The Wheel of Darkness

69

LESEUR STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROWDED AUX BRIDGE, staring at the S-band radar image of the approaching ship. It loomed ever larger, a phosphorescent shape expanding dead ahead on the radar screen. The Doppler readout indicated a combined closing speed of thirty-seven knots.

“Two thousand five hundred yards and closing,” said the second officer. LeSeur made a quick mental calculation: two minutes to contact.

He glanced at the more sensitive X-band, but it was awash with sea return and rain scatter. Quietly and quickly, he’d briefed the rest of the officers on his plan. He knew it was at least possible Mason had heard everything he’d said to the captain of theGrenfell : there was no failsafe way to block communications on the main bridge. But either way, once theGrenfell made its move, theBritannia would be hard pressed to respond.

Chief Engineer Halsey came up to his side. “I have the estimates you asked for.” He spoke in a low voice so the others wouldn’t hear.

So it’s that bad,

thought LeSeur. He withdrew Halsey to one side.

“These figures,” said Halsey, “are based on a direct collision with the center of the shoal, which is what we anticipate.”

“Tell me quickly.” “Given the force of that impact, we estimate the death rate at thirty to fifty percent—with almost all the rest seriously injured: broken limbs, contusions, concussions.”

“Understood.”

“With its draft of thirty-three feet, the Britannia will make initial contact with a small shoal some distance from the main portion of the reef. By the time the ship is stopped by the main rocks, it will already be ripped open from stem to stern. All the watertight compartments and bulkheads will be breached. Estimated sinking time is less than three minutes.”

LeSeur swallowed. “Is there a chance it might hang up on the rocks?”

“There’s a steep dropoff. The stern of the ship will pull it off and down—fast.”

“Dear Jesus.”

“Given the extent of injury and death, and the speed with which the Britannia will sink, there won’t be time to institute any procedures for abandoning ship. That means nobody aboard at the time of collision has any chance of survival. That includes”—he hesitated, glancing around—“personnel remaining on the auxiliary bridge.”

“ Fifteen hundred yards and closing,” said the second officer, his eyes fixed on the radar. Sweat was streaming down his face. The aux bridge had gone silent, everyone staring at the looming green blob on the radar scope.

LeSeur had debated whether to issue a general order warning passengers and crew to brace themselves, but he had decided against it. For one thing, using the PA would tip their hand to Mason. But more importantly, if theGrenfell did the job right, the force of the lateral impact across the bow would be mostly absorbed by the enormous mass of theBritannia . It would be a jolt that might startle the passengers, or at worst jar a few off their feet. But he had to take the risk.

“

Twelve hundred yards.

”

70

ROGER MAYLES HEARD RUNNING FOOTSTEPS AND PRESSED HIMSELF into a cul-de-sac on Deck 9. A gaggle of passengers ran by shouting, gesticulating, on God knows what senseless, hysterical mission. In one sweaty hand he clutched a magnetic key that he kneaded and rubbed incessantly, like a worry-stone. With the other, he removed a flask and took a long slug of single-malt whisky—eighteen-year-old Macallan—and slipped it back into his pocket. His eye was already beginning to swell from the blow he’d received during a tussle with a hysterical passenger back in Oscar’s: it felt like someone was pumping air into it, making it tighter and tighter. Blood flecked his white shirt and dinner jacket from a bloody nose that had yet to stop leaking. He must look an absolute fright.

He checked his watch. Thirty minutes to impact, if the information he’d received was correct: and he had every reason to believe it was. He checked again to see if the hall was still clear, then staggered out of the cul-de-sac. He had to avoid passengers at all costs. It wasLord of the Flies time on board theBritannia , every man for himself, and nobody descended into brutish behavior quicker than a bunch of rich assholes.

He made his way carefully down the Deck 9 corridor. Although there was nobody in sight, the distant screams, yells, pleas, and agonized sobbing were omnipresent. He couldn’t believe that the ship’s officers and security had virtually disappeared, leaving hospitality staff like himself at the mercy of these rampaging passengers. He had heard nothing, received no instructions. It was clear there was no plan to deal with a disaster of this scale. The ship was absolute bedlam, with no information to be had, the wildest rumors spreading like a brush fire in high wind.

Mayles slipped down the hall, the key clutched in his palm. It was his ticket out of this madhouse and he was going to spend it right now. He wasn’t going to end up being one of forty-three hundred people ground to mincemeat when the ship ripped its guts open on the Grand Banks’ worst shoal. The lucky ones who survived the impact would live another twenty minutes in the forty-five-degree water before succumbing to hypothermia.

That was one party he wasn’t going to attend, thank you very much.

He took another slug of the whisky and slipped through a door marked by a red exit sign. He ran down a metal staircase, his short legs churning, and paused two landings below to peer into the corridor leading to the half deck where the port lifeboats were housed. While the corridor was again empty, the shouts of frantic, angry passengers were louder on this deck. He couldn’t fathom why they hadn’t launched the boats. He had been part of the lifeboat drills and had ridden on a couple of freefall launches. Those boats were damn near indestructible, dropping into the water while you were safely buckled into a cushioned seat, the ride no rougher than a Disneyland roller- coaster.

As he came around the corner toward the outside half deck, the noise of the crowd increased. Wouldn’t you know it: a bunch of passengers had gathered at the locked lifeboat hatches, pounding and shouting to get in.

There was only one way to the port lifeboats and it was through the crowd. No doubt more frantic passengers had assembled around the starboard lifeboats as well. He advanced, still clutching the key. Maybe no one would recognize him.

“Hey! It’s the cruise director!”

“The cruise director! Hey, you! Mayles!”

The crowd surged toward him. A drunken man, his face afire, grabbed Mayles by the sleeve. “What the hell’s happening? Why aren’t we launching the lifeboats?” He gave his arm a jerk. “Huh? Why not?”