Ride the Titanic! (29 page)

After what seems like an eternity, the lead inspector rises from his squatting position, turns to the group. I take a deep breath to get ready for a fight, but he grins and gives a double thumbs-up. The sisters squeal with delight and start dancing around with their team. As if on cue, two crawler cranes clank over to lift the cap into place, where the steel-fitting crew waits to complete the job of sealing the ride inside.

Still surprised at the unexpected approval, I absently shake hands with Max, who announces, ‘Tonight I take the girls on the town. Such a time we will have at
Bellagio
. Wait until they see Venice under a roof.
Una fantasia.
’

‘Remember you’re a married man with a baby on the way.’

‘I am also an Italian man, and unlike the Irish – which you are,
che peccato –
we know how to have fun without getting into trouble.’

I refrain from mentioning that Xia and I are managing quite well in that department.

At least so far.

The real trouble starts an hour later when I trip over some loose gear and half-fall through the hatch and into the Ride Bridge, a twenty-by-fifteen foot long, sausage-shaped compartment located half way along the pressure hull, much the same as the control room occupies the same place inside a submarine.

Ride techs hunch over their video monitors, tweaking this and adjusting that, while others fuss with racks of show control electronics that time each effect, from EMV lifeboat spacing to nitrogen blasts, with nanosecond perfection. Fortunately the techies’ hypnotic job-focus precludes their witnessing my village idiot-style entrance – except Lewis, of course, who never misses anything. But to my relief, he pretends to look at something on his clipboard.

I recognize about half the people here. A month earlier, when the installation pace reached its final stages, Lewis and his HR team swept the country to hire electro-mechanical specialists whose sole purpose in life is traveling from one interesting job to the next, like itinerant carnival workers. The gifted, eccentric batch he brought on board is a combination of tattooed, Rastafarian-dreadlocked, dashiki-wearing,
Burning Man
professionals, who have no complaints or concerns, working side by side with white shirted, 1950s, narrow tie-wearing, Mormon Missionary-style nerds.

Instead of clashing, they collectively understand the joy that science can sometimes deliver, when, almost like a single organism, you and your fellow workers realize you have the talent, determination, and sheer will power to create something, and give it life, both spiritually and electro-mechanically.

That said, the moment
Ride the Titanic
is officially up and running, this same inspirational group of misfits will grab their paychecks and blow out of town like tumbleweed in search of another fertile field, stopping just long enough to plant their seeds of techno-happiness, before rolling on again.

To my right, standing by the ‘Captain’s Panel,’ a short, blonde, nerdy-looking girl and a long-haired Portland panhandler-type laugh and high-five each other.

Lewis addresses them. ‘I gather you finally synced the distress rockets?’

The girl grins but says nothing. Instead, she demurs to her partner who says, ‘When they go BOOM, people gonna’ pee their pants. Molly found the problem. Bad chipset, right, Moll?’

She blushes and fiercely nods.

‘How’d you find it?’ I say, trying to make conversation.

Not knowing what to do with her hands, she flails them embarrassedly for a second or two, lost for words, and then mutters, ‘Easy fix.’

Lewis says, ‘Not an easy find, though. Been driving us crazy for a week. Could have been here another week if it hadn’t been for Molly. Give us some love, girl.’

She raises her hand for Lewis to perform a complicated, hand bumping ritual that she does her best to repeat but fails. Somehow their little routine is a sign, because the overall energy level in the control room intensifies, as if someone threw a switch, which means only one thing.

I say casually, ‘What’s on the test schedule?’

‘All-up-systems check, A to Z. ‘

Right now?’

Lewis tsk-tsk’s me. ‘Remember your famous sermon about theme park rides.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one where you end up saying, ‘Sooner or later you gotta’ hop in the car and ride the ride.’

‘Oh, that one.’

‘I got the keys, Captain Smith. Let’s roll.’

‘But the
Carpathia
scene is barely done. The deck’s not installed, the exit ramps are missing, they’re. . .’’

