Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom) Read online

  “Kelly, how can you be sure the good doctor who wrote these words—” he indicated the book in his lap—“wasn’t crazy?”

  “Eccentric, yes, insane, no! Declan Irvin survived long enough to write it all down; he was among those who did not get off Titanic; a friend, his closest friend, managed somehow to get aboard one of the few lifeboats.”

  “Just under what, twenty lifeboats, less than half filled…” he muttered, recalling his reading of the incident at sea. “707 saved by the lifeboats. Hold on… if the Captain himself ordered the ship scuttled… rammed into a berg the size of a continent, then why would he turn around and order the lifeboats away? It makes no sense.”

  “Come on, Dave, you know how chaotic it became… how it turned into a riot. Even those closest to Smith, even those loyal to him, faced with certain death might well have panicked, and in the end, they chose to disregard his orders. Open your mind to the impossible, David, and you might discover the truth.”

  “No, sorry, it’s just too implausible and the lifeboats did get away.”

  “Yes, yes but not one of them filled, and one literally lost over the side! This done by trained seamen, trained on filling lifeboats and lowering them properly, orderly, in the best of British fashion. There were struggles, fights breaking out.”

  “I read the same history, but you’ve got it all twisted round.”

  “The first twists came at the two inquests—the lies told at the hearings held on two continents.”

  “They did manage to use a third of the seats.”

  “Some—some less than a third!”

  “All right, I give you that, but they couldn’t get people to take the situation seriously; no one aboard a warm, solid-seeming ship firmly underfoot wants to be put off into a small boat—in scale beside Titanic, the size of a cork.”

  “Yes, OK, agreed… scary being awakened and put off and into a lifeboat in a black sea on a cold night. But at the same time, these kinds of stories—they’re what Lightoller claimed at the hearings. It all has become part of the legend, women and children first, all that nonsense, David.”

  He could say nothing. Their eyes met, and she pleaded, “David, neither Smith nor his officers trusted all the officers and crew to go along with what they considered their only course of action—and guns had to be broken out to enforce it for fear—”

  “Yes, the officers were armed in the end,” he agreed.

  “For fear,” she continued, “that the carrier… the plague carrier would get off the ship.”

  He took in a deep breath of air and ran his hands through his hair. “But if the lifeboats were launched and hundreds saved, then sinking the ship—this so-called solution—would have failed.”

  “It did fail, don’t you see? Failed miserably. Human nature being what it is—hell even Lightoller in the end saved himself rather than end his life, but then so did the ship’s owner, J. Bruce Ismay, and others.”

  “Lightoller went under; he told the entire horrid story in detail at the hearings. Never changed a word. He very nearly died.”

  They fell silent for a long time; he stood and paced but found there was no room for pacing. He continued in the same tone. “People with the disease, they could well have been on the lifeboats. The plan was flawed from the start—if there’s any validity to this journal at all, which I still doubt.”

  “Those in the cabal to bring the vessel down, David, they fully expected any boats getting away would be sucked under by the displacement from Titanic’s dive—they expected those in the boats to follow the order to stay close to the ship, close enough that they’d be sucked down with it. They knew the power of the draft it would cause; they had seen how it could sink an ocean liner tied to a dock!”

  “They were given orders to remain close in on the ship?”

  “To guarantee that everyone aboard go down to the bottom whether aboard or in a lifeboat, yes.”

  “And they would have had the crew and officers follow Smith’s orders explicitly, and I suppose that’s in the journal too?”

  “Yes, yes,” she pleaded.

  “The crew was given the order to destroy the ship beneath their feet?”

  “Declan writes about it in detail in his journal.”

  “The cabal, you mean? Please, just tell me what was the plan?”

  “Any boats getting off and into the water, the officer aboard was to venture in close to Titanic’s hull to ostensibly pull other survivors from the frigid sea, but the seamen would know that to remain close to the ship would surely have scuttled all boats hugging Titanic. And historic record bears this out.”

  “And historic record bears you out?”

  “The inquest in both New York and in London, showed testimony from the survivors; they pleaded with those operating the lifeboats to pull people from the water, that people were pleading for the boats to come back, to return for them but they did not. They couldn’t go through with the plan.”

  “The plan again?”

  “To hold those boats in beside Titanic, to be sucked under with her, yes. You know very well it’d be a giant vortex of water—a drain. Smith surely expected it with his ship’s going down.”

  He nodded. “Not one of the lifeboats came back for survivors in the water until after she went down. True, regardless of the fact men in just under fifty degree water had only ten or fifteen minutes before succumbing to hypothermia.”

  He knew it was true—disturbingly so; that it read the same in every account, how the crew members flatly refused to return in the lifeboats to help those in the water—despite the horrible pleas. Those in the water would have been close in on the ship. Returning for them would jeopardize the lifeboats and crewmen would have known this.

  Eventually all the survivors, numbering 707, were picked up by a merchant marine ship, the Carpathia, which, hours away, had steamed full-ahead toward the disaster site in hopes of getting to the coordinates early enough to be of service. “So… was this mysterious disease… was it brought on board the Carpathia?” he asked. “Were the survivors deposited in Newfoundland, Canada infected? Any deaths reported aboard Carpathia?”

