nightlife streaming by in a swirl of colored lights, crowds of people and shouts of laughter, while Joe and Robbie debate the best restaurants in Florence, Italy.

And then we’re here – the Freeport docks that is, not some raucous bar like I’m expecting.

Instead of parking outside the gates, the security guard at the gate waves our Rolls Royce onto the docks.

‘Where is this bar?’ I say.

‘Just beyond Xia’s yacht,’ Robbie says.

We cruise past the towering shape of her luxury vessel, closed up like a fist, not a light to be seen, like the empty shell of some billionaire hermit crab who’s outgrown its confining shape and moved on to other conquests.

‘Here we are, then,’ Robbie announces.

We climb out of the car. A cool breeze laces through the humid night air. Nothing but darkness, save for the moonlight rippling across the water. Somewhere in the great beyond, the plinking sounds of a steel band and peals of laughter. Freeport never sleeps, but I sure need to.

‘Uh. . .where exactly are we?’’

Robbie taps my shoulder. ‘Look down, mate.’

At first glance it resembles a yacht capsized in its berth, showing its long, smooth, white hull to the world. But then I recognize it as the same gently tapered vessel Robbie showed me on the phone.

‘Your submarine?’ I say.

‘I prefer to call it an undersea yacht, but yes, thar’ she blows, so to speak.’

Joe says, ‘Nothing like I ever served on.’

‘Shall we go onboard, lads?’

Robbie holds up a small remote control device and presses a button. What looks like an immense blue-white eyeball lights up in the middle of the sub, along with a string of LEDs, outlining its elegantly curved shape.

‘Drinks await the thirsty travelers.’

Robbie leads the way across the boarding ramp onto the teakwood stern deck, with white PVC reclining chaises, and tables and chairs casually placed here and there.

‘Most of the time we cruise on the surface, so here’s where you bask in the sun and catch up on your skin cancer. But when it comes time to visit King Neptune, observe the magic.’

He crosses over to the main entrance hatch, opens a small panel on the bulkhead and flicks a switch.

‘First you invite your guests below, of course. And then. . .’

A low-pitched electric hum buzzes against the bottoms of my feet as the sun shades roll up automatically, and the chaises, tables and chairs come alive of their own volition and slide along what look like seams in the teak planking, but turn out to be tracks for the furniture to move to a storage area whose doors even now are opening clamshell-like to receive the gliding furniture, stack it, and stow it.

‘Nice bit of wretched excess,’ I say.

‘Nothing but.’

‘Didn’t know naval architects could design these kinds of things.’

‘Only if the price is right.’

Robbie pats the enormous, circular-shaped main entryway hatch.

‘Observe, gentlemen, the benefits of counterbalanced hinges as they react to the force of a single index finger.’

He hooks his finger in a polished chrome handle, pushes down, pulls up, and with effortless ease opens a hatch that must weigh at least five hundred pounds. A rush of air-conditioned, slightly-perfumed air whooshes out to greet us as he waves us inside Xia’s great white, underwater whale.

‘The lounge, gentlemen, where you can relax when the boat submerges.’

Pale blue up-lighting along the walls blends with warm gold spotlights that bathes the futuristic, white leather couches and fabric-covered settees in a happy glow. As we proceed forward, two enormous circular viewing windows at least five feet in diameter pierce both sides of the craft.

Joe regards the modernistic space. ‘So. . . where’s Captain Nemo?’

Robbie laughs. ‘Xia will be here tomorrow. Tonight, it’s drinks on the house. This way to the bar, gentlemen.’

He leads us forward through another circular doorway, pauses briefly by a hatch, and presses a button.

‘Her private quarters, by the way.’

The door slides open to reveal a purple silk-covered queen-sized bed hovering two feet off the snow-white deck. Robbie anticipates my question. ‘Your basic pedestal bed but the effect is striking, don’t you think?’

The gently curving walls follow the shape of the vessel as they slope down around the bed, seemingly to cradle it, while a media screen mounted in the overhead bulkhead allows the lucky billionaire to amuse herself, I assume, when not thinking of extending her family’s empire.

Joe stands by the side wall idly fussing with some buttons. He hits one that opens another viewing port about three feet in diameter, to reveal the lights of Freeport sparkling in the distance.

Joe says, ‘What’s her crush depth?’

‘Rated at three thousand, but they’ll most likely cruise at three or four hundred. The light’s good at that depth and there’s always a great show going on outside and. . .’ Robbie turns and indicates the bed. ‘And if Xia’s gentleman companion is lucky, there will be an even better show going on here.’

‘You speak from experience?’

Robbie’s face is sphinxlike.

‘Bar’s this way, gentlemen. Whiskey all around?’

Four leather-covered chaise lounges face a large viewing port. Beyond them, a fully-stocked bar tucked up against the bulkhead. Robbie applies himself with casual confidence as he takes care of drinks, and then escorts us to the lounge area.

