Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“Kill him? Good God, Aloysius, I would certainly hope to avoid that.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “Really? I should have thought you would be accustomed to it by now.”

Constance stared at him, flushing. “What are you talking about?”

Pendergast smiled, dropped his eyes again. “Constance, forgive me; that was insensitive. No, we won’t kill Blackburn. We’ll find another way to take his precious toy.”

There was a long silence as Pendergast sipped his sherry.

“Did you hear the rumor of the mutiny?” said Constance.

Pendergast didn’t seem to hear.

“Marya just informed me of it. Apparently the staff captain has taken command, and now we’re heading to Newfoundland instead of New York. The ship’s in a panic. They’re instituting a curfew, there’s supposed to be an important announcement coming over the public address system at noon”—she glanced at her watch—“in an hour.”

Pendergast set down the empty glass and rose. “I am somewhat fatigued from my labors. I believe I shall take a rest. Would you see to it that upon rising at three o’clock I have a breakfast of eggs Benedict and Hojicha green tea waiting for me, fresh and hot?”

Without another word, he glided up the stairs to his bedroom. A moment later, his door eased shut behind him and the lock turned with a soft click.

49

LESEUR WAS ONE HOUR INTO THE AFTERNOON WATCH, AND HE stood at the integrated bridge workstation, before the giant array of ECDIS chartplotters and vector radar overlays, tracking the progress of the ship as it cut across the Grand Banks on a course for St. John’s. There had been no sea traffic—merely a few large ships riding out the storm—and progress had been rapid.

Since the change of command the bridge had been eerily silent. Captain Mason seemed subdued by the weight of her new responsibilities. She had not left the bridge since relieving Cutter of command, and it struck him that she would probably remain there until the ship came into port. She had raised the state of emergency to ISPS Code Level Two. Then she’d cleared the bridge of all but essential personnel, leaving only the officer of the watch, helmsman, and a single lookout. LeSeur was surprised at what a good decision that turned out to be: it created an oasis of calm, of focus, that a more heavily manned bridge did not have.

He wondered just how this Article V action was going to play out with Corporate and how it would affect his career. Adversely, no doubt. He consoled himself that he’d had no choice. He had done the right thing and that was what counted. That was the best you could do in life. How others took it was beyond his control.

LeSeur’s experienced eye roved over the big-screen electronics, the Trimble NavTrac and Northstar 941X DGPS, the four different sets of electronic charts, the gyro, radar, speed logs, loran, and depth sounders. The bridge would be hardly recognizable to a naval officer of even ten years before. But on one side, at a navigational table, LeSeur still charted the ship’s course the old-fashioned way, on paper, using a set of fine brass navigation instruments, parallel rulers and dividers given to him by his father. He even occasionally took a sun or star sight to determine position. It was unnecessary, but it gave him a vital connection with the great traditions of his profession.

He glanced at the speed and course readouts. The ship was on autopilot, as usual, and LeSeur had to admit the Britannia was proving to be unusually sea-kindly, despite a thirty-foot beam sea and forty- to fifty-knot gale winds. True, there was a rather unpleasant long- period, corkscrewing roll, but he could only imagine how much worse it would be for a smaller cruise ship. The Britannia was making twenty-two knots, better than expected. They would be in St. John’s in less than twenty hours.

He felt a great relief at the way Mason had quietly taken charge. In her noon announcement to the entire ship over the PA system, she had quietly explained that the commodore had been relieved of duty and that she had taken over. In a calm, reassuring voice she had declared an ISPS Code Level Two state of emergency and explained that they were diverting to the closest port. She had asked passengers for their own safety to spend most of their time quietly in their staterooms. When leaving their cabins for meals, she urged them to travel in groups or pairs.

LeSeur glanced at the ARPA radar. So far, so good. There had been no sign of ice, and what few ships were still on the Banks had been lying to well off their course. He touched the dial of the ECDIS and changed the scale to twenty-four miles. They were closing in on a waypoint, at which the autopilot would execute a course correction that would take them clear of the Carrion Rocks on the leeward side. After that, it was a straight shot into St. John’s Harbour.

Kemper appeared on the bridge.

“How are things on the passenger decks?” LeSeur asked.

“As good as could be expected, sir.” He hesitated. “I’ve reported the change of command to Corporate.”

LeSeur swallowed. “And?”

“A lot of hard blowing, but no official reaction yet. They’ve dispatched a bunch of suits to meet us in St. John’s. Basically, they’re reeling. Their main concern is bad publicity. When the press gets hold of this . . .” His voice trailed off and he shook his head.

A soft chime from the chartplotter announced that the waypoint had been reached. As the autopilot automatically adjusted to the new heading, LeSeur felt the faintest vibration: the new course had slightly changed the ship’s angle to the sea and the rolling had grown worse.

“New bearing two two zero,” LeSeur murmured to the staff captain.

“New bearing acknowledged, two two zero.”

The wind buffeted the bridge windows. All he could see was the ship’s forecastle, half hidden in the mist, and beyond that an endless gray.

Mason turned. “Mr. LeSeur?”

“Yes, Captain?”

She spoke in a low voice. “I’m concerned about Mr. Craik.”

“The chief radio officer? Why?”

“I’m not sure he’s getting with the program. It seems he’s locked himself in the radio room.”

She nodded to a door at the rear of the bridge. LeSeur was surprised: he had rarely seen it closed.

“Craik? I didn’t even know he was on the bridge.”

“I need to make sure that all the deck officers are working as a team,” she went on. “We’ve got a storm, we’ve got over four thousand terrified passengers and crew, and we’ve got a rough time ahead of us when we get to St. John’s. We can’t afford to have any second-guessing or dissention among the deck officers. Not now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need your help. Rather than make a big deal about it, I’d like to have a quiet word with Mr. Craik—just the two of us. I think perhaps he felt intimidated by you and the others into going along.”

“That sounds like a wise approach, sir.”

“The ship’s on autopilot, we’re still four hours from passing the Carrion Rocks. I’d like you to clear the bridge so I can speak to Craik in a nonthreatening environment. I feel it’s especially important that Mr. Kemper absent himself.”

LeSeur hesitated. The standing orders stated that the bridge must be manned by a minimum of two officers.

“I’ll temporarily take the watch,” said Mason. “And Craik could be considered the second bridge officer—so this won’t violate regulations.”

“Yes, sir, but with the storm conditions . . .”

“I understand your reluctance,” Mason said. “I’m asking for just five minutes. I don’t want Mr. Craik feeling he’s being ganged up on. I’m a little worried, frankly, about his emotional stability. Do it quietly and don’t tell anyone why.”