The Wheel of Darkness

by Douglas Preston

  With a shock, she realized he had no more regard for her than for anyone else.

  “Wait—” she began.

  A scream from beyond the door cut her off. The door flew open and Marya came backing in. Beyond, Constance caught a glimpse of something gray and unevenly textured moving toward them.

  Where did that smoke come from? Is the ship on fire?

  Pendergast dropped the sack and stared, taking a step backward. Constance was surprised to see a look of shock, even fear, on his face.

  It blocked the door. Marya screamed again, the thing enveloping her, muffling her screams.

  As the thing came through the door, it was backlit for a moment by a lamp in the entryway, and with a sense of growing unreality Constance saw a strange, roiling presence deep within the smoke, with two bloodshot eyes, a third one on its forehead—a demonic creature jerking and moving and heaving itself along as if crippled . . . or perhaps dancing . . .

  Marya screamed a third time and fell to the floor with a crash of breaking glass, her eyes rolling and jittering in her head, convulsing. The thing was now past her, filling the salon with a damp chill and the stench of rotting fungus, backing Pendergast into a corner—and then it was on him, in him, swallowing him, and he issued a muffled cry of such raw terror, such agonizing despair, that it froze Constance to the marrow.

  69

  LESEUR STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROWDED AUX BRIDGE, staring at the S-band radar image of the approaching ship. It loomed ever larger, a phosphorescent shape expanding dead ahead on the radar screen. The Doppler readout indicated a combined closing speed of thirty-seven knots.

  “Two thousand five hundred yards and closing,” said the second officer. LeSeur made a quick mental calculation: two minutes to contact.

  He glanced at the more sensitive X-band, but it was awash with sea return and rain scatter. Quietly and quickly, he’d briefed the rest of the officers on his plan. He knew it was at least possible Mason had heard everything he’d said to the captain of the Grenfell: there was no failsafe way to block communications on the main bridge. But either way, once the Grenfell made its move, the Britannia would be hard pressed to respond.

  Chief Engineer Halsey came up to his side. “I have the estimates you asked for.” He spoke in a low voice so the others wouldn’t hear.

  So it’s that bad, thought LeSeur. He withdrew Halsey to one side.

  “These figures,” said Halsey, “are based on a direct collision with the center of the shoal, which is what we anticipate.”

  “Tell me quickly.”

  “Given the force of that impact, we estimate the death rate at thirty to fifty percent—with almost all the rest seriously injured: broken limbs, contusions, concussions.”

  “Understood.”

  “With its draft of thirty-three feet, the Britannia will make initial contact with a small shoal some distance from the main portion of the reef. By the time the ship is stopped by the main rocks, it will already be ripped open from stem to stern. All the watertight compartments and bulkheads will be breached. Estimated sinking time is less than three minutes.”

  LeSeur swallowed. “Is there a chance it might hang up on the rocks?”

  “There’s a steep dropoff. The stern of the ship will pull it off and down—fast.”

  “Dear Jesus.”

  “Given the extent of injury and death, and the speed with which the Britannia will sink, there won’t be time to institute any procedures for abandoning ship. That means nobody aboard at the time of collision has any chance of survival. That includes”—he hesitated, glancing around—“personnel remaining on the auxiliary bridge.”

  “Fifteen hundred yards and closing,” said the second officer, his eyes fixed on the radar. Sweat was streaming down his face. The aux bridge had gone silent, everyone staring at the looming green blob on the radar scope.

  LeSeur had debated whether to issue a general order warning passengers and crew to brace themselves, but he had decided against it. For one thing, using the PA would tip their hand to Mason. But more importantly, if the Grenfell did the job right, the force of the lateral impact across the bow would be mostly absorbed by the enormous mass of the Britannia. It would be a jolt that might startle the passengers, or at worst jar a few off their feet. But he had to take the risk.

  “Twelve hundred yards.”

