Гарри Гаррисон: The QE2 Is Missing

“The life jackets, Captain, they’re all gone,” the sailor said, pointing at the empty lockers.

“Obviously,” Captain Borras said, heading towards the stairway. He wanted to go to the bridge; the solution to this unnerving mystery might be there. He climbed the stairs, then pushed open the doorway leading to the boat deck and stepped through it.

Face to face with the blank-eyed goggled man dressed in thick-padded clothing.

“Dios!” he gasped, fumbling for his revolver. The man drew back, waving his hand before him.

“Not the shooter, for Christ’s sake!” he said. “This is the U.S. Navy!”

Even as the man spoke the Captain was aware of engine sounds from above. The helicopter, of course. He rested his hand on his belt, as though that was what he had meant to do all along.

“Captain Borras, Peruvian Coast Guard.”

“Chief Nicolas. We got the message about finding the Queen. I just winched aboard. I was heading for the bridge.”

“As was I, Chief. Shall we go there now?”

“On the way. Have you seen anyone?”

“No. No one at all. But the life jackets are missing.”

“Lifeboats, too. That’s all I could see.”

They walked the great length of the boat deck in silence, then up the companionway to the bridge deck. Captain Borras hesitated for a moment with his hand on the door — then threw it open.

“Deserted,” Chief Nicolas said, so quietly his words could barely be heard. “Underway at sea, crew and passengers aboard. It’s impossible…. “

Captain Borras could only nod in agreement. Impossible, yes. But it had happened. The lights were all turned on, as were the instruments. That meant that at least standby power was being generated. The log — that’s what he must see!

He hurried to it, looked at it, at the last entry.

“It’s for June thirteenth,” he said.

“The day she vanished,” Nicolas said. “And look here, at the chart.”

There was evidence here as well. A ruled course with a neatly pencilled notation beside it. Position as of midnight, 13 June. Just at the time the last radio message had been received.

“What the hell happened here?”

Chief Nicolas almost shouted the words, shouted with puzzlement and fear. “This can’t happen. I mean not today, with radio and satellites to look at the sea traffic and everything. This is no sailing ship like the goddamn Marie Celeste. This is the world’s biggest liner with a couple of thousand passengers and crew aboard. They don’t just vanish into thin air…. “

“Capitano! Ven* aqui.. . /”

As the connecting door burst open Captain Borras realized that the sailor, Basilio, had not been with them when they had entered the bridge. But he was here now, gasping, his face white with shock. Or was it fear? Waving wordlessly down the passageway.

“He has found something,” the Captain called out. “Come with me.”

They had to hurry to follow the man. Down the companionway to the deck below, to stare uncomprehendingly at a black circle burnt into the carpet. Why — how? But the sailor was calling to them urgently. They followed him, aware now of the acrid smell of smoke still heavy on the air. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

This was the signal deck where the luxury suites were located. The door to the first one was open and they stopped in front of it. Staring in.

A disaster. It was burned, destroyed, consumed. Fire had eaten away the carpets so that the charred decking showed, had burned the furniture and even charred the ceiling black. The walls were blackened and blistered — and punched full of ragged holes. The automatic extinguishers had been tripped and had sprayed water over everything, turning it into a blackened soggy mess.

“What happened — what the hell happened to this ship?”

Chief Nicolas shouted the words aloud. Shouted the question without an answer.

What had happened to the QE2?

Some Months Earlier

There was a raw wind blowing in from the Solent, moist Atlantic air that drove the thick banks of cloud before it. Although it was mid-afternoon it was as dark as evening, so that the burst of lightning lit up the wet streets and drab buildings of Southampton like a monstrous flashbulb. Instants after the lightning, the crash and roll of thunder burst down upon the city as well, echoing away with an angry muttering rumble. It was as though the lightning had pierced the sky, for the rain started then, a continuous downpour that hammered onto the already wet streets, sending quick runnels of water along the pavement.

Rafael Viar held tightly to the brim of his cap as he made his way across Town Quay, trying to avoid the deepest puddles, hurrying ahead of a heavy lorry on its way to the docks. His shoulders were wet where the rain had soaked through the thin raincoat and he could feel the water squelch in his shoes with every step. This was no day to go sightseeing in England.

It was also no day to stay aboard the ship. Because the S.S. Polar Star was a seagoing slum. A piece of rusty filth that disgusted him when he so much as thought about it. The freighter was Liberian registered and captained by a Greek pederast. The First Officer and the Chief Engineer were alcoholics who spent most of their time locked into the cabin with their cases of cheap gin.

With this sort of leadership, the underpaid crew did the minimum amount of work with the maximum amount of complaining. Since Rafael worked in the kitchen he received most of the insults. He couldn’t blame them, the food was terrible, but he still did not enjoy it. Now that they were in port he braved the unbelievable English weather to escape for a while from the stench and dirt of the kitchen. He knew that he carried the smell of it with him on his clothes, so there was no real escape. But he still had to leave, if only for a few hours. Even though there was no decent wine in this harsh country, and he really did not like the beer. Yet he was no longer aboard the Polar Star. That was enough for him.

There was a large green square ahead of him now, with shops and buildings on the far side. One of them was a cafe with lights glowing beckoningly through the misted windows. Good. A hot cup of tea would be very much in order. Perhaps some food, the famous English bacon and egg. He waited for a gap in the heavy, one-way traffic, then hurried across, stepping up onto the pavement in front of a large office building. There were steps leading up to the entrance where a man sheltered from the driving rain, a well-dressed man in a heavy coat and black hat. Rafael was facing in his direction when lightning crashed across the sky again. Rafael could see his face clearly, no more than two meters away.

As the thunder rumbled and rolled, Rafael fell against the stone wall of the building, clutching to it, pressing his face to the rough wet surface.

That face! He knew that face — how he knew it. But not here, certainly not in Southampton. Far across the Atlantic in a warmer, Latin country. Could it really be him?

Rafael turned slowly, still leaning against the building for support. The man remained in the doorway, looking out at the road, ignorant of the sailor nearby.

There could be no doubt. That profile, too familiar by far. The beak of a nose with the filthy little hairline moustache below. It was him.

Rafael started forward just as the man moved. He walked quickly in order to stay dry, just the short distance down the steps and into the open black door of the waiting limousine. The door slammed shut even as Rafael stumbled towards it. He looked in, impotently, through the rain-speckled glass. Staring at Major Jose de Laiglesia sitting in warm comfort and looking at a brochure of some kind, a red and yellow folder.