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He felt a great relief at the way Mason had quietly taken charge. In her noon a
LeSeur glanced at the ARPA radar. So far, so good. There had been no sign of ice, and what few ships were still on the Banks had been lying to well off their course. He touched the dial of the ECDIS and changed the scale to twenty-four miles. They were closing in on a waypoint, at which the autopilot would execute a course correction that would take them clear of the Carrion Rocks on the leeward side. After that, it was a straight shot into St. John’s Harbour.
Kemper appeared on the bridge.
“How are things on the passenger decks?” LeSeur asked.
“As good as could be expected, sir.” He hesitated. “I’ve reported the change of command to Corporate.”
LeSeur swallowed. “And?”
“A lot of hard blowing, but no official reaction yet. They’ve dispatched a bunch of suits to meet us in St. John’s. Basically, they’re reeling. Their main concern is bad publicity. When the press gets hold of this . . .” His voice trailed off and he shook his head.
A soft chime from the chartplotter a
“New bearing two two zero,” LeSeur murmured to the staff captain.
“New bearing acknowledged, two two zero.”
The wind buffeted the bridge windows. All he could see was the ship’s forecastle, half hidden in the mist, and beyond that an endless gray.
Mason turned. “Mr. LeSeur?”
“Yes, Captain?”
She spoke in a low voice. “I’m concerned about Mr. Craik.”
“The chief radio officer? Why?”
“I’m not sure he’s getting with the program. It seems he’s locked himself in the radio room.”
She nodded to a door at the rear of the bridge. LeSeur was surprised: he had rarely seen it closed.
“Craik? I didn’t even know he was on the bridge.”
“I need to make sure that all the deck officers are working as a team,” she went on. “We’ve got a storm, we’ve got over four thousand terrified passengers and crew, and we’ve got a rough time ahead of us when we get to St. John’s. We can’t afford to have any second-guessing or dissention among the deck officers. Not now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need your help. Rather than make a big deal about it, I’d like to have a quiet word with Mr. Craik—just the two of us. I think perhaps he felt intimidated by you and the others into going along.”
“That sounds like a wise approach, sir.”
“The ship’s on autopilot, we’re still four hours from passing the Carrion Rocks. I’d like you to clear the bridge so I can speak to Craik in a nonthreatening environment. I feel it’s especially important that Mr. Kemper absent himself.”
LeSeur hesitated. The standing orders stated that the bridge must be ma
“I’ll temporarily take the watch,” said Mason. “And Craik could be considered the second bridge officer—so this won’t violate regulations.”
“Yes, sir, but with the storm conditions . . .”
“I understand your reluctance,” Mason said. “I’m asking for just five minutes. I don’t want Mr. Craik feeling he’s being ganged up on. I’m a little worried, frankly, about his emotional stability. Do it quietly and don’t tell anyone why.”
LeSeur nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. LeSeur.”
LeSeur walked over to the lookout. “Join me in the companionway for a moment.” He nodded to the helmsman. “You, too.”
“But—”
“Captain’s orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
LeSeur rejoined Kemper. “Captain’s taking the watch for a few minutes. She’d like us to clear the bridge.”
Kemper looked at him sharply. “Why?”
“Orders,” LeSeur repeated in a tone he hoped would discourage further questions. He checked his watch: five minutes and counting. They withdrew to the companionway just beyond the bridge hatch and LeSeur shut the door, taking care to leave it unlocked.
“What’s this all about?” Kemper asked.
“Ship’s business,” LeSeur repeated, sharpening his tone even further.
They stood in silence. LeSeur glanced at his watch. Two more minutes.
At the far end of the companionway, the door opened and a figure entered. LeSeur stared: it was Craik. “I thought you were in the radio room,” he said.
Craik looked back at him like he was crazy. “I’m just reporting for duty now, sir.”
“But Captain Mason—”
He was interrupted by a low alarm and a flashing red light. A series of soft clicks ran around the length of the bridge hatch.
“What the hell’s that?” the helmsman asked.
Kemper stared at the blinking red light above the door. “Christ, someone’s initiated an ISPS Code Level Three!”
LeSeur grabbed the handle of the bridge door, tried to turn it.
“It automatically locks in case of an alert,” said Kemper. “Seals off the bridge.”
LeSeur felt his blood freeze; the only one on the bridge was Captain Mason. He went for the bridge intercom. “Captain Mason, this is LeSeur.”
No answer.
“Captain Mason! There’s a Code Three security alert.
Open this door!”
But again there was no reply.
50
AT HALF PAST ONE O’CLOCK ROGER MAYLES FOUND HIMSELF leading a fractious group of Deck 10 passengers to the final lunch shift at Oscar’s. For over an hour he had been answering questions—or rather, avoiding answering them—about what would happen when they got to Newfoundland; about how they would get home; about whether refunds would be made. Nobody had told him shit, he knew nothing, he could answer nobody—and yet they had exhorted him to maintain “security,” whatever the hell that meant.
Nothing like this had happened to him before. His greatest joy of shipboard life was its predictability. But on this voyage, nothing at all had been predictable. And now he felt he was getting close to the breaking point.
He walked along the corridor, a rictus-like smile screwed onto his face. The passengers behind him were speaking in raised, querulous voices about all the same tiresome issues they’d been talking about all day: refunds, lawsuits, getting home. He could feel the slow roll of the ship as he walked, and he kept his eyes averted from the broad starboard windows lining one side of the corridor. He was sick of the rain, the moaning of the wind, the deep booming of the sea against the hull. The truth was, the sea frightened him—it always had—and he never enjoyed looking down into the water from the ship, even in good weather, because it always looked so deep and so cold. And endless—so very, very endless. Since the disappearances began, he’d had a recurring nightmare of falling into the dark Atlantic at night, treading water while watching the lights of the ship recede into the mist. He woke up in a twisting of sheets each time, whimpering under his breath.