Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom)

by Robert W. Walker

  Working relations between the men and the company hadn’t been exactly harmonious lately, so Anton’s first guess was that the derelict was in fact a distraught, possibly drunken worker who had decided to act on some of the threats that had been circulating. Anton had warned that the men were restless and angry at not being paid a higher wage, and that perhaps putting on more guards rather than fewer would be a good idea—but it appeared to have fallen on deaf ears. Rumors ran about that the Orangemen working at the yards didn’t care to do their best work for the British Star Line or any British company for that matter, and they didn’t care for Harland and Wolff contracting with the Star Line. Some even joked that the rivets would pop on her maiden voyage as a result of shoddy work. Anton had heard on more than one occasion a riveter say something to the effect, “Rivets is rivets till you punch ’em in cold like a washer woman.” Anton didn’t believe the talk anything other than talk, yet he knew there was a core group capable of the worst kind of thinking—and that they just might convert thought to sabotage.

  These musings raced through Anton’s mind as he searched the interior with his John-lantern. He meant to order the man out of the hull and out of the yards, else he’d knock him silly with his club.

  From the moment he’d stepped into the belly of Titanic, Anton had noted the sharp, crisp odor of freshly fired and painted iron walls and bulkheads; the odor filled his lungs the deeper he went. The absolute darkness made him think of the biblical story of being in the belly of the beast. In a sense, that was precisely where he stood now… in the belly of a gargantuan metal monster.

  “Announce yourself, man!” came a sudden voice behind Anton. “Who is it? What’re you doing here?” The stentorian voice out of the darkness was followed by a second watchman’s lantern now blinding and surprising Anton, who held up an arm to cast off the brightness and study the stranger. No one Anton knew; certainly not the scraggly fellow he’d come looking for.

  “Who am I? Who the devil’re you?” Anton immediately fired back.

  “White Star Line guard, Pinkerton Agency.”

  “What? You? Pinkerton Agency? But…” stammered Anton, taken aback. He’d heard that the Star Line had threatened to put on professional guards with guns to look after the expensive interiors already in place on Titanic, but he had not seen these men come on. Nor had the day watchman said a word about it. The Pinky’s, as some called the hired coppers, were supposed to protect the chandeliers, the teakwood balustrades, all of it, down to the gym equipment on board.

  “I’m Fiore, the shipyard watchman,” Anton informed the other man. “Saw a man entering here. Was it you?”

  “No… not me.”

  “I thought not from outward appearances.”

  “Just precisely what did this fellow look like?”

  “What’d he look like?” Anton stalled, trying to regain his composure.

  “Yes? Details. We must know any facts you have.”

  “A shabby little fellow, perhaps in miner’s clothing; else a street derelict—looked to be intoxicated.”

  “Good man, Fiore.” The agent pronounced it wrong as Fioree rather than Fior, but Anton didn’t bother correcting the other man who added, “Can’t be too careful. I’ll help you search for this man.”

  Together they went deeper into the ship, a winding labyrinth of metal without any niceties at this level. Their lights hit on storage areas, freezer compartments, boiler rooms but still no intruder. “Where the deuce might he’ve gotten off to?”

  “It’s a big ship,” replied the Pinkerton agent with a laugh. “Name’s Harry Tuttle,” he offered, “late of Shrewsbury.”

  They shook and continued on, deeper into the dark ship, and still they were coming up empty handed. “It may have to wait until morning,” began Anton, shrugging, “but I have no idea what the man’s intentions are—and what with all the rumors… .”

  “Yes, we’re aware of them all; it’s why we were hired. Better safe than sorry and all that.” Tuttle rummaged about in the darkness, occasionally lifting his lantern in different directions, creating crazy shadows of them both against one wall, then another when he suddenly raised an alarm: “Found something amiss here!”

  Anton turned to find Tuttle lifting a light over the body of Francis O’Toole, and knowing the old miner from the nearby tavern, he gasped.

  “You know him?”

  “Y-Yes, I do… and he’s got no reason whatever to be here, and look at ’im—dried to the appearance of a corpse escaped its coffin, he does! When-when minutes ago… he was stumblin’ drunk! Spiralin’ on two feet—he was.”

