Titanic 2012

Pope and President Taft.

As it was, their departure today would be delayed, as Titanic now bobbed sideways in the river channel. From the perspective of those aboard the approaching Trinity, it appeared obvious to any thinking person—including her Captain Peter McEachern—that something was amiss. Early on, he’d put his spyglass into good use, chronicling what was happening before handing the glass over to Ransom.

As Alastair viewed the mishap, McEachern said in his ear, “The gods are with us, mate. Ye might make it aboard that floating palace in time after all.”

“Our luck’s held so far.”

Captain McEachern then commented on the men piloting the giant ship. “It shows a lack of familiarity with ships of such size by those handling them, I should say, but then who has handled such monsters before? Don’t know that I’d do any better. Fact is, from what I gather, the entire method of steering the damn things is backwards!”

“For men like us, Captain, seems the world is rushing away from us.”

“Indeed, Constable. It be a strange if marvelous future we’re all headed toward.”

“Please, call me Alastair.”

“It’s our good luck, it is,” said Declan after a turn on the spyglass.

“Do you think we’ve time now to catch them, sir?” asked Thomas of Captain McEachern.

The weathered old schooner captain smiled. “Aye, if they don’t take us for a bunch of pirates trying to board her.” He laughed heartily at his own remark, and they all joined in. The idea of their small ship beside the monster and being taken for pirates made them all laugh at the very notion.

One in the afternoon came and Titanic had resumed its twenty-four mile trip downstream to the English Channel en route to Cherbourg, France where additional passengers were to board. Captain Smith and those on the bridge saw the schooner racing toward them, now in the Channel, and all aboard the schooner wildly waved, some jumping up and down. Crewmen and passengers on board Titanic waved back at the excited men on the now dwarfed schooner which, even with her masts, was barely a flea on Titanic’s scale.

From the deck of Trinity, Ransom saw the now closed and sealed wide cargo bay doors that he’d stood before at Slip 401 back in Belfast the night they’d first searched the ship for O’Toole and Fiore. But even if he could at his age swing over on a rope like some swashbuckling pirate, he saw no hold on the moving ship. They had arrived alongside Titanic and bobbed in the water like a cork, and they saw a pair of Titanic officers waving them off and shouting in bullhorns to stand away.

McEachern had to heed the warnings too, realizing late just how much displacement Titanic was capable of and angry at himself for not taking it into consideration, especially after witnessing what’d happened to the New York. Trinity was hardly the New York, and Captain McEachern had to veer off and pull away, turning to ride the enormous waves hitting her now.

Thomas, not a comfortable traveler by ship the whole way, became terribly green before turning white after heaving up everything from his gut into the sea as he doubled over the side rail. Declan, holding his back and watching his friend retch, began feeling queasy himself. By comparison, the seasoned sailors aboard seemed to enjoy the hobby-horsing the deck began to do, and Ransom grabbed hold of the closest mast, wondering if he shouldn’t lash himself to it, recalling how he had died in his premonition. The waters here were deep enough and cold enough to do the job.

Crew and captain aboard Trinity began laughing first at Thomas, then at Declan, and then at Ransom who indeed began to lash himself to the mast.

Captain McEachern had hoisted the white flag—international symbol of surrender and he had earlier hoisted the red flag—which meant a number of things—such as ship in distress, in need of help, or a request to come alongside and board. None of which those in the bridge of Titanic, apparently, could see or wished to see. Nor did they pay the least attention to every crewman aboard Trinity waving hands, jumping up and down until the waves created by Titanic slammed into the schooner.

Captain McEachern wasn’t lashing himself to anything, however; standing on firm sea legs, he was shaking a fist at the behemoth ship and cursing a blue streak at their utter disregard of his Trinity. Soon Titanic was well past them but the swells remained, shaking and turning the small sailing ship like a cork in a water spout.

When finally, the swells calmed enough that Ransom and the others believed Trinity would survive, Alastair went up to the captain’s deck where McEachern had taken over the wheel, righting his ship. Ransom knew it would take some convincing to get the captain to chase Titanic to Cherbourg, France, and he wasn’t wrong.

McEachern was already waving him off and shaking his head, knowing what Ransom wanted. “I’ll not ‘’ave anymore dealin’s with Titanic, Mr. Ransom.”

“But Captain!”

“I’ve me own crew and tender to look after, sir, as well as cargo needs loadin’ here!”

“After you unload then! It’s imperative.”

“No law can compel me to it, sir—not after the greeting we’ve received by those bastards piloting that monster.”

Ransom knew it would take money—likely every cent that Declan and Thomas had laid in his hands along with promises of more from the coffers of Belfast and perhaps the White Star Line itself.

Ransom calmly, quietly began putting ideas of great wealth into McEachern’s now twitching ear.

TWENTY

“Get the hell outta there, Ingles! Now!” Swigart shouted at David when he had reopened the main entry hatch to the submersible where David had spent now the longest five minutes of his life. The friendly confines of the sub’s blue-lit interior had become a wretched coffin with the awful corpse of Houston Ford in here with him.

Swigart had again worked out some sort of deal with the TV people so that they might hold off sending any images back to the mainland in his effort to keep a cap on the mayhem as everyone had a cell phone. Despite their remote location, David believed it only a matter of time before Luther Warren Kane’s spies aboard Scorpio would be informing the financier. Given the circumstance of double-murder aboard, the possibility of Kane showing up with a couple of federal agents was not remote.

Swigart had become convinced of a night dive now for certain; he must know he was racing against the time that Kane would show up and take over by force if necessary. Kane might stand with Swigart and Forbes, encouraging them to go ahead as planned, but given the game changes, no one could be sure. That scenario did not even take into consideration other crewmen who may have taken shots of the goings on here and sent them home to loved ones if not to the Star and Enquirer or CNN for that matter.

Feeling the sense of urgency, Swigart had become absolute in his belief that if they did not dive now, they would never get a dive to Titanic at all. Stubborn once he made a decision, the Commander of Divers for this expedition repeatedly shouted for his divers to get Ford’s body out of the way and to climb aboard Max for the dive. But no one wanted to be the ones to transport the body, knowing it would be difficult in the confined space and small hatchway.

Finally, Lena came up with more surgical gloves and Swigart grabbed hold of one end of Ford and ordered David to the lower extremities. Having had experience with transporting Alandale’s body to the specimen freezer, the two of them took extreme care with Ford’s body, which felt a tenth of the weight it appeared. Photos of it most likely would only raise skepticism in anyone back home who might see them.

“God, it’s the same damn thing as happened to Alandale,” muttered Swigart.

“David, be careful,” said Kelly from outside of the submersible.

“It’s a little late for that.”

“You think it’s contagious?” asked Swigart of David.

“Who knows; we don’t know enough, Lou. We’re working in the dark here. The cautious route would have us racing for home. Getting away from whatever is aboard Scorpio that’s killing healthy