Leviathan Rising

by Jonathan Green

  "And you're suggesting we take the Ahab, McCormack?" Carcharodon said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Captain," Carcharodon went on, "as I understand it, the Ahab - never mind the Nemo - isn't designed to operate at these sorts of depths for prolonged periods."

  "It's not far. They should be good for a short journey."

  The anxious muttering of the VIPs resumed.

  "You don't sound very certain about this plan of yours," Lady Denning said, speaking up over the crowd.

  At her words, all fell silent again, needling stares fixing the poor beleaguered captain and several now eyeing Ulysses with some measure of suspicion.

  "Lady Denning, the only thing I am certain of at the moment is that if we stay here we will die - all of us. The Neptune is flooding, the Bridge, we have to assume, is compromised, and before long the only place the Neptune will be going is down to the bottom of the Marianas Trench, and there isn't a hope of us being rescued before then and I can't even be sure whether anyone knows we're lost out here yet."

  "So, how do you plan on getting us to the sub-dock?" Carcharodon asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  "Mr Quicksilver and I have devised a way, with the assistance of the AI," McCormack explained. "The quickest route is still going to prove a little challenging but if we keep our heads I see no reason why we shouldn't reach the dock in plenty of time."

  Captain McCormack looked around the room, taking in all of the anxious guests and his steeled crew members, and when he next spoke, something of his old, familiar calm authority had returned. "So, this is the plan. My crew and I are going to lead you from here to the Grand Atrium. According to Neptune, the elevators are still working so from there we're going to travel down to Deck 15 and make our way through to the sub-dock. Once there we'll board the submersibles, exit through the pressure gate beneath the Neptune and make the short journey to the underwater facility.

  "Are there any questions?"

  There were probably as many as there were anxious pairs of eyes looking back at him, but for the time being no one chose to voice them. They just wanted to get out of this mess as quickly, and as safely, as possible.

  "Mr Quicksilver, is there anything you would like to add?"

  Ulysses took a moment to observe each one of the frightened faces arrayed before him. They returned his gaze, some more intensely than others, and none more so than Miss Birkin who now looked as white as the starched linen tablecloth.

  "Just to keep your heads, and, if you do, I can see no reason why we shouldn't all get out of this alive and, to top it all, with quite some tales to tell all our grandchildren in years to come."

  He directed these last words at the nervous couple of John and Constance, and even managed a broad grin for them. They returned fragile smiles of their own, hands locked together in a white-knuckled embrace.

  "Chances are we're going to see some rather unpleasant things, passengers less fortunate than ourselves" - someone harrumphed at this, at Ulysses' suggestion that they were fortunate, he supposed - "and it's likely we may encounter power shorts, flooding and possibly fires as well. But, like I say, if everyone keeps calm and doesn't do anything rash, we'll get you through this."

  "Now then, ladies and gentlemen." McCormack spoke with commanding confidence now, "my staff will lead the way, so if you would like to follow them, we will make our way to the Grand Atrium."

  The VIP party left the safe haven of the dining room, a sorry raggle-taggle group, shuffling forlornly after Captain McCormack, the purser and the other officer whom the captain addressed as Mr Wates. Miss Celeste still insisted on being responsible for her employer, stubbornly pushing his wheelchair along the corridors towards the atrium. Schafer, Constance and Miss Birkin had formed their own little group, their mutual support centred around the precious flower that was the young Miss Pennyroyal, who had certainly never experienced anything like this before in her life. But then which of them had, Ulysses wondered, apart from himself and Nimrod, of course? For them this, their latest adventure, was merely one more in a long line of hair's-breadth escapes and dramatic getaways. Perhaps that was what gave him the optimism that they could all get out of this with their skins intact, despite the shock of what had happened to Glenda, that had numbed him to the core.