  But Anton Fiore only saw the corpse for a second before he felt Tuttle suddenly too close, and then came the painful thunder of Tuttle’s club knocking him senseless. Anton did not hear the faint laughter of the Pinkerton agent, nor see the glint in his eye like that of a man who’d achieved a great victory over his prey.

  “I’ll just save you for later, Mr. Fiore—perhaps a crumpet at sea,” said the agent although the man had no clue as to why he said it or what it might mean; or for that matter, why he’d attacked Fiore, or why he was now stowing the watchman’s unconscious body into a foot-locker where he’d surely suffocate once locked in—but lock him in is what Harry Tuttle felt he must do and do now, as if his very existence depended upon it. “But why?” he asked aloud of the dark interior. Somewhere deep within his brain, he heard whispered, a melodic word—“Sus-ten-ance.” And then came the single word in equally sing-song fashion in his head—“Spawn… spawn… spawn.”

  All quite strange to Tuttle who’d had an altercation with the dazed and vague miner calling himself O’Toole. Tuttle was not used to either of these two words being plucked from the vaults of his mind—and to make a mantra of them? It made no more sense to him than having hidden O’Toole’s body or contemplating murder, yet he knew he would kill Fiore, and that he had no choice in the matter as his limbs somehow worked independent of his mind, and his limbs were powerful. It was as though his body would not cooperate with the signals being sent. This helplessness made him over, a different man. Staring at a reflected image in the glass of a portal, Tuttle didn’t recognize his own face nor could he recall his own name. The man in the mirror, a stranger to him, made Tuttle rethink all of existence and reality.

  FIVE

  Aboard Scorpio, April 12, 2012

  The clash of silverware against pewter plates, the chatter and noise from those dining, coupled with the excitement and bustle of the galley workers aboard Scorpio as it sailed toward Titanic and the past, all of it proved no match for the hoopla being broadcast on CNN. The TV screen squatted in an overhead corner. Dr. Juris Forbes, head of the scientific expedition and Scorpio’s current captain stood alongside Luther W. Kane himself before a bank of network microphones at a podium set up on the Woods Hole docks now far behind them—a mere dark line in the distance. The earlier news conference was already a CNN loop, and said hoopla was all to the annoyance of the more seasoned seamen aboard.

  Ingles recalled having gauged the level of chagrin on the faces of tough crewmen; he’d seen their astounded grimaces as they walked into the galley only to see the CNN broadcast. David shared the thought with Kelly, saying in her ear, “You’d think with Luther Kane’s billions, they wouldn’t have need of a show.”

  Kelly shrugged and replied, “Expeditions like ours cost a fortune, and Kane didn’t get rich being a fool. He’s paying for it with donations.”

  “Donations, really?”

  “Taking in donations, yes.”

  “I had no idea. I meant this ship alone…”

  “How best to be a part of history without—you know—risking life and limb?” she replied. “Without, you know… even being aboard Scorpio yet being ‘on board’ with the most important undertaking of our time? The true exploration of Titanic—from the inside out.”

  “So tell me, what do you really think of Dr. Alandale?” asked David, leaning in to hear her response, already knowing the answ
er but hoping to keep her talking.

  Alandale had sauntered in moments before, asking the cook for a cup of coffee. The old professor gave an exaggerated stare at the TV screen, then he gave them a telling half smile and said, “For a moment there, I feared Kane might board and declare himself captain of Scorpio.”

  “God forbid,” muttered Cookie.

  “Feed his ego to take over entirely,” finished Alandale.

  Just then Dr. Juris Forbes stepped in, looking weary. “Thank Neptune, we’ve set sail.” His first words to Cookie were, “Damn it, turn that TV off.”

  After Forbes settled in beside Alandale with coffee in hand, David asked, “Sir, do we call you Captain or Dr. Forbes for the duration?” David met Forbes’ eye.

  “Either or will do, son, but I rather fancy Captain.”

  “Makes him feel a bit rakish, doesn’t it, Juris?” said Alandale, poking Forbes. “You of all people know how hard I worked to get control of Scorpio,” Forbes countered, his tone serious. “As to our benefactor, Mr. Kane, he’ll get his part done.”