‘They’re close enough for government work. And if something’s busted that needs fixing, now’s the time to find it. Agreed?’

‘You have a point.’

‘I always have a point – especially here.’ He rubs his bald head.

A muscle-bound security guard dressed as a
White Star Lines
ship’s officer stops us short of the entrance ramp to the ride.

‘Fingers please, gents,’ he says amiably.

‘Jesus, Joey, you don’t know us by now?’ I say.

He holds out his print scanner like a pistol. ‘Fingers first, talk later, Mr. Sullivan. You know the rules.’

‘They’re not my rules.’

‘And you’re not my boss.’ A smile touches his smoothly-shaven face, but not his vigilant eyes. ‘Ms. Zhu gives me my orders. If you please, gentlemen.’

I pinch my thumb and forefinger on the scanner’s reader. It beeps twice, the red LED turns green, and grudging admiration replaces my petty annoyance. Xia’s security foresight is protecting our investment, and every day that passes without incident is a day closer to opening.

We walk down the
Grand Staircase
, in truth a curving ramp that replaces the steps to satisfy ADA requirements.

‘I still think it’s too steep.’ I say.

‘Easy, captain.’ Lewis pats my shoulder. ‘We tested every wheelchair and go-cart on the market and they handled the incline just fine.’

‘I don’t want any accidents.’

‘Said the man as the
Titanic
set sail.
’

Two minutes later, after passing through a long corridor resembling Southampton England’s boarding ramp, filled with various collections of historic memorabilia to keep the crowds at bay, we arrive at the
Boarding Station
. It’s one of four rotating sets that mimic the
Titanic’s
boat deck, with four EMV lifeboats hanging from davits, but nestled down into the teak deck so as to allow easy entry. As each EMV completes loading, the davit lines release and away it glides along the ride track.

Even though the ride attendants wear street clothes, and with no passengers in sight but Lewis and me, they still go through the motions of loading an imaginary stream of customers, just like they will when the ride is up and running. Their well-rehearsed patter and calibrated moves are designed to maximize passenger load volume and minimize traffic jams. And when that great day arrives, they’ll be wearing the
White Star Line
uniforms of stewards and deck hands.

‘Right this way, ladies and gentlemen,’ one of them calls out. ‘Watch your step, take a seat just aft and make room for your neighbor, that’s the right spirit, sir, all for one and one for all. There we go. . .’

‘Accents need a lot of work,’ I say to Lewis.

‘Got it covered.’

‘How?’

‘Dialogue coaches are training the troops.’

‘Good idea. Yours?’

‘Your father-in-law’s. Sticks his thumb in everyone’s pie.’

‘Better than our eyes.’

The loaders scurry back and forth with great gusto, herding imaginary riders one by one into the empty lifeboats. When they spot Lewis and me, their performance-level rises to fever pitch. Our attendant waves to us and says in a perfect Cockney accent:

‘Just two seats left, gents, two seats. Lucky day for you blokes I must say. And. . . in. . .we. . . go. Mind the seat restraints across your chest, just a precaution, mind you. Got our bracelets on, do we?’

Lewis and I hold up our wrists to show our RFID-embedded ride bracelets.

‘Shipshape we are then.’

He casually rests his foot on the gunwale just as he’s been trained, but the gesture also keeps pressure on a micro-switch that sends a ‘LOADING’ signal to the Ride Bridge.

Satisfied that Lewis and me and eighteen imaginary passengers are safely onboard, he steps back, comes to attention and salutes, saying, ‘On behalf of Captain Smith and his crew we want to thank you for sailing on the maiden voyage of
White Star’s
newest and safest vessel, the Royal Mail Ship
Titanic
. See you in New York!’

Our loading module rotates forty-five degrees and launches the EMV into a darkened tunnel. The hiss of hydraulic actuator valves blends with the sounds of sea birds, ship’s whistles and crowd babble.

Lewis says, ‘So far so good.’