  But as well as the already unpredictable nature of their situation there were still two other variables that they couldn't plan for. Firstly there was whatever it was that was out there, waiting for them in the chill abyssal depths, that had been bold enough, and capable enough, to attack the Neptune and get the better of it. Secondly there was the matter of the murderer who had so viciously taken Glenda's life. With no evidence to the contrary, there was always the possibility that the killer was with them even now, one of the party of sixteen making its way from the room, searching for a way off the stricken ship.

  As they left, Ulysses took another look at the dark and desolate view of the seabed that lay beyond the steel and glass viewing bubble.

  "Thought you saw something, sir?" Nimrod asked, pausing beside him.

  "No," Ulysses mused, sucking in his bottom lip, "no, not this time."

  "But it's still out there, isn't it?"

  "Whatever it was that attacked the Neptune? Oh yes, I rather think it is."

  "Now what?" demanded Professor Crichton, taking another swig from the hip flask clenched in his jittery hands.

  Holding onto an ornate pillar for support, Ulysses Quicksilver peered out over the precipitous edge of the balcony into the void of the Grand Atrium. In the fitful flickering light of the remaining chandelier he watched the seething waters below, brows knitted in consternation.

  Along with the Promenade Deck and the Vaudeville Theatre, the Grand Atrium of the Neptune had been one of the architectural and design highlights of the new super sub-liner. It divided the ship neatly in half from the top down to Deck 10, ten storeys of open space, the two halves of the ship connected at various points via dramatic, glass-bottomed, suspended walkways, so that the atrium could be just as easily crossed on any level as at the bottom where one could marvel at the wonderfully engineered fountains, their splashing waters turned to glittering diamonds by the light of the vast chandeliers suspended from the glass and steel dome of its roof. They filled the gallery with magnificent cut-glass light, each one of them looking like a glittering star plucked from the velvet cloth of heaven itself to be suspended here.

  Two of these huge chandeliers now lay shattered and broken amidst the wreckage of the atrium still five decks below, licked by fires burning on top of the oily waters. The remaining chandelier sparked and swung from its loosened mountings, adding epileptic lightning flashes to the ruddy glow of the emergency lights in this part of the ship. By the fitful illumination Ulysses could make out broken bodies bobbing about facedown amongst the wreckage, moved constantly by the seawater filling the bottom of the gallery.

  The atrium had obviously come off more badly in the attack than some parts of the ship. There was no way of knowing whether the hull breach had been caused by one of the falling chandeliers - although Ulysses doubted it - or whether water coming into the ship elsewhere through the ruptured superstructure had found its way to this place. Perhaps it was overspill from the condemned Steerage decks.

  The presence of the water also made Ulysses consider the state of the lower levels where the sub-dock was housed. It was possible that the bulkheads that divided up the interior space of the Neptune could keep flooded areas separate, and their way through may still be accessible, but it made him realise how pressing their mission was.

  Opposite them, across the divide, stood the showy elevator doors of the Grand Atrium. The walkway they should have been able to cross to reach the lifts was gone, the only evidence of it ever having been there, a twisted steel beam. What was left of the footbridge lay crushed beneath one of the fallen chandeliers.

  "How are we going to get across now?" Constance Pennyroyal asked nervously.

  "We could
double back, take the stairs to another level where we can cross safely," Dexter Sylvester suggested.

  "No can do," Ulysses said, before any of Captain McCormack's men could speak. "Didn't you feel the heat as we went past? No, that way is out as fire's already taken hold down there. We cross here or we don't cross at all."

  "But how?" Lady Denning said, her tone more angry than fearful.

  Ulysses peered down at the churning, burning waters again and reassessed the distances involved in crossing the atrium.

  "I have an idea," he said.

  "Come on then, man? Let's hear it," Major Horsley boomed encouragingly.

  "See that balustrade over there?" Ulysses said, pointing at the sidelong ladder-like structure of the balcony opposite that had been half broken off by a falling crystal light-fitting "I reckon that if we could pull that free and slide it over we'd have something long enough and strong enough to let everyone clamber across."

  Appalled faces looked back at him from among the party, none more so than Miss Whilomena Birkin's.

