He ran down the companionway, the others following, and opened the door to a service stair. Taking the metal steps three at a time, he descended a level, pulled open another door, then tore down the corridor, past a deckhand with a mop, to the hatchway leading into the aux bridge. As the group entered, a guard monitoring the security feeds within looked up in surprise.
“Switch to the bridge feeds,” LeSeur ordered. “All of them.”
The man typed several commands on his keyboard, and instantly a half dozen separate views of the bridge appeared on the small CCTV screens arrayed before them.
“There she is!” LeSeur said, almost sagging with relief. Captain Mason was standing at the helm, back to the camera, apparently as calm and collected as when he had left her.
“Why couldn’t she hear us over the radio?” He asked. “Or the banging?”
“She could hear us,” said Kemper.
“But then why . . . ?” LeSeur stopped. His carefully attuned shipboard senses felt the vibration of the huge vessel change ever so slightly, felt the sea changing. The ship was turning.
“What the
?”
At the same time, there was an unmistakable shudder as the ship’s engine speed increased—increased significantly.
An ice-cold knot began to harden in his chest. He glanced down at the screen displaying the course and speed, watched the sets of numbers ticking away until they steadied on a new heading and course. Two hundred degrees true, speed gradually increasing.
Two hundred degrees true . . . Quickly, LeSeur glanced at the chartplotter running on a nearby flat-panel monitor. It was all there, in glorious color, the little symbol of the ship, the straight line of its heading, the shoals and rocks of the Grand Banks.
He felt his knees go soft. “What is it?” Kemper asked, staring closely at LeSeur’s face. Then he followed the first officer’s eyes to the chartplotter.
“What—?” Kemper began again. “Oh, my God.” He stared at the large screen. “You don’t think —?”
“What is it?” asked Craik, entering.
“Captain Mason has increased speed to flank,” LeSeur said, his voice dull and hollow in his own ears. “And she’s altered course. On a heading straight for the Carrion Rocks.”
He turned back to the closed-circuit television screen showing Captain Mason at the helm. Her head had turned ever so slightly, so that he caught her in profile, and he could see the faintest of smiles play across her lips.
In the corridor outside, Lee Ng paused in swabbing the linoleum corridor to listen more intently. Something big was going on, but the voices had suddenly ceased. In any case, he must have misunderstood. It was a language problem—despite diligent study, his English was still not what he wished it could be. It was hard, at the age of sixty, to learn a new language. And then there were all the nautical terms that weren’t even listed in his cheap Vietnamese-English dictionary.
He resumed pushing the mop. The silence that came from the open door to the auxiliary bridge now gave way to a burst of talking. Excited talking. Lee Ng edged closer, head down, swinging the mop in broad semicircles, listening carefully. The voices were loud, urgent, and now he began to realize that he had not misheard.
The mop handle fell to the floor with a clatter. Lee Ng took a step back, and then another. He turned, began to walk, and the walk became a run. Running had saved his life in desperate situations more than once during the war. But even as he ran, he realized that this was not like the war: there was no place of refuge, no protective wall of jungle beyond the last rice paddy.
This was a ship. There was no place to run.
52
CONSTANCE GREENE HAD LISTENED ATTENTIVELY TO THE acting captain’s announcement over the public address system, greatly relieved to hear the ship was finally diverting to St. John’s. She was also reassured by the stringent security measures that were being undertaken. Any pretense that this was still a pleasure voyage had been dropped: now it was about safety and survival. Perhaps, she thought, it was karma that some of these ultra- privileged people had a glimpse of life’s reality.
She checked her watch. One forty-five. Pendergast had said he wanted to sleep until three, and she was inclined to let him. He clearly needed the rest, if only to pull him out of the funk he seemed to have fallen into. She had never known him to sleep during the day before, or drink alcoholic beverages in the morning.
Constance settled on the sofa and opened a volume of Montaigne’s essays, trying to take her mind off her concerns. But just as she began to lose herself in the elegant French turns, a soft knock came at the door.
She stood up and went to the door.
“It’s Marya. Open, please.”
Constance opened it and the maid slipped in. Her usually spotless uniform was dirty and her hair disheveled.
“Please sit down, Marya. What’s going on?”
Marya took a seat, passing a hand over her forehead. “It is out there.”
“I’m sorry?”
“How you call it? An asylum. Listen, I bring you news. Very bad news. It’s going around belowdecks like fire. I pray it’s not true.”
“What is it?”
“The acting captain, they say—Captain Mason—has locked herself on the bridge and is steering the ship toward rocks.”
“Rocks. The Carrion Rocks. They say we will hit the rocks in less than three hours.”
“It sounds to me like a hysterical rumor.”
“Maybe,” said Marya, “but this one, all the crew believe it. And something big is happening up on the auxiliary bridge, many officers coming and going, lots of activity. Also that, how you say, that
Constance paused. The ship shuddered through another massive wave, yawing strangely. She looked back at Marya. “Wait here, please.”
She went upstairs and knocked on the door of Pendergast’s stateroom. Usually he responded immediately, his voice as clear and collected as if he’d been awake for hours. This time, nothing.
Another knock. “Aloysius?”
A low, even voice issued from inside. “I asked you to wake me at three.”
“There’s an emergency you should know about.”
A long silence. “I don’t see why it couldn’t wait.”
“It can’t wait, Aloysius.”
A long silence. “I’ll join you downstairs in a moment.”
Constance descended. Several minutes later, Pendergast made his appearance, wearing black suit pants, a starched white shirt hanging open unbuttoned, black suit jacket and tie thrown over one arm. He tossed the jacket on the chair and cast his eyes about. “My eggs Benedict and tea?” he asked.
Constance stared at him. “They’ve shut down all room service. Food is being served only in