‘When we’re underway and underwater this is prime real estate. Just imagine the view outside those windows.’

My mouth meets a paradise of sweet sherry and smoky peat. ‘What in God’s name are we drinking? This is fantastic.’

‘Laphroag. The forty year-old stuff.’ Robbie hefts the bottle and peers at the label. ‘Nothing but the best for my friends. Runs about six hundred a bottle, I think.’

‘Six hundred fifty-six,’ a woman’s voice softly says. ‘But then again, who’s counting, right, Robbie?’

Robbie jumps to his feet like bread from a toaster. ‘Xia, what a surprise. I thought. . .’

‘Don’t think, Mr. Wright,’ the melodic voice continues, hidden in the shadowy doorway leading into the bar. ‘That’s my job. Yours is to introduce me to your friends.’

Xia Zhu glides out of the shadows. A simple dark-blue dress suit hugs the curves of her surprisingly tall figure, with a single strand of pearls encircling her slender neck. Her forehead high, eyes wide-set, and jet-black hair in tight bun. This is no reticulated giraffe, this is an elegant Chinese swan.

Robbie lifts his glass in salute. ‘I was expecting you tomorrow afternoon, after you viewed my friends’ presentation – sorry, like you said, introductions are in order.’

Xia stares at me with a slight smile on her face while he does so. But considering the hour, the alcohol, and the endless day I’ve had so far, her look could just as well be how a moray eel regards its victim before it strikes.

Her handshake is firm, cool and quick. ‘Mr. Wright tells me you have an interesting proposal.’

‘We’re looking forward to it, Ms. Zhu, my father-in-law and I that is.’

‘It’s good to work with your parents, yes?’ Her English has a British lilt to it.

‘I suppose so. As long as they treat you as an equal partner.’

Her laugh is like a tiny bark of a seal; quick, sharp and then done. ‘Is that true, Mr. Corelli? Are you two oxen pulling equally upon the same yoke?’

‘Don’t know about the oxen part, ma’am, but yeah, I’d say we’re pretty much on the same page, except. . .’

‘Except when?’

‘Except when we’re not.’

I take a chance. ‘Is that how it is with you and your father?’

Another delicate bark of laughter. ‘He often treats me like a ten year-old.’

‘No ten year-old has an undersea yacht like this.’

‘Or scotch like this.’ She takes the bottle from Robbie. ‘Bring a glass for me, Robbie, would you please?’ She turns to go.

Robbie says, ‘Just where are we going, may I ask?’

‘For a ride.’

‘I know just the place. Close by. Great jazz, small crowd. Perfect.’

Xia ignores him and keys taps smartphone. ‘Captain.’

‘Aye, aye, ma’am,’ a crisp voice instantly replies.

‘Prepare to get underway.’

Robbie pales. ‘The shakedown cruise? Tonight?’

Xia smiles like a moray eel. ‘Busy, busy.’

The captain and helmsman are the only two crewmembers occupying the bridge, a low-lit, windowless compartment. An enormous glass LCD screen across the front wall displays a bewildering array of system monitors. I’m disoriented at first. Ship’s bridges normally overlook the goings-on of the world from a lordly position on high. This is like being in somebody’s basement. Admittedly, a highly polished, antiseptically clean, fully electronic ‘basement,’ but isolated all the same.

And in a surprisingly small space too. But technology can be cunning; making molehills out of mountains by compressing what would have been a space the size of a ballroom on the
Titanic,
down to the dimensions of a small office on
Miss Fortune
, the name of Xia’s new toy.

‘Navigation view,’ the captain orders.

The LCD screen blossoms into a breathtaking, panoramic view of Freeport’s nighttime skyline, courtesy of what must be an ultra-high-definition camera that captures an image so lifelike we could be standing on the bridge of a conventional yacht. The sound is as crisp and natural as if we’re outside, thanks to a set of carefully calibrated and balanced speakers.

Robbie, by now fully recovered from his employer’s unexpected ambush, speaks with the captain, a middle-aged Malaysian wearing crisp white summer tropics, including shorts and white knee socks. His helmsman is similarly attired. Both men looked sleepy, which makes me yawn.

Xia picks up on this. ‘Once we’re underway and I’m satisfied with the trials, I want you to tell me about this
Ride the Titanic
idea of yours.’

A jolt goes through me like electricity. ‘Uh. . .we have a formal presentation waiting for you back at the hotel. A working model of the ride, the
White Star Grand Hotel
, charts, graphs, it’s quite complicated. Could we. . .’

‘Mr. Sullivan, do you have any idea how many presentations I’ve suffered through in the past year?’

Fear freezes my tongue. I shrug like the village idiot.

‘Too many, that’s how many.’

The captain says quietly ‘We’re ready to proceed, ma’am.’

Xia nods fractionally, the captain raises his finger, and the video wall morphs from a panoramic view of the harbor to a flurry of system gauges, radar sweeps, charts, dials, and bar indicators.