  "One at a time mind," he added.

  "And how exactly are you going to achieve this dramatic feat?" Carcharodon enquired pointedly.

  "Well, if it were up to me, I would dive down there," he said pointing at the ever-rising waters beneath them, "shin up that pole," his finger now followed the broken support column of one of the downed chandeliers, "up to there and then it would only be a short scramble to the balcony. I'd need a hand of course."

  "Very well, that's agreed then," Carcharodon declared, needlessly taking charge of the situation once somebody else had worked out what had to be done. "Any volunteers?"

  "I'll go," came one bold voice amidst the embarrassed silence of the majority.

  "No, John, you can't!" Constance declared, horrified.

  "My darling, I must," Schafer said, taking her hands in his again. "For your sake. For our sake, for the sake of everyone here."

  "But, John," she struggled, unchecked tears running down her cheeks.

  "I'll be alright. I was House swimming champion back in my school days. Top diving board and everything. I haven't told you that before, have I?"

  "Jolly good show, what?" the Major said happily, clapping his hands together loudly in satisfaction. "Knew you wouldn't let us down, old boy," he said, nudging Ulysses in the ribs. "Jackets off then, lads, eh?"

  "Jackets off indeed, Major," Ulysses agreed, arching a sarcastic eyebrow.

  "May I be of service, sir?" Nimrod asked, taking a step forward.

  "You just be ready to help at this end, Nimrod, old chap," his employer said with a wry smile. "Keep this lot in check and all that."

  "Very good, sir."

  "So, young Schafer," Ulysses said, approaching the edge of the precipice. "Ready to show this lot what you're made of?"

  "After you, Quicksilver," he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves, ready for action, receiving one last passionate kiss on the lips from his betrothed before handing her his jacket and pushing her gently back towards her anxious aunt.

  "Right you are then. Here goes nothing."

  Feet together, Ulysses straightened, arms outstretched above his head, pointing at the dark glass ceiling as if in an attitude of prayer. For a moment he stood there, poised ready to dive. Then, with one graceful bound, he launched himself off the edge and head first into the turgid waters below.

  The speed and directness of his dive meant he passed straight through the broiling surface fires and into the dousing embrace of the water beneath - a brief rush of heat following by the shock of bone-numbing cold. He heard the muffled splash and rush of bubbles of another body entering the water after him. Glancing back he saw John Schafer kicking his way towards him, lit by the orange flames dancing on the surge above their heads.

  Together, they made their way towards the great bulk of the half-submerged chandelier, feeling the dragging limbs of drowned men and women bumping against them as they swam. Ulysses tried to ignore the bobbing corpses, tried to convince himself that he wasn't swimming through their watery grave.

  And then they were hauling themselves beyond the reach of the rising water again, clambering up the glass-crystal boulder that was the chandelier, careful where they put their hands amidst the broken body of the shattered glass ornament. Only a few slight cuts later, with one another's support, they were negotiating the pole and scrambling the last few feet up to the balcony, opposite the spot from where they had taken the plunge only moments before.

  Cheers and shouts of encouragement rang in their ears, audible over the crackle of shorting electrical cables and the bubbling and seething water, given voice by their fellow survivors.

  "Now to work," Ulysses said, slicking back his wet hair with a hand and clearing his eyes of water, as Schafer wrung as much of the water as he could from his sodden clothes, before they set to work freeing the broken balustrade.

  With the woodwork liberated from its splintered mountings, taking the weight between them, supporting it at one end, the two men pushed the ladder-like structure across the void until it scraped against the other side of the atrium space. Eager hands pulled it up and secured it there with whatever they could find to hand. It was just long enough, Ulysses noted.

  First to brave the perilous crossing was Mr Wates, who scrambled across in no time, the balcony-bridge flexing dramatically beneath him as he did so, although it still held. Once across he helped Ulysses and Schafer maintain a strong hold on their end of the makeshift crossing.

  Bathed in electrical spark-flash and the ruddy glow of the emergency lighting, the rest of the party took it in turns to make their way across, cautiously, one at a time.

