by Michael Howe
“You’re just in time,” said Covington as soon as he saw the naval captain. “We’re far enough north to weather the Peninsula. I’m coming around to the northeast in a few minutes and heading for Ushuaia, though the ship’s going to yaw like the devil with these huge seas on her quarter.”
Mike stared at Covington a moment. In the red light of the bridge the man looked washed out, pasty, exhausted. And he’d undoubtedly look the same even if a tropical sun were shining on him.
Mike just shook his head as he walked over to a window and looked out into the raging darkness. He could see practically nothing—except the huge, gray hills just a moment or two before they slammed into the ship—but he could feel, sense, the storm’s awful fury. Thinking back, this was probably the worst weather he’d ever experienced in his life. The wind was now thundering on them at close to ninety knots, and the seas, which at this latitude had a clear fetch all the way around the world, were pounding in on them from the west, sixty feet high and breaking against and over the port bow with a thundering, ship-shaking boom.
He’d never tried to turn a big ship across the wind in conditions like this. Or any ship, for that matter. The whole situation scared the shit out of him. Hopefully the passengers had little idea of what Covington was about to do. “What choice do you have?”
“None that I can see. You?”
“She’s your ship, Captain.”
“If it was Rounding,” said Covington, changing the subject, “and he did use timers, we may be in luck. If we’d continued on our schedule, we wouldn’t be in our most helpless location for another two or three days. As it is, we just might be in Ushuaia by then.”
“How long do you think this is going to last?”
“It might blow over in three hours, or it might very well last three weeks, even in the summer.”
“How far north do we have to go to get out of it?”
“The weather satellite claims once we get a hundred and fifty miles due north we’ll be basking in fifty-knot winds and twenty-foot seas, but as I’m sure you’ve learned, everything down here is subject to change.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“I’m going to execute the turn in about half an hour. You’ll have to release my stewards from their searching duties to warn the passengers who sleep through my announcement and help those who don’t hold on hard enough.”
“I’ll go take care of it right now.”
“Thank you.”
Boatswain MacNeal forced the door open and stepped out onto the wind-lashed port boat deck, conscious that he was now probably the only person on a weather deck, except maybe a member of the watch on the bridge wings. The deck chairs, the HBIs down in the hold—everything under his control had been stowed and secured against the howling wind and wild seas. But the turn Captain Covington was anticipating would test his most careful preparation to the limit, and he felt a compulsion to check the ten-ton lifeboats just one more time. Without them, if anything else went wrong, they would all most certainly be dead.
Walking carefully on the slippery, rolling deck, he forced his way to boat number two. Hanging on to anything he could find, he checked the gripes—the wire straps that secured the boat into its cradle. All was in order, as it was for the remaining two port boats.
MacNeal then walked back through the superstructure to the more sheltered starboard side. Again, all appeared to be in order. Mentally crossing his fingers, he returned to the shelter of the superstructure, settled into a small public sitting and viewing room and waited.
Aurora’s bow plowed into and over an exceptionally large, nearly invisible wave, driving a sheet of icy spray high into the air and back over the ship. The wave then passed under and the bow pitched down into the trough, making the ship shudder violently and drawing Covington out of the shallow reverie into which he’d slipped. He pounded his gloved hands together to restore circulation as he stepped over to the public-address system.
“Now attention, this is Captain Covington. In a few minutes we will experience very heavy rolls when I turn across the seas and downwind toward our destination at Ushuaia. These rolls will be much more dramatic than we are experiencing now and must not be taken lightly. All hands are to prepare for heavy rolls and secure as much gear as possible. As for you passengers, please secure everything you can and sit or lie down immediately when I pass the word that I’m commencing the turn. Please help the crew secure anything that might break loose and prepare to hang on.”
Wondering how much would really be secured and knowing that it was never enough, the captain then walked out to the windward wing of the bridge, raised his binoculars and started to count waves. A few minutes later, confident that the time had come, he put the rudder far right and backed the starboard engine. Given a hard push by the screaming wind, the bow fell off to the right and the ship started to spin across the gale.
Ray Fuentes was just about to hobble into the Main Dining Room to get some coffee when Captain Covington announced he was beginning the turn across the sixty-foot waves. Grabbing the door frame with both hands—and with most of his weight on his good leg, the one that wasn’t throbbing like hell—he felt the ship’s bow rise as it attacked yet another wave. Instead of continuing up and over the wave, however, Aurora lurched to the right and fell into the trough. He’d expected all that. What he hadn’t expected was the violence of the sudden roll to starboard that sent him shooting into the dining room, dragging his damaged foot, totally out of control. An instant later he found himself lying on top of a very pretty girl in a tangle of several people as crockery of all types flew over him and shattered on the deck and the bulkhead. He immediately recognized the girl as the singer Chrissie Clark. Alex had mentioned that she was aboard. The others in the pile were passengers and one of the stewards.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as a white-hot pain shot up his leg. “Excuse me.”
“You must be one of the navy guys,” remarked Chrissie, looking at his blue coveralls and sidearm.
