Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

There was activity now aboard the carrier. Her engines had been turning over just enough to keep her in position and headed bow first towards the advancing waves. Now her turbines speeded up and a sudden plume of exhaust shot high into the air from her funnel. The massive form swung around into the wind and picked up speed. A few minutes later a speck on the horizon grew into a dark blue jet, a long-range two-place attack bomber. It roared out of the sky, tilted up on one wing and whistled off towards the horizon again, before turning back with landing flaps extended and its hook down ready to catch the arresting gear.

Commodore Frith looked out at the sea rushing by below, at. the seemingly tiny deck of the carrier approaching ahead and, not for the first time in his life, was glad he had served on deep water ships and had stayed out of the air as much as possible. The last day had more than made up for any flying that he might have missed up until now.

It had started in Southampton with the long expected, almost fearfully awaited phone call. The Queen had been found. He was Commodore of the line and Cunard had expected him to leave at once. It was his duty, of course. A single small bag, already packed, passport in his wallet, and he was waiting by the terminal in Portsmouth Airport when the company jet touched down. They were no sooner airborne than they were in the circle for landing at Heathrow. He never saw the terminal because Concorde had been held for him, sitting on the runway for over an hour. The jet taxied close and he hurried across the intervening distance. Her Majesty’s Immigration Officers were a little more outgoing than usual and one of them was actually standing at the foot of the stairs as he came up, stamp and inkpad ready. With the official approval for departure in his passport, he had been rushed aboard and was still strapping into his seat when the door had closed and the trip begun.

Admittedly Concorde was the pride of British Airlines, for all the millions of pounds it lost every year, but he was profoundly unimpressed. He always had the feeling that every passenger who crossed the ocean by air was one less for Cunard to transport in a civilized and safe manner, so had no love for the national airline because of this. All the sirloin, champagne and caviar could not make up for the fact that the seats were jammed in, the ceiling low, the plane noisy and vibrating. He kept his observations to himself and, after a treble whisky, managed to doze off, only to discover that they were already landing in Washington, D.C. Commodore Frith stayed aboard, tapping his fingers with irritation, until they took off again for Dallas-Fort Worth.

That was where the American Navy took over. There was no messing about with passports or rubber stamps here, just an incredibly long black Cadillac, with an equally black driver, who saluted and opened the door for him, put his foot on the accelerator and hurled the tons of steel around the airport service roads to the waiting Navy jet. The pilot was leaning against the wing, chewing gum, and extended a clipboard as Commodore Frith climbed out of the car.

“Hi, Cap,” he said, in a very American and highly indifferent-to-authority way. ‘Tm your driver, Chuck. If you would just sign this release form, here and here, so your relatives won’t sue the Navy if I plough you into the drink, then we can get going. That’s it, and initial here, just like you were renting a car from Hertz. Really great.”

This ritual completed, Chuck had handed over the clipboard to the driver of the limousine, then helped the Commodore aboard. Chuck had fastened his parachute for him, showed him how to strap in, then boarded the plane himself.

It had been a fast but boring trip and, in the end, the Commodore had dozed off, only to waken with a start as they upended on one wing and the loud growl of mechanisms sounded from the guts of the aircraft below him.

The landing was almost anticlimatic. One moment the carrier was visible directly ahead of them — the next they slammed into the deck, he was tossed forward against the restraining harness — and someone was opening the hatch next to his head.

After all this, the short hop in the helicopter was over almost as soon as it began. They lifted up, buzzed sideways to fly into the wind, then settled down gently on the rear deck of the QE2. The Commodore was pleased to see that all the deck chairs, which usually covered this area, had been carefully cleared away.

An American sailor opened the door of the ‘copter and the young lieutenant standing behind him saluted, then took the Commodore’s bag as he climbed down.

“Welcome aboard, sir. They’re waiting for you on the bridge.”

Commodore Frith suddenly discovered that he had nothing to say and merely nodded at the officer. He felt choked by conflicting emotions; immensely relieved to have the QE2 recovered intact, still puzzled over the mystery of her appearance — and burning with anger over the entire affair. That this should have happened to a Cunard ship, and the Queen of all of them. While underneath everything he felt a dense knot of fear over the survival of her passengers and crew. Two thousand six hundred people do not vanish into thin air. Unless, horror of unspoken, unthinkable horrors. They were dead. The ocean had acted as a mass grave many times before.

These thoughts tore at him as he rapidly paced the length of the sports deck, the lieutenant trailing after him, then up to the bridge. There were a number of American Navy officers and ratings there who turned as he came in. A gray-haired officer, of his own height and build, came towards him, his hand extended.

“Glad that you are here, Commodore. I’m Admiral Mydland in charge of this operation.”

“My pleasure, Admiral. Thank you for all that you and the Navy have done. Can you give me a report of the situation as you found it?”

“Of course. Let’s go over here. I’ve sent for some coffee. Why don’t you sit in the Captain’s chair….”

“It is not mine to occupy,” the Commodore said stiffly. This awkward moment was glossed over by the arrival of the coffee. The Admiral poured out two cups.

“Let me tell you exactly what we found, then you can make an inspection of the ship,” he said. “The main engines were shut down but the standby was running to generate the electricity. All instruments on the bridge were functional. The radios are operational. There are no entries in the log or course-markings on the chart since the time of the last radio contact, four days ago. These are what you might call the normal aspects of the ship____”

“Other than the fact that there was no one aboard?”

“Yes, besides that. But we did find that all of the lifeboats and launches are gone and there are signs of a rapid abandonment of the ship.”

“What sort of evidence?”

“Lifejacket lockers open and the jackets missing. Things strewn about the passenger cabins, suitcases left open, things like that. And the cabin lifejackets all seem to be missing as well. Then there are some inexplicable things, and others a little out of the ordinary.”

“What sort of things, Admiral?”

“Circular burned areas on the carpets — on every one of the passenger decks. As though there had been intense localized fires on these spots.”

“You aren’t going to start talking about flying saucers now, are you? They are always leaving mysterious burned patches.”

“No, I am not,” the Admiral said, keeping his irritation under rein. “I am simply describing what we found out of the ordinary. In addition to the burned areas there was the somewhat unusual setup in one of the first class dining rooms where all of the tables were laid for dinner, but just a few tables had been used and never cleared. I don’t know what it means. I am simply reporting what we have discovered. The worst things were the evidence of destruction, what must have been fighting of some kind.”