Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

Captain Ernie Bush had been with Western Airlines for a long time — and had been flying for a good number of years before that. He clearly remembered B-29’s and C-47’s, crop dusting and barnstorming after the war, then the commercial airlines and Super Connies and the first jets. And now the pride of the pack, the 747. This was a plane he loved to fly. When Western had first considered buying these birds, he had pushed as hard as he dared to back the idea. He had taken his own holiday time and money to visit the plant where they were being built, to talk to the engineers and designers, and to go up in one of them. Things had worked out just as he had hoped and now he was Captain and pilot of one of these incredible aircraft and he could think of nothing in this world — or the next — that he would rather be doing with his life.

They would be taking off in a few hours. He had put his flight bag aboard, admired the great, empty, cool depths of the plane, and was now going to post his flight plan. The Met reports had been good. The Pacific storms of the last week had blown themselves out and he looked forward to a happy and uneventful flight.

The first hint of trouble came when he was called into the Flight Controller’s office. He stood there in the doorway, a tall and solid man with grizzled hair, fists half clenched, though he was not aware of it, ready to tackle anything.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong, Captain. Please come in. I don’t know if you gentlemen have met. Captain Bush, Western Airlines, this is Commander Gimelli, USN.”

“My pleasure, Captain,” Gimelli said, waving him to a chair on the other side of the conference table. Bush’s suspicions grew. He had never had much love for the Navy, having been in the Air Force, and was particularly unentranced by sawed-off gyrene brass with New York accents.

“I’ve been looking at your flight plan,” Gimelli said, “and I wonder if you would possibly consider some changes in it?”

“I see no reason to,” Bush said coldly.

Gimelli looked up at him through his bushy dark brows. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have phrased it so bluntly. Do you know what I am doing here?”

“No.” Said in a tone of voice that practically spelled out the unspoken next words — nor do I care.

“I’m area coordinator for the QE2 search, working with overseas flights…. ”

“They’ve found the ship, so you’re out of a job. If you don’t need me any more I’ll just get moving.”

“Captain Bush, are you naturally an ornery son of a bitch or just playing at it?” Gimelli’s voice cracked out sharply and Bush jumped to his feet, his face red with anger.

“Now just what the hell do you mean!”

“I mean exactly what I said. Don’t you know that the ship was found — but that the crew and passengers are still missing?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” Bush dropped back into his chair. “I’ve been out of touch.” He certainly had been — at a motel in Encinatas in Baja, California, with a stewardess, an old friend. He had heard a short radio announcement in Spanish and had not thought of the matter since. He never paid much attention to the news in any case.

“Then let me fill you in. For the past four days one of the largest air and sea searches ever mounted has been in progress. For very good reason, since the world’s largest liner vanished without a trace. The QE2 has been found, but she is empty of all life. A couple of thousand people, gone, and signs of shooting and violence aboard the ship. So the search is going on for all the crew and passengers who were aboard when she left Acapulco. Here, look at this chart, this is the area being searched. We are particularly interested in all ships in this area or just outside of it. We are asking for reports from all planes and ships that might be of help. When I saw your flight plan I thought that you could really be of great help to us.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Very kind of you to offer. I must first tell you that I have cleared this matter with your Company, who approve the suggested changes, even though it means an expenditure of a few thousand more pounds of jet fuel. The whole world is concerned, as you can see, Captain.”

Bush nodded and ate his humble pie. He deserved it. But those three days in the motel had been worth it.

“You are taking a charter flight to Bogota, Columbia, then on to Peru. Is that right?”

“Yes. It’s the start of a new service. Only about a fifty percent configuration, that’s a half-load of passengers, but it should get better.”

“That was one of the considerations we had in mind when we considered this change in flight plans. Would you look here please, at the chart. We would like you to swing further west than you originally planned, to around one hundred and fifteen degrees west latitude.”

Bush ran his finger over the chart. “That’s pretty far off course and way the hell out into the Pacific.”

“It is. But you will be flying a great circle course, which helps, and, of course, you will catch the westerly jet stream. These changes should add a maximum of an hour to your flying time. With the extra fuel you will still have your normal reserves.”

“And you say management approves?”

“They are enthusiastic.”

“That’s the way it’s going to be, then. Can you tell me why this is so important?”

“Absolutely. We have no ships in this area, or any carrier planes that can reach it. If you will mark the position of any large ships you might see here, on the fringe of our search area, it will be of considerable help to us.”

“Is that all you want?”

“Yes. Other than asking you to keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. I can’t tell you what that might be — but this whole situation is so extraordinary that, well, who knows what the answer is to the disappearance.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.”

They took off two hours later. Bush himself was at the controls and, heavily loaded with fuel as they were, they used a good deal of the runway, lifting the nose and pulling up the gear as they headed out over the blue Pacific, leaving the gray smog of Los Angeles behind them. As they gained altitude, he began a slow turn to port that would take them down along the southern California coast. The air was clear here, San Diego showing up below with the farms and suburbs south of it marking the border of the United States. After that the mountains and deserts of Baja, with a quick glimpse of the bay at Ensenada on the horizon before thin clouds cut off the view. Ah, motel of fond dreams. He smiled at the memories, then cleansed his mind of everything except flying.

“This is going to take some navigating,” Trubey said. As Second Pilot he was responsible for the navigation at this time. He was working out a true compass heading on the chart and listening to the sound of the San Diego beacon vanishing behind them. Abandoning this reference, he reached out and switched frequencies to the one in La Paz. “We won’t be able to take bearings on any stations ahead for a long time. At least the inertial navigator will tell us where we are.”

“Well, good for you, my boy, we’ll make a pilot of you yet. Don’t forget that during the war, B-17’s and 24’s flew the Atlantic to Britain without radio beacons, without navigational aids of any kind — other than the same charts and sextants ships use.”

“Spare me the lecture, Pops. I read the history books, too. It’s just that I have a feeling of security knowing where I’ve been and just where I’m going to. Beckoned by a radio beacon in the night. When I leave those friendly reference marks behind I get angry and remember Air New Zealand in the Antarctic…. “