Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

“Small loss,” Josep said, pushing the body with his toe, then pointing his gun at General Stroessner who was unharmed. Stroessner let the empty pistol drop from his fingers and backed slowly away.

It was Major de Laiglesia who had caught the full blast of the flame-thrower — he had been standing just in front of the door when it was kicked open. The Major had tortured his last victim, was now the victim of a torture far worse than anything he had ever inflicted himself. Leandro Diaz looked down at the eyeless, faceless, charred and still living object that was moaning in a continuous, breathless, mewling sound. Then he bent and placed his pistol against the side of the black-charred head. A single, muffled shot blasted out.

Wielgus lay writhing on the floor, both hands pressed to his stomach, oblivious to the fact that Colonel Manfred Hartig lay next to him, sightless eyes staring upward. The handful of survivors of the Polish concentration camps that he had supervised would have enjoyed the sight. There would be no need of a trial for the Colonel.

Karl-Heinz Eitmann was alive, cowering against the wall. He had always been afraid of guns and did not really know how to use one; he had thrown his pistol away when the firing had begun.

This was not true of Klaus who stood, head down, obsessed with bitterness and shame. For over thirty years he had been Doktor Wielgus’s bodyguard — and he had failed him in his hour of need. He could not hold a gun. By reflex he had raised his hands before his face when the flame rolled towards him. His face was scorched a bit, his hair burnt away, nothing important. But his hands were like raw meat, the skin hanging off them in strips. He had tried to hold the gun, to fire, but his fingers would not obey him.

These were the only German survivors. The attackers had suffered as well. Three men dead, Concepcion on the floor, blood flowing from her throat and mouth.

“Where is the doctor?” Josep called out. It was Sergeant Pradera who answered him.

“In the bedroom with the injured Uruguayan.” Pradera levered himself up on an elbow, trying to ignore the waves of pain from his legs, and looked quickly about the room. “All accounted for. No stragglers with the doctor.”

“Diaz, get him,” Josep ordered. Diaz hurried into the bedroom and returned a moment later pushing out the protesting Dr. Llusera, his black bag clutched to his chest.

“That man on the bed, he is injured, concussion, I shouldn’t leave him… my God!” He looked around at the blackened chaos, the dead and wounded, the handful of survivors. “This is awful, awful…. “

“Here! This woman,” Josep ordered.

The doctor knelt beside Concepcion and saw that her eyes were open, looking up at him. “Don’t try to talk,” he said. “You have been shot in the neck.” He felt beneath her head. “Very lucky. Missed the spine. No major blood vessels severed. Lie quietly. I’ll dress the wound, give you something for the pain.”

Running footsteps sounded from the corridor outside and three men burst in through the door. They were dressed in heavy protective clothing with breathing apparatus, and carried fire extinguishers and axes. At the sight of the carnage in the room they stopped dead, staring at the guns that covered them. Josep waved them into the room.

“Make sure that the fires are out,” he ordered. “Do not try to leave this room.” He went to the telephone and picked it up off the floor. It had apparently survived the destruction; he quickly dialled a number. “Put the Captain on. Right… yes, I know about the fire. Shut up and listen. Call whoever is responsible for fire or damage control or whatever it is called. Report that everything is under control. Make him believe it. What do you mean you don’t believe me yourself! Your ship is not at risk. Here, I’ll put one of your own men on.”

He waved over the nearest crewman and left him talking to the irate Captain.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“A handful of passengers stood in the open doorway, dressed in robes for the most part, some of them wearing life jackets.

“Bring them in here,” Josep said, wearily. “We’ll have to find a place to put them.”

Everything was coming apart, ravelling at the edges, there were too few of them to take care of everything. Now they would have to make prisoners of all the passengers who were close enough to be aware of what was happening.

“Excuse me, is your name Mr. Joseph?” the sailor said. He held out the telephone. “The Captain. For you. He says that it is very urgent that he talks to you now.”

Josep listened, started to protest, then was silent. In the end all he said was, “I’ll be right there,” then hung up. He looked around and pointed to Diaz.

“You’ll have to handle this,” he said. “I’ll try to send you someone. Get them all into this room and the bedroom, close the door. Tear out the telephones. I’ll be back here as soon as I can. You, come with me,” he said, signalling to Uzi.

“What is it?” Uzi asked, when they were in the corridor.

“Captain says he can’t be responsible if his officers there disobey orders. Something about the safety of the ship. I said we would get up there.”

There was nothing more to be said as they made their way forward. The scene on the bridge was not good. Only the frightened sailor at the ship’s wheel remained in position. The others were huddled at one end with their Tupamaro guard aiming his sub-machine gun at them. The Third Officer called to them as they came through the door.

“Do something. This cretin speaks no English and I can’t explain to him about the danger.”

“What danger? Come forward. Just you alone.”

The ship’s officer hurried to the chart table followed by Joseph and Uzi. He pointed at the Pacific chart in place there, and explained excitedly. As he talked a wide grin began to spread over Uzi’s face until he laughed out loud and interrupted the man.

“That’s fine,” he said, “very good. It will be taken care of, have no fear.” Then he turned to the puzzled Josep and tapped the chart with his forefinger.

“See it?” he said. “See that? It’s the answer to all of our problems! The solution we were looking for. We are going to win this thing yet and come out of it alive!”

When the Peruvian Coast Guard vessel had first arrived, the QE2 had been floating alone in an empty ocean. Now, twenty-four hours later, the situation had changed incredibly. The Huascaran was still there, her commander, Captain Borras, had kept his ship on station so there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind as to which man had been first aboard. Not only for the glory but because of maritime law. Since there had been no one on the ship when he arrived it might be called derelict, in which case the first to board her could claim possession. The Captain doubted very much if he would ever be able to lay claim to the giant ship riding close to him, but it was a pleasant thought to have. In any case he was staying on station and he made sure that one of the Huascaran’s sailors was aboard the QE2 at all times.

There were others aboard as well. The United States carrier Kitty Hawk stood by less than a quarter of a mile distant and there was a constant traffic in motor launches and helicopters between the two ships.

And, of course, there were sightseers. A Dutch tanker in ballast lay rocking in the long swells a mile distant, and already two seagoing yachts had arrived to add to the growing crowd of visitors. Other ships, freighters and one cruise liner, had left their normal coastal courses to stop by for a look. In some ways the entire affair had certain aspects of a seagoing carnival. But this was the high seas, far outside any coastal waters, so there was no law to prevent the sightseers from crowding round to gawk.