Ride the Titanic! (50 page)

So sure am I of this, that it takes me a few seconds to realize that the swirling red sparkles have transformed themselves into steady white pinpoints of light in the night sky, and that my arms no longer flail through cold water. Instead, cool night air soothes my starving lungs and makes me cough in sharp pain and primal pleasure. Around me swirls a constellation of even brighter lights, blue, white, and red; some flashing, some steady, some slashing through the darkness like swords in search of victims. Two of them find me and I shield my eyes from their fierce glare, and in the distance a faint cheer rises up.

‘There he is!’

‘Look!

See?’

My joy in being alive vanishes with the despairing image of Joe falling back into the depths. I turn around to look at the dive basin, which by now is completely deserted save for the programmed massive burst of compressed air that roils the water surface like the witches’ cauldron in
Macbeth
to simulate the final traces of the
Titanic’s
life. And in that moment, time falls away; gone is Vegas, gone is the
White Star Grand Hotel
. In their place is 1912, the cold Atlantic, where two hours ago my cozy world, shattered by a ripping iceberg, became escaping steam, terrified cries and being abandoned on the open sea to die, like Joe.

A dark dot in the midst of the frothing-white turbulence.

A slowly-raised arm, and then the other, and I start swimming through the water as fast as I can to reach my father-in-law who flails and thrashes as he struggles toward me. We reach each other and submerge and re-surface in a tangle of arms and heads and shouting and coughing.

The illusion of the unforgiving Atlantic Ocean disappears as my feet scrabble around until I find the dive basin’s concrete bottom four feet down. Like some giant colossus lifeguard I stand, and help Joe get to his feet. The cheering grows louder in the distance, so does the howl of helicopters, two of which circle above the dive basin. One of them, a police chopper, uses its blue-white xenon searchlight to pin Joe and me like butterfly specimens, while a swarm of first responders race to reach us in their rescue boats.

‘What the hell happened?’ I say. ‘Thought you were dead.’

Joe coughs and sneezes, then laughs. ‘My body didn’t agree.’

‘How’d you get out?’

‘Old submariner trick. Just when you think you’ve had it and your body wants to breathe, whether you’re underwater or not, you start letting out your air in a long steady hiss. Buys you a few more seconds.’

‘It worked.’

‘Almost, but not quite.’

‘But you’re here.’

‘Thanks to all that compressed air at the end. Those bubbles surrounded me like a choir of angels. I even heard singing, but I figured it was all in my head.’

I laugh and hug him. ‘I can’t believe you’re really here.’

‘Not forever.’

‘I know, but for now. . .’

‘Now’s all we’ve got,
paisan
.’

‘If you ask me, it’s a pretty damn good ‘now.’’

‘Won’t argue with. Neither will they.’

He points to the approaching tidal wave rescuers surging toward us. Behind them the waving, cheering, dancing crowd, behind them the silver-white iceberg hotel, and above us all a brilliant full moon shining in the Nevada night sky.

That’s what happened.

The rest is commentary – pretty damned interesting commentary, considering how things turned out, as opposed to how I thought they would, when the firefighters pulled Joe and me into their rescue boat and zoomed us to shore like conquering heroes, when in fact we were just damned lucky survivors of the most amazing thing that ever happened on the strip.

James Cameron?

He’s front and center, baby, cameras on high and over-the-moon happy. Who wouldn’t be, if your fondest dream came true? And it does – once again – at the expense of mine. But I don’t hold it against him. How can I when he saved Max’s life and mine?

I still remember him shouting at the firemen in our rescue boat.

‘Hold it, guys, hold-it-hold-it-HOLD-it!’ The craft bobs to a halt while Bobby and Matt slosh around to get better angles and Cameron oozes, ‘Beautiful, guys, beautiful – Bobby, cover wide as it takes off, Mattie stay close, I’ll grab this good-looking guy – how’s it going, Captain Sullivan? Hey, I’m talking to you, brother.’

