orders."
Suddenly a fire alarm started clanging, and the ship's horn shook the deck with a series of short blasts that rattled the glassware in the mirrored bar.
"Jesus H. Christ," said the captain. He bounded up the stairs, pawing the radio from his hip. The door at the top closed with a pneumatic sigh.
"What happened?" asked Ronnie.
"Something's wrong with the ship."
The clanging grew louder, the whistle thundered a seven-note chant. They ran to the stern windows. Nothing burning on the afterdeck, nothing floating in the wake. The side ports showed the empty Pacific, the chaos of last night's storm erased by the trade rollers.
"Veronica." She knelt before her child and took her face firmly in her hands. "I want you to go in and sit with Mr. Jack."
"What about you?"
"Do what I ask. Stay with him until I come back."
Ronnie glanced at the stairs, then the door. "But what if Ah Lee comes?"
"If Ah Lee comes, tell him your mum's in the loo and wants a fresh pot of tea."
"What if Moss comes?"
"He won't. They've got an emergency."
"I want to come with you."
"You're my lookout. If I'm going to get to a sat phone, you've got to watch my back." Ronnie looked terrified. Sarah said, "Remember what Daddy says in life-raft drill? . . . Come on," she coaxed, "what does Daddy say?"
A smile emerged on Ronnie's frightened face. "Be British, boys!"
"Be British" was supposedly the captain of the Titanic's last command to his crew, and the way Michael said it was usually good for convulsions, especially when accompanied by a solemn salute.
"But no laughing! Or they'll hear us being British!"
That was good for a grin. Sarah bundled Ronnie into Mr. Jack's cabin. The old man had shifted. His hands were twitching as the Narcan did its work. He could wake at any minute.
"Be careful, Mummy."
"Don't you worry, dear. I'll be very careful."
She kissed her, closed the cabin door, and mounted the stairs with a pounding heart. The booming whistle shook the treads. The fire alarms changed. The cacophony—the sheer billowing noise—made it impossible to think. Yet it gave her a strange feeling of being almost invisible.
She was guessing from the various ships that she and Michael had boarded over the years that this companionway would not open directly into the bridge itself but somewhat behind, as light from an entrance would blind the watch at night. At the landing, she opened the heavy door a crack and peered out cautiously and was relieved to find a sort of combination lobby-corridor, which served the captain's and owner's companionways as well as the main stair that rose the height of the house, and the elevator. To the right was an open door, inside a large computer
room, lined with machines and racks of electronics. To the left was the chart room. She entered. Aft, she glimpsed the radio room. Ahead, a curtained entryway. She pulled the curtain an inch from the bulkhead and peered through.
She could see about half the bridge, including the helm—steady in the grip of the autopilot—and, beyond the front windows, an incongruous view of the wind cups spinning on Veronica's masthead. The captain was pressed against the glass, staring ahead at a white plume of escaping gas that soared skyward from a valve on the foredeck.
Suddenly he whirled around, firing orders that she could not hear over the noise. His face was drawn taut in an expression that combined command and healthy fear. The whistle blasts stopped abruptly. An officer hurried into view and threw a switch on a control console that shut off the fire alarm. In the freshness of the silence, she heard the captain shout, "Get down on deck and give 'em a hand!"
Sarah ran back into the radio room and hid behind a bulkhead as the mate pushed through the curtain and pounded down the stairs. She located a satellite phone. Her eye lingered on the single-sideband radio's automatic Mayday switch. But a broadcast call for help could be explained away as a mistake, long before any
Suddenly a fire alarm started clanging, and the ship's horn shook the deck with a series of short blasts that rattled the glassware in the mirrored bar.
"Jesus H. Christ," said the captain. He bounded up the stairs, pawing the radio from his hip. The door at the top closed with a pneumatic sigh.
"What happened?" asked Ronnie.
"Something's wrong with the ship."
The clanging grew louder, the whistle thundered a seven-note chant. They ran to the stern windows. Nothing burning on the afterdeck, nothing floating in the wake. The side ports showed the empty Pacific, the chaos of last night's storm erased by the trade rollers.
"Veronica." She knelt before her child and took her face firmly in her hands. "I want you to go in and sit with Mr. Jack."
"What about you?"
"Do what I ask. Stay with him until I come back."
Ronnie glanced at the stairs, then the door. "But what if Ah Lee comes?"
"If Ah Lee comes, tell him your mum's in the loo and wants a fresh pot of tea."
"What if Moss comes?"
"He won't. They've got an emergency."
"I want to come with you."
"You're my lookout. If I'm going to get to a sat phone, you've got to watch my back." Ronnie looked terrified. Sarah said, "Remember what Daddy says in life-raft drill? . . . Come on," she coaxed, "what does Daddy say?"
A smile emerged on Ronnie's frightened face. "Be British, boys!"
"Be British" was supposedly the captain of the Titanic's last command to his crew, and the way Michael said it was usually good for convulsions, especially when accompanied by a solemn salute.
"But no laughing! Or they'll hear us being British!"
That was good for a grin. Sarah bundled Ronnie into Mr. Jack's cabin. The old man had shifted. His hands were twitching as the Narcan did its work. He could wake at any minute.
"Be careful, Mummy."
"Don't you worry, dear. I'll be very careful."
She kissed her, closed the cabin door, and mounted the stairs with a pounding heart. The booming whistle shook the treads. The fire alarms changed. The cacophony—the sheer billowing noise—made it impossible to think. Yet it gave her a strange feeling of being almost invisible.
She was guessing from the various ships that she and Michael had boarded over the years that this companionway would not open directly into the bridge itself but somewhat behind, as light from an entrance would blind the watch at night. At the landing, she opened the heavy door a crack and peered out cautiously and was relieved to find a sort of combination lobby-corridor, which served the captain's and owner's companionways as well as the main stair that rose the height of the house, and the elevator. To the right was an open door, inside a large computer
room, lined with machines and racks of electronics. To the left was the chart room. She entered. Aft, she glimpsed the radio room. Ahead, a curtained entryway. She pulled the curtain an inch from the bulkhead and peered through.
She could see about half the bridge, including the helm—steady in the grip of the autopilot—and, beyond the front windows, an incongruous view of the wind cups spinning on Veronica's masthead. The captain was pressed against the glass, staring ahead at a white plume of escaping gas that soared skyward from a valve on the foredeck.
Suddenly he whirled around, firing orders that she could not hear over the noise. His face was drawn taut in an expression that combined command and healthy fear. The whistle blasts stopped abruptly. An officer hurried into view and threw a switch on a control console that shut off the fire alarm. In the freshness of the silence, she heard the captain shout, "Get down on deck and give 'em a hand!"
Sarah ran back into the radio room and hid behind a bulkhead as the mate pushed through the curtain and pounded down the stairs. She located a satellite phone. Her eye lingered on the single-sideband radio's automatic Mayday switch. But a broadcast call for help could be explained away as a mistake, long before any
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