Stranded in Paradise

by Robin Ray

  Chapter I

  Saturday, April 18.

  Capt. Wieck, twisting and turning in his sleep, is experiencing a nightmare of Texas-sized proportions. Sweat is pouring down his face. His cabin on the cruise ship is spacious, but even in sleep, it appears the walls are closing in.

  He suddenly awakens from his frightful dream when he hears a foghorn go off. Dragging himself out of bed, he walks to his private bar, pours a martini, and downs it in one gulp. After a quick shower, he dons his razor-sharp captain’s uniform from a closet and stares at himself in his bureau’s mirror. Taped to the mirror is a picture of his cruise ship. Along its hull in large, ornate letters are the words “Queen Victoria II.”

  Minutes later, at an oak table in the Officers Briefing Room, Wieck is addressing his fellow officers – Purser Bainbridge, Chief Engineer Robert Falcon, Maitre d’Hotel Francois LeGrand, Crew Director Hilary Moore, Ship’s Doctor Nelson Greenspan, Communications Officer Stephen Drake, and Navigator Fernando de la Cruz. A giant map of the Atlantic Ocean is on a wall behind the captain. In front of each officer sits maps, folders, pencils, and assorted items.

  Wieck gets up to address his officers.

  “Gentlemen, Ms. Moore, I’m grateful that you’ve chose to sail with me despite the negative atmosphere generated by the Board. As you all know, my decorated service speaks for itself, and all attempts to undermine my authority has, so far, been fruitless. That said, there is some troubling news. In a few hours, we'll be within fifty miles of a probable tropical depression in the Bermuda Strait, so we must be on the alert at all times. Yes, we’re more than a month away from the cyclone season, so this is really a fluke. I guess the sea surface temp must be higher than expected. It’s been a relatively uneventful season so far, but the winds can change overnight. I hear this one’s causing quite a bit of a stir, though. The first few disturbances this year were weak so they don’t even count. Even though we haven’t seen any hurricanes, we must always be prepared for the worst because you never know.”

  Some of the Officers shift uneasily in their seats. There is a new face among them, one that Wieck hadn't noticed till now.

  “Navigator,” he addresses him. “You're new here, aren't you?”

  The raven-haired, fairly good looking navigator rises and salutes.

  “Fernando de la Cruz, sir. Last-minute replacement from the Miami Tourist Board.”

  “Have you met everyone?”

  Wieck points them out one by one.

  “Bainbridge, Falcon, LeGrand, Moore, Greenspan, and Drake.”

  “Good morning, sirs, ma’am,” Cruz greets them.

  “Welcome aboard the Queen Victoria II, son,” Wieck continues. “You’ll grow to love her like your own wife, maybe even more. She’s eleven thousand tons of pleasure. We are 70 feet mid ship, 202 staterooms, full A/C, stabilizers, Monte Carlo Room, gym, sauna...hell, we even have a beauty salon for the ladies and an arcade for the kids. The only thing missing is a brothel, but the Purser's working on that.”

  Bainbridge blushes. “I look forward to being here, sir,” Cruz states. “I'm sure I'll enjoy this voyage.”

  He sits.

  “We're a family here, Fernando,” Wieck emphasizes. “Call me Henry.”

  He turns to his other officers.

  “Well, let's get going, shall we? There's a storm brewing, and I hear it's a party we don't want to miss.”

  Minutes later, Wieck and Purser Bainbridge are on the atrium deck. They are busy greeting new arrivals to the 440-foot-long Caribbean Cruiser. Wieck shakes hands with a few tourists. Some express how glad or fortunate they are to go on a cruise. One passenger in particular, a well-dressed but perspiring black man in his 40’s, goes shooting past the officers without saying a word.

  “Fellow’s in a rush!” Wieck whispers to Bainbridge.

  The purser, though, is busy staring at the sky. It is getting darker and the winds are picking up speed. Even some of the passengers note the change in the atmosphere.

  “I don’t know about this weather,” Bainbridge sighs. “Looks ominous.”

  “Shh,” Wieck whispers. “You're gonna scare them off.”

  Minutes later, they’re sitting in the bridge as the ship sets sail. A quick inspection reveals that all the instruments are working fine. The crew congratulates each other for a successful launch. Capt. Wieck, standing with his hands behind his back, is staring out of a window. He appears consumed by the sight. His eyes don’t shift. They remain locked on some unknown unseen target, as if he’s been mesmerized by the sea.