  Captain Connor 'Mac' McCormack watched through intensely narrowed eyes as those men and women in his charge braved the perilous crossing of the flooding atrium, observing each one with the same intensity, determined that not one of them would be lost to the deep or the disaster continuing to unfold around them, giving direction where necessary as well as maintaining an order to their evacuation so that all might make it in the end.

  So it came as no little annoyance to him when what had at first been simply an anxious tapping on his arm became an insistent tugging on his sleeve. "What is it Miss Birkin?" he almost snapped, turning on her, his calm demeanour evaporating in the face of her relentless persistence.

  The old woman looked terrible. He understood the stress that all of the VIPs were under. This was, after all, not what they had expected on a round-the-world cruise aboard the most advanced sub-liner to ever cross the Seven Seas. But he was under no little strain himself. However, ever since they had gathered in the dining room together, Miss Birkin's despairing disposition had worsened considerably more than that of the other passengers.

  "I need to have a private word with you, Captain."

  "Miss Birkin, can't it wait? In case you hadn't noticed, this is hardly the time or the place."

  ''But it has to be now, Captain." The ageing spinster was becoming more and more agitated, still tugging at his sleeve. "You have to listen to what I have to tell you."

  "Miss Birkin, please. Let us get everyone across and then you can have my ear."

  "It won't wait a moment longer!"

  "What won't, Miss Birkin?" McCormack suddenly found himself raising his voice more than he had intended. Others still waiting on the nearside of the gulf were turning to see what all the fuss was about.

  "Because I believe the murderer is still with us!"

  McCormack was abruptly aware of the uncomfortable silence that had fallen around them.

  "And what makes you think that?" he said in a sudden, sharp whisper, seizing her arm tightly in his hand.

  "Because I saw him!"

  "That's quite enough, Miss Birkin. I would be grateful if you kept your voice down. You've got your private word."

  Lady Denning was next to cross and, as ever, she proved to be a stoical, no nonsense old bird. Ulysses respected her for that. But he was also curious as to what was happening
on the other side of the gulf, the dull scratching at the base of his skull testament to the fact that there was something awry. Miss Birkin appeared to be in quite some state of agitation before it was even her turn to cross the wobbling bridge and, before he knew it, Captain McCormack was ushering her away into the shadows back the way they had just come.

  Whatever the problem had been, McCormack seemed to have been able to resolve it just as quickly as only a minute or too later he returned with Miss Birkin firmly in hand. And it might have been his imagination but, as Ulysses helped Professor Crichton up from his crawl across the chasm, he thought he felt that unmistakable sense of someone's eyes on him, and looked up to see the captain watching him.

  There were moments of doubt, panic and sheer vertiginous terror that required a great deal of patient encouragement and time, along with no small number of stopped breaths and missed heartbeats. Miss Birkin seemed particularly uncomfortable about crossing - he would liked to have believed that that was what all the fuss had been about - but somehow the old coot made it safely to the other side.

  The most awkward crossing was that involving Jonah Carcharodon. Left almost 'til last, he was ever-so-carefully manhandled across by Captain McCormack himself and the purser, whilst the sprightly lithe and limber Thor Haugland made sure the magnate's chair made it over too.

  And then there was only Dexter Sylvester left to cross, the ambitious young businessman insisting that the shipping magnate cross safely before him. Such a feat as traversing the void should have been no trouble for a gentleman of his obvious athleticism and his enthusiasm for the more adventurous pastimes, such as rock-climbing and abseiling. And it wouldn't have been, had it not been for the last chandelier.

  As the immense hydrostatic pressures continued to work on the compromised structure of the liner, nerve-jangling metallic groaning and heaving sounds echoing throughout the vessel, something gave. The only warning any of them had that anything was wrong was when the erratic lighting failed. Ulysses, with his curiously heightened sixth sense was the only one to even look up and register a reaction to that one small fact, and so was granted a grandstand view.