  Cookie rushed over to douse his captain’s coffee with rum from a flask.

  Alandale held his cup up for a dram as well, and off-handedly said, “Juris, you need no titles; you’ll do just fine, so long as Kane stays out of your way… Captain!”

  “Kane does have a sterling reputation for getting in the bloody way, doesn’t he?” Forbes breathed in the aroma of his coffee with deep satisfaction.” Rather glad I got that off my chest.”

  The two old friends broke into laughter. As they did so, Kelly whispered in David’s ear. “You know I once worked with our captain some time back.”

  “Oh, really?” asked David of her, his eyes widening.

  “It was many years ago, and I was an apprentice. Mostly amounted to moving files, boxes, chairs, and coffee cups around.”

  “Kelly!” Forbes called to her, lifting his cup in salute. “So good to see you made the team, Doctor Irvin.” Alandale, gave Forbes a good-natured shove as if it’d been his idea for the captain to say something to Kelly.

  Kelly returned the salute. “Didn’t think you’d be seeing me again so soon, I’m sure.”

  “I always knew if you applied yourself, Kelly, you’d be a true star. Swigart tells me he has every confidence in you and your team mates.”

  “Mr. Swigart’s being generous!” she replied as Forbes shut down again, his mind on other things.

  Kelly turned to David and privately shared, “He’s the one who recommended me to Lou. Rather suspect he’s the reason I’m aboard.” She stabbed at what passed for scrambled eggs on her plate. Galley cuisine was not known for being anything other than functional—something to fill the hollow spaces. It proved the reason most seamen and scientists of the sea were rail thin.

  “Looks like Forbes is turning into a barker for Kane,” quipped Alandale, jostling his long-time friend again and pointing to the now dark screen overhead. “Turn it back on, Cookie. We have a right to know what the rest of the world thinks of our little expedition, don’t we?”

  “This isn’t a democracy,” replied Forbes who, having downed his coffee, got up and abruptly left, turning at the door to add, “It was just another of his damn news conferences; Kane’s people put it together. Not of my doing.”

  “You’re no Robert Ballard!” Alandale’s last taunt followed Forbes out the door.

  “The news, Cookie,” said Mendenhall, still at the far end, also apparently interested in what was being said about the expedition.

  “Science needs funding,” said Alandale as the news came back up. “This unfortunately, means you put up with the densest—well, deepest crap known to mankind.”

  “Comes with the territory,” agreed Kelly.

  “Always somebody else holding the purse strings.”

  “Name of the game.”

  “Par for the course.” He gave her a broad smile.

  “Think we’ve exhausted the clichés,” she finished, and they quieted to hear more about the great adventure they were on from the news cast; on camera, Forbes looked uncomfortable with Kane’s arm around his neck. As head of the expedition, Forbes had more to do than anyone aboard, and it was obvious that he wanted to have at it and launch Scorpio IV to end the media circus. That had been two hours ago now, and the news loop had repeated itself on CNN twice since David and Kelly had stepped into the galley.

  “Look at our fearless financial backer,” Alandale said, poking fun at Kane. “Pretending he’s fraternity pals with Juris.” He laughed lightly, as if to say it was below contempt. “Such a charade—the whole of it.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” asked David. Ingles could not help but hear the note of disgust in Alandale’s last remarks.

  “Why it’s a sham, his involvement. He makes phone calls. Threatens people… has a file on everyone. Squeezes them like some reincarnation of J.Edgar Hoover.”

  This drew a laugh from everyone in the room. Alandale added, “Here he is acting as if without him, there is no hope or chance of success. He’s like that Trump fellow and Hitler rolled into one.”

  “Juris looks so out of his element and uncomfortable, too,” said Kelly, eyes on the tube. “Don’t you think?”

  “If I’m any judge of body language, yes,” said David, and to smooth things over, he off-handedly agreed. “Looks like the captain’d rather swallow bilge water than answer another question.”

  Mendenhall, who’d been silently listening, muttered, “That’s for sure.”

