Ride the Titanic! (45 page)

‘
Buona sera, Michele!’
A familiar voice rings out. The beaming face of Massimo Diliberto bobs and weaves through the crowd, along with his wife Elena, who I haven’t seen since our dramatic dinner in Trieste.

‘I thought you couldn’t make it,’ I say as his kisses batter my cheeks.

‘Yes, truly I could not. Production delays, delivery problems, Trieste saying ‘no, no, NO’ even though I am practically on my knees praying to come here, and still ‘NO’ and then suddenly
un
miracolo, ecco qui,
I am here, and with my beautiful Elena, who I have not seen for months and months because she has been hiding away in her halls of ivy teaching students the meaning of differential calculus and Fermat’s Theorem.’

I half-bow and say in fractured Italian, ‘
Piacere
again
, signora.
It has been too long.
’

‘Relax, Mr. Sullivan, I’m one of yours – well, not quite; I’m British, actually.’ Her words come out like a perfectly clipped hedge.

‘But at dinner that night in Trieste. . . .’

‘I was playing the role of the meek and dutiful wife. How’d I do?’

‘As flawless as your Italian – Max says you’re a teacher?’

‘A professor, actually.’

Max booms, ‘Of mathematics! At Oxford she has done this marvelous thing! And Bologna too. And not only that, she is now most beautifully pregnant with our
bambino
!’

Elena blushes. ‘Must you always broadcast whatever pops into your head, darling?’

‘Congratulations, Mrs. Diliberto,’ I say. ‘Your first?’

Max blurts, ‘The first of five beautiful
bambini
we shall have, I am positive of this fact!’

She touches his arm. ‘One ship at a time, remember?’

He grins but keeps his mouth shut as we continue moving forward at a steady pace.

Elena says, ‘Max told me you have three children?’

‘A fourteen year-old daughter and three year-old twins.’

Her eyebrows arch slightly. ‘Quite an integer interval, as we say in my field.’

‘In mine we say, ‘Just when you think the party’s over, the real fun starts.’’

She pats her slightly bulging abdomen. ‘Five months to go.’

As quickly as Max and Elena appeared, they disappear into the swirling vortex of the boarding crews, who smoothly load the eager celebrities and VIP guests into the lifeboats like stringing pearls on a Hollywood necklace. A month ago, this same loading experience would have been a disaster of fumbled restraint bars, sweaty faces, angry looks and cartoon-like British accents. But tonight the finest of the
White Star Line
is in full force, thanks to merciless staff training and a zero-tolerance policy practice by Purser Radcliffe who, as the last celebrity-laden boat departs, leaving only ISM family members, becomes even more intolerant of the slightest mistake on the part of the loaders.

A retired, classically-trained Shakespearean actor, Radcliffe, all blue uniform and brass buttons, hands behind his back, darts along the boarding track like a stone gargoyle in search of prey

‘Step lively Jenkins, or you’ll be stoking coal with the rest of your no-account mates.’

‘Aye, aye, Mr. Radcliffe, sir!’

In his nervous haste to obey, the young attendant, slips, loses his balance and almost falls on the imitation teakwood deck. The razor-sharp reflexes of youth spare him the embarrassment of landing on his ass, but not Mr. Radcliff’s laser-hot regard.

I try to deflect his anger by saying, ‘Great job tonight, Purser. Best load time so far.’

‘Thank you, sir. Barring the odd mishap here and there, we are surviving. Right, MISTER. Jenkins?’

The flustered attendant eyes averted, boards Max and Elena and three other ISM couples, whose wives I recognize but not their husbands.

Radcliffe adds, ‘Last VIP boat has departed, sir. Just these three left.’ He pauses dramatically. His voice becomes as sepulchral as a minister tossing earth in an open grave. ‘She’ll be going down soon.’

‘Mr, Radcliffe, this is just make-believe, you know.’

‘Indeed.’ He measures me for the coffin with one withering glance. ‘That is because it is ACTORS who MAKE you believe.’ As proof, his features contort into a convincing illusion of barely controlled panic. ‘Board now, sir, before it’s too late!’

