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Bruce could see a panic seizing the crowd. “My friends,” he said in a firm tone, “it’s quite impossible. The bridge on a ship like this would never, ever be ma
“That’s not how it works these days, you old fool!” the drunken man cried. “The ship’s totally automated. The captain mutinied and took control, and now she’s going to sink the ship!”
A woman rushed forward and seized Bruce’s suit. “You were navy! For God’s sake, you’ve got to do something!”
Bruce extricated himself and raised his hands. He had a natural air of command and the frightened hubbub diminished.
“Please!” he called out. A hush fell.
“My team and I will find out if there’s any truth to this rumor,” he went on.
“There is—!”
“Silence!” He waited. “If there is, we’ll take action—I promise you that. In the meantime, all of you should stay here and await instructions.”
“If I recall,” said Dahlberg, “the Admiral’s Club on Deck 10 has a monitor that shows the ship’s position on the crossing, including course and speed.”
“Excellent,” Bruce said. “That will give us independent verification.”
“And then what?” the woman who had seized his suit practically shrieked.
Bruce turned to her. “Like I said, you stay here and encourage any others that happen by to do the same. Keep everyone calm, and stop spreading this rumor—the last thing we need is a panic. If it’s true, we’ll help the other officers retake the ship. And we’ll keep you informed.”
Then he turned back to his little group. “Shall we check it out?”
He led them down the hall and toward the stairs, at a fast walk. It was a crazy story, insane. It couldn’t be true . . .
Could it?
54
THE AUXILIARY BRIDGE WAS CROWDED AND GETTING HOTTER BY the minute. LeSeur had called for an emergency staff meeting for all department heads, and already the ship’s hospitality and entertainment chiefs were arriving, along with the chief purser, bosun, and chief steward. He glanced at his watch, then wiped his brow and looked for what must have been the hundredth time at the back of Captain Mason, displayed on the central CCTV screen, standing straight and calm at the helm, not a stray hair escaping from beneath her cap. They had called up theBrita
He stared back at Mason, coolly at the helm. Something had happened to her, a medical problem, a stroke, drugs, perhaps a fugue state. What was going on in her mind? Her actions were the antithesis of everything a ship’s captain stood for.
Beside him, Kemper was at a monitoring workstation, headphones over his ears. LeSeur nudged him and the security director pulled off the phones.
“Are you absolutely sure, Kemper, that she can hear us?” he asked.
“All the cha
LeSeur turned to Craik. “Any further response to our mayday?”
Craik looked up from his SSB and satellite telephone. “Yes, sir. U.S. and Canadian Coast Guard are responding. The closest vessel is the CCGSSir Wilfred Grenfell , hailing port St. John’s, a sixty-eight-meter offshore patrol boat with nine officers, eleven crew, sixteen berths plus ten more in the ship’s hospital. They are on an intercept course and will reach us about fifteen nautical miles east-northeast of the Carrion Rocks at . . . around 3:45 P.M. Nobody else is close enough to reach us before the estimated time of, ah, collision.”
“What’s their plan?”
“They’re still working on the options.”
LeSeur turned to the third officer. “Get Dr. Grandine up here. I want some medical advice about what’s going on with Mason. And ask Mayles if there’s a psychiatrist on board among the passengers. If so, get him up here, too.”
“Aye, sir.”
Next, LeSeur turned to the chief engineer. “Mr. Halsey, I want you to go to the engine room personally and disco
The engineer shook his head. “The autopilot’s hardened against attack. It was designed to bypass all manual systems. Even if you could disable one of the pods—which you can’t—the autopilot would compensate. The ship can run on a single pod, if necessary.”
“Mr. Halsey, don’t tell me why it can’t be done until you’ve tried.”
“Aye, sir.”
LeSeur turned to the radio officer. “Try to raise Mason on VHF cha
LeSeur pointing to the CCTV screen. “See that?” he cried. “You can see the green receive light. She’s picking it up loud and clear!”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” Kemper replied. “She can hear every word.”
LeSeur shook his head. He’d known Mason for years. She was as professional as they came—a little uptight, definitely by-the-book, not exactly warm, but always thoroughly professional. He racked his brains. There had to besome way to communicate with her face-to-face. It frustrated the hell out of him that she kept her back to them at all times.
Maybe if he could see her, he could reason with her. Or at least understand.
“Mr. Kemper,” he said, “a rail runs just below the bridge windows for attaching the window-washing equipment—am I right?”
“I believe so.”
LeSeur yanked his jacket off a chair and pulled it on. “I’m going out there.”
“Are you crazy?” Kemper said. “It’s a hundred-foot fall to the deck.”
“I’m going to look into her face and ask her what the hell she thinks she’s doing.”
“You’ll be exposed to the full force of the storm—”
“Second Officer Worthington, the watch is yours until I return.” And LeSeur tore out of the door.
LeSeur stood at the port forward rail of the observation platform on Deck 13, wind tearing at his clothes, rain lashing his face, while he stared up at the bridge. It was situated on the highest level of the ship, above which rose only the stacks and masts. The two bridge wings ran far out to port and starboard, their ends projecting over the hull. Below the wall of dimly lit windows he could just barely see the rail, a single, inch-thick brass tube cantilevered about six inches from the ship’s superstructure by steel brackets. A narrow ladder ran up from the platform to the port wing, where it joined the rail that encircled the lower bridge.
He staggered across the deck to the ladder, hesitated a moment, then seized the rung at shoulder level, gripping it as tightly as a drowning man. He hesitated again, the muscles of his arms and legs already dancing in anticipation of the coming ordeal.