TITANIC
1912—CURSE of R.M.S. TITANIC—2012
by Robert W. Walker, author of City for Ransom
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
However, first an acknowledgement: Thanks to the tireless efforts of Diane Harrison this novel sees e-Publication months in advance; this due to Diane’s excellent genius in editing. This goes equally true for the editorial help of Robert Farley Jr., whose contribution and help with technical aspects of the futuristic scenes in particular was incredible—again genius. To Diane and Robert, my undying thanks for a job well done… beyond my wildest expectations! Along with others, Diane also edited my Children of Salem. Thanks also go to Sandy Burdsall for an early reading and helpful final edits, and to Joe Franks for excellent ‘gun’ support, helping me to get the firearms right. Thanks to a former editor and friend, Jack Caravela for brainstorming with me on this project back about fifteen years ago. Thanks to Charles Pellegrino for his excellent Her Name Titanic, and of course to Dr. Robert D. Ballard for finding Titanic and writing his excellent account The Discovery of the Titanic. My copy is as well-worn as a book can be. I couldn’t have written this book without this invaluable help and would surely have repeated the errors of Clive Cussler’s Raise the Titanic (written prior to Ballard’s discovery) if Bob Ballard had not found Titanic two and a half miles below the North Atlantic. Sadly, however, I won’t be making the 2012 sold out re-creation voyage of the Titanic’s course in 2012, a hundred years since her sinking.
Finally, allow me time to thank my wife Miranda, whose Absolution, a novel of suspense, is now an e-book, chapters one through three attached at the end of this book for a sneak peek of Miranda Phillips Walker’s talent and inherent understanding and respect for the hours, days, weeks, and months required of writing. Miranda and our children together are a wonderment, as the King of Siam was fond of saying. Thanks also to my son, Stephen Walker for untold hours of ‘behind the scenes’ work from fantastic graphic cover art to negotiating the intricacies of the internet world and digital platform publishing. Thanks finally to Joe Konrath as well for dragging me kicking and screaming into the Kindle Indie-author side of publishing, and for his undying friendship along with wife Maria Konrath for her unflagging faith in me. Finally, thanks to all those thousands of ebook readers who have embraced my Kindle original titles and reprinted works. You’ve made an aging writer a happily aging man. Now without further adieu, I give you Titanic 2012.
ONE
Belfast, Northern Ireland, April 3, 1912
Sifted coal dust rained unseen over them, choked them. A fine shower of it fluttered about the men like a million black fairies that insisted on entering them. The dark dust created of itself a ghostly, unruly smoke. Despite how fine the black particles were, their helmet lights captured it as a sparkling array before their eyes. “Black angel dust,” commented the taller man.
“Stuff always looks to me as if, you know, alive,” said the stouter of the two.
At the same time, the earth around them groaned and stretched, as if disturbed from slumber, just awakening. Tim McAffey, mine superintendent, along with his assistant superintendent, Francis O’Toole, dared enter to inspect the recent damage that had been left unattended for two months—this after the mine had sat unused for two years previously. This fresh and somewhat minor cave-in had shut it down anew. Still the order was to get Number 9 operational again at all costs.
At times like this, McAffey wondered why he’d ever become a miner. Then as the floating grave dust ahead of them settled, he thought of the bonus promised if he did his job. He thought of home and family and food on the table.
The day had ended with little to show for his efforts, so McAffey remained frustrated and upset. He knew from experience it’d take days if not a week to get the men comfortable enough—even now after sixty days—about reentering this section of the mine to even begin to clean up the mess where some timbers had given way. “Hell, this amounts to a sneeze,” he said to O’Toole.
“Minor inconvenience at best,” agreed Francis O’Toole. “Thank God, no one’s been kilt this time by her; two injured and off to hospital’s all.”
Still, men were superstitious; once an area underground shook with the slightest tremor, they bolted and often refused to return unless the owners offered a bonus or other incentive. Two years previous, there’d been a god awful mining accident the likes of which Belfast had never seen—twenty seven men killed in an instant. But that, while in Number 9, was in another section quite aways from here. This most recent set-back was a minor one, nothing of consequence beyond a six-foot high pile of rubble in the way of going forward to where it was believed the finest iron ore ever seen lay waiting for harvest—in the shaft where the twenty-seven had perished.
“We’ve little choice, Francis, but to push on. Bosses signed a big contract with the White Star line. Provide iron for three ships that’re between fifty-three and sixty-three tons.”
“Aye… building two more to match that monster Britannic we saw launched some time back. The three of ’em…” O’Toole shook his head. ..“they’ll be the grandest ships ever the world has seen.”
“This one they’re calling Titanic will be even larger than the first, I’m told.”
“She’s almost ready for launch, I ’ear.”
The talk of the British-owned White Star’s plans for a fleet of ships large enough to compete with the Seven Wonders of the World had the two miners’ discussion turn to politics. “No matter a man’s politics or feelings toward the British, Francis, White Star has brought a level of prosperity to Belfast sorely needed.”
“They’re calling this new one The Unsinkable Titanic, ’ave you heard, Tim?”
“Aye—and Belfast Iron’s a big part of her; a part of history now, Francis.”
“Getting the ore to the foundry and the shipyard, that’s all that matters—one more ‘Titanic’ to go.”
“Aye—the one called Olympic.”
“Hold on.” Francis stopped cold in his tracks and pointed with an unlit pipe, asking, “What ’ave we ’ear?” asked Francis. He pointed to a darkened corner of the troubled shaft.
“What is it?” McAffey directed his helmet light at the spot and gasped.
“Some sorta dead dog looks like, but he’s froze in the rock wall for God knows how long.”
“Look at the size of them fangs, would ya? Thing’s gotta be old as the bible, I warrant.”
They stared at it. The thing was indeed embedded in the cave wall, recently uncovered by the fallen debris all round it. The snout was huge, the gaping incisors prehistoric in appearance. “May Gawd ’imself blind me,” began McAffey. “Francis, tell no one about this monster, not a word of it, ya hear?”
“Why? What’re you thinking, Tim? We could put it on display, charge folks to ’ave a look-see! Make ’nough to keep us in ale and bitters for months.”
“Word gets out ’bout this, Tim, and-and we have two problems, old man!”
“Two problems?”
“Yes—one with the men, the second with the long-hairs over’t the universities.”
Francis shrugged, frowned, and asked, “How’s that, Tim?”
“The men’ll claim tis Satan ’imself at work here! You know that. And the professors—they’ll want to turn this shaft into a laboratory—an archaeological dig.”