“Marine Corps, actually, but yes.”
“That was a spectacular entrance.”
“I do my best.” As he spoke, he had to fight back a groan. Somebody else in the pile had just started thrashing around, trying to get up. In the process, the impatient and misguided individual twisted Ray’s already damaged ankle.
“Is the ship going to roll back upright again?” asked Chrissie, her sparkling hazel eyes boring into his own. “Ever?”
“Undoubtedly. They always do.” Except when they don’t, Ray added silently to himself.
“You really think there’s a bomb somewhere? The captain didn’t come right out and say there’s another, but everybody still seems to be looking. And a lot of passengers are afraid there is.”
“It’s very possible.”
The ship paused for a second, as if about to recover, and then continued its alarming roll, tossing a chair into the tangled mass of bodies, bruising Ray and several others.
“Was it that man who raced off in one of the boats this afternoon?” She paused a moment. “That must’ve been you who chased him. You and that tall girl. You look terrible.”
Ray almost said he felt as terrible as he undoubtedly looked, but then he remembered he was a marine and she was a taxpayer.
“We’ve all been under a lot of stress the past day or two.”
There was a crash nearby then a scraping sound and a cry of pain. Only then was he able to escape Chrissie’s eyes and look around. Despite the stewards’ best efforts, another barrage of crockery had launched itself and two more chairs had shot across the deck, cutting terrified passengers down at the knees. And the ship continued what was now one very long, slow roll.
Arthur Covington stood on the port wing of his bridge and hung on to the rail as he stared up at the huge, gray-black mountain of water that seemed certain to roll over both him and his ship. Every muscle in his body was clenched—his jaws, his arms, his guts, his toes. As the ship continued to roll, he could fee
l his feet slipping on the deck.
Turning anything in this sort of weather was a bitch. Turning a middle-sized, underpowered cruise ship was even more difficult. He tore his eyes away from the wave and looked down at the remote controls. The joystick was all the way to starboard. So, therefore, was the rudder. The starboard engine was backing while the port was ahead full. The monster wind had done its job by forcing the bow off to the right, and the rudder and propellers had done their part. Aurora was now across the wind, lying in the trough, parallel to the monstrous mountains on either side. Would she continue to swing, to get her bow downwind? Or had he blown the maneuver? Were they now trapped in the trough, just waiting to broach? To roll their guts out until something finally gave way?
He’d done everything he could and the ship had done everything she could and the wind had done its part, only now that same wind might have locked them into a fatal position. On many ships the superstructure is significantly larger either fore or aft. This added windage at one end makes it possible to use the wind to help turn the ship. In Aurora’s case, the windage varied little from bow to stern. The difference had been enough to blow the bow off the wind, but now all it was doing was driving the ship farther over on her side and pinning her down there.
Once he’d started the turn, there was no turning back. He’d never felt so alone in his life as he did at that moment.
Pete and Penny Evans sat on the couch in their suite, drinks in hand, and waited silently. They could feel the ship’s motion begin to change, and then they were thrown against the back of the couch as the ship lurched. They both had fear in their eyes, although Peter was in far-the-worst condition. As he felt the couch rolling backward and sinking beneath him, he imagined the ship going over completely, trapping them until they drowned. His chest tightened and he suddenly found it almost impossible to breathe.
“Are you all right, Peter?” asked Penny, who had taken his hand and was clutching it.
“I don’t know,” replied Evans as he grimaced and reached for his chest. Then he slumped over.
“Is it your heart?” asked Penny, on her knees now, crawling toward him. Without waiting for a reply she grabbed his legs and pushed them up on the couch, then swung his chest around so he was lying flat. “It’s going to be all right,” she said after putting a small pillow under his head and noting gratefully that his eyes were still open and moving. “Try to breathe, to relax.” She then crawled over to the phone and pressed the emergency button. “This is Mrs. Peter Evans. I’m afraid my husband is having a heart attack. Will you please send somebody as soon as possible?”
“We’ll get somebody there just as soon as we can, Mrs. Evans, but you do understand our situation.”
“Yes, of course. As soon as you are able.”
Six decks below Congressman and Mrs. Evans, Ted crouched on a catwalk in the main engine room and held tightly to a rail. The more the ship rolled, the higher the port engine seemed to climb, until he couldn’t see why it didn’t break loose and crash down on him. He looked around at the men near him. They were all scared. Even Chief Engineer Montalba, normally one of the most self-controlled men he’d ever met, was strapped into a chair in Main Control and looked as if he were praying.
His knees slightly flexed, his sleet-reddened face square into the screaming wind, Arthur Covington continued to stand at Aurora’s controls, alert for the slightest sign of salvation, the slightest hint of something more he could do. He waited, gauging the wind’s direction on his face and feeling the ship’s heart and soul through his hands and feet. She was still pinned on her side but she was fighting, he could feel that. Once he’d done everything he could think of, he allowed himself to think of his late wife, now five years dead from cancer. Then, for a few moments, he thought of nothing.