‘Okay, I guess.’

‘Sorry about your ship, but you made it out alive. You’re in one piece, and a hero too –give us some love.’

He lifts his fist, I reluctantly lift mine and we bump.

‘Here’s to my Hollywood hero, Mike Sullivan.’

‘Who peed his pants.’

His face softens into a boyish grin. ‘Everybody pees in the pool now and then. Just don’t let the lifeguard catch you. Hey, know something else? You
were
the lifeguard this time around, my friend, and nobody drowned.’

He motions to Bobby and Matt, who swing their cameras around like AK-47s and aim them at me.

‘You. . . . .are. . .the. . .MAN!’

Their cameras are the first of many I endure as we arrive at Berth 44, extended over the ride basin to accommodate the crowds that have gathered. The orange plastic security fences, originally put up to restrain the pedestrian traffic from crashing the
Maiden Voyage
party, got crushed when the mob rolled over them, in hot pursuit of the firestorm of rumors from mobile phones and social media that
Ride the Titanic
really WAS sinking. The news spread the same way tonight that the Morse code’s dit-dah-dits broke the news in 1912 to the unbelieving world that the real
Titanic
was gone for good.

Every promised second of anticipated drama came true, and then even MORE exciting news tore through the crowd; the ship WAS going down for real and they’re there to see it, including Geena’s and the others’ last-minute rescue, the plunging stern disappearing, the boiling, bubbling water, and finally Joe and me rising from the depths like twin Jonah’s escaping from the mouth of the whale.

After shoving my way through the mob of reporters to reach Geena and Fiona and make sure they’re are okay, I spot Lewis pinned like a murder suspect in the glare of news camera lights. The young reporter, a dazzling blonde with eyes like bright silver buttons and just as sympathetic, says, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Lucky,’ Lewis says.

‘Las Vegas is a great place for that.’

‘Could I please have a blanket or something? I’m freezing.’

Something in his voice transforms the woman’s career-hunger into a flurry of human concern. She stops the interview and goes searching for one. As she does, the crowd, momentarily held at bay because the camera lights act like a campfire in the wilderness, starts edging closer to Lewis and me like hungry wolves in search of dinner.

‘Where’s Xia?’ I say.

He points at another island of camera lights in a sea of people. Xia’s shaking her head and gesturing toward the hotel. Even without hearing her I know what she’s saying; her assertive body language indicates full ‘Damage Control 101’ mode. Me too. I grab Lewis by the arm.

‘Think we can get the re-cue sequence going?’

‘You mean everything?’

‘Water sheets, projectors, the full deal. Now.’

‘But the ship’s gone.’

‘The theater isn’t.’

Lewis frowns for a second. ‘I don’t know what works and what doesn’t. Molly screwed us big time – where is she, by the way?’

‘Who knows? Just hurry up and do what you can to hide this disaster that used to be a ride. Do it now!’

‘Aye, aye.’ He lopes off to get help but almost immediately runs into the news reporter again, who drapes the blanket over his skinny shoulders. As the camera lights come back on for the interview, Lewis turns and runs. She and her cameraman follow him like hungry sharks after a wounded dolphin.

That’s when the nothingness of it all suddenly overwhelms me.

I walk back to water’s edge. As I do, the crowd falls away from me like I have leprosy. The babbling voices, siren screams, and helicopter blades whop-whopping – all the clamor fades to a faint background whisper in my mind as I gaze out at the deserted ride basin. Not a trace of bubbles. The water almost glass-smooth, not a breath of wind to ripple its surface.

Ride the Titanic
is absolutely and completely gone.

A Buddhist friend told me once that taking three deep breaths can get you out of your head and back into your world. Problem is, neither place appeals to me at the moment. Even so, I take his advice.

The first breath is more like a sob. The second a shaking rage of anger. But as I take the third breath, the water in the dive basin surges and boils. I let my breath out just as the water jets kick in and the re-cue mode begins, minus my beautiful ship that is gone for good.