  Over on the lounge deck, red-haired Rochelle Cooper and her husband, Graham, along with several others, are lying on Stratoloungers. Almost everyone else is trying to soak up what's left of the sun's diminishing rays or waving goodbye to those standing on the loading dock. Children run pell-mell everywhere, a few of them even carelessly knocking over some of the adults’ mixed drinks.

  “I'm glad we came, Rochelle” Graham notes, “even though this is costing me a fortune. One more week in that office and I would’ve leaped out a fifteenth-floor window. They really pour it on at work sometimes. This, all this, makes all the difference in the world. I can do without these heavy breezes, though.”

  “Come on, Graham. Can't you ever stop talking about your job or money? Geez, it’s like I married a bank.”

  “You should complain with the things I buy you. And must you wear such a revealing bikini?”

  “Oh, don't be a fuddy-duddy, Graham. I'm 29 years old. I can do what I want.”

  “Doesn't matter if you're 99. It's still too damned revealing.”

  Rochelle jumps off the Stratolounger and starts dancing seductively. Graham moans.

  “Damn it!” he yells. “Act civilized for once in your life. We're in public!”

  Annoyed, she thrusts both hands on her shapely hips. “Geez, daddy-o. Lighten up. You'd think I was headed to the gas chamber or something.”

  “Now there’s a thought.”

  She stops dancing in place. “You know what?” she protests, “I'm gonna see what my cousin's up to. He knows how to have fun.” Grabbing a flowery shirt from the Stratolounger, she puts it on, and begins to walk away.

  “You go see that loser,” Graham emotes, “I don't care.”

  She stops and faces him. “Keith's not a loser.”

  “I'm surprised he's not in jail. How'd he afford a trip like this anyway? Bank robbery?”

  “You're always putting him down. You know he won his ticket in a radio contest.”

  “Which he probably jerry-rigged.”

  “Graham, I'll see you later.”

  She turns to leave again but Graham’s not done. “Your cousin's probably breathing down some strumpet's neck right now,” he continues. “Leave him alone.”

  Again, she turns and faces him. “See?” she scolds her husband. “That's where you're wrong. He's really into sailing. Most likely he's up on the observation deck watching the tides.”

  Keith Vicar, the inebriated redhead, is sitting at the bar on the atrium level counting the ice cubes in his coconut margarita. Caught in a trance, he's seems to be in his own world. Suddenly, he hears a woman’s voice speaking to him.

  “They don’t talk, you know.”

  Startled, he looks up and sees a comely passenger, a Liz Taylor-lookalike, gazing at him.

  “Were you talking to me?” he asks.

  “I am. Hi. My name’s Cherry.”

  “I’m Keith, Cherry. Cherry…that’s a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll bet the guys have a lot of fun with you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, come on,” he brazenly asserts. “With a name like that, it screams “easy.”

  Insulted, Cherry dashes her drink in his face and leaves.

  “I deserved that!” he yells after her.

  Getting up, he loses his balance and falls. Both the bartender and several other passengers laugh at his misfortune. Embarrassed but und
eterred, he gets up, dusts himself off, slicks back his hair, and saunters over to a 2nd girl sitting by herself at the end of the bar.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” he drunkenly whispers. “I'm Keith. What say we go for a stroll on one of the lower decks?”

  She ignores him and turns away. He strolls to her other side.

  “What are you drinking?” he asks.

  She splashes her drink on his face and exits. He licks the wine on his lips. “Hmm. Chateau Lafitte, 1957,” the wanna-be sommelier remarks to no one. “That was a good year.”

  “Sir,” the bartender tells him, “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “What are you? My father? I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough.”

  The bartender, not wishing to upset the other customers, simply walks away. Keith looks around and notices an Asian woman sitting alone at a small table. She is crying. Ever the savior, he gets up and ambles over. Up close she's more striking that he'd imagined.

  “Hi,” he greets her. “What's the matter? You okay?”

  He sits down at her table. She quickly regains composure.

  “Yes, I'm fine, thanks,” she replies. “I just went through a nasty divorce. I was just thinking about it. So hard losing your best friend.”

  “That's why I never got married. Too complicated. “

  “Then you're alone on this cruise?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You, too.”

  “It was already paid for, and since I’ve never been on one…”

  Just then, a well-dressed black man carrying a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a small towel in the other hand walks by. Keith motions to him.

  “Hey, bring that over here, boy.”

  The man stops, stares at Keith, and walks over with a look that could kill a charging rhino.

  “What did you call me?” he asks bluntly.

  Keith gulps. Grace chuckles silently.