Xia approaches from behind and says lightly, ‘Purser, the captain is always the last to leave the ship. And in our case, it’s captains, plural.’

‘Aye, aye, madam.’

As Radcliffe hurries off to continue boarding Geena, the kids, Joe, Lewis, Herbie and the other founding members of our original ISM family, it’s just Xia and me. I put out my hand and she takes it.

‘Ready for our baby to be born, Captain Sullivan?’

‘I am if you are, Captain Zhu.’

Her gaze sharpens for a brief instant and her hand tightens on mine. ‘I still remember that night.’

‘Been a hell of a ride ever since the
Paradise
dropped.’

‘Along with your pants.’

I gulp. ‘Those too.’

‘Remember what you said that night?

‘Not much.’

‘What you said at the very end.’

It takes me an embarrassed heartbeat, and then it all comes back; my fear, my hope, and most of all my blind courage. ‘I thanked you for being in my life and for saving it. Without you, none of this would have happened.’

‘Well, Captain.’ She rises on her tip-toes, lightly brushes my cheek with a kiss and whispers. ‘It’s my turn to thank you for being in mine.’

She steps back and smiles. Gone is that serious-as-a-heart-attack look I’ve seen for two long years. Gone is the stress, the worry, the fear. Now nothing but sheer delight, like a child getting the best birthday present ever.

She says, ‘Let’s go watch the movie stars freak out when the ship goes down.’

‘After you, Captain.’

‘Not this time.’

She takes my arm and together we step into the lifeboat.

Whenever I take a ride, I watch people’s reactions because they teach me better than any textbook can about what works and what doesn’t. And from the looks on the faces of the folks in our lifeboat, we have a winner on our hands. Gone are the work lights, invisible are the endlessly complicated truss-beams, the deftly hidden video projectors, the guide rails, nitrogen guns, and entrance and exit doors cleverly masked by black drape and folding panels. In their place comes the relentlessly unfolding story of a beautiful ship on its tragic maiden voyage.

All is going according to plan until halfway through the
Lookout Scene
, when Molly’s strident voice crackles in my earpiece. ‘Ride bridge to skipper; Anomaly, forward ingress hatch.’

I turn away from the scene just as Fleet spots the iceberg, and while he controls his panic, I do my best to do the same. ‘Status Level?’

‘Yellow at this point. Most likely a sensor malfunction. Happened twice yesterday during the dress run. We’re tracking it.’

‘Stay on top of it.’ I say stupidly, as if that’s not her damn job.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

I view the next scene, as if nothing happened. To my dismay, Geena and I lock eyes. I’ve never been able to keep anything from her and tonight’s no exception. Her raised eyebrows asks the silent question: ‘You may think you’re looking perfectly normal, mister, but I know the shit just hit the fan.’

I nod slightly and give a minuscule shoulder shrug that says silently, ‘Maybe not. Have to wait and see.’

She gives this a moment’s consideration, and then to my relief turns away and says something to Fiona, who smiles and points at the pieces of ice skittering along the deck almost close enough to touch.

The drunk passenger picks up a piece and shouts, ‘More ice for my drink!’

Down we drop to the
Forward Storage Hold
scene, where once again, Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews survey the rising water in the iceberg-damaged compartment. The spray nozzles work to perfection, delivering just the right amount of atomized water mist to give the scene its proper ‘foggy’ feeling.

Captain Smith says, ‘You’re absolutely certain of this?’

Andrews remains silent for a long moment, and then just as he says, ‘Sir, this ship is going to sink,’ my earpiece comes alive again. This time Molly’s voice is half an octave higher.

‘Error code twenty-three red is confirmed. Repeat confirmed. Forward ingress hatch not secure, repeat, not secure. Compartment flooding indicated. Request permission P-Stop.’

I surreptitiously enter the error code into my handheld status monitor. The ‘Christmas Tree’ should be displaying a comforting series of green dots indicating watertight integrity at all hatch locations. Instead a red dot flashes softly at the forward hatch location, where the lifeboats are recovered after splashing into the ride basin. We are in deep trouble. I don’t hesitate.

