The Wheel of Darkness (12 page)

Marya Kazulin seemed to relax slightly, but she said nothing. “This could get me into trouble.”

“I’ll be very discreet. I just want to mingle, ask a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About life on board the ship, any unusual goings-on, gossip about the passengers. And whether or not anyone has seen a specific item in one of the cabins.”

“Passengers? I do not think this is good idea.”

Constance hesitated. “Ms. Kazulin, I’ll tell you what it’s about, if you promise not to speak of this to anyone.”

After a hesitation, the maid nodded.

“I’m looking for something hidden on board the ship. An object, sacred and very rare. I was hoping to mingle with the housekeeping staff, to see if anyone has seen something like it in a stateroom.”

“And this item you mention? What is it?”

Constance paused. “It’s a long, narrow box, made of wood, very old, with odd writing on it.”

Marya considered this a moment. Then she straightened up. “Then I will help you.” She smiled, her face betraying a certain excitement. “It is
horrible
to work on cruise ship. This make it more interesting. And it for good cause.”

Constance held out her hand and they shook.

Marya eyed her. “I will get you uniform like mine.” She waved a hand over her front. “You cannot be seen below the waterline dressed as passenger.”

“Thank you. How will I contact you?”

“I will contact you,” Marya said. She knelt, retrieved the book, and handed it to Constance. “Good night, miss.”

Constance held her hand for a moment, and pressed the book into it. “Take it. And please don’t call me ‘miss.’ My name is Constance.”

With a fleeting smile, Marya retreated toward the door and let herself out.

F
IRST
O
FFICER
G
ORDON
L
ESEUR HAD SERVED ON DOZENS OF SHIP’S
bridges in his career at sea, from admiralty cutters to destroyers to cruise ships. The bridge of the
Britannia
resembled none of them. It was quieter, ultramodern, spacious—and curiously unnautical in feeling, with its many computer screens, electronic consoles, dials, and printers. Everything on the bridge was a model of beyond-state-of-the-art technology. What it most resembled, he mused, was the sleek control room of a French nuclear power plant he’d toured the prior year. The helm was now called an “Integrated Bridge System Workstation” and the chart table the “Central Navigation Console.” The wheel itself was a glorious affair in mahogany and polished brass, but it was there only because visiting passengers wanted to see it. The helmsman never touched it—LeSeur sometimes wondered if it was even connected. Instead, the helmsman maneuvered the ship using a set of four joysticks, one for each of the propulsion pods, plus a pair controlling the bow thrusters and midthrusters. The main engine power was controlled with a set of jetliner-style throttles. It was more like a super-sophisticated computer game than a traditional bridge.

Below the huge row of windows that stretched from port to starboard, a bank of dozens of computer workstations controlled and relayed information about all aspects of the ship and its environment: engines, fire suppression systems, watertight integrity monitors, communications, weather maps, satellite displays, countless others. There were two chart tables, neatly laid out with nautical charts, which nobody seemed to use.

Nobody except him, that is.

LeSeur glanced at his watch: twenty minutes past midnight. He glanced out through the forward windows. The huge ship’s blaze of light illuminated the black ocean for hundreds of yards on all sides, but the sea itself was so far below—fourteen decks—that if it were not for the deep, slow roll of the vessel they might just as well have been atop a skyscraper. Beyond the circle of light lay dark night, the sea horizon barely discernible. Long ago they had passed the slow pulsing of Falmouth Light, and shortly thereafter Penzance Light. Now, open ocean until New York.

The bridge had been fully manned since the Southampton pilot, who had guided the ship out of the channel, had departed. Overmanned, even. All the deck officers wanted to be part of the first leg of the maiden voyage of the
Britannia
, the greatest ship ever to grace the seven seas.

Carol Mason, the staff captain, spoke to the officer of the watch in a voice as quiet as the bridge itself. “Current state, Mr. Vigo?” It was a pro forma question—the new marine electronics gave the information in continuous readouts for all to see. But Mason was traditional and, above all, punctilious.

“Under way at twenty-seven knots on a course of two five two true, light traffic, sea state three, wind is light and from the port quarter. There is a tidal stream of just over one knot from the northeast.”

One of the bridge wing lookouts spoke to the officer of the watch. “There’s a ship about four points on the starboard bow, sir.”

LeSeur glanced at the ECDIS and saw the echo.

“Have you got it, Mr. Vigo?” asked Mason.

