Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom)

by Robert W. Walker

  Titanic’s feel under his command seemed identical to Olympic. In fact, the larger sister ship would make the all-too familiar North Atlantic at this time of year a routine crossing. With a good wind at his back, it would be as easy for Smith as reciting a The Lord’s Prayer.

  As a result of his orders to stand down on any lifeboat exercises at this time, Second Officer Lightoller ended his lessons of the morning rather abruptly, this after using only two starboard boats, Number 11 and 15. By now the clock had come around to 9:30am, so with second and third class boat-trains, what amounted to cargo vessels, now arriving, passengers had begun to board ship. This boarding of passengers continued until 11:30am as Trinity in the distance had coalesced in the human eye from a speck on the horizon to a beautiful schooner in full sail, racing toward Titanic at 17 knots.

  Many of the passengers aboard Titanic pointed to the teak-wood sailing ship that looked for all the world like the past trying to catch the future of shipping in these waters—a sense of sadness filtering into some who watched the merchant ship. She flew the Union Jack as did Titanic. But while Trinity might leave men with a sense of both wonder and longing for the open seas, Titanic left men in wonder at her sheer power, her size, and her speed alone. Titanic promised so much for the future of mankind, while making ships like Trinity obsolete relics of a fast disappearing past.

  No schooner could possibly keep up with the White Star giants; no schooner could hold a tenth of what Titanic held in the way of ocean-going merchandise; no other ship, save the largest of the Cunard Line, could compete with a ship that had not one but three giant piston-operated, motorized propellers in the water.

  By 11:30am, with the second and third class passengers in place, tucked away in the lower decks, came the arrival of the first-class boat-train, a far nicer transport than enjoyed by second and third class passengers. This train had arrived from London at dockside, and from it the first-class passengers were boarded in orderly fashion. Each party escorted to waiting cabins. By noon, Titanic was prepared to cast off.

  From the bridge, the captain gave the order, and using a familiar signal, the great steam whistle, the necessary tug boats were given the go ahead to move the massive ship from the newly built dock, created especially for Olympic and Titanic.

  All appeared in order as the tugs, working like bulldogs, moved the 53,000 tons called Titanic, and soon—perhaps too soon—the tugs had her in the River Test. She would soon be in a smooth downstream passage under her own steam. Cheers from the crowd gathered at the docks, and return cheers from every deck aboard Titanic, filled the air, sending birds screeching into the air. The noise only increased when onlookers and passengers alike saw that Titanic, a ship as large as the tallest of skyscrapers, free of the tugboats, was now operating under its own steam.

  All the jubilation was suddenly cut short, replaced by gasps and then silenced when spectators saw how the water displaced by Titanic's movement parallel to the docks caused all six mooring ropes on a typical-sized ocean liner, belonging to a rival shipping line, to snap and break. This sent the Cunard line’s New York twisting, her stern to swinging wildly toward White Star’s Titanic. Quick orders from Captain Smith and swift action by Wilde at the wheel narrowly averted a collision with New York; in fact, they’d come within a mere four feet of scuttling New York and possibly damaging Titanic before she started her maiden voyage.

  Alastair Ransom and others aboard Trinity thought it certain that Titanic would strike the standard-sized cruise liner near her. For an instant, Ransom imagined Titanic having to be towed back into Belfast for repairs. He pictured Titanic’s long, painful limping voyage back to Belfast. The White Star Line embarrassed again—as they had been with Olympic.

  Alastair then imagined everyone spending this afternoon disembarking with rain checks to board the next White Star ship leaving for their destination—disappointing men like Titanic’s chief operating officer, J. Bruce Ismay, the architect, Thomas Andrews, John J. Astor and family as well as other prominent families, not to mention Major Butt, rumored to be on a secretive mission as an envoy to and from the 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 men.”

  “I know… I know but one dive… one chance to get inside Titanic. Dave, you can’t say it’s not pulling on you, too. If we don’t do it now, we may never get another chance. Others will take over for us… for our failure here.”

  But not all the divers felt the pull so strongly as Swigart or even David. Even before they could get Ford’s still intact body into the biological specimen alongside Alandale’s remains. Some of the divers were muttering among themselves; some looked to be wearing ‘second thoughts’ on their brows. Gambio muttered something about the curse of Titanic. Jens more than anyone seemed about to bolt, having second thoughts about climbing into the submersible where Ford’s body had possibly contaminated the air. At the same time, none of them wanted to be left out; they were all thinking of the riches waiting for them. Both greed and fear ran high, each in a tug of war inside every diver now. No one wanted to die but everyone wanted to complete the mission. Everyone wanted to be able to say, ‘I was among the first to walk the corridors of Titanic in 2012’.

