“Bermuda Triangle?” the copilot asked. The pilot just sniffed loudly and looked at him out of the corners of his eyes. Corker smiled. “I know. Just a lot of nonsense. Dreamed up by hacks who want to get rich writing about the mysteries of the seven seas. But nevertheless, Lieutenant, she appears to have vanished, at least vanished as far as anyone can tell. And we’ve certainly been looking hard enough…. “
“Got another blip,” the radar operator said. “Doesn’t look very big but it’s persistent. Something down there all right.”
“Another tanker probably,” the pilot said. “We’re over the north-south routes now. We’ll take a look.”
Once more they plunged down through the clouds and out beneath them. The rain had ceased here and they flew between two slate-gray masses, the sea below, the clouds above. A dark speck appeared on the surface of the ocean ahead and the pilot banked that way. The ship had been obscured by a line squall which blew suddenly away.
“Jesus… “ the pilot said, breathing out the word.
There, silent and unmoving on the heaving seas, was the QE2.
They came in low, just above mast height, roaring over the decks, then going back in a wide turn.
“All the boats… they’re gone,” the pilot said. “Not a lifeboat left. And no one aboard. I could look into the Bridge and there was no one there.”
His eyes met those of the copilot and he saw his own horrified image mirrored in the other’s face. He fumbled for the radio.
2
The Peruvian Coast Guard ship, Huascaran, crashed headlong through the mountainous waves, plunging her bow deep into the green sea, shuddering as the foaming water tore along the length of her decks. It had been many years since she had been subject to this kind of punishment — she had originally been a British minesweeper — and her ancient plates and ribs groaned at the harsh treatment. This did not disturb her Commanding Officer in the slightest. Captain Borras had great faith in his ship. As long as the pumps were working and the turbines spinning at top speed, he would press on. He had received a gift, perhaps from God — he crossed himself quickly in case it were — but it was a gift in any case.
Eighty-three degrees West Longitude, fifteen and a half degrees South Latitude, that’s what the voice on the radio had said. On the emergency frequency. It had been the report of a sighting that the entire world had been waiting for for three days. A sighting off the Peruvian coast, barely outside territorial waters. In his mind’s eye, Captain Borras could see the exact spot in the Pacific, knew just how close they were to it — and knew almost to the minute just how long it would take to reach it. He had been ringing the engine room for top speed even as the position had been spoken.
The Huascaran would be there first — pray God she would be first! What the little ship could do, what was awaiting them, he had no idea. But they would be there first and the entire world would know it. His charge shuddered and lurched heavily in the violent sea; water thudded with great force against the glass port before him, obscuring all vision completely while the helmsman struggled to hold her steady. The Captain did not move. When the water drained away he looked out impassively at the waves rushing towards them, most of them taller than the mast-head of his small vessel.
“Position,” he called over his shoulder to the navigator who had propped himself tightly against the wall of the tiny chart-room so he would not be hurled to the deck by the ship’s frenzied rolling and pitching.
“Four, five kilometers, no more. We are now roughly at the position given by the airplane who sighted her. Radar cannot help, the aerial has been torn away….”
His voice was drowned out by the sudden roar of engines as a dark form swept over the ship like an immense bird of prey. It appeared to hover for an instant, then swept on; a stubby body With a strange circular structure above the wing. Coming from astern of them and across their bow. Heading ten points south of their course. The radioed voice burst loudly from the speaker, so close was the source.
“Rescue ship below, this is Navy Hawkeye. You are off course for QE2. Alter course in my direction. I am now overflying target. You are within a mile of her, repeat one mile ahead on this course.”
“Alter course to one hundred and two,” the Captain ordered, then picked up the Bridge microphone and ordered the radio operator to silence. Captain Borras prided himself on his knowledge of the English Language.
“Huascaran to U.S. aircraft. Am altering course as directed. Are there any other ships in this area? Over.”
“None we can see. But plenty on the way. Over.”
“Please inform them that Peruvian Coast Guard ship Huascaran is…. “
“There, Captain, ahead! I saw her! Like an island in the sea!” The helmsman shouted the words, altering course slightly at the same time.
“The Huascaran is in sight of the QE2 and will make contact. Stand by for further reports. Out.”
Captain Borras hammered his fist on the wooden rack before him with unspolcen pleasure. They were first! The rain was slacking now, blown away like an unwanted curtain. Another wave broke over the bridge and when it had washed away a dark form was clearly visible ahead. The QE2\
“Reduce revolutions,” he ordered. He didn’t want anything to carry away — not now. As their headway slowed, the ship no longer buried her bow in the waves but rode easily up and over them.
Not only had the rain stopped but clear patches were showing on the horizon, patches of blue sky where there had been only solid cloud for over five days. As though the storm, having concealed the great liner from an anxious world for all this time, had now relented, with the quarry found. The blue patches widened, merged, and golden sunlight poured down the great, silent length of the ship.
“Madre de Dios …,“ someone breathed aloud. Speaking for all of them.
Unmoving in the sea, to the casual eye apparently unharmed by the recent storm, the QE2 lay dead in the ocean. Her accommodation ladders stowed; all of her loading doors closed. No one was visible on deck or on her bridge, which could be clearly seen through powerful binoculars. The only sign of anything out of the norm was the absence of all her lifeboats and launches. Yet the davits, the metal arches that swung out from the hull to lower the boats, were still in their upright position. There was something frightening about her immobility, her silence.
“Shall I signal to her, Captain?” the radio operator asked, his strained voice breaking the silence.
“Yes — but not with the radio. They’ve been trying that for three days. Use the lamp. See if anyone is on the bridge.”
A gust of moist, hot air blew across the bridge as the operator struggled the wing door open and forced his way out. He had to hold onto the lamp with his free hand as he worked the handle up and down, over and over. The shutters clacked and the signal went out. And there was no response.
“We’ll go around her stern,” the Captain said. “See if there is anything more to be seen on her port side.”
With just enough revolutions to give her way, the Huascaran moved slowly to the stern of the liner, the towering black hull slipping by beside them like a great wall. Row after row of portholes and windows dotted the metal. All sealed. There were lights behind many of them — but no sign of motion. Nor did anyone come to the rails high above to wave down at the passing of the tiny ship.