He tempered this with saying, “But nowadays,the damn thing might just as well be the work of a kid with a Mac, time on his hands, and a hell of an imagination.”
This thing, the so-called carrier… he, she, or it, whatever it was, if it were inhabiting Kelly and not Forbes at all, it was busying itself gaining David’s trust this way, step by step, moment by moment, journal page after journal page—messing with his head, so that he would feel compelled to watch her back for any sort of attack on her-his-or-its person when they were two and a half miles below and inside Titanic—its ultimate goal to collect up and find a new life for its progeny above the surface, aboard Scorpio first? And then?
Suspicion proved a poison in an imaginary IV-drip, the stuff seeping into his psyche all this time… little by little. Incrementally causing him to question every minute detail, every word, and every tick not just belonging to Kelly but belonging to everyone aboard Scorpio.
Someone in this room, he thought, is the carrier—the weak one who not only hosts the alien creature but has become its eyes and ears, limbs and heart, one who has become its collaborator rather than fight it like Tuttle, Fiore, and the two miners did, forcing it to find a home elsewhere—someone weaker, someone who might even revel in newfound energies and power. This hardly seemed anyone on board, much less Kelly, but how was one to tell?
Ingles looked around the crowded room at their leaders, the other divers, the crew, and he realized it could be any one of them. How does a man detect the undetectable, and how does he fight it off—much less kill it once detected? It appeared impossible. Even had he a mechanism for, detecting the creature, even if it was found out, it would appear that once found out it was too late! For the moment a man like Alandale guessed it—guessed something terribly wrong in another human being—that the other was hosting an alien presence, he was snatched, taken over, and killed.
He looked from one face to another for any sign, any clue whatsoever, a shade darker in the eyes, perhaps a passing shadow across the brow, some nervous twitch or other that a demonic entity could not control—a clue being broadcast by the host in a last ditch effort to have even a semblance of humanity, a sign of choice, of will power.
He studied Mendenhall’s frown—a perpetual one to be sure. Could it be a sign? A mere frown? Were there any photos wherein Mendenhall’s face was lit up with a smile?
He studied Bowman’s dark features and thought his eyes somewhat jaundiced, but when the man’s head turned, David realized it was only a light shaft from one of the open doors hitting the diver’s face.
David then studied Lena Gambio’s softer features. She looked the picture of an Italian mother of three who ought to be home with her kids instead of here, he thought, then recalled her tough exterior and decided that if she had any kids, they likely could use time away from her. She looked harmless to the tenth degree but she played the role of the grungiest and toughest among the divers. As with most of the divers, David knew next to nothing of her personal life—just as Swigart and Forbes had planned things. And yet, Kelly had a dossier on him.
He turned his attention on Steve Jens, who’d seemed as gung-ho to dive as Bowman and David, but for the moment he’d gone sullen, dejected, an unhappy man indeed. Again no outward sign of being some sort of demonic vessel. Just wholly upset with the onboard deaths of two men—an all too familiar human response. Or was it more to do with fear? Fear of being next?
Then too David must consider the silent, self-effacing seventh diver, the backup in the event anything should happen to any of the rest, waiting in the wings in vulture fashion—Kyle Fiske; what sort of emotion should he be exhibiting? It seemed he had remained damned cool, perhaps too cool in the face of two murders aboard.What emotions ought to be playing out like a film across Kyle’s square-jawed face? David didn’t know.
In fact, all he knew for certain was that all the divers seemed and appeared to be all too human! Each one filled with emotions boiling over. Swigart was angriest of all, and he shouted now from the lectern beside Forbes, “We’re not going to let some psycho running loose on this ship deter us from our mission, ladies and gentlemen. It has become apparent to Dr. Entebbe, Captain Forbes, and me that someone has gotten aboard who wants this mission scuttled and scrapped.”
Swigart stopped speaking to coldly stare around the room as if his gaze might be a laser detector that would surely fall on the culprit. It instead fell on David. “Someone with a political agenda so filled with hatred of our plans to plunder Titanic of her riches that he… or she… is willing to kill for this misguided purpose. Whoever you are… what ever your purpose, you will pay dearly!”
“We refuse to take our orders from some home-grown terrorist,” Forbes forcefully added. “And make no bones about it, these horrible murders—these are acts of terrorism designed to turn us back to port, designed to leave the ghosts of Titanic in peace”
“Imagine it!” Craig Powers erupted. “Murder aboard Scorpio—two crew members lose their lives while in search of a ghost ship in a watery grave.” His hands and arms went up as if he were writing headlines in the air.
“Fanatics don’t have to make sense, but we suspect that this one is fanatical about Titanic,” added Swigart, “for a belief in Bob Ballard’s desire to keep Titanic untouched by further exploration except by remote submersible and photos.”
“We’ll have this person in custody before we make port in Woods Hole,” added Forbes, a hand upraised, clenching his fist as if grabbing an invisible person by the throat. “Be assured of that. We’re going to comb through everyone’s background. If we find anything that has you stumping for Ballard’s views, you can figure on the ship’s brig for the duration.”
For ninety nine percent of those present and hearing this, it seemed a most logical explanation; there must be a logical explanation. While they had no idea the method of murder or what could cause human bodies to shrivel into dehydrated mummies, the idea of terrorism had been ingrained in them for their entire lives thanks to 9/11 and 2012 doomsday prophecies.
Yes, this was plausible; it made all the sense in the world. Some horrid person or terrorist with a chemistry set had gone about the business of terrorizing every man and woman aboard Scorpio until the traditionally superstitious among the crew might be willing to take up arms, mutiny, take charge of the ship, and turn her toward home.
After all, they were planning to desecrate a graveyard.
People had in the past concocted lesser reasons for murder and mayhem—even mass murder. Now this made good sense; something tangible after the seemingly supernatural Alandale-Ford business.
This theory assuaged the mind so that all aboard could somehow sleep tonight. David sarcastically informed himself of these ‘truths’. The entire ship and crew might be destroyed… might all be blown to Kingdom Come if indeed there was a terrorist plot afoot but at least this was an enemy they knew and understood, a tantalizing one at that considering the alternative.