  “No… not in Newfoundland nor New York at that time, that is except for a dog that’d somehow gotten off Titanic.”

  “Then perhaps the men of Titanic were successful after all?”

  “Not so according to the journal. Thomas Coogan made a few entries from Newfoundland before he disappeared. I fear they did fail, that the plague-carrier slipped through to survive. If he or she did get off the Titanic, it was well-hidden in Newfoundland for some time… either going dormant or hiding in plain sight.”

  “Going dormant?”

  “Please, keep your voice down,” she said, indicating the door.

  Just outside her door, they again heard someone noisily stumbling down the corridor. After a moment, Kelly added, “Now this thing—yes, it is aboard Scorpio now, David.”

  “This disease organism has somehow gotten aboard Scorpio?” his tone made skepticism roar. “Just how did it pull that off? Is it that damned sentient?”

  “You don’t understand, it… it uses its hosts… humans. It—”

  “Now it’s an it and not a microcosmic creature?”

  “I’m trying to tell you that it gets into the brainstem and the brain, working through the spinal column; it has evolved and it’s sophisticated in its pretense of being like you and me—human.”

  “Human in appearance—aboard, among us?” David scratched at his neck, his legs firmly apart, rocking on his heels.”

  “So you see, I can’t trust anyone.”

  “No one? No one but me, you mean?” He stared into her eyes, searching for any trace of madness.

  “If this thing—now in human form—if it knew all that I know, I’d be a target for assassination.” She dropped her gaze and shook her head, holding back tears.

  “So you want a fellow target?” David took hold of her shoulders, demanding an answer.

  She retur
ned her gaze to him. “I need someone I can tell all this to, David. It’s tearing me apart.”

  He stared long and hard at her and finally whispered, “Just how serious are you about your… this belief in this journal of yours, Kelly?”

  “Deadly serious.”

  He raised his hands in defeat. “A disease-carrying creature spawning death from stem to stern on Titanic in 1912, and now here with us in 2012 aboard Scorpio? Kelly, it’s impossible to imagine, and now this thing—whatever it is—is hitching a ride back to Titanic for what possible purpose?”

  “Harvesting its young. That’s the supposition.”

  “Sheeeze. The supposition these many decades according to whom? How can you trust words in a 100-year-old book? It’s fiction.”

  “Look, I’ve done research surrounding a number of mysterious deaths that came about in various communities from Newfoundland to Boston and New York in the intervening years. Bodies found with the same result… an identical appearance as those found on Titanic. Look at these documents I’ve uncovered; look at the photos.” She spread additional materials over her desk for his consideration.

  Ingles studied the photos in silence for a moment, thinking anything can be photo shopped nowadays, especially with Quasarnet-Adobe2012. “A picture is worth a thousand words,” he finally muttered, staring at the condition of several completely brown, leather-skinned, desiccated bodies. While curiously enthralled by the unusual death photos, he asked, “Aren’t these simply shots of petrified mummies?”

  She said in his ear, “Each of them drained of bone marrow, spinal fluid, every ounce of moisture, all gone. Know of any disease that does this to a person gone missing a mere twenty-four hours?”

  He shook his head. “I refuse to believe this—” he stabbed a finger at the photo— “drove Smith and crew to-to—” David could not say the words.

  “There was only one recourse left them—to sink Titanic because the disease carrier had in essence begun to spawn more of its kind all over the ship.”

  “Spawn more of its kind—the carrier—do you realize how incredibly insane all this sounds, Kelly? No matter this… this evidence, these photos. If you so much as whisper a word of it, you’ll never see the inside of Titanic.”

  “David, you don’t get it—someone on board this ship—is the descendent of the carrier, and its—his or her—reason for being here is to bring up from Titanic its only progeny.”

  “Progeny?” he repeated, his brow scrunched, telegraphing his disbelief.

  “Its spawn… its god damned eggs.”

  “Eggs? Spawn?”

  “For God’s sake, man, I am talking about the resurgence of this parasitic organism we know nothing about. Kane, Forbes, and the others may be in search of treasures in the holds, but this thing… this virulent parasite, it wants its children, and eventually it wants to take over the Earth.”

  “I can’t believe—”

  “Believe it! It has the potential to wipe out the human race, Dave.”

  She put a finger to his lips, as a passing crewman lingered just outside the compartment as if to take note of their banter. They let him pass before going on. “For all we know whoever that was passing by, he could be the…”

  “You’re saying it has survived for over a hundred years. Is he some sort of vampire?” David was on the verge of laughter—again.

  “It replenishes itself; it infiltrates the host body, uses it up in slow increments, until it chooses another host, when the earlier host is used up, the corpse left in a state of absolute exsanguination and dehydration.”

  “Sang—what?”

  “All the blood gone—along with—”

  “All bodily fluid, you say.”

  “Declan says so, yes, and-and the ME’s who worked on these bodies say so, too, David. This is not some fairytale.” She held up the current day victims. “All liquids drained—down to the spinal fluid. Look, David, I’ve seen such a victim at the Boston ME’s office. Not even the ME could believe what he was looking at.”