“I’ve been tracking it, sir. It looks like a ULCC, under way at twenty knots, twelve miles off. On a crossing course.”

There was no sense of alarm. LeSeur knew they were the stand-on ship, the ship with the right of way, and there was plenty of time for the give-way ship to alter course.

“Let me know when it alters, Mr. Vigo.”

“Yes, sir.”

It always sounded odd in LeSeur’s ear to hear a female captain addressed as “sir,” although he knew it was standard protocol both in the navy and in civilian shipboard life. There were, after all, so few female captains.

“Barometer still dropping?” Mason asked.

“Half a point in the last thirty minutes.”

“Very good. Maintain present heading.”

LeSeur shot a private glance at the staff captain. Mason never spoke about her age, but he guessed she was forty, maybe forty-one: it was hard to tell sometimes with people who spent their lives at sea. She was tall and statuesque, and attractive in a competent, no-nonsense kind of way. Her face was slightly flushed—perhaps due to the stress of this being her first voyage as staff captain. Her brown hair was short, and she kept it tucked up beneath her captain’s cap. He watched her move across the bridge, glance at a screen or two here, murmur a word to a member of the bridge crew there. In many ways she was the perfect officer: calm and soft-spoken, not dictatorial or petty, demanding without being bossy. She expected a lot of those under her command, but she herself worked harder than anybody. And she exuded a kind of magnetism of reliability and professionalism you found only in the best officers. The crew was devoted to her, and rightly so.

She wasn’t required on the bridge, and nor was he. But all of them had wanted to be here to share in the first night of the maiden voyage and to watch Mason command. By rights, she should have been the master of the
Britannia
. What had happened to her had been a shame, a real shame.

As if on cue, the door to the bridge opened and Commodore Cutter entered. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed. Frames tensed; faces became rigid. The officer of the watch assumed a studious expression. Only Mason seemed unaffected. She returned to the navigation console, glanced out through the bridge windows, spoke quietly to the helmsman.

Cutter’s role was—at least in theory—largely ceremonial. He was the public face of the ship, the man the passengers looked up to. To be sure, he was still in charge, but on most ocean liners you rarely saw the captain on the bridge. The actual running of the ship was left to the staff captain.

It was beginning to seem that this voyage would be different.

Commodore Cutter stepped forward. He pivoted on one foot, then—hands clasped behind his back—strode along the bridge, first one way, then back, scrutinizing the monitors. He was a short, impressively built man with iron gray hair and a fleshy face, deeply pink even in the subdued light of the bridge. His uniform was never less than immaculate.

“He’s not altering,” said the officer of the watch to Mason. “CPA nine minutes. He’s on a constant bearing, closing range.”

A light tension began to build.

Mason came over and examined the ECDIS. “Radio, hail him on channel 16.”

“Ship on my starboard bow,” the radio engineer said, “ship on my starboard bow, this is the
Britannia
, do you read?”

Unresponsive static.

“Ship on my starboard bow, are you receiving me?”

A silent minute passed. Cutter remained rooted to the bridge, hands behind his back, saying nothing—just watching.

“He’s still not altering,” said the officer of the watch to Mason. “CPA eight minutes and he’s on a collision course.”

LeSeur was uncomfortably aware that the two ships were approaching at a combined speed of forty-four knots—about fifty miles an hour. If the ULCC supertanker didn’t begin to alter course soon, things would get hairy.

Mason hunched over the ECDIS, scrutinizing it. A sudden feeling of alarm swept the bridge. It reminded LeSeur of what one of his officers in the Royal Navy had told him:
Sailing is ninety percent boredom and ten percent terror
. There was no in-between state. He glanced over at Cutter, whose face was unreadable, and then at Mason, who remained cool.

“What the hell are they doing?” the officer of the watch said.

“Nothing,” said Mason dryly. “That’s the problem.” She stepped forward. “Mr. Vigo, I’ll take the conn for the avoidance maneuver.”

Vigo retired to one side, evident relief on his face.

She turned to the helmsman. “Wheel aport twenty degrees.”

“Aye, wheel aport twenty—”

Suddenly Cutter spoke, interrupting the helmsman’s confirmation of the order. “Captain Mason, we’re the stand-on ship.”

Mason straightened up from the ECDIS. “Yes, sir. But that ULCC has almost zero maneuverability, and it may have passed the point where—”

“Captain Mason, I repeat:
we are the stand-on ship
.”