  “I thought you were the servant,” Keith apologizes quickly.

  “Do I look like a servant to you?”

  “I thought...”

  “Because I'm a negro you thought, naturally, I was a servant. As a matter of fact, do they even have servants on this ship?”

  “They have maids.”

  “What if I told you I'm a doctor?”

  “I'd believe it.”

  “Right now, you'd say anything to get out of being pummeled to death.”

  The man exits. Keith, spared from a visit to the ER, wipes his brow in relief.

  “You should be more careful with your mouth,” the Asian stranger warns him.

  She stretches out her hand. “My name's Grace Lee Fong. Just call me Grace.”

  They shake hands.

  “Hi, Grace. I'm Keith Cooper and I’m the biggest nobody you’ve ever met.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t be that bad. Do you know who that guy you just insulted was?”

  “Should I know him?”

  “That was Eddie Scott, the Olympics sprinter.”

  “Ah. I must confess the Olympics aren’t something I pay much attention to.”

  “You’re forgiven. I guess Scott’s a doctor now. Good for him.”

  Keith holds his stomach. “I don't feel so good,” he moans. “I think I need a drink.”

  “Don't you think you’ve had enough?”

  “Enough? I don't know the meaning of the word.”

  “I’ve heard about those sober living resorts in Boca Raton. That’s what you need.”

  “Maybe you can stop me from falling apart,” Keith suggests. “Wanna discuss it down in the lower deck?”

  Down in one of the lower berths, Milton Silverleaf, a middle-aged businessman, is lying in his nightgown in bed staring at the ceiling. He appears to be lost in thought. The cabin is dimly lit. Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony is playing on a portable RCA Victor phonograph record player sitting on the bureau next to his eyeglasses. Suddenly, the silence of his reverie is broken by the intrusion of young, blonde housekeeping aide, Migdalia.

  “Oh!” she apologizes upon seeing him. “I thought no one’s here. Permiso.”

  Silverleaf reaches to the bureau, grabs his eyeglasses, and puts them on.

  “It's okay, young lady. Come in. What's your name?”

  “Migdalia. Everyone is on the decks waiting for the hurricane. ¿Porque no tu?”

  “My dear, we’re not in hurricane season, so there’s nothing to fear.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It looks like it outside.”

  “I didn’t want to sit in the sun today. Of course, if I knew there’d be no sun, I wouldn’t have objected.”

  “That’s right. Solamente clouds. I’ll come back later.”

  She stashes her duster and rags in her cleaning cart and pulls it towards the door.

  “Wait!” Silverleaf shouts.

  She stops. He gets out of bed.

  “You go ahead and clean the room,” he insists. “I'll go for a walk. Exercise is good for an old man like me.”

  “Oh, you’re not old. I bet you’re only fifty.”

  “I'm fifty-one.”

  “I was close.”

  He opens the dresser, takes off his robe, and puts on a pair of trousers and a shirt. “Everybody thinks I'm actually older than that,” he continues. “Ever since I lost my wife to cancer two years ago, I've been a lonely, miserable wreck. I guess it shows.”

  After getting dressed, he picks up a photo of his wife from the dresser, touches her face, and sits it against the mirror. Migdalia walks over and looks at it.

  “She was beautiful,” she states.

  “Thank you. She was.”

  He puts on a pair of slippers, grabs a hat from a wall hook, turns off the music, and heads to the door. “Be careful with my things.”

  “Si.”

  As he exits, Migdalia picks up the photo and gazes at it in the available light.

  About 10 hours later, and traveling at approximately 24 knots per hour, the QV II is now roughly 270 miles out at sea. There was a brief stop in the Bahamas and, so far, it has been an uneventful excursion. That evening, because of the darkening skies and heavy rainfall, people are dancing indoors to the lively sounds of a Calypso orchestra in the Capri Room. Most passengers are paired off. Even members of the crew are engaged in the festivities. Grace, however, is alone at a table.

  Keith, also in attendance, is getting the brush-off from a cold-shouldered female. Although he’s pouring on the charm, she just isn’t buying his spiel. Suddenly, the overhead lights dim. The band's amps shut off. The ship's motors grind to a halt. All look around in confusion. Seconds later, a loud thud is felt and heard. The passengers look around in confusion then the lights flicker back on.

  The passengers turn to look at Wieck who's at a table with guests. He gets up.

  “Don't be alarmed, folks,” he cautions. “That was probably just a dead coral reef. Lots of those out here. When they die, they become as hard as stone. Excuse me while I go and check it out.”

