Robert Walker - Titanic 2012

Forbes took Kane aside and calmly said, “Look, shit happens; you know that better than anyone, Warren. I’m sorry, truly, but none of this could have been avoided.”

“All of us are a sorry lot, Juris! All of us are damned sorry sons-a-bitches. Especially you and Swigart—not informing me of murders aboard Scorpio when they occurred! What the hell were you two thinking? God, there’ll be inquiries, possibly a senate investigation, most certainly a forensic inquest. We can hire the best forensic psychiatrist in the business. Maybe head things off, get some answers before we all get crucified in the press.”

“What we do, gentlemen, is to arm ourselves with the truth,” said Dr. Entebbe, who, overhearing the rancor had stepped into the control room. “We have ample evidence of the parasitic organism at work—given the condition of the bodies kept on ice. We also have this.” He held out Declan Irvin’s journal, which Forbes had carelessly left in the control room. “It’s a hell of a story but one which may convince you, Mr. Kane, and you, Dr. Forbes, that Titanic must be left alone and undisturbed forever more.”

“What’s this?” asked Kane, taking the journal from Entebbe’s outstretched hand.

“Read it… makes for a compelling argument.”

“Perhaps after the grieving is done, the dead are buried, and what we’ve botched is buried we should leave Titanic to rest in peace,” said Forbes, nerves shot.

“For now, we’ve got our investors to deal with,” said Kane, Craig Powers now back of him with a microphone and a cameraman, asking him for an interview. Kane whispered to Forbes, “I suppose we can explain what happened in time… maybe share this book with somebody… See if we can fathom what that lunatic was going on about, eh, Juris?”

“You really must read the journal before you make any rash decisions,” Entebbe warned.

“Dr. Entebbe is it?” asked Kane, not waiting for an answer. “I’ll do what is necessary.”

“Captain, you too… you need to read the journal, sir,” Entebbe insisted.

Forbes reached for the journal and Kane handed it to him. He held Declan Irvin’s journal up to the light and it was bathed in the sun of a new day.

A shudder went through Titanic , an unusual creaking, followed by odd sounds that didn’t belong out here on the ocean. Just after a bell was rung from the crow’s nest, Declan Irvin looked up at the man in there, a young fellow Murdoch had hand-picked; Declan recalled his name—Frederick Fleet. He was placed on duty tonight expressly at Murdoch’s discretion. Frederick Fleet, who, aside from ringing the alarm three times in rapid succession to signal danger ahead, had lost his cap in his excitement to get on the call phone. Declan watched the hat float down toward him, and catching it, he imagined the best part of Fleet’s job was the occasional opportunity to call the bridge. But this time it was a dire shout to Officer Will Murdoch.

Murdoch had stoically and dejectedly waited for just this news from Fleet: “Iceberg, sir, dead ahead! A mountain of it come outta nowhere! Thought it night sky, but there’re no stars in it!”

Ransom, Thomas, and Declan had all made their way up to the forecastle and boat deck after having had no luck in locating the monster. Old Farley rested his aching peg leg on a bench, Varmint curled at his one foot, exhausted. Lightoller, too, sensing something terribly wrong had rushed to the boat deck as well, just in time to see the mountain of ice coming at them.

He saw and heard Fleet shouting to Lightoller, “Dead ahead, sir! Ice!”

“And so it begins sadly enough,” muttered Lightoller. “It appears your final solution is to be our only course, Constable.”

In the pilot house, Murdoch hesitated, wanting to follow Captain Smith’s orders, wanting to do his duty but second guessing his captain and himself, but then he grew determined to do exactly as his captain had ordered.

He rammed the engine room telegraph handle to full stop, knowing that at their present speed or 21knots, they could not stop before hitting the iceberg. Staring across at Quartermaster Hitchens at the wheel, he ordered, “Hard-a-starboard, now, Mr. Hitchens! Now!”

Hitchens needed no second telling as he’d already assessed the problem and had ripped the wheel to starboard. Murdoch then ordered, “Full-throttle astern, Hitchens! Astern, full-throttle!”

But it was already too late.

The iceberg was already atop them, towering over the port side like a curious colossus. The hard to starboard order kept them from hitting the berg head on just as Captain Smith had ordered, allowing the wall of ice and the spur beneath the waves to claw at the massive port side bow, just as planned, allowing the iceberg to grind away at her, wrenching open a gash, badly wounding Titanic .

A small avalanche of snow and chunks of ice rained down over Ransom and the men with him. Ice rained down and pounded the well deck, creating a sound like a death rattle that reverberated about the ship.

No one aboard knew the extent of the damage, but Chief Engineer William Bell down below knew it was not good as he searched from inside to assess the damage. He was soon shaken to learn that below the waterline a bulging, knobby protrusion indicated buckling and a loss of rivets, a tear—in fact a great gash.

Then it began, a ripping metal sound, and Bell helplessly watched as the wall he stared at broke open; on and on, the water continued into compartment after compartment, until it touched on six in total extending from the ship’s nose. His mind screamed within his skull to run to the nearest stairwell and to climb and climb until he was at the topmost decks, and he did.

Reports of damage raced through wires to the bridge, and Captain Smith was awakened by Wilde on orders from Murdoch. Ismay and Andrews immediately showed up at the well deck and soon rushed to the bridge and conferred with the officers and Captain Smith.

Ransom watched from afar as Smith and Andrews began rushing for the lift, boarded, and went down to inspect the damage first hand.

“You okay, Declan?” Ransom asked on seeing the look on the young man’s face.

“Okay? Gawd blind me, no! This thing’s beat us, Alastair… beat us well and truly.”

“Not at its damnable egg sacs go down with the ship—”

“Along with the rest of us,” moaned Thomas.

Alastair stood with legs firmly apart, “Men, Captain Smith will order Lightoller and Murdoch to tell any crewmen manning lifeboats to remain close to the ship so as to not disturb the passengers any more than already stirred up. When this monster sinks, and it will, it will draw a shaft of tons of water in its wake that will ram it to the bottom and take anything and everything within twenty or thirty feet down with it.”

“You’re right of course. Perhaps then we will’ve won, as long as this thing has no chance of survival.”

Thomas squeezed the back of his neck. “Time for victory drinks, I should think. A lot of good spirits and bonded whiskey is going to be lost tonight.”

“Now you’re talking.” Ransom pointed the way. “We’ve done all we can, my friends.”

A small group of passengers were laughing and having a snowball fight on the well deck where pack ice had rained down from the towering iceberg. At the same time, below in the First Class Saloon, the band played a haunting melody, a love-gone-wrong song. A crooner could be heard, but they could only make out the mournful tune and not the words.

“Knowing what we know,” said Declan, “that sounds like a dirge.”

“I saw a card game going on in the First Class Smoking Room,” said Ransom. “Think I’d like to bet a fortune.” He laughed loudly, drawing attention. “Hell, perhaps I’ll put up every cent in the purser’s safe, eh-what?”