  “How did you get access to the ME’s?”

  “Made it my business to get chummy with a guy in the ME’s office.”

  He stood and paced the few feet he had to work with. “Man, I can’t believe this.”

  “I’m sure you’d prefer to have remained ignorant of it, but I have to trust someone.”

  “Thanks… thanks a lot,” he replied in a sarcastic tone.

  “You can’t not help me, Dave; bodies have cropped up—like I’ve said—from Canada to New York in enough numbers and in such a mysterious condition that yeah, the authorities and the CDC have taken notice. They just don’t know what they’re dealing with.”

  “What notice did they take? I mean when you showed them the journal?”

  She hesitated answering. He pushed for a reply. She finally dropped her gaze and said, “I dared not share the journal with them.”

  He paced. “This is so bizarre… . unbelievably ahh… ahh—”

  “X-Files, I know!”

  “More like The Fringe.”

  “David, I know it’s a terrible shock, and a great deal to take in at once; you need to read the journal.”

  He leaned against a wall as if seeking something solid.

  “Will you please assure me that I can count on you to watch my back?”

  “You intend to combat this thing alone?”

  “Oh God, finally… you finally acknowledge there is a threat.”

  “Just… just answer the question.”

  “Once I determine who on board is the carrier, I’m prepared to kill it.”

  “With what? How?”

  “An experimental weapon.”

  “Experimental? You don’t have a clue then, do you?”

  “Not entirely, no. But I know from Declan’s journal that it can’t stand cold. Still, I admit, liquid Freon is not always at hand.” She indicated a canister of Freon in her duffle bag, and he examined it.

  “This is the same stuff used by dermatologists to kill ring worms under the skin.”

  “That’s right. Manufactured by Johnson & Johnson.”

  “It’d take you some time to get this operational and pointed.” It came in a canister with a puncturing tube to insert in the spray head, much like WD-40 oil but there was no using this stuff without inserting the tube. A person could be overpowered before she got the thing working. “You might do better with mace,” he offered.

  “Whatever we use, I can’t do this alone.”

  “We now is it?”

  “Yes, we! David, I need you desperately.”

  “In another context, I’d take that as a wonderful thing but this… . Kelly, why me, why burden me with this?”

  “From infancy, I’ve learned to read people, and I get nothing but positive vibes coming from you, and you look me in the eyes when you speak.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m a student of body language, the unspoken gesture; I find you sincere and easy to read.”

  “Are you saying I’m easy?”

  “Confess, before this, you just wanted to get into my pants, but now you don’t want to take advantage of the mentally challenged, right?”

  “Hold on… I just wanted to get to know you.”

  “Now you’re lying.” She smiled and slapped his shoulder. “Come clean.”

  “Well, of course, I had thoughts.”

  “I’m flattered, but your attention held no evil, ulterior motive—just sex on your mind, eh sailor?”

  “OK, I can’t deny it, but why not? I’m single, you’re single—you are single, aren’t you?” His eyes met her emerald irises.

  “Yes, I am single.”

  “And you kissed me, remember, and you invited me here to your room, as I recall.”

  “I did, and I stand guilty of manipulating you.”

  “I confess I’d been wanting to hear that invitation to your cabin since we boarded, but now…”

  “It’s important you get the full story, Davi
d; of all the divers, I chose you to watch my back—I trust you alone.”

  “So now what?”

  “You need to read the journal! Read Declan’s words, I implore you.” She poured him a second drink.

  He started reading the 1912 journal from page one.

  THIRTEEN

  Tim McAffey’s dead features were intact beneath the bark-hardened exterior, at least enough to identify him, and still no sign of the other man, Francis. Also lying here was the mysterious, ancient wolf-like creature with its enormous haunches and hair as thick and matted as a woolly mammoth. The creature was stiff as old tree bark. It looked like a once muscular, energy-charged, huge, long dead and dehydrated beastie of fable.

  All this lay before them. Thomas Coogan had returned with his professor and mentor, Dr. Enoch Bellingham and a tall, imposing Chief Inspector Ian Reahall.

  Reahall quickly sized up the situation as Ransom studied him and the professor. Bellingham looked uncomfortable, shaky—his thin frame hardly capable of holding his coat on his shoulders. In fact, the good doctor, perhaps in his late fifties, looked sickly and appeared somewhat corpselike himself, but he at least had his color. Dr. Bellingham or Dr. B as everyone was calling him tentatively knelt over McAffey’s dessicated body.

  Ransom quickly concluded that Reahall, a man slightly larger than Ransom himself and looking like he enjoyed three meals a day, was most assuredly given to a bad habit he’d found in most police investigators—a preference for wild conjecture over fact. Ransom recalled fashioning the facts to fit the crime; it was a dangerous practice and could lead a man down a primrose lane faster than falling down a rabbit hole.

  “Enoch,” Reahall said to Dr. Bellingham and Ransom noted the two were on a first name basis. "The dead man must have been attacked by the missing O’Toole who appears to’ve used a blow torch as his weapon to so disfigure a man! You know, the sort used at the shipyards by the riveters and steel workers.”