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A foreign presence . . .
Suddenly, Constance was conflicted no longer. She knew what she had to do.
She stood up, forced her way across the room and up the bizarrely slanting staircase, and passed into Pendergast’s bedroom. Ignoring the heeling of the ship, she searched through one drawer after another until her hand closed over his Les Baer .45. She pulled out the weapon, drew back the slide to ensure there was a round in the chamber, then clicked off the safety.
She knew how Pendergast would want to live—and how he would want to die. If she couldn’t help him in any other way, at least she could help him with this.
Weapon in hand, she exited the bedroom and—taking tight hold of the railing—descended the slanting stairs to the living room.
74
LESEUR STARED AT the plated red bow of the Grenfell as the Canadian ship desperately backed its screws, trying to swing itself out of the way of theBrita
The deck of the aux bridge shook as the podded propulsion systems strained under the extreme maneuver forced upon them. LeSeur didn’t even need to glance at the instruments to know it was over: he could extrapolate the trajectories of the two ships merely by staring out the bridge windows. He knew they were each on a course that would bring them together in the worst possible way. Even though the Grenfell ’s headway had fallen off three or four knots while it tried to maneuver, theBrita
“
My God, my God, my God
. . .” LeSeur heard the chief engineer repeating to himself, a continuous sotto voce prayer, as he stared out the window.
The aux bridge shuddered, tilting at an even crazier angle. The deck warning systems had lit up as the lowest decks shipped water. LeSeur heard a chorus of fresh sounds: the screeching and tearing of plated steel, the machine-gun popping of rivets, the deep groaning of the ship’s immense steel frame.
“My God,”
whispered the engineer again.
A deep boom sounded from below, followed by a violent shimmy, as if the hull of the ship had been rung like a massive bell. The violence of it threw LeSeur to the floor; and as he rose to his knees a second boom rocked the aux bridge, slamming him sideways into the corner of the navigation table and gashing his forehead. A framed photograph of theBrita
He grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself up, feeling a rivulet of warm blood ru
He immediately realized that something significant had just happened to the ship. The deck was righting itself at increasing speed, and theBrita
“What on earth—?” LeSeur said. “Halsey, what’s happening?” Halsey had scrambled to his feet, and he stared at the engine panel, his face blanked out with horror.
But LeSeur didn’t need Halsey to explain. He suddenly understood what had happened: the Brita
LeSeur grabbed for the radio.
“Grenfell!”
he cried. “Stop backing and straighten out! We’ve lost steerage!”
The call was u
There was a rush of sound as the Grenfell ’s bows passed theBrita
A ragged cheer rose up over the alarms on the auxiliary bridge, and LeSeur could make out a corresponding cheer coming over the VHF from the
Grenfell
.
The chief engineer looked over at him, his face bathed in sweat. “Mr. LeSeur, we lost both aft pods, just tore them right off—”
“I know,” LeSeur replied. “And the hull’s breached.” He felt a swell of triumph. “Mr. Halsey, let the aft bilge spaces and compartments six and five flood
.
Seal the bilge bulkheads amidships.”
But Halsey did nothing but stand there.
“Do it!”
LeSeur barked.
“I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
Halsey held out his hands. “Not possible. The bulkheads seal automatically.” He pointed at an emergency panel.
“Then
unseal
them! Get a team down there to open the hatches manually!”
“Can’t,” repeated Halsey helplessly. “Not when they’re flooded. There’s no override.”
“God
damn
this automation! What’s the status on the other two pods?”
“Operational. Each delivering full power to the screws. But our speed is down to twenty knots.”
“And with the aft pods gone, she’ll be steering with engine power now.” LeSeur glanced over at the officer of the watch. “ETA Carrion Rocks?”
“At this speed and heading, thirty-five minutes, sir.”
LeSeur stared out the bridge windows at the forecastle of the Brita
“I’m giving the order to abandon ship,” he said.
A stillness enveloped the bridge.
“Excuse me, sir—with what?” the chief engineer asked.
“With the lifeboats, of course.”
“You can’t do that!” cried a new voice—a feminine voice.
LeSeur looked over and saw that the female member of Gavin Bruce’s team, Emily Dahlberg, had entered the auxiliary bridge. Her clothes were torn and sopping. He stared at her in surprise.
“You can’t launch the lifeboats,” she said. “Gavin and Niles Welch attempted a test launch—their boat ruptured.”