“Yes, I’ve read four of his books—”
Pokofsky was interrupted by the sudden appearance of his first officer, who entered without knocking.
“My apologies for breaking in, Captain, but may I have a word in private with you?”
Pokofsky excused himself and stepped outside his cabin.
“What is it?”
“We failed to find them,” the officer announced uneasily.
Pokofsky paused for some moments, lit a cigarette in defiance of his own regulations and gave his first officer a look of disapproval. “Then I suggest you search the ship again, more carefully this time. And take a closer look at the passengers wandering the decks. They may be hiding in the crowd.”
His first officer nodded and hurried off. Pokofsky returned to his cabin.
“Problems?” Ombrikov asked.
Before Pokofsky could answer he felt a slight shudder run through the ship. He stood there curious for perhaps half a minute, tensed and alert, but nothing more seemed to happen.
Then suddenly the Leonid Andreyevwas rocked by a violent explosion that heeled her far over to starboard, flinging people off their feet and sending a convulsive shock wave throughout the ship. A great sheet of fire erupted from the port side of the hull, raining fiery steel debris and oil over the exposed decks. The blast reverberated over the water until it finally died away, leaving an unearthly silence in its wake and a solid column of black smoke that mushroomed into the sky.
What none of the seven hundred passengers and crew knew, what many of them would never come to learn, was that deep amidship the fuel tanks had detonated, blowing a gaping hole half above and half below the waterline, spraying a torrent of burning oil over the superstructure in blue and green flames, scarring the victims and blazing across the teak decks with the speed of a brushfire.
Almost instantly, the Leonid Andreyevwas transformed from a luxurious cruise liner into a sinking fiery pyre.
Pitt stirred and wondered dully what had happened. For a full minute as the shock wore off he remained prone on the deck, where he’d been thrown by the force of the concussion, trying to orient himself. Slowly he rose to his hands and knees, then hoisted his aching body erect by grabbing the inner doorknob. Bruised but still functioning, nothing broken or out of joint, he turned to examine the others.
Giordino was partly crouched, partly lying across the threshold of the shower stall. The last thing he remembered was sitting in the cabin. He wore a surprised look in his eyes, but he appeared unhurt. Moran and Loren had fallen out of the bunks and were lying in the middle of the deck. They were both dazed and would carry a gang of black and blue marks for a week or two, but were otherwise uninjured.
Larimer was huddled in the far corner of the cabin. Pitt went over and gently lifted his head. There was an ugly welt rising above the senator’s left temple and a trickle of blood dripped from a cut lip. He was unconscious but breathing easily. Pitt eased a pillow from the lower bunk under his head.
Giordino was the first to speak. “How is he?”
“Just knocked out,” Pitt replied.
“What happened?” Loren murmured dazedly.
“An explosion,” said Pitt. “Somewhere forward, probably in the engine room.”
“The boilers?” Giordino speculated.
“Modern boilers are safety-designed not to blow.”
“God,” said Loren, “my ears are still ringing.”
A strange expression came over Giordino’s face. He took a coin out of his pocket and rolled it across the hard-carpeted deck. Instead of losing its momentum and circling until falling on one side, it maintained its speed across the cabin as though propelled by an unseen hand and clinked into the far bulkhead.
“The ship’s listing,” Giordino announced flatly.
Pitt went over and cracked the door. Already the passageway was filling with passengers stumbling out of their cabins and wandering aimlessly in bewilderment. “So much for plan B.”
Loren gave him a quizzical look. “Plan B?”
“My idea to steal the boat from Cuba. I don’t think we’re going to find seats.”
“What are you talking about?” Moran demanded. He rose unsteadily to his feet, holding on to a bunk chain for support. “A trick. It’s a cheap trick to flush us out.”
“Damned expensive trick if you ask me,” Giordino said nastily. “The explosion must have seriously damaged the ship. She’s obviously taking on water.”
“Will we sink?” Moran asked anxiously.
Pitt ignored him and peered around the edge of the door again. Most of the passengers acted calm, but a few were beginning to shout and cry. As he watched, the passageway became clogged with people stupidly carrying armfuls of personal belongings and hastily packed suitcases. Then Pitt caught the smell of burning paint, quickly followed by the sight of a smoky wisp. He slammed the door and began tearing the blankets off the bunks and throwing them to Giordino.
“Hurry, soak these and any towels you can find in the shower!”
Giordino took one look at Pitt’s dead-serious expression and did as he was told. Loren knelt and tried to lift Larimer’s head and shoulders from the deck. The senator moaned and opened his eyes, looking up at Loren as if trying to recognize her. Moran cringed against the bulkhead, muttering to himself.
Pitt rudely pushed Loren aside and lifted Larimer to his feet, slinging one arm around his shoulder.
Giordino came out of the bathroom and distributed the wet blankets and towels.
“All right, Al, you help me with the senator. Loren, you hold on to Congressman Moran and stick close behind me.” He broke off and looked at everyone. “Okay, here we go.”
He yanked open the door and was engulfed by a rolling wall of smoke that came out of nowhere.
Almost before the explosion faded, Captain Pokofsky shook off stunned disbelief and rushed to the bridge. The young watch officer was pounding desperately on the automated ship console in agonized frustration.
“Close all watertight doors and actuate the fire control system!” Pokofsky shouted.
“I can’t!” the watch officer cried helplessly. “We’ve lost all power!”
“What about the auxiliary generators?”
“They’re out too.” The watch officer’s face was wrapped in undisguised shock. “The ship’s phones are dead. The damage-control computer is down. Nothing responds. We can’t give a general alarm.”
Pokofsky ran out on the bridge wing and stared aft. His once beautiful ship was vomiting fire and smoke from her entire midsection. A few moments before there was music and relaxed gaiety. Now the entire scene was one of horror. The open swimming pool and lounge decks had been turned into a crematorium. The two hundred people stretched under the sun were almost instantly incinerated by the tidal fall of fiery oil. Some had saved themselves by leaping into the pools, only to die after surfacing for air when the heat seared their lungs, and many had climbed the railings and thrown themselves overboard, their skin and brief clothing ablaze.
Pokofsky stood sick and stunned at the sight of the carnage. It was a moment in time borrowed from hell. He knew in his heart that his ship was lost. There was no stopping the holocaust, and the list was increasing as the sea poured into the Leonid Andreyev’sbowels. He returned to the bridge.
“Pass the word to abandon ship,” he said to the watch officer. “The port boats are burning. Load what women and children you can into the starboard boats still intact.”
As the watch officer hurried off, the chief engineer, Erik Kazinkin, appeared, out of breath from his climb from below. His eyebrows and half his hair were singed away. The soles of his shoes were smoldering but he appeared not to notice. His mind was numb to the pain.
“Give me a report,” Pokofsky ordered in a quiet tone. “What caused the explosion?”
“The fuel tank blew,” answered Kazinkin. “God knows why. Took out the power generating room and the auxiliary generator compartment as well. Boiler rooms two and three are flooded. We managed to manually close the watertight doors to the engine rooms, but she’s taking on water at an alarming rate. And without power to operate the pumps…” He shrugged defeatedly without continuing.