‘Nat sounds need to come in sooner. Heard launch hydraulics.’

Lewis taps his tablet, ‘Done and done.’

‘RIFD readout?’

‘Wait one.’

Tap, tap, tap. He holds up his tablet to show the spidery outline of our EMV, inside of which floats two sets of digital numbers, representing our RFID bracelet signals, the locations of which the ride bridge computers constantly monitor during the ride. Lewis waves his arm back and forth in the air. His number tag mimics his motion on the screen.

‘Cute little buggers ain’t we?’ he says.

‘Big Brother rides the
Titanic
.’

Moments later, timed to the split second, we shoot out of the dark, womb-like tunnel to the sunshine-bright, gear-cluttered world of the
Boat Deck Departure
scene that recreates the moment when the
Titanic
first cast off from Southampton dock for her maiden voyage.

Ellie’s directorial talent is evident as we weave in and out of 8K, high resolution, 3D projected images of first class passengers gathered on the Boat Deck. The men’s somber brown, grey and black costumes represent the last vestiges of the fading Edwardian era, while the women’s travel outfits have more dashes of color, signifying a future world the likes of which their drowned husbands will never see.

Ellie’s clever camera track perfectly matches the EMV’s progress as we swoop and swerve along the majestic length of the ocean liner tied up alongside the quay, beneath a serene, blue sky filled with puffy white clouds slowly drifting by.

In truth we’ve traversed barely twenty yards but the projected images moving faster in the opposite direction, combined with the EMV’s subtle up-and-down motion, trick the eye into believing anything, including the fact that we’re departing as passengers on the
Titanic’s
maiden voyage.

A fashionably dressed young mother with a small child in tow turns to us and smiles at a point just over my shoulder.

‘Oh, there you are, darlings, did you find your stateroom yet? Oh, but of course not, what am I thinking? First it’s
bon voyage!
Come Teddy, let’s you and mommy go find daddy and wave goodbye to him, shall we?’

She hurries over to the railing and our EMV follows, jostling slightly as if we were elbowing through the excited throng of passengers pressed against the railing to gaze down upon the farewell crowd gathered on White Star’s Berth #44.

Below, the London-to-Southampton boat train waits on the siding, puffing steam, having released its first and third class passengers from a long, smoky, cinder-filled ride from Waterloo Station. Just as we arrive at the railing, dock workers cast off heavy manila mooring lines from massive steel bollards and they land in the water with an oily splash.

At the same moment the
Titanic’s
full-throated whistle booms, which makes everyone cheer and wave even harder. Amidst the happy pandemonium the young mother turns to us like we’re her sailing friends and laughs gaily.

‘The coal strike canceled the
Majestic’s
sailing, but my agent got us passage here. On her maiden voyage, no less. It’s ever so exciting. See you at dinner, darlings. Come along, Teddy, aren’t we the lucky ducks?’

While mother and child turn one way, our EMV spins the other, and vibration simulating the ship’s throbbing engines buzzes beneath our seats through a series of transducers embedded in the plastic.

‘Nice effect, this,’ I say.

Lewis twists his butt. ‘Fatsos will never feel it.’

‘Jack the juice?’

‘No way. They’ll think they’re getting electrocuted.’

‘Maybe motivate them to diet.’

Lewis shakes his head. ‘Ever the optimist.’

Before I can make a clever comeback we arrive at the end of the
Boat Deck
Scene and plunge through a ‘wall,’ which transforms into a white-paneled passageway. In the distance the 3D projected image of a smiling ship’s steward waits until we get closer before speaking.

‘Welcome aboard the
Titanic,
your suite is ready.’

He opens the door and the EMV swings into a first class parlor suite done up in the Queen Ann Style, complete with chairs and bureaus perched on curvy cabriole legs covered with fan-and-shell wood carvings on every possible surface.

I say, ‘Hope the other styles look as sharp.’

‘Saw the Louis the Fifteenth and the Georgian, and they both rock.’