Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

“It’s hard to decide which is worse,” the Second Mate said. “The weather or the passengers.”

“Not for me to say, sir.” After nearly forty years at sea the helmsman still sounded as Cockney as the day he had boarded his first ship. “I never see them at all.”

“Lucky man. Occasionally there is a young one you can chat up over dinner, stare down the cleavage and all that in the classic shipboard romance manner. But usually they’re old, repulsive, boring and American.”

“Good lot, the Yanks. Sailed with them during the war. Yank destroyer pulled me out of the drink after a torpedoing.”

“Heaven preserve me! I cast no aspersions on our noble allies. In fact, they are probably the healthiest people in the world, for they seem to live forever and save their money, then go for a cruise on this ship.”

The wheel clicked three times as the helmsman brought the ship back on course. The heavy seas kept pounding against her starboard side and it took skill to steer a good course without overcorrecting. The helmsman was the best. He could feel the waves as they swept down upon the ship, and many times he turned into the large ones to keep her bow from dropping off. The waves roared in out of the darkness, burst into foam and vanished again. It was a job that he knew how to do. Though it would have been a lot easier if the twit of an officer would shut up. Bored, that’s all. Watch—

keeping these days, even in the middle of a gale like this, was mostly a matter of watching electronic readouts.

The Second Mate was indeed bored. In reality he liked chatting up the birds, and even the old folks from time to time. Behind him the door opened and he was glad of the welcome interruption. Unless it was the Captain looking in on his charge. He turned and gaped at the man in the rubber ape mask standing close behind him, at the other two men walking quickly across the bridge.

“You there, stop! You can’t come in here…. “

Bright light and pain mixed together, sudden and confusing. He had no memory of falling but he was sitting on the deck holding his face with one hand. When he pulled his hand away he saw that it was sticky with blood.

“Stand up, you,” the stranger said, waggling a pistol barrel under his nose. He must have been struck with it. He stood and saw that all the men on watch were grouped together, arms raised.

“Very good,” one of the attackers said. “Now just stand that way.” His English was good, but he had a pronounced accent. Sounded Spanish, maybe Cuban. What on earth were armed Cubans doing — hijacking the ship? It sounded impossible, but it was happening. He looked at the phone on the bulkhead out of the corners of his eyes and wondered if he could reach it. He had to warn the Captain.

“Are you out of your mind, walking in here like that?” Captain Rapley had jerked awake as his cabin light came on, in a foul humor, looking at his steward standing beside the bed, gaping and apparently shivering.

“What’s going on here? Speak up man…. “

Then the Captain saw the man who stood behind the steward and held a submachine gun pressed hard against his back. A man in cheap civilian clothes wearing a Frankenstein mask.

“Get up and get dressed,” the man said. “Quickly.”

“Plenty of traffic tonight,” the third radio operator said, watching the hammering of the telex. “You’d think with the stock market closed for the weekend that the passengers’ brokers would take a rest.”

The clacking machine had a soporific effect. He nodded, then pulled his head up with a jerk. He almost yearned for the bad old days again, when you worked the bug for hours on end, then transcribed code. Hard work but fun in a way. Now, with the communications satellites, cables and phone calls were just bounced down to them through a computer and transcribed automatically. Over the sound of the machine he heard a thudding sound and what sounded like a small groan.

“Not falling asleep on the job,” he said, turning. And stopping.

The other operator was lying on the deck with a masked man bent over him. Another man stood beside him pointing a wicked looking machine pistol of some kind at his stomach.

“Well, I’ll be God-damned,” the third radio operator said and slowly raised his hands over his head.

“The bridge, the captain’s quarters and the radio room are all secured,” Josep said. “So we won’t need you and Jorge as reserves. Take out the cashier’s office.”

Concepcion had been waiting by the telephone in the alcove under stairway G for twenty long minutes. Since there was just a single night clerk in the cashier’s office it had been decided to save this target for last; Concepcion and another Tupamaro had stood by at the phone in case there was an emergency and they were needed. But everything had gone smoothly.

“That is good,” she said. “Jorge and I will take care of that other matter now.”

“Will you need more aid?”

“Two to one. The odds are very good.” She hung up and signalled Jorge, who rose hesitantly from the chair and bent to pick up the violin case. The dramamine had his seasickness under control but he still felt less than human.

They climbed the stairs in silence and stopped outside the cashier’s office. The corridor was empty. Everything had been meticulously planned and they had carried out this kind of operation many times before. Nothing more need be said. Jorge opened the violin case and took out the two submachine guns and dropped the case on the floor. They faced each other as they flicked off the safeties and pumped the slides to put a cartridge in each chamber. When this had been done Jorge pulled a rubber vampire mask from his pocket and slipped it on. Concepcion seized the door handle and nodded. Jorge raised his gun.

“Now,” she said and threw the door open.

Jorge went in at a rush, shouting as he did.

“Hands up you! In the air!”

What happened then happened fast. The man behind the desk was white haired with great flowing silver mustachios. He was reading a magazine and he looked up as Jorge charged in at him levelling the sub-machine gun. In addition to the magazine he had a pistol in the open drawer close to his hand.

It happened so quickly that Jorge never knew what hit him. The barrel of a pistol appeared beneath the magazine and fired once, the slug hitting him square in the heart. He kept on going, face first, and was dead before he hit the deck.

Concepcion had no time to remember the order against shooting and only her own reflexes saved her life. She had entered the office an instant after Jorge, so that deadly gun muzzle had to swing back to cover her. In that fraction of a second she clamped down her own trigger and put a two-second burst of fire into the man.

He went over and back down and she rushed over and had to kick the gun away from his scrabbling fingers. Then she stamped on his hand. He made no response other than flopping over onto his back and glaring up at her. The burst of bullets had climbed across his body and torn up the bulkhead behind him. Two of the bullets had hit him. One in the upper chest and the other in his midriff. Blood seeped into his clothing but he ignored it just as he ignored his crushed hand.

“I don’t know what bloody stupid game you’re playing at,” he growled. “But you’re not getting away with it.”

Concepcion kept the gun pointed down at him as she pulled the phone towards her and quickly dialled a number.

“Yes?” Josep said.

“Cashier’s office secured. One man, a fat fool, he resisted. Jorge is dead. I had to shoot this one.”

“Is he dead too?”

“No. Wounded. Badly I hope. Should I finish him off?”

“Not yet. Watch him. Lock the door. I’ll send help.”