  He exits. The calypso band starts playing again. Seconds later, the party is back in full swing as if nothing ever happened.

  Over in the crowded control room, Chief Engineer Falcon, 2nd Engineer Conrad Peterson, Navigator Cruz, Purser Bainbridge, Ensign Murray Monroe and Communications Officer Stephen Drake are bathed in red light. All are busy turning dials, making fine adjustments and recalibrating their nautical equipment. Outside, it is pitch black as if the moon has been swallowed by a planet-sized dragon. Drake is busy trying to radio Miami Central Command. The only thing he hears in his headset is static.

  “Miami?” he calls in. “Come in Miami.”

  Bainbridge turns to him. “Is the vector set correctly?”

  “Of course, it is,” Drake insists. “I set it myself.”

  “This is odd,” the Purser notices, rubbing his chin. He then makes some notes on a pad. Falcon opens a hatch to the main sensor array. Sparks fly out and singes his uniform. Wieck enters. The ship, which has been tossing lightly over the past few minutes, sways more
intensely.

  “What's going on?” Wieck asks his crew. “Did we run aground again? I can't afford another court martial.”

  “Henry,” Drake explains, “I can't reach Miami.”

  “The hurricane's blowing in at over 90 knots!” the Ensign warns.

  “Already? Is it a hurricane now?” Wieck asks. “The passengers are beginning to panic.”

  He walks over to a window and looks out. The angry sea is tossing its waves high into the air as rain beats down atop the ocean’s jagged surface.

  “Really doesn't look good out there.”

  “You think we should turn back?” Bainbridge asks.

  “I don't know. This is unexpected.”

  “We're approximately twenty nautical miles south of Little Abaco,” Cruz informs the crew, “and about ten or more miles from Eleuthera in the Bahamas, the closest land mass to us.”

  “This is bad,” Bainbridge emits. “I knew I should've sat this trip out.”

  “What was that bump we felt earlier that shut the lights down?” Wieck asks to no one in specific.

  “Probably a dead coral reef,” Cruz answers.

  “That's what I thought,” the Captain agrees. “I'd better make an announcement to the passengers and tell them everything's okay.”

  “How can a dead coral reef sink an all-metal, 5,000-ton cruise ship?” the Purser doubts. “That makes no sense. They’re nothing but aquatic plants.”

  “Corals are a pretty complex ecosystem that secretes calcium carbonate which keeps them together,” Wieck explains. “Over the centuries, when some of those ecosystems die, they fossilize. You literally have miles and miles of jagged coastline hidden beneath the waves.”

  The Purser, satisfied with the Captain’s explanation, nods. Wieck picks up a microphone from a wall hook and puts the P.A. on.

  “This is Captain Henry Wieck,” he announces. “That loud thud you heard earlier was just the tip of a coral reef. Common to these parts. There's nothing to fear, I assure you. The night is still young. Have fun. I'll keep you informed as the voyage progresses.”

  He hangs the mike back on the hook then turns to his crew. “I'm counting on you gentlemen to make this trip as uneventful as possible.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” they respond.

  “And look out for those reefs.”

  Nearly an hour later, the ship is still beating against the stirring waves. The night remains ominously black as the rains fall in torrents against the Atlantic tides. Through the storm, the small but determined Sea Monkey breaks through.

  Her five passengers, now alongside the majestic QVII’s starboard side, manage to throw a rope ladder upwards where it latches to a railing on the vacant observation deck. Seconds later, all five heavily armed banditos climb the windswept rope, albeit with great difficulty. Just in time, too, as the front of the 8-passenger Sea Monkey gets destroyed smashing against the QVII’s hull.

  Noiselessly, they approach two lookout guards, encounter with them violently and, after killing them, toss them overboard like rag dolls.

  Minutes later, the five banditos burst into the Capri Room with rifles drawn. The band’s performance screeches to a halt. Some passengers scream; others dive beneath tables for cover.

  The banditos motion for the voyagers to congregate in one section of the room. Keith, inebriated, approaches the Banditos with a drink in his hand.

  “Nice get-up. Who are you guys? You're good. They sure go all out for entertainment here.”

  The bandit leader hits him in his abdomen with the butt of his rifle. Keith drops to his knees in unbearable anguish.

  The Leader shakes his head. “I hate critics.” He then gestures to three of his men to keep their guns trained on the startled guests then exits with the fourth Bandito.

  In the control room, the officers are at their stations trying to steady the tossing ship. The lights flicker on and off. Drake is occupied in sending out distress signals.

