“Looks like you’ve entertained some interesting guests, Tuff.”
Tuff grinned fondly. This ship has a long tradition of cooperating with the military. In fact, it was while in Her Majesty’s Service that I first sailed aboard the Queen. That was back in 1982, when she was converted into a troopship to convey over three thousand of us down to the Falklands.”
“Were you Royal Navy?” questioned Vince.
“Royal Marines Special Boat Service, sir,” revealed Tuff proudly, who looked at his watch and added, “Now I’d better get you up to the Bridge. The chief must think that I’ve gone A. W.O. L..”
Leaving the Wardroom, they made a sharp right, went up a twisting flight of narrow stairs, past the door to the captain’s well-appointed office, to a closed, steel hatch labeled, bridge, authorized admittance only.
Tuff signaled Vince to join him on the top step, and pointed toward the video camera mounted above the hatch. With his guest close at his side, he twice pushed the metal switch that was recessed into the wall on his left. There was a loud buzzing sound, and several seconds passed before they heard the metallic click of an automatic lock triggering. Vince followed Tuff inside.
The Bridge itself was extremely spacious and well lit. A series of large, rectangular windows encircled the elongated, wood-paneled compartment. Set against the forward bulkhead was the main console. It was painted a dull yellow, and was filled with a wide variety of instruments, gauges, and dials. Directly behind it was a five-foot-high, lime-green, lectern-shaped console onto which the ship’s dinner-plate-sized wheel was mounted. A shoulder high wooden partition was set up behind the wheel, with the navigation plot on the other side.
On each side of the Bridge an open doorway led to a pair of adjoining exterior observation wings. Vince spotted a single, somewhat familiar bearded figure on the port wing. This tall, silver-haired individual was dressed in officer’s whites, and was scanning the surrounding terminal area with his binoculars. This was surely the same figure that Vince had first seen from the cab.
Tuff headed out onto the wing and addressed the officer. “Sorry that I took so long, Chief.”
The officer responded without lowering his binoculars, his words flavored by a rich Scottish accent. “If we were at sea, I’d have you keelhauled, lad. And since I can’t give you fifty lashes, I guess I’m stuck with you. Any problems down below?”
While Tuff related a quick security update, Vince took this opportunity to walk out onto the other wing and examine the ship from a new angle.
He’d only been there a moment, though, when a deep Scottish voice broke in behind him.
“So you’re Special Agent Vincent Kellogg of the U. S. Secret Service.
Welcome aboard the Queen.”
Vince turned and found himself staring into a piercing blue gaze, that locked into him with an intense inquisitiveness.
“Thank you,” replied Vince as he accepted the officer’s handshake.
“I’m Robert Hartwell, the QE2’s security director,” said the Scotsman.
“I do hope that Tuff has been taking good care of you. And please feel free to call me Robert.”
Vince liked this man’s directness, and had been impressed with him since reading a report about Hartwell back in Washington. The QE2’s current head of security was a decorated Royal Marine veteran, who like Tuff had also been a member of the elite Special Boat Service. As an SBS commando, Hartwell saw past service in Northern Ireland, Dhofar, and the Falklands, where he was awarded a South Atlantic Medal for bravery. He was made a Member of the British Empire in 1993, though he never rose above the rank of warrant officer. It was shortly thereafter that he left the military to take his current position with Cunard.
“I understand that this is your first visit aboard the Queen,” added Hartwell. “You certainly brought along spectacular weather.”
Vince looked up into the clear, sun-filled sky as a helicopter passed noisily overhead. “I hope it holds until this evening.” Hartwell replied while also watching the helicopter, “The latest meteorological forecast shows that this high pressure system should stay around long enough to insure a dry sendoff.”
The helicopter began a sweeping turn, and appeared to drop slightly in altitude as it circled the Passenger Ship Terminal. Hartwell examined it through his binoculars.
“Bloody journalists have a video cameraman hanging out that chopper’s fuselage door,” Hartwell said. “It looks like they didn’t even bother rigging up a safety harness for that poor chap.”
The helicopter further tightened its banked turn, prompting Vince to comment disgustedly, “They’d better get all the videotape they need today. Because, as of 1800 to night, the airspace over the entire West Side of Manhattan will be strictly off-limits.”
With the loud clatter of the chopper’s rotors making conversation difficult, Hartwell beckoned Vince and Tuff to join him inside, where the ship’s in-house, VHP, closed circuit telephone activated. A concerned female voice broke in from the elevated speaker.
“Bridge, this is Delta. Do you copy?”
Tuff picked up the handset and answered. “I copy that, Delta. How can we be of service?”
“Tuff,” returned the caller, “Roz Walters wants to re board the ship, and the Secret Service won’t let her because she’s gone and left her special access pass in her stateroom.”
“Tell Roz to hold on a sec, Delta. I’m on my way down.”
Tuff hung up the handset and addressed Robert Hart well. “Sir, I can get that updated personnel manifest to you right after I take care of Roz.”
“Don’t worry about it, Tuff,” replied Hartwell. “Take your time, and make sure the Secret Service doesn’t go and arrest our accommodations manager. My relief should be popping in any second now. I’ll pick up the manifest myself while showing Special Agent Kellogg the way to his cabin.”
Tuff exited the Bridge with a crisp salute. Hartwell looked at Vince and smiled. “They don’t come much better than that one. We entered Port Stanley together, and he’s still packing some Argentine shrapnel that had my name on it.”
“I had the honor of serving with men like Tuff back in “Nam,” Vince said. “Special Forces have a way of bringing together the best and brightest. Now, I hope that our agents aren’t being too tough on your crew. If they’re being a pain, please let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Hartwell. “Your people are doing a brilliant job, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The tighter they manage things outside this ship the easier my job will be once we put to sea.”
“Have any other members of the various international security teams arrived on board as yet?” Vince asked.
“Only a contingent from MIS,” answered Hartwell. “Right now, they’re with our prime minister at the United Nations.”
Vince looked at his watch and commented, “I’ve tentatively scheduled a pre briefing of all embarking security personnel this afternoon at 1600.
Could you find us a place on board where we could meet?”
“I’ll see about securing us the Library,” said Hartwell, who also glanced at his watch. “I imagine that you’d like to unpack your belongings and get settled in your stateroom.”
“Actually, I’m anxious to get in a complete tour of the ship,” Vince admitted.
“I’ll tell you what, Special Agent Kellogg, once my relief shows up, why not accompany me down to my office? Then I’ll give you a chance to unpack your belongings before we have an early lunch, followed by a thorough walk-thru.”
Before Vince could answer, a slender, crew-cut officer in his mid-thirties arrived on the Bridge. He wore black trousers, a black tie, and a white, long-sleeve shirt, with three golden stripes bedecking his shoulder epaulets.