Another monstrous wave slammed into Aurora’s steeply angled port side, making her shudder. But she didn’t roll any farther. He glanced at the inclinometer. Fifty-five degrees. Another few degrees and something big would break loose or some of the lower windows might shatter, letting in the icy black waters. The wave passed and the ship started to sink into the next trough. But this time there was a corkscrew motion as Aurora started to right herself. The stern sank while the bow crept across the back of the passing wave. Covington glanced at the compass, holding his breath. The stern started to rise while the bow fell slowly into the trough. As the next wave passed under them, the corkscrew motion continued.
Covington waited a momentary eternity, the fate of all those who find themselves in similar situations. He then clapped his hands once in delight and relief when he was certain his ship was continuing to turn, that she had won over the waves. He eased the rudder and signaled for the starboard engine to stop backing and then to go ahead. The ship was already almost back on even keel, although with the waves now slamming against her port quarter, she was yawing and wallowing in an utterly sickening fashion.
Once the ship was settled on her new course, he turned and looked back over the deck. The boats were still there. Nothing major, in fact, appeared to have broken loose. He hurried through the pilothouse to the other wing and found the same, reassuring sight.
The ship had handled the maneuver well, but the ride was not going to be comfortable, he thought. Even after the stabilizers were returned to service. Something more for the passengers to be unhappy about. And the ship must be an utter mess below. Winters and the purser were going to have their hands full. And so were Chambers and his people. He walked back into the pilothouse. “I’ve set the autopilot at zero five three,” he said to both the mate of the watch and the helmsman. “Keep it there for now and maintain this speed.”
“Aye, Captain,” replied the two men, both of whom were still strapped into their chairs, their faces pale.
About an hour before he was scheduled to return to the bilges, and a few minutes before Covington was scheduled to start his turn, Marcello Cagayan had torn himself away from the drama on TV. He had work to do. He returned to his room and lay down for a few minutes to wait for the turn to be completed. He awoke when his body alerted him that he was in the process of tumbling out of his bunk. He grabbed the bunk frame and waited. Once he could feel the turn was complete and the ship settled on her new course, he dragged himself out and stood up. He wanted to have the next act well under way before they started to miss him in the engine room.
Omar’s smart, he thought, but I’m smarter. I have the power now, not Omar.
He reached for the cell phone in his pocket. To make sure it was still there.
He felt the ship yaw and pitch, rolling from side to side as it skittered down the fronts of the huge waves in a sickening motion. It was hard to stand, even for him. Vido had said it was fucking awful cold on deck, which meant that it was really cold, since Vido came from some place high in the mountains where it was very cold. Forewarned, Cagayan grabbed the multilayered thermal undergarment and coveralls the owners had issued to all hands and put them on. He topped them off with a thermal jacket and gloves. Before he put the right glove on, he took out the phone and tapped in four numbers—4444. That was the code that would trigger the two main charges. Just in case something went wrong, all he had to do was press call and the ship would be history. He folded the phone closed and put it back in his pocket.
Cagayan moved quickly out of his quarters and into a short maze of access ladders and passages—the “back staircases” used by the crew to get around, and not generally known to the passengers. Six ladders later he stepped out onto Aurora’s fourth or highest deck, tugging at his insulated parka as he did. He still hadn’t seen a soul, although that would soon change.
Gritting his teeth, he took a few steps aft, the wind threatening to pick him up and blow him over the stern. When he got to the base of the funnel, he pulled out a set of keys and opened a door into the largely hollow structure. After closing the door behind him, he paused again and looked down. He was out of the wind and out of sight and might soon be warm again. He was standing
on one of the blower flats, the little mezzanines built onto the inside of the funnel to provide a space to mount the blowers, which forced fresh air into the main engine room. Running up the center of the funnel were the two diesels’ exhaust risers. The space around him was all in shadow, although he could look down and see the brightly lit engine room almost fifty feet below. Where they would be expecting him in another forty-five minutes.
Cagayan sat next to the blower as the heat and roar of the engines flowed up and past him. Shaking, he opened the front of his jacket and took off his gloves, hoping to let the heat in.
After about ten minutes he zipped his jacket closed and put on his gloves again. Standing, he turned and grabbed the rungs of a ladder welded onto the funnel’s inside. Then he started to climb.
It was a long, tiring, nerve-wracking climb as the ship’s violent motion was multiplied the higher he went. On several occasions it threatened to flip him off the ladder and into the air, through which he would inevitably crash down into the engine room far below.
Beginning to sweat, he paused to catch his breath, hanging on for dear life as he did. He reached into his pants pocket and rubbed the phone.
The phone was his ultimate power, but he now understood it was an impersonal power. True power, to be satisfying, had to be personal. He had to be able to see the fear and awe in their eyes. Just what the army officer had seen in Cagayan’s father’s eyes before he killed him. Shock and awe at its most personal level. It was something Omar had not mentioned, but it had now become as important to Cagayan as the basic mission.
When he reached the top of the ladder, he opened a round hatch through the funnel’s cap and continued to climb. The bitter wind returned, tearing at him, and the hot, acrid diesel stack gas made him gag.