‘Confirm P-stop.’

‘Aye, aye sir.’

My mind comes to a P-stop too.

A watertight hatch must be water tight. Otherwise we could sink for real. We’ve got four such hatches in our pressure hull. Two massive eight-by-twelve foot versions for the EMVs to enter and exit at the bow and stern; one amidships for passenger boarding, and a smaller maintenance hatch on the upper Promenade Deck. The worst possible one has failed; the forward one.

Again, Geena’s searching look. I shake my head and open my hands slightly and take a deep breath to allow my dream to end before the bright maintenance lights come on, killing the magic, and the pre-recorded announcement ringing out, directing the riders to please ‘vacate the EMV’s immediately and proceed along the lighted walkways to the designated exits as indicated by the flashing yellow lights.’

None of that happens.

Instead, our EMV rises out of the depths of the
Forward Storage Hold
scene and into the
Wireless Room
scene, as if everything’s still operating perfectly.

‘Acknowledge P-stop, Molly.’

‘No response, sir.’

‘Redundant override.’

‘Already have, sir. Negative.’

Even though our lifeboat is still in the early stages of the ride, by now, some VIP celebrity boats must be exiting into the ride basin.

‘EMV sequence?’

‘Four in the water, three more approaching egress.’

I do a quick calculation; at this rate our guest VIPs will be safely outside in ten minutes.

‘Pumps holding?’

‘Negative. Water’s rising too fast to maintain pitch angle.’

No surprise there. Our system is designed to handle simple bilge issues, not thousands of unwanted gallons of water rushing through a compromised hatch.

‘Give me site video.’

The torrent of data on my tablet gives way to a razor-crisp image of water flooding through the jammed hatch just as our EMV enters the
Wireless Room
scene. The irony is more than I can stand, because while Captain Smith deals with his disaster-in-the-making by ordering Harold Bride to send out a distress signal, I have no choice but to do the same.

By now, Lewis’s radar is in full alert. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

‘Of course you know.’ He grabs my tablet and his fingers fly over the keys as he drills down into the problem.

Geena says, ‘No P-stop?’

‘Can’t for some damn reason.’

Joe twists around in the boat and gives me his ‘look.’ ‘Fill us in,
paisan
.’

I hesitate at first. But the sight of the group looking at me like I have some kind of magic bullet to fix the problem gives me the courage to pretend I do. And while I soft-pedal the flooding situation, our lifeboat makes its dramatic drop into the bowels of the
Engineering
scene, complete with flooding water, shouting stokers, jets of nitrogen ‘steam’ and the officer slogging through the rising water to shout at his subordinate junior officer.

‘Be off with you and help those above, there’s nothing left here.’

‘But my duty station is here, sir.’

‘Not anymore. That’s an order.’

While all this is happening I’m watching a video feed of ride technicians slogging through knee-deep water near the ingress hatch. Real water. The kind that kills.

‘Ride Bridge, I’m coming down.’

Molly’s voice breaks with relief. ‘Hurry up, skipper.’

‘Once I figure out how to get off this thing.’

Lewis says, ‘If they can’t P-stop from the ride bridge, time we did a little reverse engineering.’

He shows me a small, orange colored piece of plastic.

‘What’s that?’

‘A seatbelt cutter.’

‘How did you. . .’’

‘Fat Mary.’

He slashes through his seat restraint and jumps down onto the maintenance walkway. Like before, the safety system’s infrared detectors detect his departing figure, calculate the weight reduction in the craft and determine a passenger is ‘overboard.’ Power cuts off, the induction motors stop and the lifeboat comes to a smooth stop. Lewis tosses me the cutter, I do the same and join him.

Adam says, ‘Need help, sir?’

‘I need you to stay here, ride the boat to the basin, and keep an eye on things for me, okay?’

He looks crestfallen, but then braces himself. ‘Roger, wilco.’

Joe says, ‘Gimme’ me that cutter.’

‘Stay put. We won’t be long.’