  70

  ROGER MAYLES HEARD RUNNING FOOTSTEPS AND PRESSED HIMSELF into a cul-de-sac on Deck 9. A gaggle of passengers ran by shouting, gesticulating, on God knows what senseless, hysterical mission. In one sweaty hand he clutched a magnetic key that he kneaded and rubbed incessantly, like a worry-stone. With the other, he removed a flask and took a long slug of single-malt whisky—eighteen-year-old Macallan—and slipped it back into his pocket. His eye was already beginning to swell from the blow he’d received during a tussle with a hysterical passenger back in Oscar’s: it felt like someone was pumping air into it, making it tighter and tighter. Blood flecked his white shirt and dinner jacket from a bloody nose that had yet to stop leaking. He must look an absolute fright.

  He checked his watch. Thirty minutes to impact, if the information he’d received was correct: and he had every reason to believe it was. He checked again to see if the hall was still clear, then staggered out of the cul-de-sac. He had to avoid passengers at all costs. It was Lord of the Flies time on board the Britannia, every man for himself, and nobody descended into brutish behavior quicker than a bunch of rich assholes.

  He made his way carefully down the Deck 9 corridor. Although there was nobody in sight, the distant screams, yells, pleas, and agonized sobbing were omnipresent. He couldn’t believe that the ship’s officers and security had virtually disappeared, leaving hospitality staff like himself at the mercy of these rampaging passengers. He had heard nothing, received no instructions. It was clear there was no plan to deal with a disaster of this scale. The ship was absolute bedlam, with no information to be had, the wildest rumors spreading like a brush fire in high wind.

  Mayles slipped down the hall, the key clutched in his palm. It was his ticket out of this madhouse and he was going to spend it right now. He wasn’t going to end up being one of forty-three hundred people ground to mincemeat when the ship ripped its guts open on the Grand Banks’ worst shoal. The lucky ones who survived the impact would live another twenty minutes in the forty-five-degree water before succumbing to hypothermia.

  That was one party he wasn’t going to attend, thank you very much.

  He took another slug of the whisky and slipped through a door marked by a red exit sign. He ran down a metal staircase, his short legs churning, and paused two landings below to peer into the corridor leading to the half deck where the port lifeboats were housed. While the corridor was again empty, the shouts of frantic, angry passengers were louder on this deck. He couldn’t fathom why they hadn’t launched the boats. He had been part of the lifeboat drills and had ridden on a couple of freefall launches. Those boats were damn near indestructible, dropping into the water while you were safely buckled into a cushioned seat, the ride no rougher than a Disneyland roller-coaster.

  As he came around the corner toward the outside half deck, the noise of the crowd increased. Wouldn’t you know it: a bunch of passengers had gathered at the locked lifeboat hatches, pounding and shouting to get in.

  There was only one way to the port lifeboats and it was through the crowd. No doubt more frantic passengers had assembled around the starboard lifeboats as well. He advanced, still clutching the key. Maybe no one would recognize him.

  “Hey! It’s the cruise director!”

  “The cruise director! Hey, you! Mayles!”

  The crowd surged toward him. A drunken man, his face afire, grabbed Mayles by the sleeve. “What the hell’s happening? Why aren’t we launching the lifeboats?” He gave his arm a jerk. “Huh? Why not?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do!” Mayles cried, his voice high and tense, trying to pull his arm back. “They haven’t told me
anything!”

  “Bullshit! He’s going to the lifeboats—just like the others did!”

  He was seized by another grasping hand and pulled sideways. He heard the cloth of his uniform tear. “Let me through!” Mayles shrilled, struggling forward. “I tell you, I don’t know anything!”

  “The hell you don’t!”

  “We want the lifeboats! You aren’t going to lock us out this time!”

  The crowd panicked around him, tugging at him like children fighting over a doll. With a loud rending noise, his sleeve came away from his shirt.

  “Let go!” he pleaded.

  “You bastards aren’t going to leave us to sink!”

  “They already launched the lifeboats, that’s why there’s no crew to be seen!”

  “Is that true, you asshole?”

  “I’ll let you in,” Mayles cried, terrified, holding up the key, “if you’ll just leave me alone!”

  The crowd paused, digesting this. Then: “He said he’d let us in!”