There was a tense silence on the bridge. Cutter turned to the helmsman. “Steady on two five two.”

“Aye, sir, steady on two five two.”

LeSeur could see the lights of the tanker on the starboard bow, growing brighter. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead. It was true that they had the clear right of way and that the other ship should give way, but sometimes you had to adjust to reality. They were probably on autopilot and busy with other things. God knows, they might be in the wardroom watching porn flicks or passed out drunk on the floor.

“Sound the whistle,” said Cutter.

The great whistle of the
Britannia
, audible over fifteen miles, cut like a deep bellow across the night sea. Five blasts—the danger signal. Both bridge lookouts were at their stations, peering ahead with binoculars. The tension grew excruciating.

Cutter leaned into the bridge VHF repeater. “Ship crossing on my starboard bow, this is the
Britannia
. We are the stand-on ship and you must alter. Do you understand?”

The hiss of an empty frequency.

The whistle sounded again. The lights on the ULCC had resolved themselves to individual points. LeSeur could even see the faint bar of light of the tanker’s bridge.

“Captain,” said Mason, “I’m not sure that even if they altered now—”

“CPA four minutes,” said the officer of the watch.

LeSeur thought, with utter disbelief,
Bloody hell, we’re going to collide
.

The silence of dread descended on the bridge. The
Britannia
sounded the danger signal again.

“He’s altering to starboard,” said the lookout. “He’s altering, sir!”

The whistle of the ULCC sounded across the water, three short blasts indicating it was backing down in an emergency maneuver.
About frigging time
, thought LeSeur.

“Steady on,” said Cutter.

LeSeur stared at the ECDIS. With excruciating slowness the ARPA vector radar overlay recalculated the ULCC’s heading. With a flood of relief, he realized they were moving out of danger; the ULCC would pass to starboard. There was a palpable relaxation on the bridge, a murmur of voices, a few muttered curses.

Cutter turned to the staff captain, utterly unperturbed. “Captain Mason, may I ask why you reduced speed to twenty-four knots?”

“There’s heavy weather ahead, sir,” Mason replied. “Company standing orders state that on the first night out, passengers are to be acclimated to the open sea by—”

“I know what the standing orders say,” Cutter interrupted. He had a slow, quiet voice that was somehow immeasurably more intimidating than bluster. He turned to the helmsman. “Increase speed to thirty knots.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the helmsman said, his voice dead neutral. “Increasing speed to thirty knots.”

“Mr. Vigo, you may resume the watch.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cutter continued staring at Mason. “Speaking of the standing orders, it has come to my attention that one of the officers of this ship was seen leaving the stateroom of a passenger earlier this evening.”

He paused, letting the moment build.

“Whether or not there was a sexual liaison is irrelevant. We all know the rules regarding fraternization with passengers.”

With his hands behind his back, he made a slow turn, looking into each officer’s face in turn, before ending with Mason.

“May I remind you that this is not the Love Boat. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated. Let the passengers be responsible for their own indiscretions; my crew must not indulge themselves in this way.”

LeSeur was startled to see that the flush on Mason’s face had deepened considerably.

Couldn’t be her
, he thought.
She’s the last one who would break the rules
.

The door to the bridge opened and Patrick Kemper, the chief security officer, stepped in. Seeing Cutter, he moved toward him. “Sir, I—”

“Not now,” Cutter said. Kemper stopped, fell silent.

On every large cruise ship LeSeur had served on, the captain’s prime responsibilities were to schmooze with the passengers, preside over long, jolly dinners at the captain’s table, and be the public face of the ship. The staff captain, while nominally second in command, was the chief operating officer. But Cutter had a reputation for disdaining the glad-handing duties, and it appeared he was going to carry this habit into his first captaincy. He was an officer of the old school, a former commodore in the Royal Navy from a titled family, who LeSeur suspected had been advanced somewhat beyond his competencies. A few years before, the captaincy of the
Olympia
had gone to Cutter’s most bitter rival, and it had stuck in his craw ever since. He’d pulled strings in high places to get command of the
Britannia
—which should by rights have gone to Mason—and now his intentions were obvious. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure this maiden voyage was the crossing of his career—including breaking the
Olympia
’s own fastest crossing, set just the year before. Rough weather would have no effect on him, LeSeur thought grimly, other than to steel his resolve. Cruise ships fled weather; but an ocean liner, a
real
ocean liner, toughed it out.