Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“Captain Mason?” LeSeur finally asked.

“Yes, Mr. LeSeur?” The staff captain turned to him, the hard lines of her face dimly illuminated in the low light.

“Forgive me for raising the subject again, but have there been any more discussions about diverting to St. John’s?”

A very long silence followed this question, stretching to almost a minute. Finally, Mason answered. “No official discussions, Mr. LeSeur.”

“Would it be forward of me, sir, to ask why not?”

LeSeur could see Mason thinking carefully how to formulate her response. “The commodore has already expressed his firm orders on that point,” she said at last.

“But what if this missing girl . . . is another victim?”

“Commodore Cutter shows no evidence of changing his mind.”

LeSeur felt a swell of anger. “Excuse me for speaking frankly, Captain, but we’ve got a brutal murderer roaming on board this ship. If this Pendergast is to be believed, the man’s killed three people already. The passengers are freaking out, half of them are hiding in their cabins, and the rest are getting drunk in the lounges and casinos. And now it seems we’ve got some kind of mass hysteria building, talk of an apparition roaming the ship. Our security director has as much as admitted the situation is beyond his control. Under the circumstances, don’t you think we should seriously consider diversion?”

“Diverting the ship would take us deeper into the storm.”

“I know that. But I’d rather weather a nor’easter than deal with an out-of-control mob—of passengers

and

crew.”

“What you and I think is irrelevant,” said Mason coldly.

Despite her tone, LeSeur could see this last point of his had struck home. Ship’s officers were acutely aware of just how relatively small their numbers were. Along with fire at sea, passenger unrest—or worse than unrest—was always a great fear.

“You’re the staff captain,” he pressed. “The second in command. You’re in the best position to influence him. We can’t go on like this—you’ve

got

to persuade him to divert.”

Mason turned to him, her eyes dead tired. “Mr. LeSeur, don’t you realize? Nobody can change Commodore Cutter’s mind.

It’s that simple.

”

LeSeur stared at her, breathing hard. It was incredible, an unbelievable situation. He peered down the wing and into the main bridge. Cutter was still pacing about, immersed in his own private world, his face an unreadable mask. LeSeur was reminded of Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny , locked in denial while the ship descended inexorably into chaos. “Sir, if there’s another killing . . .” His voice trailed off.

Mason said, “Mr. LeSeur, if there’s another killing—God forbid—we will revisit this issue.”

“

Revisit

the issue? In all frankness, sir, what’s the point of more talk? If there’s another—”

“I’m not alluding to more idle talk. I’m alluding to an Article V action.”

LeSeur stared. Article V dealt with the removal of a captain on the high seas for dereliction of duty.

“You aren’t suggesting—?”

“That will be all, Mr. LeSeur.”

LeSeur watched Mason turn and walk back to the center of the bridge, pausing to confer with the navigator at the con as coolly as if nothing had happened.

Article V.

Mason had guts. If it came down to that, so be it. This was quickly becoming a struggle—not just for safe operation of the

Britannia

, but for survival itself.

40

KEMPER WALKED OUT OF THE CENTRAL COMPUTER AND DATA processing complex on Deck B, headed for the nearest elevator bank. It had taken him the better part of the night to arrange the false alarm. It had been a bitch resetting the ship’s safety management systems without leaving a trail, and it had been especially difficult to disable the sprinkler system. It wasn’t so long ago, he reflected grimly, that the only electronic systems on an ocean liner had been radar and communications. Now it seemed that the whole damn ship had been turned into a giant, networked system. It was like some massive floating computer.

The elevator arrived and Kemper entered, pressing the button for Deck 9. It was close to madness to set off a false alarm in the middle of an already nervous ship, with a master who was in denial at best, or deranged at worst, in a storm in the mid-atlantic. If this ever came out, he’d not only lose his job, he’d probably rot in jail. He wondered how Pendergast had managed to talk him into it.

And then he thought of Corporate, and remembered why.

The elevator doors opened onto Deck 9. He stepped out and checked his watch: nine-fifty. Clasping his hands behind his back, clamping a fresh smile onto his face, he strolled down the starboard corridor, nodding and smiling at the passengers returning from breakfast. Deck 9 was one of the ritziest on the ship, and he hoped to God the sprinklers wouldn’t go off after all his careful work. That would be an expensive disaster for North Star, given that some of the staterooms and suites had been decorated by the passengers themselves, with costly objets d’art, paintings, and sculpture.

Not the least of which was Blackburn’s own triplex.

He casually checked his watch again. Nine fifty-eight. Hentoff should be at the far end of the Deck 9 corridor with a security guard, ready to spring into action.

Eeeeeeeee!

The fire alarm ripped like a screeching crow down the elegant corridor, followed by a recorded voice in a plummy English accent:

“Attention: this is a fire alarm. All passengers must evacuate the area immediately. Ship’s personnel to their muster stations. Please follow the instructions posted on the inside stateroom doors or the orders of fire safety officers. Attention: this is a fire alarm. All passengers . . .”

Up and down the corridor, doors were flung open. People crowded out, some dressed, others in nightgowns or T-shirts. It was remarkable, Kemper thought, how quickly they reacted; it was almost as if they’d all been waiting for something.

“What’s happening?” somebody asked. “What is it?”

“Fire?” came another voice, breathless, close to panic. “Where?” “Folks!” cried Kemper, hustling down the hall. “There is no need for alarm! Please leave your staterooms and move forward! Gather in the forward lounge! There is nothing to worry about, no reason to panic, everybody please head forward . . .”

“. . .

Attention: this is a fire alarm . . .”

A large woman in a billowing nightgown came charging out of a stateroom and clutched at him with hammy arms. “Fire? Oh my God,

where

?”

“It’s all right, ma’am. Please proceed to the forward lounge. Everything’s going to be fine.”

More people crowded around him. “Where do we go? Where’s the fire?”

“Move forward to the end of the corridor and gather in the lounge!” Kemper forced his way past. Nobody had yet emerged from Blackburn’s triplex. He saw Hentoff and the security guard hustling down the hall, pushing past people.

“Pepys! My Pepys!” A woman, jiggling against the flow of the crowd, careened off Kemper and disappeared back into her suite. The guard began to stop her but Kemper shook his head. The woman popped out a moment later with a dog.

“Pepys! Thank goodness!”

Kemper glanced at the casino manager. “The Penshurst Triplex,” he murmured. “We have to make sure it’s empty.”

Hentoff took position on one side of the door while the security guard pounded on the gleaming wood. “Fire evacuation! Everyone get out!”

Nothing. Hentoff glanced to Kemper, who nodded. The guard whipped out a master key card and swiped it. The door popped open and the two went inside.