  “You heard him! Let us in!”

  The crowd pushed him forward, suddenly expectant, calmer. With a trembling hand Mayles stuck the key in the lock, threw the door open, jumped though, then spun and tried to quickly shut it behind him. It was a futile effort. The crowd poured through, knocking him aside.

  He scrambled to his feet. The roar of the sea and the bellowing of the wind hit him full in the face. Great patches of intermittent fog scudded over the waves, but in the gaps Mayles could see black, angry, foaming ocean. Masses of spray swept across the inside deck, immediately soaking him to the skin. He spied Liu and Crowley standing by the launch control panel, along with a man he recognized as a banking executive, staring at the crowd in disbelief. Emily Dahlberg, the meatpacking heiress, was beside them. The knot of passengers rushed toward the first available boat, and Liu and Crowley quickly moved to stop them, along with the banker. The air grew thick with shouting and screaming, and the horrifying sound of fists impacting flesh. Crowley’s radio went skipping and spinning across the deck and out of sight.

  Mayles hung back. He knew the drill. He knew how to use these lifeboats, he knew the onboard launch sequence, and he would be damned if he was going to share one with a bunch of crazy passengers. Fighting between the mob and Liu’s group was intensifying, and the passengers seemed to have forgotten about him in their eagerness to get into the nearest boat. He could get away before they even knew what was happening.

  Liu’s face was bleeding freely from half a dozen cuts. “Get word to the auxiliary bridge!” he cried to Dahlberg before the angry mob overwhelmed him.

  Mayles walked past the violence, toward the far end. As he did so, he casually pressed a couple of buttons on the launch control panel. He’d get in a boat, launch it, and be safe and away. The GPIRB would go off and he’d be picked up by nightfall.

  He reached the farthest boat, keyed open the control panel with a trembling hand, and began activating the settings. He watched the crowd at the other end, fighting with the banker and stamping on the now motionless forms of Liu and Crowley. A head turned toward him. Another.

  “Hey! He’s going to launch one! The son of a bitch!”

  “Wait!”

  He saw a group of passengers coming toward him.

  Mayles jabbed in the rest of the settings and the stern boarding hatch swung open on hydraulic hinges. He rushed for it but the crowd was there before him. He was seized, dragged back.

  “Scumbag!”

  “There’s enough room for all of us!” he shrilled. “Let go, you morons! One at a time!”

  “You last!” An old, wiry geezer with superhuman strength belted him aside and disappeared into the boat, followed by a surging, screaming, bloody mob. Mayles tried to follow but was seized and dragged back.

  “Bastard!”

  He slipped on the wet deck, fell, and was kicked into the deck rail. Grasping it for support, he pulled himself to his feet. They were not going to keep him out. They were not going to take his boat. He grabbed a man crowding in front of him, slung him down, slipped again; the man rose and charged him, and they struggled in a tight embrace, staggering against the rail. Mayles braced himself with his foot, stepping on the rail to gain leverage, while the crowd surged and fought to get through the narrow hatch.

  “You need me!” Mayles cried, struggling. “I know how to operate it!”

  He pushed his assailant back and made another lunge for the hatch, but those inside the boat were now fighting to close the door.

  “I know how to operate it!” he screamed, clawing over the backs of those trying to keep the door open.

  And then it happened—with the spastic, abominable acceleration of a nightmare. To his horror he saw the wheel turn, sealing shut the hatch. He grabbed at the wheel, trying to turn it back; there was a clunk as the release hooks opened—and then the lifeboat shot down the ramp, jerking Mayles and half a dozen others forward. He tumbled down the greased metal rails with them, out of control, unable to stop, and—very abruptly—suddenly found himself in a free fall toward the roiling black ocean, somersaulting in slow motion, head over heels.

  The last thing he saw before he struck the water was another ship, blowing out of the sea-mist dead ahead of the Britannia, coming at them on a collision course.

  71

  LESEUR STARED OUT THE FORWARD WINDOWS OF THE AUXILIARY bridge. As the wind had increased the rain had lessened, and now the fog was breaking up, allowing occasional views ahead across the storm-tossed seas. He stared so hard he wondered if he was seeing things.