Atomized mist blooms into the air to form a wall upon which the HiRez projectors beam their now-familiar montage of historic images showing the Belfast birth of the
Titanic
with her black riveted steel plates forming the shape an ocean liner. Then her long slide into the River Lagan, her fitting out, and finally the completed ocean liner, her knifelike bow gently easing away from Southampton Dock 44 amidst swirls of spicy coal smoke as she sets sail for New York.

The historic black-and-white images smoothly dissolve into a gigantic, full color, projected image of our life-sized
Titanic
, and my sob turns to open weeping at the sight of her exactly the way I saw her the night I almost slipped on the stairs with the kids and said, ‘VEGAS.’

Her buff-colored funnels, white upper works and gold-striped, gleaming black hull shimmer before me as intensely as any dream and just as magical. Nobody sees me crying, because while I’m looking at the end of a dream, they’re looking at a myth. The
Titanic
returns because it always will.

But not mine.

Not ever.

As far as news cycles go, we get almost two solid days of interviews, computerized re-creations, survivors’ stories – the celebrities’ versions are especially over the top, which can only be expected. And then, not surprisingly, in search of a third day of news, the drumbeat begins.

How could this have happened?

Who’s responsible?

We need ANSWERS!’

In 1912 the disaster prompted a United States Senate inquiry; eighty witnesses, reams of sworn affidavits, the grilling of officers and crew, all in search of the God’s honest truth. Fast-forward to today, and not surprisingly, every network, cable and local news director has the same idea: feed the starved-for-stories news beast with speculation, rumor, lies and distortion. And while the hurricane of speculation swirls and swoops, Xia and I get a call from Robert Grayson.

The Las Vegas skyline at night is what heaven must look like from a distance, say a mile or so before you arrive at the pearly gates; nothing distinct, just bright lights, swirling motion, dazzling colors and a sense of giddy anticipation and wonder at the splendor that awaits you when you receive your reward for a well-lived life.

I first felt this way when I saw this spectacular view from the
SkyHi
Super Wheel over two years ago, when Grayson delivered his first of many veiled – and not-so-veiled threats – about forces intent on the failure of
Ride the Titanic.

And so it seems like perfect symmetry that Xia and I meet him again at the end of our adventure, once again inside one of the massive cupolas that makes its slow, stately revolution, rising and falling over the city I have come to despise. From up here the glass-smooth surface of the empty dive basin reflects the image of the darkened
White Star Grand Hotel
, its lights extinguished like a rogue iceberg slowly melting back into the sea.

These dreary thoughts keep me company as I regard an almost jovial Robert Grayson and two strangers flanking him like silent library lions: a tall, slender, Chinese gentleman in his early fifties named Mr. Cheng, who Grayson introduces as the Chinese Government’s Second Assistant Ministry of Trade. He introduces the woman, a compact, a strictly-business-suited, no-nonsense sergeant-major type, as Ms. Jessica Samuelson, an official of the United States Commerce Department.

After Grayson’s amiable introductions, he rambles on about the Yankees spring training and how certain he is this year they might win the pennant but that the Red Sox will take the World Series for damn sure.

‘They’ve got the infield, the power hitters and a bullpen so thick with pitchers that you need a shoehorn to pop one out. Am I right, Jess?’

The sergeant major growls, ‘I don’t follow sports.’

‘That’s right, you follow bad guys.’ He turns to his left. ‘What about you Cheng? I hear baseball’s big in Beijing. That a fact?’

The elegantly groomed man shrugs. ‘I’m afraid I, too, am of the same persuasion as Ms. Samuelson.’

Grayson turns to Xia and me and spreads his hands apologetically. ‘Got to excuse these folks. All work and no play. No wonder they hate this town.’

Samuelson snaps, ‘Some people have to work for a living.’

Grayson strikes cobra-quick. ‘Then why the hell didn’t you catch on to their game earlier? They were playing it right under that self-righteous, government-paychecked nose of yours.’