  But another question came from the suave-looking young CNN reporter on TV who said, “This one’s for the scientist, Captain Forbes and not Kane, the financier and PR guru.”

  “Fire away!” challenged Kane while Forbes had stood stone-faced.

  The reporter asked: “Is it true, sir, that the submersible you intend using to dive to Titanic will be filled with oxygenated fluorocarbon—liquid air—and that the men inside will essentially be under water within the hull, breathing like fish?”

  “When descending and ascending, yes, of course,” replied a stern-faced Forbes who looked like everyone’s idea of a white-bearded college professor, and who had cultivated a startling resemblance to Captain Edward J. Smith who, according to history, had gone down with Titanic. “It is the only way to prepare the men for the dive from the submersible to the Titanic—my God, man! It’s two and a half miles below the surface. So… so one error means certain death. There’s absolutely no room for problems arising from pressure to the lungs, and no room for panic.”

  “Losing his temper,” commented Alandale who then sipped at his coffee.

  At the same time, on the TV, another reporter fired off with, “And so pilot and crew are literally submerged within the submersible?”

  “I just said that. Didn’t I make myself clear? Yes; it cuts down on any fear of implosion, and there’s no difficulty leaving the submersible for the shipwreck.”

  “Sounds like science fiction!” shouted a third reporter. “Man on Mars stuff, you know? I mean men roaming the very depths of Titanic’s interiors?”

  “Its time has come!” shouted Kane now. “And I fear time has come for Dr. Forbes to return to his command; I am sure he is anxious to make all the final preparations and necessary checks of our multi-billion dollar equipment aboard Scorpio—including the sub.”

  David could tell that Forbes needed no second telling, bolting as he did from the microphones with a quick wave of the hand. Kane raised both hands and basked in the adoration and said, “I’m prepared to take a few more questions.”

  Now grumbling and at end of his own patience with the news report, the fed up galley cook switched the TV off. David noticed a subtle, silent signal between Alandale and Cookie—otherwise known as Frank O’Bannion, who shouted to any and all, “Eat! You’ll need all your strength where you’re goin’.”

  Kelly held up her fork and let what remained of the eggs cascade back to her pewter plate just as Cookie lobbed another ladle full before her.
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br />   David stifled a laugh to see her eyes roll back in her head, and he was quick to cover his plate with his hand to say in no uncertain terms that he’d had enough.

  SIX

  As Juris Forbes made his getaway from the galley, he ran into Lou Swigart, his man in charge of the dive team. “Are they all aboard, Lou?” he asked.

  “To a man, yes. Got our first introductions out of the way.”

  “Good… good. And it certainly feels good to be underway.”

  “Decided you’d rather we got started; figured no sense waiting, and no telling how long Kane was going to be flapping. Just glad to be underway, Juris—Captain.”

  “What a circus. I had hoped to hell to be outta port before he could show up, but no such luck. Then I was just praying to get out to sea as quickly as possible before that fool decided he wanted to ride along ‘for the jollies’ as he’s so fond of saying.”

  “I’m sick to death of the man, so you needn’t tip-toe ’round me! But there’s sure to be a mole among the crew, and I suspect it’s that fellow Alandale’s taken under his wing.”

  “David Ingles?”

  “No, no! That crewman named Houston Ford.”

  “You think Alandale can’t attract a guy like Ford?”

  “All right, maybe it isn’t Ford, but there’s got to be a plant somewhere aboard. Are you sure of the women, Gambio and Dr. Irvin?”

  “I am sure neither one has ties to Kane, yes.”

  “All right, but what about their diving ability with that liquid air equipment?”

  “Yes, Juris, I am as sure of them as the men. Hell, they’ve done better in all the trials and training than the men, Captain.”

  “Ah, then it’s true… women do better breathing OFPC-413 than do the men.”

  “Proven fact, yes. No one has yet figured out why, but the supposition is that females are more ahhh… in tune with the collective memory of the womb, maybe even of the origins of life, but who knows. Anyhow, yeah, it’s true.”

  “Kelly Irvin has certainly blossomed. Going from file clerk to marine biologist, oceanographer, and diver all in matter of a few years.”