  Several pens, a compass, sextant, cups, and a clipboard fly wildly across the room as the ship continues to sway.

  Suddenly, a porthole breaks. Water comes rushing in. The red alert siren comes on. Bainbridge and 2nd Engineer Peterson place a utility blanket in front of the porthole then push a file cabinet on top of another in front of it. For the moment, it appears to hold tight.

  Bainbridge, attempting to pick up a few strewn items, slips and hits his head against a steel bar. Wieck runs to his aid and helps him get up.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Some storm, huh?”

  “I think we're in her eye.”

  He turns to Cruz. “What's our heading?”

  “Ten, twenty-two, mark two.”

  “We're going around in circles?”

  The Navigator nods.

  “Henry,” Falcon explains, “it's worse than we thought. She's an electrical storm with an attitude.”

  “That’s all we need.”

  Suddenly, the Bandit Leader and 2nd Bandito burst into the control room and immediately aim their guns on the startled officers.

  “What the deuce?” Bainbridge howls. “Who are you people?”

  The bandit leader walks straight up to the Purser and hits him in the head with his gun's butt. He falls to his knees in pain.

  “Don't you people make this more difficult than it has to be,” the leader advises them. “I won't hesitate to use this, neither will he.”

  The gruff-voiced leader raises his gun briefly then lowers it.

  “Which of you,” he continues, “has the passenger manifest?”

  He turns to Bainbridge. “You?”

  “I don't have anything. If I did, I sure as hell wouldn't give it to you.”

  Falcon slowly reaches for the gun in his jacket's inside pocket then stops when he glances at Wieck who gives him a “don't be a hero” look.

  “Somebody'd better talk!” the bandit leader warns. “I didn't come this distance for nothing!”

  Falcon whips out his gun anyway, quickly aims it at the leader and fires. The intruder, hit in the arm, drops his pistol.

  The 2nd bandito reacts by shooting at the Falcon. He misses and then gets jumped by Peterson and Bainbridge.

  Wieck wrestles with the bandit leader for the fallen pistol. Cruz produces his own gun, sticks it to the Falcon’s ribs, and shoots him. He falls dead. Peterson and Bainbridge stop beating up the 2nd bandito when they hear the shot. Looking up, they see Cruz with his smoking gun aimed directly at Wieck's head. They stand up slowly. The 2nd bandito rises. The bandit leader picks up his pistol. Wieck turns to the Navigator.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “You're not in a position to ask questions, Captain,” the leader cautions him.

  Cruz calmly reaches into Wieck's inner jacket pocket, retrieves a folded sheet of paper, and brings it over to his leader. “This is what you're looking for.”

  The bandit leader smiles broadly. “Excellent.”

  “Why does he need that?” Wieck asks.

  Cruz walks to the Captain and hits him in the face with his gun. Wieck falls backwards into a control panel. The ship starts listing more violently from side to side as the lights flicker on & off.

  The leader turns to Cruz. “Don't kill him yet. Right now, a dead captain is worthless to me.”

  He brandishes the passenger manifest and points his gun at Wieck who notices the intruder has a long scar across his left eye.

  “One of your passengers on this tub witnessed an execution,” the bandit leader informs the crew, “and I'm not leaving till they're found. I know they're here.”

  “Who?” Wieck asks. “Why? Afraid they'll testify? Who are you?”

  “That's not important. Let's just say that a lot of people will suffer if my little witness isn't found tonight.”

  Back in the darkened Capri room, general hysteria reigns. The three banditos left behind are now in a struggle for their lives as they are set upon by brave guests. Some passengers are trying their best to get
out, but the two exits are severely crowded. Even the Calypso band is looking for a way out. Intermittent shots are heard as the ship continues its violent sway.

  A strap from one of the bandito's grenade belt breaks. It causes a handful of loose grenades to roll on the ground. In the melee, one of them explodes near a window. It blows a hole the size of a Volkswagen in the hull of the ship while costing three passengers their lives.

  Water starts rushing in. The vacationers, screaming for their lives, are washed out by the raging flood waters through the large hole in the hull. Soon, The QVII begins to fill with the angry brine.

  In the control room, the captain and crew are wrestling the intruders. The 2nd Bandito is knocked out by both Ensign Monroe and Bainbridge. The bandit leader is shot by Peterson.

  Wieck fatally snaps Cruz’s neck by grabbing him from the back and using a powerful judo-like move. More portholes break under the stress of the lashing storm. Battered by the winds and rain, the flooding ocean liner sinks deeper and deeper into the angry Atlantic.