  David followed Kelly into the sub as she took the lead, saying, “If the bodies are contagious, we’re already infected, but I haven’t felt anything, no symptoms of illness.”

  Bowman, a bit tentative, finally joined them inside, suited up like the others, his liquid air pack on his back. Kelly had just whispered in David’s ear, “Whoever the carrier is… he may well be going down with us.”

  Mendenhall climbed aboard, saying nothing to anyone, maintaining his calm and quiet demeanor. Lena came in next saying, “What the hell. You only die once, right?”

  “Got that right,” replied Bowman.

  Steve Jens held back, hesitating at the hatchway. Fiske, directly behind him, bellowed, “In or out, Jens! Either way, outta my way.” He’d been given the green light to join them in the sub.

  Jens shouted to back. “All right, all right” before disappearing into the sub ahead of Fiske.’

  Lou saw Kane waving some paper over his head, and Lou merely waved him off and slammed the hatch closed from inside. Finally, they were now all in; all in the pressure cooker, about to be lowered over the side when Captain Forbes banged hard on the glass and slapped a message in bold magic marker that read: Abort Now!

  Every officer, every diver, and every crewman who could be spared was ordered to the conference room aboard Scorpio, which was standing room only, spilling out into the corridor. TV cameras that had stood idle before now came in from two directions. A deal had been cut—no live feed at this time for total access to the ship and crew—and every item brought up from the deep—later. There was hardly room for these technicians and cameramen in the room; it was, after all, a research and salvage vessel and so the space had been built for small groups of seamen at a time.

  Forbes and Swigart ran the meeting personally, and David was interested to hear what they had to say now that not one but two bodies lay in state in the freezer. Before the meeting began, even as they filed into the room, the tasteless black humor laced jokes ran their course: “A couple of stiff ones would go well right about now” followed by “One vodka neat—no ice, please” on the heels of “Dry martini for me”.

  David managed to get a seat where he could watch Kelly’s every expression from across the room; for now, she looked despondent, a kind of sad hopelessness playing tiddlywinks about her eyes. She continued to be a fascination for him and his fantasies, but his logical side kept lecturing and returning to one question: How do you know it’s not her behind all of it? Behind two killings as well as the sabotage. But it didn’t add up; if she were this maniacal killing machine—had it taken her over, why would she have tried to sabotage the mission? Yet it was the perfect cover for the beast to pretend being a descendent of this young intern Declan Irvin. It seemed now a factual account—Irvin’s journal. Of course, it could just as well be a fictitious account, a fake, the book totally inauthentic. Yet the thing certainly felt authentic down to its odor of
a hundred years, down to its feel and crumbling, discolored with age pages.

  He tempered this with saying, “But nowadays,the damn thing might just as well be the work of a kid with a Mac, time on his hands, and a hell of an imagination.”

  This thing, the so-called carrier… he, she, or it, whatever it was, if it were inhabiting Kelly and not Forbes at all, it was busying itself gaining David’s trust this way, step by step, moment by moment, journal page after journal page—messing with his head, so that he would feel compelled to watch her back for any sort of attack on her-his-or-its person when they were two and a half miles below and inside Titanic—its ultimate goal to collect up and find a new life for its progeny above the surface, aboard Scorpio first? And then?

  Suspicion proved a poison in an imaginary IV-drip, the stuff seeping into his psyche all this time… little by little. Incrementally causing him to question every minute detail, every word, and every tick not just belonging to Kelly but belonging to everyone aboard Scorpio.

  Someone in this room, he thought, is the carrier—the weak one who not only hosts the alien creature but has become its eyes and ears, limbs and heart, one who has become its collaborator rather than fight it like Tuttle, Fiore, and the two miners did, forcing it to find a home elsewhere—someone weaker, someone who might even revel in newfound energies and power. This hardly seemed anyone on board, much less Kelly, but how was one to tell?

  Ingles looked around the crowded room at their leaders, the other divers, the crew, and he realized it could be any one of them. How does a man detect the undetectable, and how does he fight it off—much less kill it once detected? It appeared impossible. Even had he a mechanism for, detecting the creature, even if it was found out, it would appear that once found out it was too late! For the moment a man like Alandale guessed it—guessed something terribly wrong in another human being—that the other was hosting an alien presence, he was snatched, taken over, and killed.