  But suddenly there it was: the Grenfell, emerging from a pocket of mist, bulbous bows pounding the seas. It was coming straight at them.

  As the Grenfell appeared, there was a collective intake of breath from the aux bridge.

  “Eight hundred yards.”

  The Grenfell made her move. A sudden boiling of white water along her starboard aft hull marked the reversal of the starboard screw; simultaneously, a jet of white water near the port bow signaled the engagement of the bow thrusters. The red snout of the Grenfell began to swing to starboard as the two ships closed in on each other, the giant Britannia moving much faster than the Canadian vessel.

  “Brace yourselves!” LeSeur cried, grabbing the edge of the navigational table.

  The maneuver of the Grenfell was almost immediately answered by a roar deep in the belly of the Britannia. Mason had taken the ship off autopilot and was reacting—alarmingly fast. The ship began to vibrate with the rumble of an earthquake, and the deck began to tilt.

  “She’s retracting the stabilizers!” LeSeur cried, staring at the control board in disbelief. “And—Jesus—she’s rotated the aft pods ninety degrees to starboard!”

  “She can’t do that!” the chief engineer yelled. “She’ll rip the pods right off the hull!”

  LeSeur scanned the engine readouts, desperate to understand what Mason was trying to do. “She’s turning the Britannia broadside . . . deliberately . . . so the Grenfell will T-bone us,” he said. A horrifying, vivid split-second image formed in his mind: the Britannia coming about, offering her vulnerable midsection to the ice-hardened Grenfell. But it wouldn’t be a straight T-bone; the Britannia would not have time to come around that far. It would be even worse than that. The Grenfell would strike her at a forty-five-degree angle, cutting diagonally through the main block of staterooms and public spaces. It would be a massacre, a slaughter, a butchery.

  It was instantly clear to him that Mason had thought through this countermove with great care. It would be as effective as crashing the ship into the Carrion Rocks. Opportunist that she was, the staff captain had seized her chance when she saw it.

  “Grenfell!” LeSeur cried, breaking radio silence, “back your second screw! Reverse the bow thrusters! She’s turning into you!”

  “Roger that,” came the extraordinarily calm voice of the captain.

  The Grenfell responded immediately, water churning up all around its hull. The ship seemed to hes
itate as its bows slowed their ponderous swing and her forward motion decreased.

  Underneath them, the screaming, grinding shudder grew as Mason goosed the rotating aft screws to full, 43,000 kilowatts of power deployed at a ninety-degree angle to the ship’s forward motion. An insane maneuver. Without the stabilizers, and aided by a beam sea, the Britannia yawed as it heeled over even farther: five degrees, ten degrees, fifteen degrees from the vertical, far beyond anything envisioned by her engineers in their worst nightmares. The navigational instruments, coffee mugs, and other loose objects on the aux bridge went sliding and crashing to the floor, the men gripping whatever they could get their hands on to keep from following.

  “The crazy bitch is putting the deck underwater!” Halsey cried, his feet slipping out from under him.

  The vibration increased to a roar as the port side of the liner pressed down into the ocean, the lower main deck pushing below the waterline. The seas mounted, battering the superstructure, rising to the lowest port staterooms and balconies. Faintly, LeSeur could hear sounds of popping glass, the rumble of water rushing into the passenger decks, the dull noises of things crashing and tumbling about. He could only imagine the terror and chaos among the passengers as they and the contents of their staterooms and everything else on the ship tumbled to port.

  The entire bridge shook with the violent strain on the engines, the windows rattling, the very frame of the ship groaning in protest. Beyond the forecastle the Grenfell loomed, rapidly approaching; she continued yawing heavily to port, but LeSeur could see that it was too late. The Britannia, with its astonishing maneuverability, had turned quartering to her, and the patrol ship was going to strike them amidships—2,500 tons meeting 165,000 tons at a combined speed of forty-five miles per hour. She would cut the Britannia diagonally like a pike through a marlin.

  He began to pray.

  72